Whip play: A few tips

After a wonderful weekend of rope and whips, it has occurred to me that I have never actually written anything on my blog about whips or whip play.

So let me start with a few tips and safety:

• They can cause considerable pain and damage. A bullwhip is more than capable of slicing flesh and breaking bone. My first steps into using a whip (about 4 years ago) was closely watched by a friend of mine who already had many years of experience. If possible, try to have someone around you during your practice that knows what they are doing.
• You need to realise that you are going to whack yourself on the arms, legs, back of the head, neck and shoulders. It goes with the territory until you learn how to control a whip effectively. Even after years of practice; you will still nick yourself on the odd occasion. Get used to it.
• The cracking sound you hear is the tip of the whip (suprisingly, named ‘the cracker’) traveling at over 1400 feet per second and causing a mini sonic boom as it breaks the sound barrier. It will pick up dirt, grass or gravel from wherever you use it and have a tendency to fling it through the air. DO NOT aim it at people during practice.
• Including an arm’s reach, a 6 foot whip will travel in a circle covering about 10-12 feet in every direction from you (this means you are in the dead center of a rather large sphere which is full of things to break and people to hit), so be very careful where you swing it. Always be aware of what is behind you as a whip will travel backwards before it goes out in front of you. Also look out for overhanging tree branches and electric cables. Always check for clearance.
• Anyone can buy a toy but it is never the toy that is dangerous. The only truly dangerous thing about a whip is the person who wields it. Do not be stupid.

Feeling the eyes.

Whump, whump, whump, whump.

Time tends to slow down when you are in the moment. Everything seems to be in high definition and the only things that matter are the sensations. The sound and wind created by the dual floggers cutting through the air, the scent of sweat and leather, the feel of every impact sending vibrations through the body and the burn that penetrates every muscle from the exertion.

You can feel the eyes on you. The excitement in the air is like a drug. Addictive for an extrovert like myself.

With the beat of the music pumping through the club and influencing motion and impact, it swiftly turns into a dance. Erotic and sensual. This in turn attracts more eyes and the play becomes heavier. More visual. A performance to feed the spectators who are in turn feeding the extroverted desires.

By this point, the only way to stop the cycle is for the music to end. I am having too much fun.

Whump, whump, whump, whump.

With his arms raised and restrained to a Shibari ring that dangled from the ceiling, his back and shoulders are taking the majority of the beatings. Florentine style to be exact. Rash reddened and sore, he will bruise. But he too is being emotionally fed. Everyone is.

He raises his index fingers to the sky. Our prearranged signal that I am pushing beyond his threshold. I am oblivious to it. I know him and what he can take. The music had not stopped yet. He could endure. He ‘would’ endure. Limits are always best when at their extremities.

Now the thuds are louder than the music.

Whump… whump… whump… whump…

As the beat slows, so do the impacts. Breath is heavy. Sweat sheens the skin. The heat is comfortably uncomfortable as the world around phases back.

And then the music ends. I twirl the floggers to untangle them before clipping them to my waist. A spinning motion like a carousel. An elegant way to end. Aesthetically pleasing.

With a sure foot and gentle hip sway, I close the distance towards him to inspect the damage more closely. The skin looks tender. Tempting. Inviting. I gently run my claws down his neck and back. He shivers and groans at the sensation. A perfect finale.

With a short motion, I unclip his wrists and he slumps forward slightly. Drained. He turns, rests his head on my breast and I gently stroke the back of his neck. He had taken more punishment than originally intended. He deserved my gentler touch and aftercare. He had done exceedingly well.

Nothing needed to be said. Actions always speak far louder than any word. He attentively kissed my cheek. A “thank you”.

After a cigarette and a drink, maybe we would go at it again with a new song.

I do so love an audience.

The best cruelty.

“It is just a little cut, Mistress.” He said as I inspected his nipple closely.
A very faint and miniscule red line adorned the tip. It looked beautiful.
“Too eager with the razor while shaving?”
“Yes Mistress.”
“The smallest cuts are always the most uncomfortable.” I said as I ran my tongue over a fang and continued to inspect the tiny wound with interest.
My sadistic mind began to tick over the possibilities. For me, this is automatic.
“Lay down.” I said forcefully as I pointed towards the bed.
He hesitated for a few seconds but did as he was told. For him, this should have been automatic.
I spent a few minutes chaining his wrists and ankles down. It gave me time to mull over the ideas forming. I decided simplicity would be best. Nothing quite beats tactile contact with a sharpened claw in an open wound. Regardless of how small the wound.

Have you ever heard the expression “You need to be cruel to be kind”? Well, it works both ways.
The best cruelty, the kind you can taste in the air and which sends a sadistic rush of pleasure down the spine, comes with kindness, relaxation and a false sense of security.

I removed a surgical latex glove from its container (I always keep a box of these handy, they have so many uses) and watched his expressions as I seductively walked towards where he was laid on his back.
He was already erect. But the gentle hip sway, the slow process of one foot in front of the other, the click of heel on tiled floor and direct eye contact with a knowing smile was an assurance he would remain so.
The glove was placed over his member. It was simply to keep his juices contained and off my rather expensive clothing. His eyes widened as I lifted a leg over his waist and sat on his stomach. His look was one of slight worry and he had good reason to. It was likely he was questioning why I was being so nice.
Stockinged thighs wrapped around body, a slight pelvis muscle flex to further distort attention and a forward lean to draw eye to cleavage.

I was being really “nice”.

Subtly on my part and oblivion on his part, my own attention returned to that miniscule bloodied cut.

I gently caressed the clean, unscathed nipple. A touch as soft as liquid silk. No doubt running shivers down his spine from all the tease up to this point.

And then he felt it. My other hand, unseen, unheard, unnoticed, had slowly made its way to the gashed nipple. My pointed claw pressed forcefully inside the cut and he grunted, his face turning red with the pain and his attempts at keeping the moans of agony contained. He struggled, but the chains held his limbs securely and the weight of my body on top of his kept him from attempting to dislodge the claw.

The expression on his face (aside from the pain): one of shock and realisation as to what I had been doing all along. It was equally as beautiful as that tiny nipple wound when I had fist seen it.

And now it was my turn to be the one with that rush of pleasure down the spine.