A Guest post written by ‘Whipping Boy’ from his experiences.
“I’m fucked now, aren’t I?”
“Darling, you were fucked the moment you made contact with Me”
A playdate with The Siren does not begin with the first tremulous kiss of her feet; nor does it end when the radiance of her farewell hug evaporates. It starts when you find out that she would like to play with you, a heart-fluttering moment that puts the imagination on red alert, and it ends… well, I’ll let you know if that ever happens.
From October 2003, when I served a Mistress for the first time, I was searching for something indefinable. Just under 20 years later, when I met The Siren, I found it – but I’m still not sure how to define it. All I know is that The Siren is the first person I have met who truly personifies the truism all good perverts hold dear: that the brain is the most erogenous zone.
It’s not all in the mind. Let’s be clear: The Siren has a versatile beauty, both elegant and carnal, that would catch the eye in 1940s Paris or 21st century New York; in a speakeasy or on a treadmill; at the opera or the orgy. Yet her most magnetic virtues, her aura and effortless authority, transcend the physical.
I would like the details of our time together to remain sacred, but there is one story that demonstrates her superior imagination and wickedly mischievous nature. I have a low pain threshold, as well as an instinctive preference for softer forms of BDSM. As a result our first meeting was essentially a continum of pleasure, perhaps the most dazzlingly erotic experience I have ever had.
Even though I was happy to be a blank canvas for The Siren to decorate – I was bewitched even before we met – she had asked that I send some thoughts ahead of our first meeting, “until I have the measure of you”.
I was keen for The Siren to steadily manipulate and extend my pain threshold, so before our second playdate I deliberately suggested no activities. I trusted her implicitly, and wanted to be a compliant vehicle for the exhibition of power and sensation that she finds so invigorating. The unknown is even more thrilling when it is married to the unpredictable. The Siren’s creativity and whimsical sadism make for a unique experience. There are no BDSM clichés, no generic outfits or session plans. Nor does The Siren get in character when the playtime formally begins; this is her character.
My audiences with The Siren so far have been a lesson in juxtaposition and contrasts. Pleasure and pain, overlapping like never before; physical restraint and psychological freedom; intimacy and distance; an authority and control that rise in inverse proportion to the softness of her voice.
There is nothing harsh about The Siren. She cares about her subs, and enjoys the sessions as much as they do. Everything, even the wickedness, is underpinned by a playful kindness. And when – if – she lasciviously calls you a good boy, you will enjoy a visceral euphoria you thought existed only in the distant past.
Ah yes, that wickedness. My mistake was to suggest, matter-of-factly and without expectation, the kind of outfit I might hypothetically find most stimulating. The Siren wore precisely that outfit – but only to punish me.
For most of our session, the outfit was hidden under a silk robe. The only time the robe was removed was when I was tied down, with the firmest instructions not to open my eyes. As my cock was simultaneously teased and coated with the kind of punishing heat I would previously have been unable to tolerate, never mind enjoy, The Siren told me that the colour of the wax was the same as her lingerie. After convulsing with desire for an indefinite period (Ten minutes? Two hours?) I was told to open my eyes.
As I started to adjust to the light, I realised the session was over. I had been denied, despite being on the cusp for an eternity, and The Siren was again wearing her robe. Neither matter was discussed; to my profound surprise, neither felt particularly important.
I looked at the wax decorating my body and was offered some chocolate to enhance my sugar levels. The post-session chat was engaging and unhurried, the farewell hug full of empathic warmth, and then I staggered back into the real world.
A few days later, The Siren posted a video on her Twitter feed – addressed to me, taken on the evening of our meeting – in which she coquettishly opened the robe to reveal what until then had existed only in my imagination. The brain is the most sadistic zone as well.
This experience – floating round my brain ever since, giving new meaning to the word ‘subconscious’ – crystallised why I find The Siren so bewitching. When you kneel in front of her, and tremulously kiss her feet, you symbolically hand over your body for her amusement and pleasure. At the end of the session, the body is returned to you. The mind stays with her.
-Whipping Boy