Part one of true story.
It is a harsh, real, and totally unsafe entry into BDSM, which drove the author to pursue a more safe, sane and consensual play.
It was the worst BDSM nightmare. I was screaming for an ambulance. The cop’s wife was trying to calm me down and revive him at the same time. I was 19 years old, sexually inexperienced, only six months into the life-style, and very naive. And I was sure I had just killed the cop who was my first BDSM trainer.In 1972, I met Joe (all names have been changed), a Nevada police officer, at a Straw Hat Pizza restaurant just down the street from the North Las Vegas Police Station. My friends and I, employees from Grants, would gather there after work and talk to the officers. We all enjoyed the many offbeat stories they had to share. Joe was 40 years old, married and had the best stories. We laughed, drank soda and ate pizza together nearly every Friday and Saturday night.Eventually, I began a nonsexual relationship with Joe. He picked me up for a couple of ride-along’s in his squad car, took me out to eat, and introduced me to his wife, Nan. Naive as I was, I thought this was a great friendship between an older adult and myself.
About two months into the relationship and after several visits to Joe’s home, Joe decided to show me his unusual hobby – BDSM. Whenever I visited his home, I noticed a bedroom with the large lock on the outside of the door. When I inquired about the room, Joe told me it contained his arsenal, police equipment and other items, as well as his favorite hobby, but he wouldn’t tell me about his hobby. That night, Joe and his wife introduced me to their hobby.
Joe knew I had a fetish for leather, although I didn’t have the means to afford even a small article of leather clothing. I constantly stroked the police jackets and handled their leather belts and equipment whenever they would let me. I was thrilled when permitted to wear one of their jackets for the night.
That evening, inside Joe’s house, he led me to the door of his special room. I entered and was amazed. The room was outfitted with leather items from ceiling to floor. I stood for a moment and inhaled the fragrance of leather and leather oils. The walls were edged with boards and hooks. From the hooks dangled an assortment of paddles, handcuffs, bondage gear, hoods, studded and leather clothes, straps, and other BDSM tools and toys. Near one wall was a leather studded chair, quite simple in design with no arms or legs – just a box shape on the floor with a straight back. Above the chair was an intricate metal overhead rail with a chain and hook, and above that a cloth noose hanging down. Next to the chair was an assortment of metal, dowel-shaped rods in lengths from four inches to four feet with circumferences from 1/8-inch to the size of a fence post.
I wandered around the room, touching this and that, oohing and ahing over some items and raising my eyebrow at others. I stopped when I arrived at the leather clothing. I mauled some leather chaps, revelling in their soft and supple texture. I rubbed my nose against them and luxuriated in the aroma. I reached out and fingered the next item, a full leather head hood, complete with a zipper where the mouth was located.
Joe leaned over my shoulder, “Would you like me to model that for you?” I nodded. He proceeded to strip to his a black, skimpy underwear, and donned a complete leather outfit that included black leather studded chaps, black leather boots, no chest covering, and a black leather full head hood with a zippered mouth opening.
“There’s more,” he said. “Wanna see it?”
I nodded again.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I finally gathered my voice and let him know I was more than interested, “I want to see everything.”
He reached for a couple of short 4-inch metal rods about 1/8-inch in diameter … and a knife. For the first time, I noticed the scarring just below his collar bone near each shoulder – several long, jagged, thick horizontal scars about two inches long. Joe took the knife and made two cuts on each side over the scarred area, then ran the knife beneath the two flaps of skin and raised it slightly to insert a metal rod vertically under the skin. The rods provided the same function as the wood dowels used by Indians during certain ceremonies when they would hang from skin pieces.
Joe stepped up on the chair, looped a leather thong around the ends of the rods, and placed a thick, soft-cloth, rope noose around his neck. He looked down at me, waiting for a response.
“Is that it?” I asked, thinking he might be finished with this show that included a spiffy outfit and some props. He shook his head no.
“There’s more, but if I show you, then there’s no turning back and you can never breathe a word of this to any one,” Joe said, with heavy emphasis on several key words. “We stop now if you’re uncomfortable…” he paused and waited. When he saw that I was not going to stop him, he continued, “Or we go on and you understand that there will be consequences if you ever tell any one about this.”
I had stepped though the looking glass and I wasn’t about to turn back. “I’m okay with this,” I said, belying the nervous shake that was engulfing my entire body.
Joe turned his back to me and said, “Good! Do whatever my wife tells you. She knows my signals.” Then he zipped the mouth shut on the hood, hoisted the chains attached to the leather loops around the rods until they stretched the skin so tight I could see under them and tightened the cloth noose until he was almost on his tiptoes. He clamped his arms tightly against the sides of his body and his wife placed two straps around him, securing them in place. I could see the multitude of scars on his back that rivaled those on his shoulders. The scars were vertical and crisscrossed, tens times as many as the front, but not as thick and much longer. I was too naive to think about how dangerous this might be. It simply looked incredible and interesting.
Mistress Nan extended a 4-foot long, dowel-shaped, 1/4-inch metal rod to me and said, “Hit him with it.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Everywhere except the head, like this,” she said, then wailed at his thighs, back and shoulders, leaving long, vertical red welts. It made a dull, thudding sound and he flinched at each stroke.
The first of many dumb questions left my mouth, “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Nan reached around and unzipped his mouth piece and turned him slightly toward me. Spinning him around at the end of the noose and chains reminded me of a top being cranked, and I wondered for a moment if he would spin back. It was all just a cartoon in my mind, and the seriousness of this new experience had not sunk in.
“I like it,” Joe said. “It hurts in a good way that’s hard for me to explain, so you just have to trust me on this. The harder you hit me, the more I like it. It’s okay to hit me as hard as you want. If it’s too much for me Nan will know and she’ll tell you to stop. Hit me like you want to break a bone. It’s okay to cut the skin and leave marks. They won’t show under my clothes. I really like it when you hit me hard enough and long enough to make me pass out.”
Nan zipped the mouth piece shut and spun him back around, then handed me the rod. She pushed a long bench up to the chair, and helped me step up on it. I looked at Joe. I ran my hand over his back, feeling the scars. He moaned erotically. I ran my hand along the rod. It was rough and had small pieces of metal slag along it that snagged my hand as it slid. “Are you sure about this?” I asked.
Joe hummed a muffled “Uh huh,” behind the mask.
I lined up the rod with his ass and struck him once with a very mild force. He yelled a muffled, “Harder.” I swung it again, and again, each time with a little more force but not enough to really injure someone. Joe bounced his toes on the chair and grunted heavily, “Harder.” I struck him harder.
The first session ended. Joe received very little satisfaction, but he had plans to train me to be exactly what he wanted – an extreme BDSM dominatrix who could beat him into unconsciousness while he asphyxiated himself to orgasm.
Our sessions increased. When I pleasd him, Joe would reward me with a lovely, kinky outfit, or a small leather accessory. We met several times a week, and spent hours in the “hobby” room. At his demand, I beat him harder and harder. I became quite adept at leaving deep, bruising marks and cuts, without breaking any bones, while he danced lightly on his toes, on the chair, at the end of the rope, pulling his weight tighter and tighter against the noose and rods inserted under his skin, until he had a bursting orgasm. Then Nan and I would let him down and clean him up. Afterwards, we’d all adjourn to the kitchen table and drink coffee like any other normal group of friends. After every session, Joe would coach me to take the next session further, to hit him harder, to help him gain satisfaction, so he could teach me to be all that I could be.
I began to hate the sessions. Joe wanted me with him constantly. He wanted me to play every night. I watched the skin on his back change colors like the seasons. The bruises would be various shades of black, blue, green and yellow as they healed at different rates and were replaced with new ones. Cuts and gashes were repeatedly added to his already numerous scars. One particular area that was cut several times became inflamed and filled with puss. It gaped open more and more with each session and rebelled against all the dressings and salves. Joe didn’t care. He liked it the most when I hit him there. I wanted to stop. I felt sick and guilty and liked it all at the same time. I was sure I was doing something evil and wrong, and yet delighted in the feeling of the power it gave me.
One night we sessioned heavily. Joe struggled at his bindings and mumbled, “More, harder,” repeatedly to me, then motioned his wife to let him speak to me. She unzipped his mouth piece and he tore into me, telling me how inadequate and disappointed he was with me after six months of training. I was a wimp in his eyes and a whiner, always wanting to stop before giving him his pleasure. He pushed and chewed me for a quarter hour, then zipped back up and turned for the rest of the session. He got his wish. I beat him as hard as I could with several large, heavy rods. I let all the rage that had built in me pour out on him. I wanted to break bones, show him I could do it, and end this once and for all. Nan never stopped me. She simply stood back and watched. I could hear his muffled, “Yes, yes, yes,” as I hit him over and over, and watched him pull heavily against his noose and thonged rods. I was in such a frenzy that it took me several moments to notice he was silent and not pulling anymore. In fact, he was hanging, rather limp.
I stopped and asked, “Joe, are you all right?” No answer. I put my hand against his back. No movement, not even breathing. I screamed, “Oh my god, call an ambulance.” I jumped off the bench, and started for a phone. Nan stopped me.
“Hang on, he’s okay,” she said. She removed the noose, pulled him down, untied him, and removed the hood, and laid him flat on the floor. It took forever in my mind, but probably only took seconds in actual time. She leaned over and felt his mouth. When she started CPR. I freaked again.
“I killed him didn’t I?” I asked, sobbing so hard that I was having a difficult time breathing. Between heart pumps and breaths, she continued to assure me it would be all right, and not to call an ambulance.
She would gasp a breath and say, “No, he’ll be all right.” Then she would blow a breath of air in, and another, then she pumped his chest several times, then sucked in another breath, blew into his mouth, raised her head and looked at me, “Really, he’ll be all right,” then repeated the whole procedure again.
Finally, she sat up and leaned back, “See, he’s okay.” He was breathing again.
“I’m going home,” I stammered through a gushing well of tears and rushed for the door.
Nan didn’t stop me, but she yelled out behind me, “You call me tomorrow, or we’ll have to come looking for you.” I nodded without turning to face her and slammed the door behind me.
DSM Nightmare was written by Mistress Rana, a lifestyle Mistress who has been in the lifestyle for nearly 30 years. She currently owns and manages Bound for Pleasure (B4P), Southern Nevada’s Premier BDSM/Alternative Lifestyles Group that meets in Las Vegas, Nevada. Her background includes seven years as a celebrity photographer and five years as an investigative reporter. B4P is a proud co-host/co-founder of the ALL Community Munch.
