leather pants

After enough time spent practicing BDSM a person can find his or herself advanced enough to actually create a new fetish or kink. I’m not advocating reckless exploration, but instead shedding new light on the idea of BDSM mastery. There is a certain level of creation that exists above and beyond the simple execution of sequential steps necessary to complete something. Once you learn how to do something capably, responsibly, and comfortably, you can start to exhibit grace. The essential gives way to the beautiful which gives way to the divine. Beyond a certain level of skill in anything, be it business, art, science, sports, or even sex, you graduate to the level of artist. What I am about to share with you I consider to be part of my artistic contribution to the world of BDSM.

I have one client, Stuart, who I have been seeing for four years now who is very responsive to the mental side of BDSM. He usually books long sessions, five hours at a time. Over the years I have done many, many things to him, and some of my most inspired Domming has been in session with him. Stuart is incredibly smart, and so it requires a lot of forethought to be able to outwit and surprise him. Our last session was particularly intense.

Stuart booked a five hour slot with me, which I told him in advance, due to my schedule, I would have to break into two parts over two sequential days. He was coming from out of town to see me so was happy to accommodate whatever time I could give him, as long as he got his allotted five hours. I promised him that we would push his physical and psychological limits, but that no matter what I would not violate those limits–even if it appeared to be the case. He admitted he had been wrestling with a few things: the idea of ethics, for instance what makes a good person and whether he himself was a good person; and mortality in general, as he was mourning the death of a friend. I made note of his concerns and changed the subject, then a few emails later asked him for some more information, including a list of the top 10 unethical things he could think of that he would never be able to do to another person. He complied, and I studied the list carefully, looking for a kernel of inspiration. One of the things on the list was gaslighting. At first I glossed over it, but then I looked it up; what I found was fascinating, and led to a huge revelation. I had been practicing gaslighting in my sessions for years and never knew what to call it.

  1. A form of mental abuse in which information is twisted/spun, selectively omitted to favor the abuser, or false information is presented with the intent of making victims doubt their own memory, perception and sanity.

There were nine other things on the list, all of them horrific and all of them normally unthinkable for a consensual BDSM environment, or really any environment. I had found my inspiration though, and I vowed to somehow integrate all of these ten things into the session in a way that would transform Stuart and make him think about his place in the world in a whole new light. Gaslighting seemed like the appropriate starting place, the umbrella under which all the other evils could take cover. I started scheming, happy that I would be able to make good on my promise (threat) to him that it would be a truly boundary-pushing experience.

The night of our session I had him meet me at a subway station on the street. My clothes and make-up were understated, casual even, and I greeted him with a cheerful “vanilla” smile. Many subs are uncomfortable with this kind of behavior from their Domme. I find that subs seek someone who is strong, powerful, and greater than them to help them organize their idea of structure in the world–if a sub wanted to “hang out” with a “friend,” they would call up that friend, not book a session with a Domme. But I was doing this intentionally; I wanted Stuart to be thrown off, disoriented, perhaps even a little disgusted with my casual treatment of him as an “equal.” It worked. Within a few minutes, as we sat drinking coffee and “catching up” at a nearby cafe (what a horrible start to an “intense” session!) with my making a heroic attempt to appear “normal.” I could see his typically docile and deferential persona that he reserved for the presence of dominant women melting away, and a confident, even slightly arrogant vanilla core emerging. I smiled to myself, pleased to see my plan was working. It was important for his confidence to rise a bit so that I could grapple with his “everyday” self, not just the submissive session persona he carefully sequestered away from the rest of the world.

Just at the point that I could see him start to wonder, “is this it?!” I brought him outside and announced that the session had already started. Stuart blinked, confused but intrigued. I then blindfolded him and walked him down the street for the full 10 blocks between the cafe and the studio: further disorientation. The blindfold stayed on until he was outside the studio door; then I closed the door in his face while he waited in the hallway, alone and confused. I readied the studio while he waited, making sure the lights were at full glare inside. Then I opened the door again and dragged him inside, removed the blindfold, and revealed an empty space–no equipment or furniture visible. I ordered him out onto the balcony, then locked the door behind us and forced him out of his clothes. The cold wind bit my fingers as I pocketed his wallet and cell phone, ripping his clothes from his hands. For ten minutes he sat outside alone as I brought bits of equipment into the main room, and poor Stuart watched, naked and freezing, from outside the glass wall that separated the bitter outdoors from the warm interior of the studio. Eventually I joined him outside, taking his watch with me. Stuart gazed at me with relief and the beginnings of his familiar look of submissive longing, and I used his watch to perform a brief but effective hypnosis on him, brainwashing him to “love me no matter what.” It seemed to work (inasmuch as any hypnosis “works”), and I brought him indoors.

The beginning was gentle: foot and armpit worship. I hadn’t bathed for two days in anticipation, and when he commented on the smell I put my nose to my feet and asked what he was talking about. He tried to backpedal, fearing he had offended me, but I drew out a confession that he thought my feet and armpits reeked (they did). I very convincingly and fervently denied it, concerned that someone could think I smelled so badly when in fact, I did not (I did). Panicked, Stuart stammered that he loved the smell, that it was not a bad thing; I innocently suggested that perhaps it was his nose that was extra sensitive, because I didn’t smell a damn thing (I definitely did). The gaslighting had begun.

I then pulled him into a bare storage room and had him wait for a few more minutes alone in the dark–further disorientation. While he was in there, I dimmed the lights in the main room every so slightly for the classic gaslighting effect. Then I joined him in the storage room and, with a cheerful greeting, punched him in the stomach as hard as I could. The poor man looked at me, totally unprepared for such a violent, sickening action. I smiled at the hurt in his eyes, and then did it again–this time on his soft sides just under his ribs. The next 10 minutes were a horrific beat down. In the middle of it I asked him, “do you know why I’m beating you?” He shook his head no, the pain and shock keeping any words from his mouth. I grinned and slapped him so hard his teeth clattered. “No reason. There is no good reason. It is meaningless violence.”