As it turns out I had my most intense dom experience recently, and this has been on my mind a lot.
We talked about the scene a few times. A couple days before, I told him how much I’d enjoyed a brief flogging with him previously, and mentioned that I’d like to repeat that experience but deeper. The night of the scene we talked, over dinner, about what each of us would like to get out of it–I wanted to share the endorphin high with him, the experience of subspace, and the sense of vulnerability and trust. He wanted to be let go and be hurt, to be pushed further than he wanted to go himself–and he trusted me to guide him through that.
To have someone extend that trust to me is both exhilarating and humbling, particularly because I dom so rarely. I think that in many ways it’s more difficult to be the leading partner because the responsibility for safety–and fulfillment–falls on your shoulders. Both in an emotional and a physical sense.
Just before the scene we checked in again: I asked whether I could restrain him, whether I could gag him, and outlined the warmup and apex I had in mind. He asked whether he could pass on a safeword and I told him that for this scene it was mandatory, and we practiced verbal and nonverbal signals.
As I cuffed him, spread out for the flogging, I reminded him where he was likely to lose circulation and feeling, and showed how I’d check in on each hand to make sure he was OK. This was his first time fully restrained, and he was clearly nervous–I spent about ten minutes just reassuring him that he was going to be OK, telling him how proud I was of him, how good he looked in that position, and so on. Just caressing, squeezing, and kissing him, to get him eased into a place where he felt comfortable giving up control.
As we warmed up I introduced him to the flogger–across his face, across his back, letting him smell the leather, and continuing the same physical reassurance from before. When he was ready I started in with light strokes, then a gentle massage. We went at that for… maybe 20 minutes or so. A friend of mine is an excellent impact top, and I try to draw on his technique, his ritual, as it works so well on me.
At forty minutes we were going full throttle–aggressive strokes in varying patterns across his back, and he was moaning and whimpering and… things started to click for me. I *owned* him. I *protected* him. I’d expected him to abort much earlier, to call a stop, but he let me beat him harder and harder until I was swinging as hard as I could, and still he took more. Took more of me.
Our checkins became more and more aggressive–I’d draw my hands gently across his back still, and squeeze his hands, but as that sense of ownership grew I started to growl, to tell him what a good, obedient boy he was, how much he needed this. Fingers deep in his mouth, biting down hard at the nape of his neck, as he rolled his back moaning, just on the verge of panic. I choked him and forced a ball gag into his mouth–and that was enough to break him. His sobbing, his raw heart imploring me to stop, but asking for more… I don’t know how to describe the admixture of ferocity and compassion that rose from me in those moments.
I beat him as hard as I could, more and more amazed at his endurance and trust. I own him. I protect him. When he dropped from screaming to a limp, shuddering, silent hang, I came in again to check. His hands had just given out. In the space of a few seconds he’d gone from checking in to nonresponsive, and I knew that was his time. I’m not sure how many levels of resistance we’d broken through, but that was deeper than he needed to go.
And it’s… in the aftercare, really, that I felt most dominant. I ungagged him, reassured him, unbuckled the restraints as fast as I could, and held him up while he sagged limp in my arms, sobbing. Poor guy couldn’t even walk. I’d poured a glass of juice for him before we started, and had him drink a little to recover. Carried him to bed, and undid the restraints completely.
And then… I held him, for an hour and 45 minutes.
Kept him warm, kept him safe. Easy voice, calm strokes down his body. His eyes wild as I ordered him to breathe with me–count in, count out. And as he came out of that whimpering, inchoate subspace the most… small, plaintive questions came rushing out, and it broke my fucking heart. I was so worried I’d taken him further than he could go, that he was somehow broken forever, and promised him over and over that I would *never* strike him again, that he had been so tough, so brave, so giving of himself. I didn’t know how to make myself a big enough shield for him, but I held him, and told him everything he felt was OK, and little by little he surfaced again, and laughed, and shivered, and cried and held me more.
Like metalworking, the fire of a scene makes one’s psyche ductile, deformable, workable. Push the wrong way, and people can easily bend out of shape. But fold and hammer in the right places, and the soul becomes stronger. Your bond as partners becomes stronger. In the cooling process of aftercare I feel our annealing; him cleaving to my strength, my cladding wrapping around him. I feel past wounds come oozing to the surface, and hopefully, healing stronger.
That’s domspace for me. The utmost compassion and responsibility for another human being; to see them at their most unguarded, their most fragile, and reassure them that they have value; to accept whatever they feel, whether scary or ugly, and create a space for them to heal. To push them in the ways that they need to be pushed, but can’t see through on their own. To love them completely. To see yourself through their eyes as protector, as guide, as all-powerful and terrifying and merciful all at once; and to give all your physical and emotional reserves to bring them through that experience, and back home safe.
