Girl on the Net

I don’t know how long it’s been since I was last properly belted. A year at least, maybe two. It’s not the end of the world. I love kink, and I adore being used and abused, but my desires are incredibly responsive, so I’m far less concerned about finding a relationship that ticks off all the spanky acts on my submissive wishlist than I am about building connection with someone I love. Still. One of the nice things about leaving a relationship is remembering all the opportunities that you once packed away with a shrug, which you can now dust off again. And as I rummage through a box marked ‘things I can do now I’m single’, getting belted just happens to lie on the top. Luckily for me, a mate made it her mission to drag me up off the floor from the pool of wine and tears in which I was lying, and force me outside to have fun. Let me tell you about my friend, the Queen of the Dungeon.

Before the event…

All good sex requires build-up. Not necessarily ‘foreplay’, but anticipation at least. The chance to revel in that frisson of excitement, whether in the seconds just before your lips touch someone else’s, or the weeks building up to sex with a long-distance lover for whom you’ve been eagerly yearning. Anticipation isn’t just a spice you sprinkle on top of anything sexy, it’s the olive oil you put in the pan before any cooking begins.

Anticipation for this event is hard to conjure, the simple reason being that I’m absolutely terrified. The Queen of the Dungeon wants to take me to a kink party. Not just a little one either – a big one, with quite a few people. Young people, I think. At least that’s what I assume – the invite says it starts at 10. In the evening! What’s more, it’s one of those parties where people get stuck in to dressing up. And I am not a dresser-upper. The best I can do, if someone’s getting married, is ‘drunk aunt looking awkward in a dress.’

This will be hard.

But no matter. I remember that I’ve been to play parties before, even if they were pretty long ago. And I remind myself that I’ve done loads of difficult things in my life – set up a business, filled out mortgage paperwork, had sex with someone so famous that my parents have his book on the shelves in their living room. I can stick on some heels and a corset, surely? I can wander in to a young person’s kink party pretending I belong there like everyone else, can’t I? If I really take my courage in both hands, maybe I can even get belted in front of hot strangers. That’s the dream.

It’s difficult to achieve, for sure, and I spend a lot of time in the build-up imagining all the things that might go wrong. Cursing my body as the factor most likely to fuck this whole thing up. Being the wrong shape to fit in old corsets, too clumsy for heels, coming down with some sort of winter cold that means I have to flake at the last minute (I catch EVERYTHING). But difficult things are much easier when you’ve got friends to hold your hand. The Queen of the Dungeon nudges, nags, cajoles and eventually outright bullies me into doing what I’ve promised: try on some outfits and send her pics, so she can help choose which one might work best.

A week or so before the party, after much procrastination, I do it…

…and it’s astonishingly, brilliantly easy! I haul some old kink clothes from the depths of a wardrobe, taking mental note of the fact that I never actually got rid of them and that might be relevant, then spend a happy half-hour playing Slut Barbie in front of the full-length mirror. By the time I send her four options, not only do I know in my heart which one is correct, I’m literally wearing it as I wait for her reply. It’s fucky enough to raise eyebrows if I wore it in the street, but comfortable enough that I won’t spend the evening picking at tight laces and perching awkwardly on the edge of any given chair. What’s more… I think I look hot. Not ‘OK’ or ‘fine’ or ‘just about good enough that no one will actually comment’ – I genuinely think I look hot. Fishnets and heels are involved, and my legs are fucking fantastic. She agrees, and bigs me up, but I realise I don’t even need it. The nudge she gave me to try on some clothes was all that was required. The mirror and my great legs did the rest.

The party…

On the day of the party, we get ready together. Me, the dungeon queen and her filthy-hot dom. The living room’s an explosion of make-up, latex, caffeinated drinks and hastily-ordered takeaway. I don’t disbelieve them when they tell me I look good: I resist the urge to kick back compliments or brush them aside, I just breathe them in. We take pictures. I tell them both with feeling that they look astonishingly beautiful. At one point her dom announces that we’re all so hot we might as well fuck right this minute, and although my heart is not ready, my cunt still flutters at the thought.

We enter the party together, and I’m flushed with waves of nostalgia. There’s leather and latex, collars, chains and masks. Naked skin and piercings and tattoos. Thin thighs and thick ones and everything in between. For each stomach that’s seen a few sit-ups, there are plenty that look like they’ve eaten. I remember, in a rush, that this is one of the things I adore about this particular section of the kink community. This unashamed, uncompromising love for the human body – in every shape and size and state of dress. It feels like a place I’ll be welcome and safe. It feels like I’m coming back home.

The Queen introduces me to her friends and after a bit of mingling, we head to the space where we play: my friend is keen to get her arse beaten by all of us, and who am I to deny this treat to a woman who’s done me such good? Besides… it’s a truly astonishing arse. And the switchy side of me is itching to stretch out my spanking arm.

“Hit me…”

The next part is the bit you want to hear, and I’m sad that this is where words might actually fail me. The reason this post is titled ‘Queen of the Dungeon’ is because my mate can take one hell of a beating. Think of the most intense pain slut you’ve ever met in your life, and then immediately forget that person – they are nothing compared to her Majesty. She strips, bends over the bench, and her dom begins with a rapid, intense warm-up that for me would be the whole main event. As he lays into her with playful, vigorous energy, the rest of us take our places nearby and pick implements: one person has a cane, another a birch, another a type of thick flogger. I grab the one I love most: the strap.

Her top beats her first. And he is far from gentle. Hard, powerful thwacks that echo round the room and draw plenty of attention from the group. The flesh of her bum (which, remember, is astonishing) jiggles so satisfyingly that I almost moan with envy. This is a woman who’s built to be spanked, and the yelps and whimpers she barks out are interspersed with demands for ‘more’ and ‘harder’ and ‘DO IT.’

When he hands the reins to me I am suffused with imposter syndrome. I strap her arse with relish, and produce such satisfying sounds, remembering the joy of flexing my muscles to make a subby fuck shriek. But it’s far from enough.

“Harder,” she tells me, “go on!” On the next stroke: “is that all you’ve got?” At one point, I swear, I almost get that exact quote from The Matrix:

“Stop trying to hit me and HIT ME.”

I don’t want to let her down: I go harder. Plus, if I’m honest, I want to go harder. I’m warming up and having so much fun. She squirms and wriggles beneath the strap, and after a while her other friends join in too. We take it in turns: cane, birch, strap, flog. Cane, birch, strap, flog. Cane, birch, strap… all the while her dom grips her hair in his fist and whispers filth in her ear. At one point, he starts to coordinate the beating – directing us like a cox in an Oxbridge eight.

“One,” Cane.

“Two,” Birch.

“Three,” Strap.

“Four,” Flog.

One, two, three, four. Cane, birch, strap, flog… as she’s squirming and squealing and yelping and so utterly in her element.

Eventually – EVENTUALLY – she calls for a pause and flips over. Requests that the next whacks be targeted to her tits. I’m nervous of this. I’ve had my own tits whacked before, and the intense feelings when I looked at my bruises afterwards, combined with my inherent poor aim, has made me wary of dispensing the same as a top. But no matter! When you’re beating the shit out of a woman who wants to take more, there’s always a way to be helpful. And I do so love being helpful: I position myself at her feet, holding them tight to the supports on the bench – all the better to stop her from squirming when the rest of the group land their blows.

Her dom picks up my strap and finishes the job that I couldn’t. One, two, three, four. Squeals and yelps and whimpers and squirms. The bright red flush on her skin that tells us there’ll be dark dark bruises tomorrow. The happy grin she flashes to let us know she’s pleased.

I’m a fan of grinning and eye contact, so when she flips back over I move round the bench, crouching just in front of her and taking her hands in mine. Whispering compliments while the rest of the team go to town, watching for (rare, so rare) winces when something lands especially hard. At one point, one of us cracks a joke, and she tosses her head and literally laughs, mid-beating. The word that immediately springs to mind is ‘resilient’, but on reflection I think ‘mighty’ fits better. She tosses her mane of hair and laughs and I – holding her wrists in my hands at this point – feel her delight resonating through my arms and shoulders.

By this time, the rest of the room is quite quiet. My assumption (and it might be wrong but I doubt it) is that no one else wants to play while she’s got the stage. This red-hot powerhouse of subby, painslut joy, who’s taken the kind of beating that leaves a room of experienced kinksters utterly breathless with awe.

Belting and snogs

Over the course of that night, she continues to show me around. Metaphorically holding my hand as we drink and chat and play. In the quiet confidence she’s brought about with her love and support and nagging for outfit pics, I get up the courage to say ‘yes’ when her hot dom offers to beat me.

“Nothing dramatic,” I tell him, aware of the vicious licks we’ve recently dispensed to the Queen. When he asks what I want, I’m a heartbeat away from bottling it. Saying ‘actually, no thanks, let’s grab some drinks instead.’ But in the moment I feel sexy, and I think I have an urge to pull down my pants, so when I open my mouth, instead of a ‘no’, what comes out is far more specific:

“Warm me up, please. Then give me six with the strap.”

They’re divine.

THWACK.

I remember the feeling.

THWACK.

I flinch and then giggle.

THWACK.

I press my face into the cold wall and stick my bum out further.

THWACK.

I tell him ‘thank you’, as instructed.

THWACK.

I say it again, and I mean it with all of my soul.

THWACK.

I crumble to the floor, panting with the effort of holding back my yelps, ashamed of how low my pain tolerance seems to be these days, but utterly delighted that I got to join in. I scamper off to get Pepsi for the Queen of the Dungeon – to aid in the post-thrashing comedown – and congratulate her obsequiously on her stunning ability to put on a whole fucking show.

It feels disrespectful to make this too much about me so I won’t take long, but I want to note that other things happen that night. Later in the evening, as if in a nod to my weird state of post-break-up trembles, the Queen’s fit play partner turns to me and offers something I didn’t know I wanted, but which immediately gets me feeling flustered and hot in the cunt. In the midst of all the beating, kink and latex, this casually sexy motherfucker leans in and murmurs: “would you like me to kiss you?”

And yes. I would. I absolutely would. There is nothing I want more right now than snogs from this beautiful man. The guy who tops the Queen of the fucking Dungeon. He makes out with me gently while she watches, and then later he does it some more. Even later, I get up the courage to ask him outright: “may I have a bit more?” And he’s right there saying ‘yes’ in a heartbeat, and pressing his lips against mine. Fist in my hair and fantasies fulfilled and the thrill of being so chastely cute in front of all that is hardcore. It’s immense.

Eventually, as the party winds down, at that point in the morning when the birds have begun to sing and we’ve ruined tomorrow, as other people call cabs or gently pass out on the couches, hot dom guy takes the Queen for one final spin on the bench: aggressive and hard. A second round of smacks with every implement, an encore of yelping and squeals. I realise I’m holding my breath through so much of it – mesmerised by the power of her endurance. After they’re done, they offer me another go, and this time I take a bit more. As before, it trips nostalgic pathways in my brain. This ratcheting up of agony and vulnerability and the memory of how it used to be. She straps me now, with feeling, as he holds my head and whispers that I’m such a good girl for taking it.

Those ‘good girls’ make me take more, and then more. A cacophony of shrieks and yelps that expose my relative inexperience until eventually I tell her I’m close to my limit. Half a dozen more and then I’m done. She obliges. Thuddy, slapping strokes that land neatly in the centre of my bum. Bringing a flush to my cheeks and a grin to my face, before I tap out and hand back to her.

Whereupon she takes the bench, claiming her rightful place. My friend, who helped me remember this joy: all hail the Queen of the Dungeon.