I like humiliation. I like to take it and I like to dole it out. That’s not my secret. That’s something that I talk about openly, early on when I’m negotiating.
The secret is that while I’m sitting here at work right now I’m wearing a pair of silk panties in hot pink, trimmed with black lace. My cock hard at the thought of what’s under my usual work outfit.
The panties (and a few additional pairs) arrived in a package this morning at the office. And the second the package landed on my desk, I started planning for when I could slip away to the bathroom and climb into a pair.
What hot about this for me isn’t really the idea of cross dressing, or even forced feminization. I do like to wear a dress or skirt occasionally, but more as a kind of gender fuck than anything else. I like the contrast between my hairy beary self, and some sort of feminine piece of clothing. But as for going full on drag queen? Way too much work. I can’t get together the makeup, the wig, keeping things “nice”. Shaving gives me razor bumps, and so on. I’ve done full drag a couple of times and it was just nerve wracking.
The panties also don’t make me feel “less of a man”. I don’t associate women’s things with some sort of inferiority (although I do associate sitting down to pee with submissiveness. Hmmm). What they do do is give me a secret. A secret that I wouldn’t want others to find out about. And that’s where the humiliation comes in.
That sense of being vulnerable – that it could happen that everyone could find out some truth about me, that I could be exposed: that’s what lies at the hart of humiliation’s thrill. Humiliation scenes enact that fear of exposure: I’ll write “slut” on you so that everyone will know what a slut you really are.
The things we expose in humiliation play are rarely our deepest truths. Those inadequacies would be far too caustic for us to entrust to someone else. Instead we set up something else, some other secret to stand in their place. So when the dirty truth is revealed, when the worst that could happen happens, we can be bothsafe and in danger all at once.
Humiliation is liberating for me because I can be free to drop my usual garrulous chatty mask and fumble and blush. When we are made humble, brought low, we no longer have to live up to what we perceive to be everyone else’s ideas of us.
Once I got the panties on I of course had to tell The Princess. I sent her a text and immediately she told me she wanted to see. “Too bad your office has a glass door”. That’s my girl. I took the hint and slunk back to the bathroom to take a picture with my cell phone. “They look sexy!” is what she wrote back “You’re going to have to model all of them for me”
There’s something so retrograde about this scenario: the businessman in women’s frillies under his suit. I think that’s part of the appeal for me: it’s so cornball. Sometimes you’ve got to go with the classics.
I’m home, horned up and like so often these days, my thoughts are turning to the Evil Gnome. I’ve been playing with him for the past year both on this coast and on the other. He is, short, bearded and covered everywhere with curly dark hair. His tatts peep through, and he likes to use his fists and feet.
He’s sneaky, the gnome is. He planned an elaborate humiliation scene for me at camp, one that played out over two days, one that had me sucking guys cocks and drinking piss, getting my guts punched and talking six heavy licks from the biggest tawse I’ve ever seen. And I’m happy to take it for him. He’s got this wry expression when he peers over his glasses that lets me know I’m in for big trouble.
Some sadists come on all heavy, wanting to overpower you with their image. I have a hard time taking that. I’m too much of an anarchist. But I love being outfoxed, love it when the top is giggling while they push me over the edge. The first time I went out to LA to paly with the gnome he pulled out a tens unit, hooked it up to my cock and balls and put on a porn tape of guys getting their nuts punched and tortured over and over again. All the while his attitude was one of blithe experimentation. He got me hard and then ran the juice through me, bringing me to points of excruciating sensation, going on and on with a chuckle.
When he does that the switch flips in my head and go to deep sub space, wanting to take more, wanting to be lower than hoim, groaning and groveling. It feels good to be under his boots and to feel those boots kicking me in the ass, legs and face. The is a point in submission where it’s about letting go of all pretense at ego, and surrendering to something that feels like one’s rightful place. I say ones, but I mean my rightful place, a place of subservience. Almost right from when I first met the Gnome, I knew he could take me there.
We’d been going back and forth about it for months: I’d gotten it into my head that I wanted to have my first flogging, and I wanted it to be a good one. I’d made it to nearly fifty without being flogged and there was only one person I could think of getting it from. My friend Stan.
Stan is what I’d have to call the über top. The first time I heard of him was when a pain pig bottom friend of mine, the guy who provoked the first flowering of my own sadism, talked about the only other man he’d let “do anything, just anything” to him. Stan was that man. I heard about him for months before I met him and then once I met him I knew the reports were not bullshit: Stan has what I look for in a top: looks, grace, humor and heft. By which I mean that his authority is palpable, so much so that he rarely needs to assert it. He walks into a situation and people look to him to direct what’s going on. The first time we ever got together sexually there was no question in my mind but that I should be seated at his feet, nuzzling his boots, eagerly awaiting what ever his cruel, subtle mind had cooked up for me.
Over the years Stan has intoduced me to any number of pleasures (he’s a great researcher), and he became the first person that I could confess any fantasy to without fear of judgement or recoil. In fact, every I told him about some kink I thought was hot, I would usually receive several images of it, or links to websites for it the next day. Much of what I do now in bed or out of it is directly due to Stan’s encouragement and guidance. A couple of months I was talking to him on the phone while he was at a Leather Swap Meet and he picked out something for me saying “I know you’ll like this” without telling me what this was. It turned out to be one of the meanest rubber paddles I’ve ever hefted and absolutely love to use it on people. He was right once again. So of course he was the logical one to beat the crap out of me. I just made him promise that he wouldn’t use any rubber floggers
Our only trouble was timing: between one thing and another, our schedules and the spacial restrictions of New York City apartments we couldn’t seem to come up with the right moment. Then we were both invited to a mutual friend’s country house for the weekend. The friend was going to be hosting a fetish party, most of it out doors, so we knew there’d be room to swing the floggers.
As the weekend approached I grew antsy. I like pain and I’d been hit with a lot of things, so that wasn’t what was getting to me. Finally I realized that I wanted to be a good enough bottom. We’d waited so long that the scene was taking on that oh god what if something goes wrong vibe. What if I couldn’t take enough? Stan always has that effect on me. I had to just put it out of my mind, and reassure myself that whatever happened would be fine.
When we finally got to the event, there was a big St. Andrew’s cross set up on the patio and a lot of guys milling around the house drinking beers, looking to get up their courage. The weather had turned chilly so we decided that even though it was still fairly early we had better get right to it rather than wait and have it get colder. I was in my NY Sanitation uniform, smoking a cigar. Stan gestured to his toy bag, and I carried it over to the cross, pulling out a few ropes . He stripped off my shirt and positioned me in front of the cross, swiftly tying my wrists to the uprights. He reached in front of me, plucked the cigar out of my mouth and brought its glowing tip close to my nipple. I began to relax into the heat and the bondage while Stan continued to work my nipples with the cigar and his gloved fingers. Soon he had me grunting and rubbing against the cross.
At that point he stepped back and I braced myself for the first blow. But when it came, it was a caress. Stan brushed the tails of the flogger across my back, easily, flicking back and forth. It was maddening. “Fucking Sadists” I thought, “always torturing!” At that moment the flogger thudded hard across my back, shoving me into the wood. Warm up was over; Stan laid into me, building stroke on stroke. The heat spread across my back and I began breathing into the pain, surfing the rising wave of endorphins. It felt so right to be hit again and again. This was what I had been waiting for! He paused for a second.
And then I heard a strange jingling noise behind me.
The next thing to hit my back wasn’t warm like leather, it was cold metal. I jumped in surprise and then Stan was right behind me, chuckling “You said no rubber, but you never said anything about chain”. That was when he started working me over with a short cat that ended in five light steel chain tails, each tipped with a short leather tongue.
By this point we had drawn a bit of a crowd, even though I was largely oblivious to it. The only things going on in my mind were the bite of the chains and the electric spark of each stroke. I began to yell at each hit, growling and shouting my way through the pain. I was back at animal level, dragging air into my lungs, hanging from the ropes, moving my back out to meet the flail.
Finally Stan began to slow down and I could feel my own pleasure cresting. I was light headed, beyond words, and when he asked me if I wanted to be untied, all I could do was nod. A couple of minutes later I was sitting inside with a bottle of water, grinning stupidly as my back throbbed. I slid to the floor, wrapped my arms around Stan’s boots and thanked him for being such a good freind. He handed me a cigar and told me not to mention it.