The markings of the whip and the feeling that ‘she owns me’

Can Stockholm Syndrome also explain why a D/s submissive feels love for the D after a whipping?

I have never really been one for public play, and I’m not really into pain.  That might make me a lurker at a fetish party, but in truth, I have just never really gone.  Only recently, as I have begun to find my own feet as a domme and as a trans woman have I felt comfortable in those environments.

First and most important, I felt gross as a man anytime I became aroused.  It was okay to be aroused if I “couldn’t help it” in the sense that she was in control, that my agency had been passed to her and it was simply a reflection of what she wanted.  It was “out-of-body”.  In private, with a partner, the most fulfilling sexual experiences produced the same result, but were about absolute presence in body, of being an animal.  Both effects arrived from her domination of me.

What I am saying is that I would have felt so gross in a public space, a club, a fetish party, were I to be aroused like a man.  It would have been more dysphoria inducing that just about anything to the point of physical illness, fever, and depression which could last for days.  I never went to find out, because I knew what it would feel like.

Now, I can navigate those spaces without worry about this, because I am not a man anymore.

Second, my discovery that I can tolerate the male presence when he is submissive, when he is being whipped, when he is learning to respect women, and that sometimes fetish parties are a chance to meet such people, men who are willing to grow and learn and change.  Helping them along is a joy.

I thought of all these things as I dressed.  I was meeting the Companion for an outing to a BDSM play party.  In truth, it was to be my first.  What I discovered was very different than my previous venture into this world.

First, the venue was much more crowded.  We were late, so we missed the class on mummification.  Oh well.  Next time.  Second, there were a great many more women this time, cis women.  There were also many couples.  Much of the crowd was attractive.  There were trans women too, quite a few cross-dressers…it is funny how easy it is to separate the two—even a few months of hormones make such a difference, but also the style of dress, the visual commitment to the transition.  There is something deeply kinky about a trans person I realised last night, as so many of the people working at the club were trans.  Sexy in a way that is very disorienting.

The Companion looked stunning and we entered together.  Two Amazons.  She is over 6’ in heels, and well, I was wearing heels too.  The owners were very welcoming, remembering us from last time.  Already in reception, the unmisktable sound of someone getting spanked was wafting through the air.

There were people milling about reception, handing in coats, and they were all checking us out.  I would say “looking at fresh meat” because there was something like it, only with none of the predatory air that those words imply.  It was more curiosity.  Most men were in couple, and if they were not, it was obvious that they were submissive.  Collared, almost totally naked, wandering around looking for an owner.

A woman appeared.  Achingly tall and lithe, and absolutely stunning.  In platform heels her eyes almost came to mine.  She just looked right at me and made a faint smile.  A few times that evening she was standing near me, checking me out.

Within seconds of us sitting down with our drinks the foot fetishists approached the Companion and asked her if they could worship her feet.  But they were not so submissive, kind of entitled, and so she would say, “no” or “not now” or “come back later” or “is that how you approach?  No.  Come back when you are ready.”

“I love that you are saying ‘no’ and I love that they are not asking me…the next one that asks you and you say ‘no’ to, I will tell to worship mine, and we will see what happens.”  She liked that idea.  But in the end we want for a walk, modelled together, mingled and talked to a few people, watched a man have hot wax dripped over him by a domme.

There were two women there that were not dressed as dommes at all.  One was dressed sexily, in lingerie.  Another looked a bit more ‘school mom’.  Neither exuded dominance.  But clearly they were, as in succession, they put a man each through the paces over a leather bench.  One of the women really knew what she was doing, but in both cases, the impact play was mild and the men didn’t really seem to be able to take much.  The companion and I commented on what seemed to be an excessive reaction to what seemed like relatively mild swats.

When I went to pee, it took no time for the companion to find someone under her feet.  It was the man who had approached her first, and who had been the most respectful.  We had noted this at the time.  She asked me to sit next to her and I politely declined.  A young man was there who appeared to want me to work him over.  And another older man with a leash had been following me around all evening.  

I have to say that a man who follows me around all evening but never says a word, and maintains a respectful distance, is a beautiful man.  And I am sorry that I didn’t get a chance to tend to his needs.  As I went to take him by the collar and talk to him, I encountered that stunning woman.  She was standing on her own in the middle of a pathway between some couches, on which all manner of debauched things were taking place.  She looked at me, and I just wanted to kiss her, or cuddle, or anything.

I introduced myself.  She introduced herself.  We placed each other, and then she wasted no time.

“You have never come here before,” she said.

“Once.”

“Top or bottom?”

“I beat men.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed.

“With women, I am open to anything.  Except I could never hit a woman.”

“I am strictly dominant,” she said.

“That’s good,” I said.  “To a dominant woman, I am submissive.”

“Are you a switch?”

“No Miss.  I am a slave.”

“Do you play?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I like impact play.”

“Oh.”

“Would you like to play?”  I tilted my head and looked at her.  I nodded yes.  I was holding a crop.  She took it from my hand.  “Shall we get a real toy?”

“Yes Miss.”

“Come with me,” she said, taking my hand leading me to a couch and having me sit down next to her.  There was a large satchel next to her and she went into it.

“Can you take a whip?”

“Yes Miss.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

There was a woman sitting opposite.  “Oh good, are you going to play?  Can I watch?”  The domina selected three things to play with and stood up, and bade me do the same.  She took my hand, “come with me and take my hand,” she said.  She held my hand high, over her hand, like a trophy in triumph as she snaked us through the crowd towards to the front of the room where a leather bench with leg and arm straps awaited.  I had no idea who she was, or how experienced, but it was clear by the gathering crowd that she had a following.  They were ringed around by the time I was on the bench.

“You will do this with your hand if it is too much, okay?” she said, showing me a hand gesture.  She caressed my upturned and leather skirted ass and back and then said, “I want this off, all of it.”  I took my top off, my skirt off.  Leaving me in my very fancy and sexy lingerie.  “This too,” she said and pushed me down before undoing my bustier.

“What about your breasts?  Can I hurt them too.”

“They’re a bit sensitive, their new.”

“And?”

“Mmm.  Miss, I can say ‘no’ if I need to.”

“In other words, if they are an accident in contact, then so be it.”

“Yes Miss, I will follow you.”

She pushed me down, pushed my neck, my hair.  She caressed my ass, and then she pulled off my panties, undoing my beautiful tuck and leaving me exposed.  This was a challenge for me, and I went from aroused to aware and realised that I would actually enjoy just sitting next to her more than I would getting hit by her.  I dealt with it by thinking that it is quite possibly the last time and only time that such a thing will happen to me.  Her hands were all over my little you know what.  She pulled on it gently, caressed it, teased it.  I am totally hairless now, from electrolysis and years of waxing.  She played with my rosebud, and was very sensuous.

And then she began to use a crop on me.  Gently, on my ass, thighs and upper back.  Gentle became quite firm.  I wanted to watch her, and I sort of could if I lay my head to the side.  She was beautiful, so utterly gorgeous.  Nothing domme in her dress other than her knee-high boots.  Maybe twenty people were gathered, watching, but I couldn’t see them, I could only see her.

She checked in to see how I was doing, as she ‘warmed me up’.  I was in a trance I think.  She put her gorgeous flank in my face, and tilted her ass towards me and let me kiss her.  “Yes, baby,” she said, “yes, you like that.”  She straddled me with one leg and continued to beat my ass.

She switched tools to something heavier and began working me over.  It was fine, and I enjoyed the times when she stopped and was sensual with me.  She checked in often, reminding me of my safe word, and to use it if it was too much.  I looked at her with puppy eyes.  I couldn’t help it.

“I want to be able to see you,” I said.  

She held me by the hair.  “Look at me,” she said, and ran her fingers through my hair, then pushed my head down and pushed the hair up before biting my neck.  She held the bite a long time.  And then scratched my back, hard, along the spine, before caressing my between my legs and then hitting me with a flurry of blows.

“Are you nice and warmed up?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to be whipped?” she asked.

“Yes,” and I watched her bend down to pick up the unmistakable long coil.  She stood back, raised it above her head, and the unmistakable snap of the whip was heard and felt in my ass and across the murmuring crowd.  And I went inside of myself to a special place that I can go and observed and heard the beautiful sound of the whip on my skin like raindrops on a tin roof, a ping marked by pain.

“Are you okay?” she asked caressing where she had struck.

“Yes,” I said, nodding.

“You will tell me if it is too much.”

“Yes.”

“You know better what you can handle than anyone else.”  She said, resuming her work.

I didn’t move.  Didn’t flinch except when I reached a point where I knew I would have to, and I might arch my back, sit up a bit, and she would check in before pushing me down again. 

Eventually she said, “I will do ten more and then we will stop.  You are bleeding.”

These last ten were more than ten, many more, but they didn’t hurt as much even though they were just as hard.  After, she murmured a sigh in my ear, and kissed my temple, and then she cleaned me, wiping me down with a disinfectant, and a cream to heal me.  And then she dressed me.

“Be careful,” she said, when it was time to get up.  “Get up slowly,” and she held my hand in case I was dizzy.

“I’m sorry if I didn’t get aroused, but I can’t anymore.”

“Oh, you did.”

“You may be the last person who will ever have touched my male parts.  I am having them removed in two months.”

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes, I am already legally a woman.”

“Beautiful,” she said.

“I really enjoyed that.  Thank you.”

“Me too,” she too.  “You are clearly very experienced.”

“I’m not really, Miss, I am just ‘able’ to be with you.”

“Not many people can disappear into themselves during a whipping.  You were great.”

“Are you okay too?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “that was fun.”  I smiled.

“Thank you again,” I said.  “There is nobody here other than you who I would have allowed to whip me.  But I respond to dominance of a certain kind, and I felt it from you.”

“I come here all the time,” she said, “you know where to find me.”

“You are very good with a whip.”

“I had great teachers.”

“I could feel that.  Will you teach me?”

“Yes.  Precision.  To land the whip exactly where you want.  It is art.  That is what I like.  And it is a joy to play with someone who allows for the art to unfold.”  She hugged me and held me and I thought I would just like to sit with her quietly for a nice long while, in silence.

“You will have those marks for quite a while.”

“I can’t wait to see them.”

“It looks beautiful, I think you will like them.”

She told me her real name and how to find her.  I had a real glow, but no desire to sit down.

As I walked back to the Companion where she was sitting in a big armchair, a man under feet, I knew she was placed so that she could watch the whole thing.  Part of me had felt as I walked by her, led to the front by this exquisite domme, that it was for the Companion that I was doing it.  That I wanted her to see.

“Shall we go?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m ready.”  I stood quietly and waited while she politely dismissed the foot slave who attended to her feet, and to another man who wanted to talk to her.  I was in the right head space to stand perfectly still and in silence.  The Companion watched me as she spoke to the others.

“Did it hurt?” she asked as we walked out.

“I have a glow now,” I answered.

“She’s quite beautiful,” she noted.

“Yes, I couldn’t say no.”

“I’m hungry,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Shall we get something to eat?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“A pizza?”

“Even better.”

As we walked to car she asked me if I thought I would ever let go of my submission.

“I don’t know,” I said, “I’m confused.  I think I can be submissive to one person, and this is dating for me.  It is my sexuality, but I am trying to figure it out.  I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It was hot,” she said.  And I looked at her and she had that glassy look in her eyes that comes with arousal.  “Maybe you will always be submissive.”

“I don’t know.  It’s confusing.  The only way I can relate to a man, to have one around me, is to feel dominant, to want to dominate.  But I have no desire to dominate a woman.  I could never hit one, tie one up, yes, but for her pleasure.  I realise that I find pleasure when a woman I can be with finds pleasure, that my pleasure stems from hers.  That woman enjoyed what she did, which is why I could take it.”

We talked for a long time together, about her sexuality, about men, about her dating, and how becoming a domme is shaping who she wants as a partner, and what her expectations are.  As a man I would have minded to hear about her choices in men, as I always wanted to be the one chosen.  Never a cuckold, but a cherished partner.  But as a trans woman, I don’t care.  I offer something different.  Maybe a woman will want it, maybe not.  But we can have a deep and loving friendship, and there will be another woman to explore with.

As for the domina, I’m not sure when it will be possible to see her again, and in truth, what I would really want is to play with her privately.  If I do see her again, I shall ask her on a date.  I’d like that very much.

In the end the only ass that my crop got used on was my own.

And yes, my ass is literally covered with perfectly spaced, occasionally criss-crossed, red and purple welts.  It is beautiful.  She knew what she was doing.  Is there any hope for me?