The image that was pressing itself into my memory was that of Mistress Daria's face, her eyes sparkling, her lips broadly parted in a hungry smile. Her expression was a mirror of some part of me, inside, thrilling and euphoric, exalting in her attention and sublimely controlled ministrations. Despite the overload of sensations, despite my fear, her look egged me on, as if she were saying, "You've waited for this. Savor it."
She was right, but her expression was a stark a contrast to the continuing flares of pain I was feeling, my face tight, my back pressed against the frame to gain even an eighth of an inch in distance. I was avoiding the burning ember of a cigarette as it drew incrementally closer to my right nipple. What had begun as warm, an inch away, was now a firebrand at a quarter of an inch. I looked at it, mesmerized by the orange-red tip and smoke trailing up and by my inability to do anything about it. "Please," I breathed. She looked up into my eyes and moved her right leg, letting her fishnet-clad thigh graze the tip of my cock for an instant. The pain from the heat vanished for a moment with the gesture, as the pleasure from the touch spread up my ass and spine and ricocheted around inside my head. "Please?" she asked. For a few more seconds, I was able to endure the pain before barely breathing, "Please."
Mistress Daria removed the cigarette, and I felt myself utterly lost. She left the room.
We'd talked briefly about cigarettes before starting. When we met, we shook hands and stepped into one of the rooms of the Dungeons of Mistress Elizabeth, and spoke for five minutes. Her appearance was a little different than her pictures I'd seen in Dominant Mystique or on the Web. A narrower, more sharply angular face that made her eyes seem larger. She was more slender than the trim appearance in her photographs. By comparison, in person she was nearly unrecognizable, and that had had nothing to do with the cinching corset. It was her vibe, her look, a probing, accepting, wanton gaze that was intrigued and laconic at the same time. She asked my interests, and since this wasn't exactly new terrain to either of us, it made sense to tell her. Nipple play, a little C&B, cigarette play. The fantasy of, but no real desire for, mock piercing. Things I'd explored with phone dommes.
She left and I undressed, as she suggested. There was no "On your knees, pig-boy!" attitude about it, but I had said that wasn't interested in that, and for the moment, that was fine with her. My interest is more in the sensory aspects of the scene, the stimulation that puts you on edge, writhing in a pool of pain and arousal but craving more, hoping for the feeling to intensify and lead to the abandonment of reason.
When she returned and first cuffed me to the X-frame and bound my cock and balls, she looked at me, in the eye, and placed her hand on my chest. She found my right nipple and began to pinch. It was nothing like any pinch I'd felt before. Unrelenting as a nipple clamp, but lessening and intensifying in a way that made me throb and cut my breath short. "Yes," she said, "I can see that this is the center of everything."
She was right, more than I realized. The intensity of her grip varied, but it grew increasingly strong. I watched her closely. Her mouth, full, with hot breath against my chest, as it parted and grew into a smile as my knees started to buckle. Her eyes, which occasionally looked up into mine, with their long lashes and glittering amusement and enjoyment of my exquisite agony. I felt myself falling into some deep chasm, separated from how I know myself most of the time: a husband, a father, a professional who handles the confidences and trust of others. Most everything cascaded away in a rush of sensation that was overwhelming, consuming.
She stopped, smiled at me, with a silent laugh somewhere deep in her throat, and paused to light a cigarette. She took a drag and brought herself back to me and placed her hand against my chest again, this time holding the cigarette. The ember slid down from my collarbone to my right nipple, an inch or so away.
"Yes, I've done play piercings. This is where I'd do it," she said, pointing to the tip of my nipple with her cigarette and pinching it with her other hand. "Right there. I'd just pop it through." Looking up into my eyes, into the disorienting rush her words had had on me, she smiled again and brought the ember closer to my nipple.
After she'd finished with the cigarette and stepped out of the room, I felt she hadn't gone. She had won access to my mind, and having picked up on what I craved, she was preparing to bring me to other levels. More sensations, some new to me, others somewhat familiar. When Mistress Daria returned, she had a jar of something. "Icy hot," I asked. "Yes," she smiled. She spread it on my cock, balls, and nipples. The sensation took maybe a minute to build, but quickly enough a growing wave of pain rushed up through my body. Where I'd remained standing until then, my legs gave out as I reached another level of stimulation. It was then that I noticed my reflection in a mirror opposite me. It was hung too low to see my head, but a body was there -- mine -- hanging slack by the wrists. To the left, Daria saw me see myself and again, smiled. "You can take it," she said. "For me."
I did. Honestly, I could have freed myself from the restraints, as I'd discovered when she'd left the room earlier. But I had no desire to. Why? To slap at my inflamed cock and balls? Find some antidote? It was too late, and the pain began to subside. She picked up an atomizer and came over, her mouth open in a wide smile, as if to say "The fun's just begun" and sprayed my chest and groin. The subsiding pain flared again.
Perhaps it wasn't odd that she'd left me enough room to free myself. Later, when I was restrained to a padded bench, I was also able to free myself. At one point, having secured my wrists to a rack-like contraption on the bench, she began to cuff my ankles but stopped, as if she knew that total restraint would be too much. I was there by my own choice, after all.
Once restrained, I asked her what she enjoyed about domination. She was holding a physicians tongue depressor with her right hand, and pressed the end to a finger in her left. When she let go, it smacked sharply against my nipple. My left, thankfully.
In response to my question, as the pain coursed through me, she said, "Why, giving people so much pleasure."
Looking up at her as I was prone, her full hair and face backlit, she was a warmly spectral figure, a guide into myself. Yes, what was extraordinary were the sensations and feelings and thoughts that ran through me, that she had prompted and triggered. That in itself opened a door I knew existed but had not truly explored. But what I had only dimly understood going in was the significance of a domme's sensitivity and ability to empathize with her charge. Of course, I was more than a willing subject.
