Content warning: BDSM, including welts.

On Saturday, I went a session as a sub to a switch who lives a few hours away. This was the third time we’d tried to schedule a session; the first we’d arranged a weekend, but both forgot to message the other prior and missed that date. The second we were more on top of coordinating, but I had a lot of symptoms of sickness a few days prior, and ended up postponing. This Saturday, I actually went.

I had not had a car for a few months. It was an extreme annoyance in many regards, but especially given that the only form of work I could actively elect to just go do, driving for Uber or Lyft, was not possible, and every other job I applied to turned me down. Since I don’t have a job, financing was out of the picture, which meant expending an uncomfortable amount of my savings getting a vehicle. The process of actually purchasing it took painfully long, nearly two weeks, and I was worried I wouldn’t even have one prior to this weekend. Mercifully, though, things worked out so that the Friday before I finally picked up a new (used) car, and in addition to unlocking the capacity to make money, I also could actually travel to (rather than cancel yet again) this session.

On the way there, I got a breakfast sandwich, croissant, and iced tea for breakfast. I investigated a low tire pressure warning at a gas station, and determined that the tire pressure sensors were faulty – the tire was flawless and well-filled. I had some congestion, and hoped it would clear up rather than persist through the day.

I got there shortly before noon and waited a while for him to reply to my text. Eventually he brought me inside, had me sit with him on the couch, and we chatted. All I remember of that conversation is him emphasizing the use of ‘green/yellow/red’ as a safeword system; explaining his situation with his several roommates; telling me he didn’t want to talk about politics; and then starting to talk about politics. He moved on after a few minutes, though, to take me on a tour of his home.

He started with his kitchen where he makes almost all of their food from scratch because of his aversion to processed food and unnatural ingredients. He then took me down to his dungeon, showed me his swing, a St. Andrew’s cross he had under construction, and generally explained about a lot more he wanted to get done. Last he lead me up to his bedroom and we chatted a bit more there. Eventually he had me kneel, then a bit later massage his feet, then undress. He continued talking while I gave him a foot massage about everything from relationships to work to politics and back. After asking me what I did and confirming I had a tech background, he focused largely on his work experiences.

Eventually he seemed ready to move on from the foot massage, and had me start giving him a blow job. I mentioned how out of practice I was, especially at deep-throating, and so he focused on that a bit. Eventually a combination of fatigue and mucus buildup rendered me mostly useless at it, and my failure to participate actively did little to keep him hard. He stopped, lay down, grabbed his laptop, and we chatted some more, with me laying at the foot of the bed across from him. I tried to suppress an occasional cough but mostly failed. I hoped I wasn’t sick, and wasn’t going to get him or any of his roommates sick. I had literally cancelled once in that exact hope, and dreaded the idea while commuting there of it occurring again with a dom for whom I had been nothing but a flake up to that point.

As he told me about his internship with one of the early tech companies, I crawled under one of his legs, intending to rest my head on one of his thighs and cuddle between his legs. He just lifted the leg entirely, though, rather than leaving it resting on me, and rotated his cock towards me. Imagining he wanted me to suck it, I began to slowly work his cock again while he talked. That eventually evolved into a more dedicated deep-throating training session; he moved me through a few positions, ending with me on my back and my head hanging off the end of the bed as he stood in front of me. I had my hands balled into fists, squeezing my thumbs, as he’d instructed, and had found throughout that it helped. By the time I was on my back at the end of the bed, though, the combination of renewed fatigue and rebuilt mucus barrier had once again rendered my ability to force my body into action nonexistent.

There’s just, it seems, a place where the brain’s conscious ability to command itself stops – or, at least there is for me. It’s rather disheartening. I have yet to be in a place where a dom tries to apply additional stressors, like adding strokes from a crop or the like, to see if that can snap my mind past its fugue haze and get me applying effort again. In any case, whether such a thing might have done so or not, the man using my throat did not try it. Instead, he just stopped, laid down, and started exploring my body. He commented on liking my nipples, then bit them.

The day before, a dom I’ve been speaking too online for a few weeks now had had me put nipple clamps on. I found the experience painful in general; when he instructed me to situate them to maximize the pain they caused, I found it rather debilitating. It was quite difficult to also kneel, and just generally be still, from the pain of the clamps on the very tips of my nipples, though at no point did it get so bad I was unable to be obedient and re-apply them as they slipped off. Still, it was an excruciating, crippling sort of pain.

This biting was worse. It was certainly one of the most intense forms of pain I could recall ever experiencing up to that point – very possibly the most intense pain I had ever experienced. I was wincing, gasping, clutching my teeth, and trying to hold my body still, as he moved from nipple to nipple, biting each a couple of times. Not knowing how many more times he would, how long this would continue absolutely did not ease my mental state, although I rarely had enough capacity for conscious thought to be consumed by that particular fear.

Luckily, or perhaps kindly, he did not continue biting beyond maybe two or three times per nipple. Instead he rolled over and wanted me to bite his nipples. I began doing so, nibbling and sucking and tonguing them. He repeatedly instructed me to bite harder until I began to do so to his satisfaction; I felt rather worried, myself, by how hard I was biting, but he certainly seemed to enjoy it. After doing so with each of his nipples a bit, he had me progress to licking his armpits. Once both had been sufficiently worshipped, he instructed me to shower. He had asked earlier if I had cleaned out, which I had responded to negatively, and mentioned in the shower he had a douching attachment I was welcome to use. He stressed that although he hoped I did, it was entirely up to me whether to use it, and I certainly appreciated such a consent-focused set of instructions.

In the shower I did use the douche attachment; I have used shower douches before, albeit over half a decade ago. This one seemed much stronger; I did not recall the others pushing so much water it continually spilled out down my leg. I was someone self-conscious about perhaps not having inserted it sufficiently, although it had felt like I had. After running the douche, I re-ran the shower to rinse off (I had cleaned with soap prior to douching), then dried off. As my bowels became increasingly distressed, I picked up my pace with the towel, then hurried to the toilet and confirmed the douche had certainly managed to get plenty of water into me. A minute or so passed of repeatedly letting that out; I flushed let some more out, and was somewhat disheartened (if not surprised) that it was still not clear.

This was another moment where my general mental reserve of discipline failed; although I felt like I ought to get the shower back on, douche again, and repeat the process until the water did run clear, that was more a result of urban legend. While I may not have bottomed in nearly a decade, I have topped quite a lot, and I rarely have the patience for a bottom to perform an extensive douching routine. I am familiar with the general range of mess colons are likely to have in them. Perfectly clear water might be a nice guarantee, but it was certainly far more than had been even remotely necessary 90% of the time in my experience.

And I was so tired. And cold, and wet. And the day was still very young, and I had no idea to what extent he would embrace/try to avoid making fucking painful.

If I had been instructed to douche until the water ran clear, I would have. Of that I have no doubt. But to make myself go an extra, probably unnecessary, degree of effort for a maybe-kind-of command was just more than I had in me at that point. I finished drying off and headed downstairs.

I had expected to proceed down to the dungeon, kneel, and wait to see what he wished to do. However, he had stopped in the kitchen, where he was making bread. I knelt there, and he resumed chatting while he worked. Partly about the virtues of a Kitchenaid, partly about the breadmaking process, partly about work. I found myself rapidly in need of adjusting my posture because of the pain; he had instructed that I not stand in rooms he was in, but not clarified what I do instead, so I adopted a sort of side-saddle seating position. It felt more submissive than just sitting cross-legged, but was still somewhat stressful – albeit dramatically less so than actively being on my knees on the hard vinyl floor. I sat in the doorway as he worked the dough and talked. Eventually, one of his roommates got home and came in through the back door; I shuffled to the side so he could more easily walk through the kitchen doorway. He and the dom chatted for a bit and then he went back out and left again.

The dom resumed our conversation, relaxing against the kitchen sink as the bread rose in the oven, the door cracked open with a towel. I learned of his regret voting blue in 2016 and 2020, and his dislike of the current president but approval of his actions against the deep state. He had been a nice, sane, and safe dom in every way so far, but I’d be lying if I claimed this didn’t make me uncomfortable, and didn’t prompt my anxiety to spike further. I certainly hadn’t noticed any handguns secreted about the house, which was mildly reassuring.

Talk turned back to work, and eventually the bread came out of the oven. It had been in a large bowl, which seemed odd to me, but also was pasty-white and clearly not done. He invited me to stand so I could watch as he separated the mass into two balls, which he worked and then dropped into tin trays. He spread them out and sprinkled some flour on top, then set them into the oven and wholly closed the door. He marveled that more people didn’t make their own bread at home, and I expressed my surprise at the seeming simplicity of the process, far less involved than I had assumed. He told me there were only four ingredients, which I found impressive. He seemed content to leave me standing, and as we talked offered me a clementine, which I gratefully accepted. I’d had nothing to eat or drink since breakfast, eight hours ago.

The timer set on the oven, he instructed me to wait while he went upstairs. I heard him showering, and debated what to do with myself. I ended up deciding that even though he wasn’t in the room, it was relatively appropriate for me to wait on the floor, so I first knelt and then sat back down (when kneeling grew unbearable again). I tried to not let me gaze wander too much; it was certainly not my business to scrutinize his house or affects or anything. The wait was a good opportunity to appreciate how intensely cold I was, how much the floor hurt, and to worry about when/if he intended to feed me or give me anything to drink.

Some time after the shower had ended I heard him chatting with others upstairs, and some general walking around as he got ready. Eventually, he re-emerged in a bath robe, and told me that he liked tiktok. As he worked in the kitchen he let a video play of a young twink complaining about a client not paying them; apparently this boy was also a web developer, and I commented to the dom that I definitely never deliver a website until payment is rendered, and generally won’t start work until a 50% deposit is placed. This prompted him to express some concerns about the vulnerability of youth, like the young man in the tiktok, then swipe to the next.

Because my feed doesn’t contain them, I’d forgotten tiktok updated their videos to allow for many-minute length entries. The next was some suited man going on about how the U.S. has been provoking Russia for years, always creeping NATO east, and how good it is that the current U.S. president is finally talking to Russia and assuring them that the U.S. does not want further hostilities and is not planning to move further. Apparently the speaker had had some form of ambassadorial position; I can’t recall whether it was the speaker, the dom, or a mixture of both who narrated about how the deep state was invented after 9/11 as a conspiracy to ensure American hegemony, how both parties were swept up in it, and new presidents inculcated in the plot’s existence and their part in it. The dom seemed pleased that the current president was, apparently, rebelling against this plot, and the speaker on the phone indicated that the U.S.’s invitations to Georgia and Ukraine to join N.A.T.O were the cause of the current conflict.

Just a fact check, for those who do not know: Georgia and Ukraine are considered NATO-aspirant countries, have cordial relations with NATO, and want to join; neither Georgia nor Ukraine have ever been formally invited to join NATO at time of writing, despite assurances they will be invited eventually.

Eventually, the bread was ready. It was taken out, and we went downstairs to the dungeon. I knew it was sometime after 7pm, and it was wholly dark outside, but not really what time it was. I definitely didn’t feel comfortable staying the night, at this point, and also did not feel very comfortable driving super-late at night. I did not want to deny the dom the opportunity to use me as he wished and fuck me, but the lateness of the hour and my certainty that I wanted to drive home that day escalated the level of background fear I was navigating.

In the dungeon, I knelt and tried to stay out of the way as the dom went about setting up a projector with a porn feed. I waited a few minutes on my knees (there were thick rubber mats atop the concrete floor which were quite comfy) as he went upstairs to ask his roommates where the speaker had gone. Once that was located, and his preferred porn file was playing he dug through cabinets and we chatted about Temu’s relative offerings in the online retail space. He had me put wrist and ankle collars on myself while he got out other things, then walked over and put a collar on me.

I was instructed to stand beneath one of the rafters, to which he had affixed various cords. Grabbing my left wrist, he connected it to one of the cords. It was definitely a strain to reach; I shuffled to the left to try and take some of the tension off of the cuff, but was simply not tall enough to remove all the tension. In attempting to shackle my right wrist he determined he needed to loosen the cord on that side some so it would reach, but eventually got it shackled up as well. I mulled whether or not I ought to say anything about the tingling in my hands as he bound my ankle cuffs to a spreader bar. He was a sensitive and experienced dom; I have very little experience as a sub, and as a dom I certainly don’t bind anyone’s arms above their heads. When I dom I have the relative luxury of being able to adjust if a boy’s limbs feel any tingling at all, but it seemed unlikely that having your arms suspended above your head could ever produce no circulation challenges, and so I trusted him to monitor it/act as needed.

He slipped a blindfold over my head next, and groped me briefly. He made some kind of comment about nipple clamps; he’d called out that they were misplaced when we first came down, taking them where they had been strewn before. They looked pretty heavy. When he put them on me, though, they felt less painful than even the fairly cheap pair I’d tried to balance on the tips of my nipples the day before, and certainly much less painful than his bites had been earlier.

Next, the clink of chain sparked my curiousity. Eventually I learned of his intention to use it as a harness, as he laid it over my neck and crossed it over my chest. As he wrapped the ends around the small of my back I winced and gasped; now, the nipple clamps caught in the chain pulled sharply, and hurt much more. After a few seconds of my audible pain he reached around and got the chain untangled from the nipple clamps, then pulled tightly to try and bind the two ends of the chain together in front of my stomach. After several tugs he got them. I heard him walk away; before he’d put the blindfold on I’d seen him get out a flogger.

“Do you remember what your safewords are, boy?”

“Yes sir.”

A pause, and then a tapping sensation on my balls. I wasn’t sure if it was intended to be painful, but I would guess it was; my ballsack has a hydrocele, and that seems to generally dull most sensations, so I didn’t experience pain from it. After some tapping, a swishing noise was followed by a prompt burst of pain coming from my thigh. The flogger, I assumed, gritting my teeth. Another burst of pain on my chest, and then a lighter sensation as he flicked my stomach, perhaps trying to avoid causing damage from the chain. A few more harsh flicks brought a sensation of a heavy, stinging blow to each of my upper arms, and finally to the front of my other thigh. I inferred he moved around me as I began to feel blows land on my back, shoulders, butt, and the backs of my thighs. By the end of the rapid, heavy-feeling stings I was breathing heavily through clenched teeth. It hurt quite a lot.

I’d never experienced any form of impact play beyond spanking, and that had been half a decade prior. This was definitely new, both the sensation of the flogger and the rapid succession of impacts all over my body.

More taps on my balls preceded a series of strikes to my stomach and chest with another toy. Based on the sensation of the impact I now assume it was likely a riding crop. Footsteps, then more of the sharper, smaller thwacks on my back, butt, and the backs of my thighs. I was no doubt wincing at this point. I think I might have started grunting, or perhaps mewling; I recall doing a combination of both as the session progressed.

Another brief pause, and then the flogger began striking me from the front again. It felt non-stop then; I wonder now whether I leave longer pauses in between blows when I give spankings, but at the time it felt like each blow sure came immediately after the one before. This time as my upper arms, chest, and thighs were flogged I know I grunted and moaned. I remembered the scene from Gundam Wing where Duo is told it “would hurt less if he yelled out loud” with disbelief. Grunting and moaning seemed to be as much as I could manage to even do through the pain.

He moved again to my back, and trembling, grunts and moans abounded. When he finished on my back, he asked again:

“Remember your safewords, boy?”

“Yes sir,” I said, although this time I am pretty sure it was much weaker. I think I managed to make it audible, even if my voice trembled. He did another 360 with what I assume was a riding crop; those of you more used to this can perhaps help identify the tool based on the only persistent marks it seems to have left. I winced, moaned, and shook; I had already been pulling heavily on my wrist cuffs as my muscles contorted, and that only further exacerbated the tingling sensation.

I slumped after the cropping stopped, as he switched implements again. Another round with the flogger began. At no point did any of the blows seem to grow any heavier than those before; they all felt significantly painful, but none unbearable on their own. By this point, though, my brain was on fire. I was overwhelmed with the pain. I think some sobs began to work their way into my responses to new blows alongside the familiar moans and grunts I was emitting.

He made his way to my back. How much more of this would he do? What would happen when my mind snapped? How could my mind even house a more intense, larger, greater sensation of pain that I was experiencing then? As he flogged my back again, the ongoing anxieties about the lateness of the hour, my unwillingness to stay the night, my awareness that anal sex was still coming all combined with the sheer, mind-blowing pain.

“Yellow.”

I attribute to kindness that the dom treated that as though I had said red, instead. He stopped. He unbuckled the chain from around my chest – he’d removed the nipple clamps after a couple of rotations, dissatisfied with how they interacted with the chain – and began to unshackle my wrists. Letting them drop to my sides was an enormous relief. The most intense tingling I could imagine, as blood rushed back into them, almost distracted me from the fading pain from the blows. My second wrist dropped, and he began undoing the spreader bars.

“You can just kneel there, boy.”

I dropped to my knees immediately. I didn’t have the strength to try and shake my hands, if that would even do any good. I just let the overwhelming tingling of them subsume me. It lacked the intensity and totality of the pain moments before, but it was an infinitely more welcome sensation.

“I…I definitely have a pretty low pain tolerance, sir. I’m sorry that was so short.”

“It’s alright, boy, everyone’s body reacts differently.”

I just knelt for a while, blindfolded and cuffed, while he busied himself. The collar had definitely felt tight, made it a bit harder to breathe, while I had been bound and suspended, but I could move a bit more freely now, and found it less troubling. After a few moments he grabbed my hair and pulled me forward to where he sat down.

“Worship my feet, boy.”

I worried slightly about my hands being able to support my weight as I leaned down, nosing around to find his feet past my blindfold. Finding his left foot first, I nuzzled, then kissed, then licked it. I hadn’t thought about it, but most of my weight was on my legs and forearms, not my hands, so it was fine. After covering one foot completely with kisses and licks, I felt around for the other and did the same. I began just repeating that pattern, until eventually he asked me if I would be alright if he invited one of his roommates down to join.

“Yes, sir, that would be fine, sir.”

“Just wait in an appropriately submissive posture.”

“Yes sir.”

I crawled back to make room for him, then sat up onto my haunches. At first I tried to sit with knees spread, butt on my feet, hands held behind my back. That position was a strain, though; other, appropriately submissive postures would be less so. Releasing my hands, I placed them on the floor between my legs, head bowed. Then I worked them around a bit to be more comfortable. I led my head sag fully, and made sure my back was arched. At this point, the tingling in my hands had subsided to a much lighter sensation, fortunately, and I was able to support myself with no issue.

Eventually he returned. Grabbing my hair, he pulled my face into his crotch, where I began to nuzzle, then lick, kiss, and suck his cock. Before long he was instructing me again on deepthroating. Despite the overwhelming sensation of exhaustion – or perhaps because of it – I was able to take him relatively deeply. My gag reflex was still there, but lessened. Even so, it prompted him to remark on how strong my gag reflex was. I continued doing my best to deepthroat him, and while I found I was, with concentration, able to take him deep, I was unable to obey his recurring commands to also suck him. I could not find the strength or concentration to do so. Once again, I wonder whether, if he had been taking a crop to my bottom, that would have improved my abilities or only degraded them further.

After working his cock for a while (and not registering any sounds of another person in the basement), I paused briefly, and asked “Sir?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I think I probably ought to start heading home soon, sir.” I had said it. I felt guilty about not doing everything he wanted; I felt guilty about having so little stamina for the things we did do. I felt guilty for not indulging his desire that I stayed over. But finally the fear, I suppose, had won out over the guilt and given me the ability to say something, to ask.

“Yes, it is pretty late.”

“I’m sorry about not being able to go longer, sir, or you not having the opportunity to fuck me.”

“It’s ok, boy. I enjoyed our time together.”

We chatted a bit at that point, me just kneeling between his legs. I think probably about peoples’ various pain tolerances. I brought up the biggest pain slut I know, a boy who also lived in Ohio, although closer to me than to this dom, and he wondered if it was someone he knew. From my description he was able to pull up Pup Leff’s recon profile; instructing me that I could remove the blindfold, I saw his profile and smiled. They had apparently talked on and off a bit, and I imagined their shared interest in pain play – and in switching – would likely enable them to get along well. I related a bit of my history with Leff, and mused on how it had been way too long since I’d gotten dinner or anything with him.

Eventually, he started cleaning up, had me take off the cuffs, and we proceeded upstairs. In his bedroom I got dressed. He’d said, after I’d called yellow, that my back wasn’t even red where he’d flogged it, and I don’t doubt that was true. I was surprised, though, when I got home that I had failed to notice the welts on my thighs from the flogger as I got dressed.

I went out to my car, stopped at the first mcdonalds I saw, and hoovered down a drink, then ate some cheeseburgers and fries. Hopefully I’d be able to re-hydrate enough for the three-hour nighttime drive home. I needed to stop for gas on the way back, and about an hour later pulled into a Meijer parking lot that had a gas station. I went in, got a big can of tea, and found out their gas pumps were all closed. Making my way down the street, I got gas and headed back. Sometime after one am I stumbled in, disrobed, and fell into bed. Surprisingly, it still took me a while to fall asleep.

I don’t know how I feel about it. Normally, I guess, I post these retrospectives months or years after a session, when my brain has finished processing them and knows what it wants to say. That isn’t the case now. I can mechanically recreate my memory of what happened; but I think my mind has yet to really form and feelings or make any judgements about the situation.

I have learned, though, that a relatively short flogging is enough to completely break down anything else that exists in my mind. I think it was probably less than thirty blows with the flogger, and fewer than fifteen with the crop. Perhaps being dehydrated, being afraid, being anxious about the time, being sick (it is two days later and I am, definitely, sick and hope I didn’t get anyone else there sick) – perhaps all those things lowered what otherwise might be a slightly higher capacity to manage pain. I don’t know. But I do think I have confirmed what I have always thought to be true:

I have a very low pain tolerance.