The following post involves intense BDSM, in a violent role play context, and it is also incredibly beautifully (and consensually) written. I don’t know that there are many people who could write the scene below well enough to balance consent and fear, but BibulousOne and EuclideanPoint are both fantastic sex writers and kinksters who I admire hugely. When they sent through their pitch about this incredible kinky interrogation scene, I found myself simultaneously nervous and also deeply excited. And to me that’s often what the best BDSM scenes are all about: the intersection of pleasure and pain, fear and excitement. This story absolutely took my breath away. Not just for the intensity of the scene itself but from the careful and consensual way they go about explaining its origins. Huge thanks to both of them for sharing this stunning kinky interrogation…
“Who is your informant?” – a kinky interrogation scene
It’s amazing where imagination, clear communication of wants and desires and a great big bucket full of mutual trust can get you. In the case of Euclidean Point and I, it got us to a three hour kinky role play set in a prison interrogation cell.
The role play gave EP, an MI6 operative, an informant in a military headquarters in a foreign country. She had been captured by the secret police while checking a dead drop for messages from her spy.
I’m not going to describe the whole three hours of our session but the final scene was so extreme, so visceral, so violent that if you happened upon it I’m sure you would think I had become completely unhinged and was committing a violent assault upon a helpless woman beyond all possibility of consent. So I’m going to describe that scene and then we’re going to show you how we got there. How it was imbued with care and consent. How it was, in fact, an exquisite piece of consensual non consent kink between two adults who both knew exactly what they were doing.
The scene (By Bibulous, the interrogator)
She’s weary, sore and her reserves of strength have nearly all gone. She’s been held in stress positions, flogged, whipped and had her interrogator shouting in her face while he hits her naked thighs with a dense plastic cane. Just as she has been trained, she has buried the name of her informant deep within her, but now she can feel it rising upwards like vomit, and swallowing is no longer enough to keep it down.
Removing the black hood from her head, the interrogator drags her into a small stone cell, forces her into a corner, pushes her onto her knees and padlocks her wrists to a water pipe in front of her. Even with her back to him she’s conscious of her nakedness, her vulnerability and her smallness in the face of her overwhelming fear.
He’s reduced the list of possible informants to three and he shouts their names into her face: “Martinson? Smith? Jenkins?” he yells, “Which is it?”
“I don’t have an informant!” she mumbles, her heart no longer in it, “I’m just an assis-” The whip cuts into her shoulder blades, silencing her plaintive protestation of innocence. He whips her again and again.
As he has already done once today, he holds out a full glass of water and offers it to her to drink. Only this time, when she turns her head to take a sip, he instead empties the glass onto the back of her neck. The shock makes her gasp for breath. The water’s icy touch runs down her sensitive back and shoulders, over her naked breasts and onto her thighs.
Again he’s shouting names in her ear. She lets out a sob, lost now in misery and pain, unsure who she is any more. Numbly, she shakes her head from side to side.
This time the water is sprayed hard from a hosepipe, icy and unforgiving. She can’t get away from it.
Then he’s back with the whip, harder this time, biting into her flesh. Then more cold water on her back. The shouting in her ear. The whip. The hose pipe. More shouting. The whip. The whip! THE WHIP!!
She’s sobbing solidly now, tears mingling with the water.
“It’s Smith,” she sobs, “It’s Smith.” She buries her face in her bound hands, and lets go. It’s over.
How we got there (By Euclidean Point, the prisoner)
How did we get here? With me crying on my knees whilst B whipped my back again and again? He seems impervious to, or maybe even goaded by, my considerable distress.
The short answer is, I asked him for this. I asked him to take me beyond enjoyable, kinky sensation pain and into endurance. Into finding it too much and seeing whether I could deal with it. Into crying and that not being the end of the scene. I wanted to be pushed. To be broken. To be completely taken over by the sensation. To tip over the edge and fall and fall.
The long answer comes from years of my reading his blog, occasional online chat, and then real life meetings and coffee. We dipped a toe into playing together at a party where there were other friends in the room, and following that I finally got up the courage to ask him if he was interested in playing with me one to one. Our play was collaborative, he checked in with me and I had safe words. He coached me through taking the cane. Encouraged me to breathe when I was waiting for the next blow of the flogger to land. I had an amazing time.
Prior to this session, we had spent a week or so exchanging texts and emails. Ideas, backstory. An email from him which clearly set out what we were planning to do, so there could be no ambiguity in our intentions. A response from me confirming my enthusiasm and consent, and promising I would use my safe word if I needed to. On the morning of our meeting, when he gave me the code for the dungeon door and my instructions for how to prepare myself for the start of the session, he made a final check that I was happy to go ahead. I was.
We gradually built the session from stress positions and questioning, to my being strung up by my wrists and whipped all over until I confessed to being a spy. After a particularly intense interrogation scene, standing hooded against a wall, he came up behind me, put his hand on my shoulder, and asked me if I was OK. I had looked uncomfortable in our last scene, and he was worried that I might have stopped having a good time. I reassured him that I was having the time of my life, and was excited to carry on.
That confirmation saw me dragged into the main room and locked into a rather serious metal bondage frame. On my hands and knees and secured in position, he flogged me to tears and sobs and screams. I didn’t confess the name that would have stopped my torture. I didn’t use any of the many safe words and signals we had agreed. I told him that I didn’t have any information for him – my way of showing that I was still in the game, still wanted more.
I needed complete trust in B to walk into the dungeon that day. To hold still while he immobilised me, time and time again, and gave me pain that escalated until it became too much. But to take me to that place, to break me down and then to keep going, despite my apparent distress, he needed to trust me more. The first time I broke down, I wondered if that might be the end of our session. I sat on the floor of the dungeon as my breathing returned to normal, waiting for what might happen next. When he returned and ordered me to stand, I could see he was still in character. I hadn’t confessed the name I was hiding, and he was going to make me.
Then he led me into that tiny isolation cell, told me to kneel facing the wall, and cuffed my wrists to a pipe in the corner.
We stepped over that edge together.
If you’d like to find out more about this scene – including detail on the plot and how BibulousOne came up with it using Chat GPT – visit ‘building a role play‘ on his blog.