Mistress Dometria’s Pain Slut Stephen Paine describes the experience of a recent brutal session of torture and punishment. But don’t just take his word for it! You can see all the action in the full movie 'Very Severe Dungeon Fuck-Up - Full Movie in my full movies store at www.clips4sale.com/store/19128.

What is it like to be tortured by Mistress Dometria? Well, I can only tell you what it is like for me. Every experience is different. Men go to her seeking different things. Pain, yes. But also danger and escape. Or degradation, or humiliation. Things that hurt so good. Things that just hurt bad. Special rehearsed rituals or things they would never have dreamed of doing. Some are submissives. Some are masochists. Some are fetishists. Some want adventure. Some want to test themselves. Some want to cry and find out what worthless sluts they really are. Some just don’t know what they want but are irresistibly drawn to the dark recesses of the Brighton Dungeon to try to find out.

Me? I’m many things. But one thing I know. I am a masochist. A pain slut. Some of the most intense sexual thrills of my life have come from experiencing the extremes of bondage, torture and punishment at the hands of powerful, skilful and beautiful women. It is a vital inescapable part of my sexuality – but it is not all of it. I love sex of all sorts. Soft and sensual or hard and pounding. Tantric or quick and dirty. Long and luscious or snatched and furtive. For love or for lust. But great BDSM sessions are right up there as hot and potent as the best vanilla sex I’ve ever experienced.

Yet the priests, the ayatollahs, the lawyers, the judges, the journalists and the politicians still want to label BDSM disgusting, shameful, abusive and sick. Even in the 21^st century they continue to pass new laws to outlaw it, push it underground, hound it down, silence it and stop it. Federal regulation 2257 in the USA and the Dangerous Pictures Act in Britain are just the latest backdoor attempts to criminalise whatever types of sex the powers-that-be do not approve of. What are they so afraid of? They probably don’t know themselves. But if they had their way, they’d certainly stop you from finding out.

So here is a report from the front lines of ‘outlaw sex’. You can watch ‘Very Severe Dungeon Fuck-Up’ on Dometria’s Clips4sale sites and see what happened to the body. This is what happened to the soul.

My fantasies turn into challenges. I frighten myself with what she might do to me. Then I go and let her do it. For days beforehand, my desire contends with my dread. Arousal wars with trepidation as the reality becomes more inescapable every second. But finally I have arrived, and from the moment Dometria opens the door her confidence and power carries me along. The business of arranging equipment and setting up the film-shoot is mundane but highly charged and it gradually slips into a thrilling heady collaboration as she rigs me in bondage. Dometria does not hesitate in anything. Her movements are controlled and threatening and she seems to combine an intense commitment to making me suffer with a callous indifference to my suffering. I love intense commitment! I love callous indifference!

She trusses me up like a chicken on my back on a long low bondage bench in the centre of the dungeon. My wrists are shackled to my knees to pull my legs towards my torso and leave my ass exposed and vulnerable. My balls are stretched and separated in a tight harness that makes them stand up taut and thin-skinned. A leather head harness and ball-gag confirm my helplessness. My feet dangle in the air in front of my eyes waving forlornly like the legs of a damp spider stuck in a plug-hole. The hairs in my ass crack stir slowly beneath her gaze and the bright lamps that light the room for the cameras. The bondage is humiliating but also comforting. Once you are trussed up the nerves of apprehension go away. Now it is no longer about fearing it, it’s about dealing with it!

Dometria patrolled the dungeon giving me a cool once-over like a lumberjack assessing the swathe of trees he is going to chop down while I nervously ran my eyes over the slim well-muscled lines of her body sheathed in a tight black rubber dress that could barely contain her thrusting breasts. Her dark hair was severely pulled back in a way that emphasized the fierceness of her eyes and mouth and her lips were as red as a vampire interrupted in mid feast. She circled me slapping my face and twisting my tits at will and leaned over me to tell me how bad she was going to fuck me up. At one moment her eyes glowed like red hot coals, at another they glinted like iced sapphires, sometimes transparently easy to read, sometimes impenetrable. She was the wicked witch of childhood fairy tale dreams, the image of the evil mother who loves but hurts her child. When she told me what she was going to do to me, I shivered from head to toe.

I expected her to slap me or strap me to warm up. Dream on. She was too impatient for that. She slipped out of my range of vision for a moment and came back with a plastic tub full of evil looking butterfly clamps and immediately started to clamp them onto the tight skin on the backs of my thighs. First up and with no warning this was fierce. “I just like hurting people……like you,” she said, “I’m going to do some fucking nasty shit to you for being such a disobedient slave.” She settled herself with her legs astride the bench and her head and shoulders loomed between my legs as she squeezed on those biting pegs. I could see her teeth clenched with concentration and her jaw tightening with the satisfaction that comes from hurting a helpless creature. It is a satisfaction that all of us feel but most of us are too guilty to confess. But Dometria feels no guilt for her lack of compassion. Society may say that my suffering should cause her aversion, perhaps even disgust, but in her it simply stirs up the most delicious and ferocious passions.

All I can do is pant like a woman in childbirth to contain the surging pain as she keeps snapping on the pegs. Just when I think it cannot get much worse she spots an even more vulnerable point and it draws her like a magnet. With my balls tightly bound, the soft stretchy flesh that anchors the balls to the perineum is pulled tight and thin as a chicken’s neck. Flesh that has spent its entire life doing nothing but loll around all day drooping and swinging under your pants suddenly finds itself in the spiteful line of march of a calculating torturer. “That’s gotta really hurt,” she mutters as she turns up the cruelty dial and rivets the little suckers on to this unsuspecting and fragile place. I gasp and groan loudly in doleful protest. “Shut the fuck up!” she barks, “If you don’t it will just get worse for you. You’d better take this for me because I fucking like it. If you can’t take it, it doesn’t matter. It’s going to happen to you anyway!” So, Stephen, you ‘love callous indifference’ do you? Well, now you can suck on it!

Now she has something else in her hands. It’s an old battered pair of pliers. A worn and mottled instrument made of heavy iron. Just right to viciously twist and pinch my cock or the flesh below my testicles till my screams become fierce.

“Yes, that’s hard isn’t it.” 

And it just gets harder as she retrieves a succession of tools from a handy nearby tray crammed with a frightening array of instruments of torture.

She produces a household scrubbing brush. Old-fashioned. Stiff rough bristles. Painful on the soles of the feet. Sheer agony when she scrubs my balls.

But not evil enough for her.

She tries a wire brush. The sort you use to scrub stubborn burnt grease off an oven or hob. Fiendish when applied to my tender ass and genitals!

A six-toothed metal claw. Can this have any use other than torture? Maybe you could use it to rake out stubborn garden roots or rough up metal surfaces in a blacksmith’s shop? But it is vile when she uses it enthusiastically to slash my taut bottom.

“It’s not my fault you’ve got your little ass shoved in the air like that. Eh? I’m gonna make it bleed.”

And she does. She roams around slashing with the claw, twisting with the pliers, jamming her stiletto into my bollocks, stamping on the clamps. The blood trickles from a couple of long jagged slashes on my bum like excess gloss paint oozing over a border.

“Oh dear, what a fucking mess you are. Not so cocky now are you?”

And all the time it is running through my mind: Am I up to this? Do I know what I’m doing? Can I finish what I have started? Am I hard as a rock?.........or have I just not found out yet? But there is no way I can cave in. I know that Dometria will have nothing but contempt for a man who withdraws from the fray.

She toys with me wrenching and twisting my tits with the pliers till they feel as if she is gouging out chunks of flesh. At times, my body jacknifes with pain and my eyes feel as if they are stinging with hot steam as the fear and pain boil over. And then suddenly her voice is softening, soothing me……

“Behave. Be a good boy for me.”

……..and she is straddling the bench above my face and lowering herself towards me, pulling her leather thong tight between her moist cunt-lips…..

“If you are a good boy and take it, I’ll show you something nice. Look at it. Look at it!”

I don’t need to be ordered. My eyes are riveted on her cunt. But I’ve also caught sight of that bloody claw in her hand once again, and as she straddles me she also starts slashing at my chest with it, interspersing slashes and commands.

“Eyes on the cunt! Just on the cunt, you fuck.” (Slash! Slash!)

“And again!” (Slash! Slash!)

“Smell it!” (Twisting my tits with her fingers).

“Smell it!” (Hauling on my balls with her hands).

“Do you want that?” (Shoving her cunt within an inch of my face).

“Dream on!!!” (Slamming my questing head back onto the bench).

“Dream on. The only thing you are fit to do is lick my asshole!” (-- oh, pleeeease!!!!).

But she snaps the hem of her rubber dress firmly back into place like a prison guard slamming a cell door.

For a moment things seem to slow down and then I see her leaning down over me and I can look into her deep black eyes. They look ominously greedy and I know I am in trouble. She has something in her hand which I can’t quite make out.

“You are wriggling around a little too much, boy,” she says. “Keep your head still. I’m going to make you think twice about moving.”

She squats down by my head and holds up a small bisected metal hook between her fingertips just in front of my eyes for the camera to see. What the fuck is she going to do with that? I have to curb my impulse to speculate on what new horror she has in store for me. Just accept it. Let it happen. Let her torture me – don’t torture yourself.

I watch her face upside down and just a few inches above me as she begins to work the flanges of the hook up my nostrils. I can see her screwing up her nose and pursing her lips with the concentration of someone trying to thread a needle, and there is a strange sensation of cold metal sliding up inside my nose and stretching it from inside. I sense her attaching the hook to some elastic strap secured to the bench above my head, and then it is pulled taut and my head is dragged up and back while I stretch and strain to alleviate the pressure of the haulage on my nose.

She has got me nose-hooked and ball-gagged. Helplessness on top of helplessness. Humiliated and under pressure. And she likes it. Here face cruise over me, savouring my vulnerability and degradation. It makes her feel sexy and wicked. “Oh, I can do loads more to you now,” she whispers in a voice that would sound almost affectionate if I was not so preoccupied by the stress on my aching nose. She mocks me. “I could easily ride your face and use you.” And she squats on my face, clamps my head between her thighs, rams her leather covered pussy up against my ball-gagged mouth, grabs my cheeks with her fingers and jerks my poor wracked face around as she laughs out loud at my plight. “Keep still,” she tells me, “or you’ll lose your nose, you fucking cunt.” Then she stands back so that she can attack my chest with her stiletto heels, scraping deep horizontal lines across my chest and stomping on me till the front of my chest and torso is satisfactorily messed up and wounded. Then she is back down between my legs again carving away at me once more with the pliers and wire brush. Crazy suffering. Completely out of my control. Awful. Horrible……….Marvellous.

I’m not sure if it was a relief when she paused again. I knew that it would just be the prelude to some other horrid torment. Maybe even worse. I know from past experience that what seems bad now may seem like a rest-cure later. Of course, she proved me right.

“I’m going to electrocute you,” she announces. “You need zapping. You need torturing more. We’re going to hear you squeal.” Then I hear a buzz-saw sound and see her advancing on me holding a bizarre device that looks like a giant’s toothbrush, a white plastic handle attached to a transparent plastic shaft that ends in half a dozen big plastic teeth. The shaft is glowing violet and buzzing like a bee. She attacks my toes and the soles of my feet with this violet wand and I scream and shake and tremble under its shocking jolts.

One of the things that makes a sadist like Dometria different from a mere torturer is that she is never content just to hurt the body. She always wants to fuck with the mind as well. She knows that the guys who come to see her deal with pain in very different ways. Some guys absorb it. Swallow it. Lock it away deep inside themselves. I don’t. I fight it. I take it in and throw it back. Defy it. And one of the ways that I do that is by shouting it out. Blasting back at it through my lungs. Refusing to let it conquer me. Dometria understands this, and she knows that if she takes away from me the right to scream in agony she will really screw with my head. A gag is not enough. She has to force me to silence my own screams, make me play by her rules, her way. “Shut it, or you are fucking for it,” she warns me harshly. “Put up with it. No noise. Be a fucking man you cunt.”

While she shocks my feet I try desperately to stifle my screams, damming up my cries, swallowing my groans, and for want of anything better channelling the pain into undignified squirming, shaking my limbs around like a dog shaking water from its coat. But then she goes for my balls with the violet wand and my efforts at self-control sink into confusion and I nearly swallow my tongue in desperation. “Oh, I like that,” she says with a demure and playful smile on her face as she keeps on zapping me effortlessly, standing over me as comfortably as a deranged housewife who has suddenly discovered how to transform her household appliances into instruments of lethal sex-torture. “Ooh, what’s down there?” she asks, as if she has spotted a wayward hairball under the edge of a sofa, and she moves in to hoover it up, jabbing the electric wand hard into my tethered balls until I break all the rules and scream and jabber like a monkey on speed…….. until finally she just stops and puts the wand away in its box as calmly as if she has just finished some necessary household chores for the day.

But there is still some tidying up to do. Those clamps need to come off my ass. They have been there for quite a while now and embedded themselves in the flesh. Perhaps she needs to cut them off me with scissors, she ponders. Why not? “Why should I be bothered? It’s not my fucking body.” She shapes to use the scissors on my skin. I beg her not to. Really beg. She likes that. “I like you pleading like that,” she says (and I can tell from her voice that she really likes that). So she starts plucking them off one by one, shouting at me whenever I gasp out loud. But I’m making too much fuss and she is going to have to teach me a lesson. She calls the camera to come in close to watch her hands and she takes hold of the most agonising of the clamps, the one low on the neck of flesh down by the perineum. “If you keep complaining, I’m gonna pump it up like this.” And she demonstrates by squeezing and releasing the butterfly wings in quick time. It’s like twisting a broken finger and a continuous roaring man-scream erupts from my lungs. Eventually I fall silent, and she tells me that if I stay quiet she’ll take them off gently – but any noise and I’ll be in trouble. The not so subtle psychology works wonders, and I hang on in muffled silence, desperately pitting my will against my instinct to scream.

She leaves me to go change into a new outfit: a black PVC top with a black PVC skirt cut away behind to flagrantly exhibit her tight naked butt. As she rigs me for the next round, clamping forceps on my tits and stretching them up on ropes to the ceiling, she explains a few basic facts to me. “You need to learn some manners today. If you know what’s good for you, you are going to shut up. Every time you scream, it will be worse for you.” She fastens lever arch clamps to my scrotum and attaches them to a hook and I can feel the pull of the chains as my balls are hoisted into the air by her pulley, forcing me to lever my hips off the bench and thrust my belly and thighs upwards to stop my balls being wrenched away. My body is hauled into a tense and painful arc balanced in a stress position on shoulders and feet and I know that if they give way my balls will be horribly ripped by the evil clamps that are giving me such grief. I can only preserve myself by using my strength to maintain this bizarre bondage yoga pose. I am on my back with my legs spread and ass hoisted in the air like a trafficked whore waiting to be fucked. My body looks passive: you cannot see how hard my muscles are working to hold the position.

At first she throws in a few things to aggravate the stress. She rasps my chest with the wire brush, roughing up the bloody gashes she has already put there, and she leans her weight on my belly so that I have to struggle to keep in my plank position. But she is also kind to me. “Shush, shush,” she whispers soothingly as she scrapes my nipples. “There, there. I know it’s very hard. Learn how to behave. You know it makes sense,” she sighs sympathetically as she presses down on me. I feel grateful for her sympathy. When you are in pain any kindness is a benefaction. The kindness of torturers is a very special gift.

She seems satisfied: “I’m just gonna leave you like that and see how long you can hang there. I don’t need to make it any more challenging,” she says, “I really don’t.” But she does it anyway. She gets two of the butterfly clamps and squeezes them on to the skin of my tight suspended ball sac. It is an awful pain like sticking knives into me. But I cannot thrash around because of the suspension and I am forbidden to scream. I nearly burst with repressed screams as she shushes me like a super-nanny scolding an awkward two-year old. But my gasps won’t stop, so she is going to have to shut me up properly. “I’m going to take myself a fag-break and a nice glass of champagne while I sit on your face,” she announces. She tops up her glass of Moet & Chandon gathers her cigarettes and lighter and a long cigarette holder and thinks about how best to silence her struggling slave with her bottom.

At first she straddles his face with her back to his body and lowers her ass on to his face, pressing it firmly over his nose and mouth and pushing her crack down with a luxuriating wriggle like a dog scratching its ass on the grass. But that is not the best way. She can’t do much to hurt him like that. So she settles herself again, facing the other way, and notes with unexpected satisfaction that as she sits down her thighs push the forceps on the slave’s nipples outwards, heightening his anguish as she descends. “Oh yeah,” she smiles, “this is going to be more fun than I ever thought.”

Even with all the pain, my tongue automatically starts to quest for her pussy and asshole as she sits on me, working to find its way around the slim leather thong that alone separates me from those delicious places. Watch out! “Sniff my ass,” she warns me. “Keep your fucking tongue to yourself or I’ll kill you.”

She’s exaggerating. She does not need to go that far. Just lifting her ass off my face a fraction shoves the forcep savagely off my right tit with the movement of her thigh. It feels as if my tit has been ripped off and leaves me screaming - and definitely makes me ‘keep my tongue to myself’ in the process. Dometria is not disturbed by the screams. With an air of severe practicality, she simply retrieves the dangling forcep and scissors it back onto the traumatised nipple, redoubling its agony. She sits back on my chastened face and concentrates on lighting her cigarette and drawing hard on it to make it burn. Then she stretches forward and presses the burning end into my suspended balls. For a moment, through the arch of her legs, I can watch curls of white smoke rising from my balls like Apache smoke signals on a remote mountain top and listen to a soundtrack of my own screams ringing in my ears……  until the ass comes down again and stifles me.

I did not know at the time, but as she burnt me a big-chunk of still burning cigarette ash had detached itself from her cigarette and tumbled into the crease of my groin where it burrowed a fiery path into the narrow crevices. But straight away I felt a burning fire race through my body, a searing flame trapped in the skin that blotted out thought and pulled animal-like cries out of me. Dometria had not seen the rogue embers. What was all the fuss about? She burnt me again to teach me a lesson, this time keeping her bum pressed down hard to silence me while she stretched forward and drew on the cigarette with her lips at the same time that she pressed the end full and flat into the centre of the scrotum in a deep and vicious kiss of fire.

All hell was breaking loose in the shrunken claustrophobic world of my head. Now there was fire on top of fire! Was she burning me with two cigarettes? Was she setting my balls alight? I had hit the wall of fear and good sense. I had over-reached myself and the panic was escaping. My stomach rose to the back of my throat. My body spasmed and jerked and ripped the clamps off my balls and and a forcep off my nipple. Everything was exploding. The pain was seizing control of me. The instant when self-belief wavers is the moment of greatest danger in a session. If you expect it all to collapse, it will fall. I had to fight against panic. Fight against common sense. Fight against the impulse to flee. Where do you go for shelter in the eye of a storm?

You go to her!!  Trust that she knows what you can bear better than you do yourself! Your subterranean world of panic is not the whole world. And out there she is telling me to shut up like I’m some tedious wimp. She is scissoring that forcep back onto my mauled nipple once more as if it is routine. She is not impressed by my screams of agony. Just a few little burns. Here, have another! And she burns my balls yet again and pounds her ass vigorously into my face. She sips her champagne. Burns the balls again. And the cloud of confusion is lifting. My convulsions have made the flaming embers in my groin tumble away. My pain is beginning to make more sense. Then she raises her butt for a moment and lets me breathe and the air rushes in and the trapped desperation rushes out. And when she sits down again and burns my balls once more, I still feel the fear and the pain, but I can control them. They are not in charge of me. And I begin to be aware that there is also pleasure in lying with my face pressed into the slick channel in her ass. The scent of her ass filled my head, a fragrant musk tinged with notes of olive and cypress, and I let my tongue trespass in that smooth alley even though I know I’m courting punishment. After all, what’s she going to do to me? Hang me up by my balls from the ceiling? Burn me? Slash my flesh? Rip my tits off? Ha, ha, ha!! And as she rode my face and kept burning my balls and tits, I found a sort of exhilaration in survival. I felt alive and strong. Tingling and pulsing through my body. Calm and alert. Like I had been reprieved. I had left the ordinary behind.

Of course, my masochistic apotheosis was not what most concerned Dometria. She had her own sadistic agenda. Sure, she had enjoyed putting me through hell and inflicting intolerable pain. But she could do that any time in the shake of a lamb’s tail. No, this was just one part of something more satisfying for her. She wants mastery. Domination. The thrill of erotic power. And this is just one step along the road to control. For the next step she needs me calmer, less excited.

“Shush, shush,” she says as she raises her ass and stares down into my eyes. “Have you learnt to do what you are told? Let me see if you’ve learnt to shut up. I ain’t taking your word for it. I’m going to get off your face so that you can breathe and I’m going to go on burning you till you truly get it.”

I gazed up at her past her hardened glutes and the bulging folds of her labia into her dark eyes and watched her sip her champagne and rearrange her displaced thong, closing the gate on her intimate parts. She towers over me, moving slowly and deliberately, placing a controlling hand on my belly and drawing hard on her fag.to fire it up. Then she burns my right nipple long and slow and I focus every effort on containing my reaction to just the smallest hiss of breath.

“That’s better,” she says with a voice as warm and mothering as if her child is finally mastering his alphabet. Caught in the glow of simultaneous punishment and reward, I desperately want to please.

“Now, once more on the balls,” she warns.

She presses the hot stub into the centre crease of the scrotum and somehow (though I jerk about a bit) no sound comes out. “Yes,” she says, “you’re finally getting it, ain’t you bitch.” And she caringly sets my glasses back in place, puts her face close to mine and looks gently into my face while she slowly burns my nipple one more, holding my eyes with hers to see me control my reactions. “It’s a good pain,” she tells me and rewards me with more of it, shushing me and stroking my anguished face even as she hurts me until she has had enough of the game.

She stands up and moves away and I start to relax. But then she walks casually back to the bench, bends over, and stubs the cigarette out on my balls. This time I scream like a rocket. She shushes me and quietens me, but not angrily this time. My reaction is understandable. She sounds matter-of-fact, almost apologetic. “I had to put my fag out somewhere……………………..” she says. Well, what’s a girl to do?

I lay there waiting while the pieces of my body re-assembled themselves, damp haired and dead tired, breathing hard, shaking like a leaf on a tree. My muscles quivered from the stress and I felt suddenly cold, so she brought an electric fire up close to warm me while she made preparations for the next round of torture. She rigged me for anal abuse, hoisting my legs with her pulley and prising apart the crease of my ass. “Do you think I’m going to fuck your ass?” she asks. “Nah, I don’t think so. What I’m going to do to you is gonna be so hard that fucking your ass will seem easy.”

She sits on the bench between my splayed legs and I see her face lit up by the flame of a red candle that she is holding in her hands. I am like a paralysed spectator as I watch her set to work on my distant ass. The flame slips out of eyeshot beneath my balls and I feel first the heat on my ass and then a rain of fire as she drips wax at point blank range on my perineum and anus while the flame licks at my balls. I can see her eyes concentrating in a focused snarl, fixed on my bollocks, measuring exactly how close she can get. “You’d better get strong, cos I ain’t stopping,” she tells me. So I have to make myself strong, so I fight her. I growl back, shout at her, or shriek at her when the flaming taper actually presses against the skin (intentionally or unintentionally I don’t know) and puts itself out. When I get too loud, she threatens to burn my anus with her cigarettes. This is no idle threat and I pay close attention. She also reassures me. “It’s not that bad!” (Oh no?). “Not as bad as a blowtorch.” (Well, I guess that’s so).

To the camera it looks like my ass is on fire. Cut and welted buttocks jerk in pain. Streams of red wax criss-cross the balls and ass-crack. The dark shadows of the tormented ass-hole are illuminated by the flame of the candle moving slowly across it. It is like a medieval vision of hell: an image of the torments that devils have in store for sinners that has been devised to terrify the minds of the living about the eternal suffering of the damned. Maybe it’s the sort of job my she-devil mistress might relish in the afterlife. She is certainly relishing it in the present, and like a fiend she now goes back to her old favourites the pliers and the wire brush to twist and scrub the hardening wax off the vulnerable skin in and around my ass-crack and the mouth of my anus.

Even while I endured this, I knew that a hard ass-fucking was coming next. But I didn’t know just how hard. Suddenly she had finished roasting my ass and stood back in a more relaxed mood. “Now I’m going to party on your ass!” she announced. She disappeared into a back corner of the dungeon and re-appeared with a new tool, a vicious weapon that made my cock rise and my heart sink. She had in her hands a five foot long wooden pole with a big flesh-coloured dildo at one end and she was advancing on me like Satan with a pitchfork. But not at my ass. She came to the head of the bench and rammed it straight into my mouth and down my throat, making me gag and choke. “What kind of a blow-job is that?” she hisses contemptuously, and she continues to tower over me, shoving the pink dick deep into my mouth and demanding better performance. She gets playful. She turns and shakes her bare butt at me. She thrusts her pole. She wipes away the spit and puke. She smiles and giggles.

Through bleary eyes I see her taking her gigantic tool round to my ass. She squats at the end of the bench and begins to probe my anus, working the head of the phallus past the tight sphincter, pushing it deeper and thrusting harder until the whole length of cock has disappeared inside me and she stands there, remote and distant, three metres from my head yet deep inside me. She is holding the pole two-handed with her knees bent, pumping it into me like an old-fashioned stoker with a spade shovelling coal into a furnace. It feels as if it is filling me up and hollowing me out at the same time. The muscles inside me are running round in circles trying to work out what to do with this aggressive intruder. My ass advocates surrender. Hoist the white flag and walk out with its hands up. But Dometria takes no prisoners. She stops only when she has had her fun and her once cocky slave has been reduced to a sad piece of meat, eviscerated and dangling, and full of gratitude for just a few moments of relief.

Before the scene started, we had talked about Dometria pissing on me at the end of the torture phase of the session. She had never pissed on me before and I was quite looking forward to it. I had in mind a nice warm shower on the face, her piss spouting like a jet from a fountain. Sexy and refreshing after so much suffering. Yeah, right!?!

I knew I was in trouble when I saw that she had the nose-hook back in her hands again and was looking at me with a big grin. “Yeah, mate, that’s right. I’m going to keep your fucking head still while I piss right in your fucking face. All that champagne has made me want to piss and I can’t think of a better place to piss than your mouth.” She laughed at me as she inserted the nose-hook into my nostrils and stretched them hard back so that they were held open and tilted backwards pointing towards the ceiling and immobilizing my head. Then she stripped off her skirt and slipped coolly out of her thong. I ran my eyes over the slim well-muscled lines of her body as she moved in and straddled my face and half squatted till her cunt was within inches of my face with her labia held apart with her fingers. I could see the butterfly tattoo on her pubis at close quarters and I gazed into her cunt, longing to thrust my face into those dark rosy grooves and hollows and to work those sensitive ridges and piercings with my tongue. But such intimacy was strictly denied. Instead her cunt loomed over me as a weapon. Beautiful and tempting…..but a weapon. “I hope you are thirsty,” she said.

And that, viewers, is all you are going to see of this particular section of the session in the on-line clips!!!!! Hey, why? What’s that all about? Well, the answer is that showing water-sports is banned on Clips4sale by Federal regulations, and they would pull down Dometria’s site if she showed it. When she told me this later I found it hard to believe. Mystifying. What? As far as I was concerned water-sports (unlike lots of other things we’d been doing that afternoon) barely counted as ‘perverted’. Lots of people just piss on each other for fun as part of vanilla sex games. You know the sort of thing: your girlfriend giggling and pissing on you in the bath or playfully squatting and pissing over you when you’ve been stubbornly occupying the loo for too long while you read the Sunday newspaper. But somehow this has become a crime! C4S risk big fines if they show it in their clips and they urgently chase down stores that post them. The gay piss site The Water Boys has recently been taken down because of threats of Federal prosecution in the United States. Apparently it is all right if you piss into a container and then make someone drink it, but NOT if you piss straight into someone’s mouth!!!! And, incidentally, just in case you are interested, it seems that it is all right to shit into someone’s mouth. Go see some of the scat sites on the web if you have the stomach for that! You have to wonder what goes on in the heads of our moral censors, don’t you.

So I’ll just have to paint you a picture of the scene you have been denied permission to see. Almost as soon as she squatted, Dometria unleashed a torrent straight into my mouth, up my nose and down my throat. Her piss invaded my head and tried to batter its way out through my eyes and nostrils. Boy could that woman piss! She pissed like a racehorse. On and on. Filling my mouth, pouring into my stretched out nostrils, hitting the back of my defenceless throat. I spluttered out mucus, I almost threw up. Floundering and gobbing as the monsoon rained down. A savage slap on the jaw followed any attempt to get my mouth out of the firing line. She laughed and she tantalized me with the vision of her dripping cunt (at least until my glasses steamed up!) toying with herself with her fingers as she peed. It was water-sports to the max. No-one had ever told me that devotees fly in from all over Europe to worship Dometria’s pumping piss! I might have been more cautious had I known. She just jetted it into me, gushing from a boundless reservoir till I thought I was drowning. “There’s loads more,” she laughed. “You can’t drink what I’ve got down here. Fucking shitloads. Keep your mouth open or I’ll rip your nose off.” There was no escape.

Dometria was delighted. She applauded my struggles and laughed at my frothing twisted features and the panic in my eyes. And me, I loved it and hated it at the same time. It was impossible. It was hot and sensuous. It was making me puke. It was drowning me. But I wanted to swallow everything she pumped into me even though I knew I could not do it. My despairing puppy-like efforts to please were probably quite endearing! But finally she flipped the nose-hook out of my nose and the pressure of her stream began to diminish. My mouth and face could relax a bit, I could clear my lungs and gulp it down and taste it for the first time. I half-expected to taste the fizz and kick of the champagne that she had been drinking during the afternoon. But the actual piss was warm and slightly chalky, not the sparkle and tang of my fantasy. But it was a wonderful brew and as the flow slowed I could bask in the splash and gargle the intimate tastes until she had done with me and stepped away from my half-drowned corpse. Flushed face. Bad hair. Wiped out by the tidal wave like a broken surfer.

She praised me. “Good show. It’s like drowning isn’t it?”

“Drowning?.......... It’s like fucking waterboarding!”

Mistress Dometria is a generous mistress. My reward for my long suffering was a chance to worship her feet. First she let me spend a long time in the shower, reviving myself and making myself presentable. Under the hot water my body came back to me. The pain and fear and pressure of the session had knocked the direct sexual arousal out of me for the time being. My genitals were burnt and battered and my body stressed and shocked. Yet once the storm of pain had passed the erotic riffs began to revive. The intoxication of the exchange of power. The thrill of daring. The excitement of turning pleasure and pain on their head.

When I walked back into the dungeon, Dometria was reclining on the same bench where she had tortured me. She lay there stretched out and relaxed, wearing a beautiful red silk kimono and she commanded me to adore her feet and calves. I spread fragrant oil over her calves and cleaned the grimy soles of her feet with my tongue. I studies her feet as I soothed and massaged them. They were lean and fine: high arches and narrow ankles with the big veins on the top of the foot standing out in low relief. I massaged her calves and admired the hard muscle beneath the soft skin. And while I did so, she looked at me through her deep-set eyes, as hard and inviting as diamonds.

As I worked her flesh and muscle with my hands, I could feel the erotic charge that had been driven underground by the fierce bombardment begin to stir once more. She deliberately let the silky wings of her kimono flutter to reveal tantalising glimpses of her body and tantalising traces of the liquid silk beneath her panties. I knew she was toying with me like a cat toys with a mouse, teasing me with her body and with the prospect of the further brutal punishment that she had in mind for me. She wanted me to feel the coiled sensuality in her feet and legs that she would shortly unleash in uninhibited violence on my body. And when she rolled on her belly and let the kimono ride up over her naked buttocks, I knew she had got me. I was walking into her tender trap. I wanted her to hurt me…….and I wanted her to hurt me more than I wanted to be hurt!

It was simply a question of time till she found a reason to beat the shit out of me, a mistake that I would have to suffer for. Not difficult. I’m stubborn. I come on to her. I walk eagerly into her trap. I suck her toes without permission. My fate is sealed. But before she punishes me she wants just one more thing. She wants her legs massaged firmly right up to the glutes. “Warm me up,” she says, “so that when I fucking hurt you my cunt twinges!” She was primed, I was on fire.

She tethered me between two posts in the dungeon waiting to be martyred. Still dressed in her elegant kimono, she resembled some rogue geisha, disheveled now and running hot. She caresses my chest and whispered that she was “in the mood for something very hard.” A full frontal flogging. An outlet for the sexy violence that makes me hard and the nastiness that makes her wet.

But she does not rush. At first she takes a big leather flogger and warms up my belly and chest. Accustomed to pain now the blows feel warm and sexy. They sting and stimulate. My shrunken cock begins to stir, and when she notices and gives it a few slaps with the flogger it just gets harder. She strikes harder on my belly and my cock keeps rising as waves of excitement ripple out from it all through my body.

The sexiness of pain is in the air and she slips off the kimono to reveal the pink bra and panties that adorn her body beneath it. “I’m going to get out my sex toys,” she tells me and she kneels in front of me and slips down her bra exposing and caressing her breasts. “These are the sort of sex toys that I like,” she says as she trails her heavy bullwhip over them, slowly drawing the edge of the tapering thong across her hardening nipple and then reaching out tauntingly to snake the vicious beast over and around my hard-on. Then she picks up her long horsewhip, an intense swishing weapon that cuts through the air and swinges the skin. She flicks it back and forth against the underside of my erection and whistles it savagely through the air. It is hard to tell if her gestures promise sex or pain.

“Let’s fuck, shall we,” she says, pressing the long whippy shaft against my throat. “Yeah, let’s fuck!” she teases.

“Yeah, let’s fuck,” I echo. (It’s an old tease but you’ve gotta live in hope, haven’t you!)

“Let’s fuck you up,” she concludes.

She steps back, her eyes flickering over my throbbing cock and preens her hardened nipples, saluting my arousal and taunting me with hers. She smiles with satisfaction at this tribute to her sexual power. After four hours of brutal torture, her slave is staring down the gun barrel of her cruelest whips and his cock is hard as fuck, standing proud, knowing that she is about to come down on him fast and brutal, and aching to take it for her. His body strains towards her against his restraints, drawn by a breathless magnetic force that holds them together in a cockpit of tension.

We are face to face and eyeball to eyeball, just a few feet apart and her eyes grip mine as she takes a step back and swipes hard with the horsewhip twice across my nipples. Then she welts my belly just above the rearing phallus and zaps the upper thighs just below it. Half a dozen strokes that I take without retreat and then ten more, hard and fast slashed in at all angles that make me ricochet backwards. She waits till I haul myself upright and then deals out ten more violent swipes criss-cross on my already bloodied chest and belly. But this time I just swallow them up and roar and thrust my eyes and cock at her full of a fierce energy that is flowing into me.

It energizes Dometria too. She moves in and pushes her tits temptingly close under my eager chin. “That’s nice,” she says as she flicks my hard-on back and forth with her whip. But when I sway towards her she shoves me away with a hard prod to the breastbone and in a moment she switches from soft to brutal. She unloads twelve non-stop strokes full force. A full swing of arm and shoulder. Powered in without restraint. She is loving it.

“Now,” she says, “let’s play properly. A judicial caning of the thighs. Twenty-four strokes.” And she primes and elevates her tits once more and moves to one side to free up her arms for the fullest swing of the whip. The horsewhip on the thighs is vicious. Even more so when on the third lash the tip of the whip clips my balls and I buckle and topple backwards with shock. Dometria is not impressed and she slashes me across the chest to get me to haul myself back into position. I struggle back, the cock now only at half-mast, and she slashes hard again, but again off target. The whip hits me full on the cock this time and I lurch uncontrollably in awful pain, completely out of it for a moment, swinging and gasping and trying to get control of my senses. When I look up I find her pacing around me impatiently, unaware, I think, of what she just did to me.

“That was on the cock, mistress,” I gasp.

She understands. “I’ll be careful,” she tells me ... and promptly whips my cock again!

My proud cock has been demolished. It has shriveled up, melted away like snow in the morning sun.

I rally myself for the final twenty strokes. This time she beats me with more care and less abandoned ferocity, but now it is fast and remorseless, counting them out, left and right, left and right, as I twist under the barrage. She reaches the allotted number. But her energy just boils over and she cannot help hurling in a further dozen shots across my belly, her teeth clenched, her eyes blazing. “Yes, a few on that fucking belly of yours!”

She has worked me over good and proper, and my face is haggard and my eyes glazed as she parades back and forth in front of me like a military officer inspecting recruits, holding her whip across the back of her shoulders like a swagger stick. Finally she throws the horsewhip dismissively aside and her voice is rough and aggressive. “Now I am going to give you a judicial bullwhipping on your upper body,” she announces, adding with a grin, “……. so that you don’t lose your cock like the slave before you!”

I knew it was going to end like this. Bring out the heavy artillery! A frontal bullwhipping with the heavy bullwhip that she uses for her hardest punishments. It would be unknown territory. One of the most brutal punishments I could imagine. I had experienced the ferocious lash of that whip on the meat of my upper back and shoulders but I flinched at the thought of how it might impact my lean chest and belly which lacked a similar protective layer of muscle or fat. That did not stop me wanting it! I could see how fired up Dometria was. With grim satisfaction, she examined the welts on my thighs, prominent as a rib-cage under the taut skin, and I sensed her sadistic energy growing as it fed on my pain. Meanwhile, I rallied my strength after the previous onslaught and I could feel my desire shoving my apprehension out the door. We were both as wild as each other and it had to come out somewhere.

She lashes crack! straight into me. The thong thrashes my chest like a tongue of fire and drives a deep growl of anguish out of my lungs. She pauses for a moment to let me deal with the initial shock. She twirls and stretches her body in front of me while she lets me get my head around the pain and organize my mind for the next salvo. The second lash wraps itself around the left side of my body, abrasive on the chest, lacerating on the back. The fourth hits me full on the nipple as stunning as if she had stomped on my bear toes with a stiletto. And then the missiles just rain down. Some of them slap and crack in a luscious stream of pain. Some slam into me like the edge of a door. Some go through me like a sand-blaster. Sometimes I don’t flinch, sometimes she rips a cry from my guts. But I am spinning with endorphins and we have got where we need to go. Face-to-face with no quarter given and neither of us taking a step backwards (except that one of us is armed with heavy artillery and one of us is tethered like a goat).

Every time I recoil I straighten myself and gaze straight back into her eyes to challenge her, and through the pain I can still adore the sheer bloody poetry of her body in movement, a violent beauty that makes my blood run hot. Some masochists refer to this as a ‘zone’ where pain and pleasure become inseparable, but this state is more fragile than that. It is a boiling bubble that can burst at any moment, a perilous cusp where I can ride the pain but still feel the giddy plunge that threatens to engulf me at every next step. For a while I can hold the pain like smoke in my lungs exerting control while knowing that without escape, soon, soon, that control will turn to choking and suffocation. And to exert this control I have to detach myself. I must not think it. Must not feel it. I must let it in but not let it take over. Open up to it. Tear myself open to it if need be. Just hold off that time when it must end in howls and tears.

Dometria could have broken me if she chose. But she has left me an escape. I have a sentence. I have a number. Twenty-four strokes. And as she counts the blows my belief that I can survive strengthens. I know that I can hold it together. Bounce back. Keep on track. And I roar like a wounded beast to tell myself that I am strong. And as the countdown continues I can see that she knows I have the measure of this and will get through it, until all at once there is just one stroke to go…… and she pauses and drags me back to the discipline she was teaching me under torture what seems like all those hours ago.

“Just one more,” she says. “And this time shut it!”

I thrust my jaw at her. “Zipped!” I say.

She hurls in her final thunderbolt and I let it clatter through me.

“Zipped!” I mutter stubbornly, refusing to let my body react with a final effort of self-control.

And Dometria comes in close, lifting her face to mine, raising my jaw with the haft of the whip, and watching and feeling the desperate energy that I have summoned up expire out of me as my body crumbles and sags against its ropes, subsiding into a dangling battered mess. She puts her foot on my genitals as I sink in front of her and gently presses me down.

“I think I’ve finished with you,” she says.

What do you make of that? One of the most amazing feelings that I’ve ever had in my life. And I can’t wait to do it again. Once you have tasted something so different, so extreme, it gets its hooks into you. Refusing your instincts. Playing with deep sexual fears. Surrendering control of your body. Making cruelty a kindness. Questioning all moral views of the body. Standing pleasure and pain on their heads. Experiencing the magic of being made to desire what you fear and bear what you cannot bear. It is theatre. It is art …… and pain is the most vivid of all art forms. As the poet Andre Malraux put it:

Art is a paltry thing in the face of pain………..
No painting can withstand comparison
With a patch of blood