Tied up I - Yokozuri

Ever since I saw my first photo of a woman in bondage suspended from a ceiling it has been a strong craving of mine. So when I overheard a Domina talking about the wonders of a workshop taken by Osada Steve I drew closer to listen. Then, and when ever after we met, I offered myself as a practice model. One time she took me seriously and gave me a date and time to join her at Shibari school.

Subsequently it came to pass that my desire was met. The Domina placed me into a Yokozuri, a sideways suspension. What a surprise it held for me. For the first time in my life I have felt my own weight as it pressed hard against suspending ropes. My head felt heavy and I struggled to support it.

She gently moved me and it felt as though I was cradled. Peace suffused me and only the difficulties of the position kept me from sleeping.

We both enjoyed the moment and then I was carefully released, school moved on to another binding.

Prussian pink

The Prussian was the first man I encountered who gained lots of pleasure from nipple torture...on himself. He had nipples which I have since come to recognize as signifying this desire. They were prominent but thin like a skin tag. Nothing like a woman's nipples. When I asked if he regularly clamped or pegged them he admitted that he did.

Clearly I was there to add to his pleasure by taking the control. As I added the pegs one by one to his nipples and the chest around them his eyes took on that special look that comes as a sub surrenders to the pain and sinks into it. I marveled at it, so different to my own experience with pegs.

Remembering how it had felt lying on the pegs I told him to get on the bed and lay face down. I pressed my hands on his back and then slid them down to his buttocks. I was tentative about spanking him but the urge was irresistible. Gradually I increased the force until it was my hand that needed the break. I looked at the ruler and reached for it.

Just as he had done I used the ruler on his thighs making them sting and creating little square red patches. It was more effective on the firm muscles of his thighs than on the softer, squishy butt cheeks. From time to time I would reach up and rub his back and I couldn't help chuckling as I thought of all those pegs.

It was a very simple scene. There was no sexual element although perhaps he masturbated once I left. There though I began the transformation from submissive to switch. Seeing within myself a woman who could glory in the writhing of an enthralled male.

Pegs and how the dark side was revealed in me

Clothes pegs are my BDSM curse. I don't like them. As a Domme I struggle to attach them, grabbing vainly at nipples and ball sacks. It's my nails that cause the problem. They are too long and blunt to manipulate the skin accurately. I certainly understand why some dominant women have long nails on one hand and short on the other but I am too vain to change the situation for myself.

Those few times a dominant male has applied them to my flesh have revealed a pitiful creature desperately calling out for them to be removed and the gentlemen amongst them have quickly consented.

But one who was a switch, and perhaps not a gentleman, did not.

He lured me with talk of shoes. We discussed styles and heel height and how much he enjoyed them. A sucker for shoes and proud of my collection I soon agreed to meet him. Then he introduced a twist alerting me to his taste for pain play. "Let me play with you for an hour and then we can swap" he wrote. I pointed out that I had never been in the dominant position and didn't have any desire to inflict pain. "I can help you with that, give you some direction". With Prussian precision he argued me into yielding.

Pegs, chain and a ruler, they sit innocuously in a suitcase waiting for use. A vibrator too, small and plain and easily overlooked. I learned about each as he brought them into play.

Once the niceties were disposed of, polite conversation, drinks and nibbles, he was quick to begin the torture. Off came my top and bra and on went the first pegs. How hard can a peg on each nipple be? They weren't coming off. Telling me I was made of sterner stuff and more than capable of bearing the pain he bent me over a footstool and lifted my skirt.

The ruler was a surprise. It flashed onto the top of my thigh and bit. It's a nasty little implement. Lots of small bites of pain placed randomly. It does no real harm but like a paper cut it irritates and annoys. I can't wriggle from the ruler as I have to minimize the pressure on the pegs, all the time they are burning into my nipples.

"I might stop if you ask nicely" I am told. So I ask nicely and beg for the pegs to be removed. Excellent, he tells me to sit up and pulls them off. That transient return of intense sensation only indicates relief to me.

The nipples rings please him and they featured in his next stage of play. A short length of chain, enough to link them tightly is attached with the remainder swinging onto my belly. He pulls and I follow until I am standing and breathing hard again. In his hand the vibrator is activated and applied to the chain between my nipples. I almost collapse as the vibration travels deep into my breasts and sensation flourishes. This is a feeling I will want to revisit.

Unlike the next which achieved his aim of activating my sadistic side.

He pulled me by the chain into the walk-in closet until I was positioned under a rail. Unclipping one end of the chain he passed it over the rail and back into position on the nipple. Standing on my toes was the only way to reduce the tension. My hands were placed behind my back "keep them there" he said and walked back into the room. So I teetered on the ultra high heels and worried about his return, I was right to.

A handful of pegs.

The pleading began before he had even placed one.

To no avail.

"Part your legs"

He had to be stern before I complied.

One by one pegs were attached to my labia. I believe there were tears. They bit and burned and in me a red mist grew. He wasn't heeding my cries for relief and as I looked at his impassive face there was the genesis of an urge to see features of pain reflected back to me.


It was time to switch.

Taking the cane

I have always felt the pull of the cane. Perhaps it was initiated by those naughty school girls in the books I voraciously read. For I certainly felt annoyance at primary school that only the bad boys got called into the headteachers room for six of the best. I was left to imagine how it felt when that slender length of cane collided with tender flesh to leave a livid mark.

I bought my first cane a year ago, pink lexan which is heavy in my hand. Then more recently I bought a traditional school teachers cane. I have plied both against the bottom of marty who valiantly tolerated the strokes of a novice. Neither gave me much pleasure. I found the solid nature of the stroke falling heavy on the buttocks curbed my enthusiasm. Feeling sure that I was missing something in my application of the cane I decided it was important for me to submit to it with a mentor.

I reached out to one whom I admired and made a tentative inquiry. Then in time we met with thoughts of dominance and submission in both our minds.

It began gently in a quiet room. As the door closed behind us he took control. His hand on the nape of my neck sent me down into a submissive space, he tested my response to him and then sat to put me across his knee. My skirt was lifted and the first few spanks fell on my panty clad bottom. I relaxed as they fell with a rhythm and balance that was mesmerizing.

The pantys were removed with some wriggling and a degree of discomposure. The spanking resumed with his smooth hands bringing increasing heat to my bare bottom. He continued until we were both hot and my place under his hand established.

Maybe he had concerns that I would attempt to evade his carefully positioned strokes of the cane for he took my hands and secured them with steel. I was positioned just how he liked, trembling pink flesh waiting for further assault.

He teased me with my favourite spanking tool, slowly drawing the belt from his waist before applying it to my bottom. Clearly he used it to make my bottom redder and hotter but it began the slow burn of arousal in my pussy. I was happy, feeling my clit grow as each blow from the belt made my nerves hyper-stimulate.

The belt was replaced, those few minutes as it was threaded back through the loops gave me space to focus back on the cane. It was time.

It landed with a thud, as solid from my receiving end as it had felt when I wielded it. Six, twelve, eighteen. I wasn't counting but he liked to spell them in neat packages. You would not believe it but my clit grew harder and a wet patch began to spread down my legs. The sustained caning drew blue words from me until at last I pleaded for a break, not an end. He felt the heat of my bottom and the wetness flowing and then whispered kind words in my ear.

The caning that followed was in blocks of six. At the start of each I felt certain I could breathe through the pain but when the fifth and six fell I was desperate for salvation. Each break got longer as the sting refused to diffuse and until it did I could not regain my equanimity.

I was mortified by the degree of arousal I was revealing, the caning had not caused any diminution. Instead I was orgasmic as each stoke of the cane pressed my clit hard against the bed taking me to a place of conflict - choosing pain to achieve pleasure.

The caning ceased. As he whispered his pleasure in my ears I turned and kissed him. I was truly thankful for his strict discipline and overwhelmed with joy.