Please welcome this week’s guest blogger, the awesome Jenby aka @JenetalTorture, who is here to talk to you about impact play. Sexy, funny, compelling and brilliant, I couldn’t stop myself grinning from ear to ear as I read this post. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did…
Impact play: the one to beat
I’ve been doing impact play wrong.
In my long history of bringing things roughly into contact with my rear end, I’d always dismissed it as something of an addendum to the act of sex itself; an occasional slap to compliment an already perfectly horny scene. Watching people being spanked was reliable fodder for a lazy afternoon wank, but I’d often find myself wondering what the spankee got out of it. I could never get past the idea that here was something intended to be a punishment, yet the pleasurable sting of a clap to the buttcheek always struck me as too tame to really qualify, so the game of trying to avoid being reprimanded seemed hollow, and the kink itself somehow toothless, almost vanilla. Even as I’d watch the buttocks redden and the welts rise, I’d convince myself it wasn’t a pastime for the hardcore kinkster.
Flash forward to last month. I was at Sugar Kane in Edinburgh, my first dedicated kinky play event. Up till then my hands-on BDSM experience had either been confined to the bedroom, or this year’s Eroticon, which I’d mostly spent confined in layers of vacuum-sealed latex (but that’s another blog). I knew I wanted impact play as, being a relative newbie, I thought it the best way to ease myself in.
My partner’s weapons of choice were ‘corruptibles’: household objects co-opted for kink such as wooden spoons, frying pans or hardbacks. One of his stash happened to be something I’d co-written, so I found myself in the surreal position of crouching on the floor of a sex dungeon, signing a book, about to be soundly beaten with it.
And so we began. Wrists cuffed to a St. Andrew’s Cross, my arse clad in a pair of leggings but very definitely exposed, my dominant armed and ready. And it was at this point I realised where I’d been going wrong. It seems obvious now, but then it was a revelation.
Impact play hurts.
It hurts so bad.
When it’s done right, you try everything in your arsenal to avoid another hit. It’s not fun. So why couldn’t I get enough? Why could my safeword not be further from my lips? Things clarified when, after a series of swats with the first book – my partner confessed he was toying with having me recite passages from it but I countered that the main character was fourteen and he mercifully agreed that would be the Least Sexy Thing™ – he moved on to a large, sturdy dictionary, which spawned a new game: open to a random page, have me spell a word. Get it right, one hit. Get it wrong, one for every letter in the offending word. My eyes streaming with pain, utterly unable to think straight, I’d make stupid mistakes, get wet at my own incompetence (because bimbofication), then feel a genuine pang of fear as the behemoth of a book hurtled towards my backside for however many hits I was owed.
And that’s what was so intoxicatingly sexy. The game of trying to get it right was real. Why was I actively trying to avoid the thing I’d come to this basement expressly to have done to me? Because the pain was too much. But with every gentle tracing of my Dom’s finger down my spine, reminding me to push out my arse and not squirm away from my punishment, with every whispered word of encouragement in my ear, the pain became more than bearable, it became everything I needed. For those few minutes there was nothing more important than pleasing my Master. And to do that by sacrificing my own comfort made this submissive hot as hell.
At the end of the session my partner asked if I had to sit down at any point that day. It so happened I was doing a show that evening but honestly couldn’t recall how many times I sat down in it. After that night I could tell you exactly: nine. And one instance of falling on my arse. I also made a final, painful discovery: it’s not when you sit down that’s the problem. It’s when you get up.
My bruises were undeniably impressive. Too soon however, they faded, and I was back at SK with a new partner, being introduced to a whole new range of devilish instruments (I may have audibly mewed in disappointment when he told me he’d forgotten to charge his electric cattle prod). It was my back that was the focus this time, and I found myself in a whole new world of pain. But as he ran his hands over my burning weals, remarking on the heat pouring off my tenderised flesh, I only wanted more.
We ended the session with a rubber whip that had been referred to by various subs as the Bastard, the Arsehole and the Motherfucker (BAM for short). He said he used it at quarter strength, but it still left me a quivering mess, and unlikely to ever disrespect impact play again.
Or maybe I will, when it’s feeling particularly mean…
Wait, why’s my arse out…?