Disclaimer: User-Generated Content with Erotic Material
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Curiosity has always been one of my weaknesses, and I had been curious for a long time. About pain. About control. I was attracted to the feeling of really letting go, not only physically, but also mentally. However, like so many others, I didn’t dare to do it for a long time. I had played out all my fantasies in my head countless times, watched countless videos, and read forums. But it all remained theory until I finally dared to satisfy my curiosity and live out my fantasies.
My first conscious encounter with the world of spanking, paddling, and whipping was in a club in Berlin. I was in town on business, and when I didn’t have any meetings one evening, my curiosity and desire were simply too strong to stay in my hotel room. I googled for a location that also welcomed beginners. “Discipline – Men Only | Gentle Dom Evenings” – that sounded safe somehow. And the website promised intense experiences.
I wrote a short message via the contact form, completely open and honest: “I’m new, but curious. Sub-oriented. 35, athletic, discreet. No drugs. Open to spanking & more.“ Less than an hour later, I received a reply. Short and to the point: ”Today, 9:30 p.m. Dress code: black. Shower beforehand. No expectations except obedience. – L.”
I was pretty nervous, really excited, and for the first time in a long time, I felt alive.
When I opened the black door that evening and entered the club, I was enveloped in dark, warm light. Leather, metal, muffled voices, the smell of bodies, wax, and leather care products. An older man, L., as I suspected, stood there, dressed entirely in black, with a well-groomed gray beard, piercing eyes, and an attitude that brooked no contradiction. He looked me over as if I were a piece of furniture. At that moment, I felt somehow small. But that was exactly what I wanted.
“You’re the new one.” I nodded. “Speak when I address you. Undress. Only the collar remains.” The collar? I didn’t have one. Apparently a test. He came closer and put a simple leather strap around my neck. No lock. But it felt more binding than any contract. “Kneel down.” I did what he wanted without hesitation. Until his hand landed on my bare butt, I hadn’t known how intense a simple slap with the bare hand could be. How it not only hits the skin, but goes deeper, into the thoughts and feelings.
I felt the warmth of his hand on my ass, first testing, then harder and harder. The rhythm changed, slowing down, then speeding up again. My skin tingled, burned slightly, but I didn’t care, I wanted more. “Count,” he ordered. “One. Two. Three… to twenty.” Each stroke triggered something in me: shame, lust, fear, and trust. When I think back, I was completely in the moment. No to-do lists, no appointments, no masks.
Then he paused. Caressed the reddened skin. His hand gently ran over my loins. No erection, no direct sexual impulse, but I was charged like rarely before. “You’re receptive. I like that.” I felt somehow caught, thoroughly examined, and finally seen for what and who I was.
This introduction was followed by an even more intense experience. The paddle was different, harder, more relentless. The surface distributed the blow, but did not take away its force. He showed it to me beforehand. Black, made of leather and wood. The thought flashed through my mind that this was not a toy, it was a tool of obedience. “Today you will learn obedience.” Aha, I had guessed correctly. I stood slightly bent forward, arms propped up, legs spread.
The first blow hit me like an electric impulse. I gasped, he smiled. “Don’t talk. Just breathe.” Ten strokes. Then a pause. Then ten more. He was watching me, I knew that, and that made it even more intense. My skin was hot, my thoughts clear. In the role of the submissive man, I felt, as silly as it may sound, my strength anew. It was not a weakness to surrender. It was a decision, and to this day I can clearly feel how it liberated me.
I had only guessed at them before in the dim light: multi-tailed leather whips, elegant, menacing. They hung on a wall of their own, where he displayed his “tools of the trade.” He took one from the wall and held it in front of my face. “If you really want to, say, ‘I serve you.’ Then we’ll continue. If not, get dressed and leave. No explanation.” I didn’t hesitate for long. “I serve you.”
He nodded slightly, gently tied a rope around my wrists, and led me to the punishment bench. I felt no fear, only an almost unbearable urge to finally move on.
The whip didn’t cut, it stroked. If I had to describe it more precisely, I would say that it drew patterns of pain and ecstasy on my back that evening. I moaned, not because it was too much, but because it was just right. He changed the tempo, used pauses, provoked my reactions. “Let go,” he whispered. And I let go.
With every movement, I felt that I was safe, and that’s exactly why I was able to let myself go. No pain was too much. No moment too hard. Because everything took place in a space where I was seen, heard, held.
After the session, I lay on a mattress for a few minutes, wrapped in a warm blanket. He sat next to me, holding my hand. “How do you feel?” he asked. “Light,” I said, and I actually felt an inner weightlessness that had been foreign to me until then. He looked at me with a gaze that said, “You served well.” We didn’t talk much. But we laughed at some point. And I noticed how my body was slowly calming down. My butt felt pleasantly warm. My back was warm. But above all, my heart was calm. I wasn’t hurt. I had arrived.
It was my first unforgettable experience, but it wouldn’t be my last. What I particularly liked was the fact that I was able to discover a side of myself that had been dormant for a long time. Admittedly, spanking, paddling, whipping, and the like are not for everyone. But for me, it was a path to freedom. Not because I was humiliated. But because I was allowed to decide to submit. And because I had met someone who proceeded with care, respect, and clarity and who knew what he was doing.
As a successful businessman, I always thought I had to display a certain form of dominance in order to be taken seriously as a negotiating partner. Today I know that sometimes the greatest power lies in surrendering completely.
I never would have thought that the message that would hit me so hard a few days after my first experience at the club would be this one. “You’ve proven yourself. If you’re ready for more – Saturday, 9 p.m. This time there will be three of us.” L. wrote concisely, as always. No explanation, no location, just a time. I agreed immediately.
Two days later, I stood in front of an inconspicuous industrial building in a side street in Kreuzberg. A buzzer, a short hum, then the heavy iron gate opened. I entered a sparse room with black curtains, dim lighting, and three men.
I recognized L. immediately. I was seeing the other two for the first time. One was dark-haired, younger, broad-shouldered, wearing a leather vest and with a piercing gaze. The other was older, almost androgynous, elegant, wearing a long coat that revealed little of his body. And it was immediately apparent that the three of them didn’t want to play, they wanted to lead.
“Take your clothes off,” said L. – no greeting. No small talk. I obeyed and stood there naked. I had only kept on the black leather collar from our first encounter. It was tight, but not uncomfortable. The symbol of my place and my willingness to experience this evening not as a “man with demands,” but as a body with complete devotion.
“From today, you no longer belong only to me,” said L. “You are now our property. You serve, you feel, you remain silent until we want you to do otherwise.” I knelt down. My heart was racing because I had no idea what was in store for me. But I was ready.
At first, it was just touch. Three men, three very different energies. Then came the words. “Don’t touch yourself,” L.’s voice boomed. “You are nothing except what we awaken in you.” The younger one added, “Your body is our instrument.” At that moment, I felt exposed, not physically, but internally. Each sentence hit my ego like a pinprick and at the same time felt like a kiss for my soul.
L. started with his bare hand, slowly and rhythmically. My butt quickly started to burn, but I enjoyed it totally. Then he handed over to the younger one, who called himself D. D was different. Harder, faster, and more precise. Each blow had power, but it wasn’t anger, it was control.
The third, M., watched. Gave orders. Made me count. “At 30, you stop counting. Then you count backwards. Show us that you can not only endure, but also think when it hurts.” I managed it, but only just. My concentration was somewhere between the heat on my skin and the tension in my head. But when I reached zero, the three of them looked at each other and nodded.
Next, I was laid across a leather bench. My hands and legs were secured. Headphones were put on, but there was no sound. Only silence. Then they started at the same time, from both sides. The exciting thing was that I couldn’t predict where the next blow would hit me. Sometimes left, sometimes right, then a pause, then double. My body was shaking. I was drenched in sweat. I wasn’t afraid, I was just experiencing total sensory overload.
Suddenly, someone whispered right into my ear: “Now say it. Say why you’re doing this.” I hardly knew myself. For closeness? For pleasure? For devotion? “Because I want to feel myself.” There was silence. Then again the sound of leather on my skin. I was lying face down on the floor. My arms were outstretched, my legs spread. I couldn’t see it, but my back was red and my butt was burning. And I was just peaceful, open, and empty.
Then M. came with the whip. Not the gentle one I knew from L., but a cat o’ nine with heavy straps. He turned me onto my back. “Trust us. We know when you’re ready.” I had to swallow. The whip didn’t just hit. It danced, it cut, and it left marks. And at the same time, it healed, because I knew that every blow was deliberate and every pain was intentional. D held my hand. L watched my face. M worked like an artist. At some point, all I said was, “Thank you.” And I meant it completely. I was grateful for every blow, for every glance, for the clear role: I obeyed. I felt. I was.
After the last round, I lay curled up on a carpet, wrapped in a blanket. My heart was beating calmly. I wasn’t weak. I was carried. The three men sat down with me. One stroked my neck, one gave me water, and the third whispered, “You were perfect.” I could have cried, and I did, because of the experience that changed me.