[Disclaimer: anyone squeamish or who objects to extreme BDSM practises, please read no further, thanks]

The dungeon was not what I expected.

Instead of arriving at Tower of London-type castle with a moat and a drawbridge, I instead knocked on the door of an average looking block of flats in the city of London. I breathed a slight sigh of relief.

I was led into an inconspicuous duplex: the top floor consisting of a lounge, kitchen, bedrooms and study, but the many rooms in the basement were dedicated to the practice of various forms of sexual play.

The dungeon itself consisted of a room painted black, lined with mirrors, and two walls filled, floor to ceiling with every instrument of torture one could imagine: whips to paddles, rope to chains. I had never seen so many items and was a little overwhelmed by them, not knowing what half of them were used for. I soon learned: I’ll come to that later. But let me first explain how I came to be in a dungeon.

My friend F is a professional dominatrix. That is to say, men (and for her, it is always men), hire her to induce pain and suffering on them: she specialises in humiliation and degradation.

For some years I turned a blind eye to what she did for a living, not really wanting to know how it was that she earned her money. Not liking BDSM was one thing, knowing that men paid her to hurt them, was another. As far as I was concerned – out of sight was out of mind.

F had offered many times for me to sit in on a session so that I might see what she did and gain some insight into the fetish/bondage/sex scene that she was involved with. Many times I politely declined and was content with her sordid tales; seeing it happen was another thing altogether.

But after experimenting with K, I was more curious. Who were these men who paid women to abuse them? Why did they do it? And what was hardcore BDSM really like? I knew that I would have to accompany F to one of her sessions to find out. And so, with that, I found myself, terrified out of my brain, watching a man being tortured with his consent.

I had met the guy earlier. He was a non-descript chap in his mid-thirties, single, working in IT, a little shy. In return for letting me sit-in on his session, he had requested that I ‘looked the part too’ in order not to break with the whole fantasy. So I had agreed to accept and dress up in his gifts to me of a rubber dress and some 6-inch platform stilettos. (I did feel uncomfortable about this: I’m not the sort of woman to accept money or gifts from men I don’t know – feels like prostitution to me – I took his purchases grudgingly).

The dress was very difficult to get it on. Not only was it very tight, but the zipper ran from the chest down to the thighs, making it hard to do up. Plus, it was obviously only meant for a C cup in the bust, as my DD’s were spilling out all over the place. (But I was assured by F that this was a bonus in the S & M field). Anyway, after managing to zip it up, I then had to close the 5 buckles that ran across the zipper, from the top to the bottom of the dress. (Not that there was a ‘bottom’ to the dress: it barely covered mine – I was glad I had panties on that day).

So I’m standing there, barely able to breathe, in this amazingly tight rubber dress, which ends at the top of my thighs, and has a 4 inch gap before the tops of my stockings. I’m trying to balance in these outrageously high stilettos and I take a look at myself in the mirror.

I was amazed at what I saw.

Until this moment, I had never understood why people fetishise about rubber. As far as I was concerned, those people were just weird. I mean, getting excited about a fabric? Please. Get a life. It’s just a garment for crissake.

Wrong.

Upon looking at my reflection, I finally understood. I looked HOT. This rubber dress clung to every curve on my body. Its tightness was like a corset, holding everything in, and accentuating my figure. It highlighted my shape. It displayed my breasts in all their glory, proudly cupping them as if they were the firmest, roundest bosoms in all the world. It curved around my arse, squeezing the cheeks together like two delicious hardboiled eggs strapped up in clingfilm. It smoothed my body into an hourglass, a shiny, sleek, sexy shape. I felt like a seductress and I loved how it made me feel.

Of course I didn’t want to go next door into the dungeon. My pussy was wet: I wanted to play instead.

I was shocked by this. Wearing a rubber dress = horniness? What? There must be something wrong, surely it was just weird men who got off on that? I really couldn’t get it into my head that just by putting the dress on I had got horny; it was difficult for me to accept that perhaps I had a fetish for rubber too – and that until I actually tried it, I didn’t know. (Not much has changed since then: whenever I put a rubber dress on now (not often, sadly), I get wet immediately, like it’s an aphrodisiac).

My friend F came to find me, since I had taken my time. She loved how I looked and paraded me around the house, where all the other Dommes congratulated me and said, “you’ll be a Domme yet!” (no thanks).

Anyway, finally the session with the client began.

I was of course extremely nervous. Although I had discussed many times with F that I would not participate in any way, I was still anxious and uncomfortable about the whole thing, even if I was just observing. (To F’s credit, she made me a priority and constantly checked to see if I was ok with what was going on).

The first thing I noticed was F’s initials on the client’s naked arse cheeks. The letters were scars, having been ‘branded’ onto him with a type of heated poker. I understand this is reasonably frequent in this type of practice. I found it strange though: how would he explain this to a future partner? “Oh don’t worry dear, my last girlfriend branded me with her initials”? I don’t think so.

F strapped the client onto a type of table. His hands and feet were bound with ropes and chains. Ok, I thought, simple enough, nothing too heavy, I can cope with this.

When F started slapping the client around, I didn’t think much of it either, since it wasn’t all that different to what I had done with K.

But when F tied some rope tightly in between and around the client’s testicles and then strapped them to a pulley, which lifted them above his body, I began to have second thoughts about the whole thing.

I could see he was in obvious pain: his body was pinned down, his balls being pulled up. They started to go purple. I felt sick. And so did he, since he grimaced and moaned.

But instead of releasing his balls, F abused him verbally. I’m not going to repeat word for word what she said, but the gist was that she was trying to humiliate him. And when that didn’t have the effect she wanted, she spat into his mouth. Yes, spat. Gobbed. Big ball of saliva.

The client just smiled at her and swallowed it. F told him he was a good boy and then tapped her cigarette into his mouth, as if it were an ashtray. (She repeated this and the facial spitting numerous times that evening)

I thought about leaving at that point. Some pain I can understand, but to be abused: that I could not cope with. I found it very disturbing.

But somehow I hung in there. Probably because my curiosity about human nature got the better of me.

After a while, F undid the client (though left the rope tied around his balls) and he moved to another contraption, a type of half-table where the client lies against it as if he were bent over a couch. He was duly strapped to that, with chains this time and F proceeded to use some of the ‘toys’ I had seen lined up against the wall earlier.

I lost count of the types of tools she used. I recall various whips, paddles, canes, crops and wooden rulers. What I did notice was the amount of blood that was criss-crossing his arse. It looked so painful and I didn’t understand why someone would get pleasure from that much discomfort. I mean, I had whipped K, sure, and left red marks, but never drawn blood. That just seemed to me to be taking things to far. But at the back of my mind I was trying to convince myself, “Each to their own. Don’t judge others just because you wouldn’t do it”, and shortly after, I found even this mantra didn’t help the way I was feeling.

At some point F got out a strap-on. For those of you who don’t know what this is, it’s generally a latex (or similar) dildo, which is held in a leather (or similar) harness and then worn by woman for the purposes of penetration. I had seen this used in pornography, never before in real life.

F put the strap-on on, and proceeded to fuck the client up the arse with it.

Now, I have on occasion, thought about and hoped to do this with a partner. Surely it’s just a step further on from having a couple of fingers in there stroking his g-spot?

And watching a man being penetrated was a turn-on for me. It showed me that,

a) I like to watch sex
b) I like penetration (of any sort), either watching, doing or being done to
c) I want to fuck a man up the arse

My using a strap-on hasn’t happened yet (one can always hope) but in my fantasies, when I do it to a guy, it’s sensual, careful and sexy: a turn on for the guy, and thus me.

Not so in this case. F was violent, forceful and ignoring the client’s cries of pain. She thrust it in and out of him like she was raping him. (It was only later that I realised that this was a small manifestation of her hatred of men – a way of getting her ‘own back’). The client didn’t seem to be enjoying it; F on the other hand was having loads of fun.

And when she pulled the strap-on out of his arse and forced him to lick his arse juice off the condom, I again thought about getting out of there, I was so turned off and disgusted by what she was doing.

Luckily the session was almost at an end. But before it did, there was the small matter of his orgasm to contend with. Throughout the session, his cock had been totally flaccid, and I had wondered if the whole S & M Dominatrix thing was only a mental fantasy, especially since F swore that she never performed any ‘sexual’ acts on her clients.

But it wasn’t just a mental thing. F told the client she wanted him to cum, and he got hard immediately. She then instructed him to climax when she said her name and proceeded to spell out her entire name. And so the client grabbed his cock and in front of F and me, he wanked himself off, finally climaxing as she said her name in full, spunking a wad all over her latex-clad hand, which she then shoved into his mouth. If I wasn’t so disgusted by the whole thing, I might have been impressed. But as it was, I was pretty sick to my stomach by then.

And watching his cock then be placed into a chastity device (see the archives here for details of a loving relationship involving chastity), so that the client would be unable to get a hard on without F’s consent, made me feel sad for this guy.

Here was an average bloke, dependent on paying someone to get his rocks off. Someone who would never love him, who would always abuse him (and not just physically or verbally, but financially too, by marching him to the bank – he was one of her ‘wage slaves’ - and demanding he gave her all his money).

He worshipped her. But she despised him. In fact F despised all her clients. Now, I am not for one minute saying that ALL dominatrixes hate their clients. But in this case, F did. And this manifested itself in her sadism: she truly got pleasure from inflicting pain on these men. And in return, she got paid. And very well too from what I could tell looking at her collection of designer shoes and clothes, expensive holidays and large cocaine habit.

None of this I could relate to. Although I knew that K had enjoyed the pain I had inflicted on him, I didn’t get off on inflicting it. It was his reaction to what I was doing that was a turn on for me - seeing him writhing around on my bed as a result of a few slaps was exciting and made me horny – doing the actual slapping did nothing for me, either mentally or physically.

But knowing how horny K had been from my Domming him and watching this S & M session made me curious: what must it be like to be on the receiving end of all this power-play?

This question was answered a few weeks later when I had my hands tied above my head, F’s fingers inside me and a guys cock stuffed into my mouth.

I shall talk about this in the next (and final) Sex Episode: ‘Domination, Dungeons and Dominatrixes’ (part 3)