The heat was building in more ways than one on that first Sunday morning of July. Mistress Liza was looking cool in a strappy black leather bodice and knee boots over a pair of black spandex leggings. As usual she was immaculately made up. I looked into her grey green eyes as we chatted before my session, searching in vain for any hint of her mood. She remained as enchantingly inscrutable as ever.
Upstairs in the dungeon I undressed as she commanded, standing naked before her as she strapped the heavy black leather wrist cuffs into place. She pulled the black leather upholstered bench away from the wall and ordered me to get across it. She mused as to whether I needed to be strapped down before deciding that I did. I felt the wide leather waist belt being pulled across and tightened followed by straps around my thighs and knees. Finally she clipped my wrist cuffs to the vertical front legs of the bench. I was going nowhere, however severe the punishment that she decided upon.
I need not have worried, at least to begin with. Mistress Liza chose to warm me up with six strokes of the tawse. I took them in my stride. The Argentine rebenque strap was a little more challenging. Half a metre of thick cream leather that delivers a heavy, stinging blow. It produced little more than groans of satisfaction from me as once again I handled it with comparative ease.
Now she was beside me, teasing the shaft of a heavy braided tan whip between her outstretched hands. I turned my head to my left, watching her watching me. “Do you know what this is?” Without waiting for my answer she continued. “We are on a tour of the world. Scotland, Argentina…South Africa”.
“The sjambok”, I said quietly. The very name was sufficient to strike fear into even the most seasoned masochist. The original sjambok was made of a single length of rhino hide. This modern reproduction comprised a length of braided leather of well under a metre. Like the woman who now wielded it though size was no indication of potential to deliver a stunning, mind jumbling blow.
I studied the outline of her slim, neat body as the caressed the leather then returned my gaze to the floor beneath me, resigned to my fate. “You will have three strokes,” she intoned. I felt relief at the relatively light sentence only to be brought back to reality by the first stroke that made me gasp in pain. As the third fell she said “Three more I think.”
Our sessions don’t work along the lines of negotiation. From the outset our deal is based on one simple premise, it’s give and take. Mistress gives me the punishment she chooses and I take it. I would not have it any other way. She shares my feelings on safewords, they would merely undermine the authenticity of her authority over me. I take the second set of three strokes. The tracks of the sjambok remain vivid the following day.
At the time they were instrumental in tipping me into subspace. It’s an odd, dreamy feeling that can persist for hours. It tends to make one less communicative as the endorphins produced in response to the pain numb the senses. Pain is still felt, but is perceived differently, and it’s addictive.
After the sjambok I am suspended by my feet. Hanging inverted I watch the chain disappear up into the ceiling. Suddenly I’m swinging free like some sort of giant pendulum as Mistress casually pushes me to and fro.The red under soles of her knee-high boots move closer and then recede in this surreal upside down world.
Once back on my feet I stand with my wrists bound above my head as Mistress stings my back with a singletail, the strokes criss crossing to form a neat pattern on the flesh. Her nails caress my shoulders, the lightness of their touch contrasting with the delicious cruelty of her whip. I shudder with a simple tactile pleasure that verges upon the orgasmic.
Driving home I contemplate the session as the subspace fades into memory. The stinging of the sjambok strokes will remain a while yet. My thoughts wander to just what it would be like to have it wielded at anything like full force, and whether I would ever have the courage to give a hint that might transfer such a thought to her mind.