Not a Pornstar: Musings of a Girl Working Behind the Scenes in Porn #3
“You do so much for me. The least I can do is pay to have the shit kicked out of you.”
Why My Boss Paid a Man to Strip Me Naked and Beat Me Until I Cried
“You do so much for me. The least I can do is pay to have the shit kicked out of you.”
by Stella Smut aka "Not a Pornstar"
I’d been shooting porn all week and I was tired. Shooting porn, it turns out, will run a person down. I did not anticipate becoming a pornographer and yet, here I was, filling in for my renowned boss during her maternity leave. I’d taken on more than I should have. I needed a release; naturally that urge translated into wanting to be desperately beaten until I cried.
I’d always wanted to see a professional male dominant, but I didn’t know how to go about it. I had a brief stint once “working” at a dungeon in the fall of 2009, the same one, oddly enough, where I ended up seeing “the Sir.” (*To preserve his anonymity I will refer to him as “the Sir,” as in the Sir of all Sirs, which I feel is very fitting for this man’s presence, for he is God-like, and meant to be honored. Plus he is a whore for flattery and by GOD am I here to give it to him). I briefly remember eyeing a man on the dungeon’s website about 11 years ago as well as the dungeon’s halls on those two brief “work” shifts, but the memory of it all is a bit of a blur now. Maybe it was all the benzodiazepines I took in my early twenties, which feel to me now like one big abstract, mangled mess of images, sounds and smells that are hard to trace or connect in any sort of cohesive way. I do wonder though, if it was him.
We always hear of professional female dominatrixes and the high powered men who seek them out discreetly to be tied up, humiliated, and tortured for release. These interactions provide a safe, non-judgemental space to experience alternative ways of releasing tension and control while experiencing deep pleasure. But women are often not encouraged to seek out these experiences for various reasons, and finding safe, established male sex workers is far from easy.
As anyone dating in this new dystopian nightmare of a world knows, finding anyone to connect with mentally and sexually is not an easy feat. These days, finding consensual, non-judgemental, ethically like-minded people to share your innermost obscene perversions and twisted fantasies with in an attempt to heal old wounds and connect deeper with obscure areas of your psyche without the pressure of the sexual acts that this lifestyle attracts at least online, ie, penetration, oral sex, etc etc… well best of luck to those still searching.
The question at hand is this:
If you could find a seasoned professional to make you safe in exploring yourself, your needs, your innermost desires in a safe, accepting, and healing space INSTANTLY without the emotional and mental agony of interviewing human after human virtually in this age of vapid online connectivity, would you pay for it?
I sat my boss down and point-blank asked her to send me to get beaten with one condition: I would get to share my experience via the written word. I had already found the man we now call The Sir via a close friend and BDSM professional, so I was set to go. Her words still hang in the air from that life-altering night.
“You do so much for me. The least I can do is pay to have the shit kicked out of you.”
A kindred, indeed.
***
My idea initially was to finally have the BDSM experience I had always wanted. I had been interested in the more kinky side of life since I was a teen. I can’t exactly remember when it started — I had always been drawn to the dark side of things: the odd, the creepy, the macabre. I was a troubled teen confused by her sexuality, rebelling in ways that weren’t particularly healthy and experiencing release in ways that were often troubling. I sat by the ocean dreaming of mermaids and shipwrecks and monsters, or wandered through cemeteries dreaming of being followed and taken against my will. I remember watching the movie “Quills” at the Sunset 5 (a film about the scandalous life of the Marquis DeSade) in the fall of 2000, which may also have served as a catalyst for my obsession with perversity. The image of Joaquin Phoenix dressed as an 18th century French priest, slowly going mad with feelings of forbidden lust, will always be one of my mind’s go-to spank-bank wanks. I grew up in a Polish Catholic household, so being strung-up and whipped was bound to find its way into my pantheon of sexual fetishes.
My first experience with BDSM was at the tender age of 17. I had been feeling bold, slutty, and very forward one day, and proceeded to hit on a woman in front of a coffee shop. I commented on her goth outfit, telling her I liked her leather, spiked boots. Later that night at her house (she was a nanny and had just put the kids to bed), she poured hot wax over my body and ran an envelope opener over my flesh. That was the first moment I realized I could incorporate pain and torture into my sex life for release, in a way that was safe, consenual and healthy. Being a teen who had cried too much, cut herself too much, and was constantly on the lookout for ways to release all the feelings I rarely let myself or anyone else access, this was revolutionary.
My second look into the world was via my boyfriend, 18 years my senior, at the ripe age of 21. We watched Kink.com porn together and I asked him to pee on me. I have a brief memory of asking my childhood best friend to pee on me and feeling exhilarated, knowing it was not something I was supposed to be doing.
I remember the day he did it, well: he tied me to a tree in the parking lot of his studio and pissed on me, leaving me there to sit in it while the helicopters of Van Nuys flew above me, searching for criminals. I was nervous someone would see me, that I would be trapped and unable to run away; the feelings of unease and fear only induced even more arousal.
I then had a goal — to learn to be a good submissive. I looked up a dungeon in an unassuming Tudor-style torture house nestled in a gated, shrubbed area on a main road a few miles west of the ocean. I had exchanged emails with a head mistress in England who arranged for me to come in to work. It was Monday, September 28th, 2009. Scared off by a client whom I was not ready to receive, as well as some other specifics I did not anticipate, my time at the dungeon was short-lived. I remember sitting outside on the patio with some of the other girls, all of them extremely intimidating. One of them took a drag of her virginia slim and laughed at me. “This is sex work, baby. What did you think it’d be like?”
I left the next day, feeling defeated. I was more of a prude than I had thought.
Yet, 11 years later, I find myself pulling up to the same dungeon, still overgrown with ivy and the blacked out windows hiding any hint of the sinister, depraved atrocities going on inside.
I’m nervous. I tremble holding my phone up to my mouth with my car door open, rambling in my voice notes about my nervousness, how my stomach hurts from the anticipation and fear, how I hope I don’t fart in my session, how it took me an hour to shave my quarantine bush and how I hope bits of my pubes aren’t strewn across parts of my skin I failed to see. I wander off to try to get into the main house and I hear him call to me from the bungalows across the way. How long had he been standing there? Did he hear my gas-fueled pubic monologue?
He is pretty. I like his face. He stands over 6 feet tall, with leather buckled boots and a leather harness. His eyes are a piercing blue and his teeth seem to point a little, like he might not be human, but actual demonic, vampiric spawn. I think of my childhood Buffy crush on the character Spike, and I am immediately pleased. He is in all black and leather and I am wearing a yellow floppy tank with a mermaid on it that says “I miss my vagina.” This will have to do.
We go into his favourite room. It is black and purple with a leather spanking horse, and various other bits of BDSM furniture whose names I don’t know but it doesn’t matter because suddenly my brain seems to stop working. I am so nervous that I’ve lost the ability to communicate effectively or coherently but that doesn’t deter me from talking a lot but who knows what the fuck I am actually saying. I think to myself, I should go. I still have the chance to go.
Before the session we exchange messages on social media. I tell him my kinks, my perversions, what I hope to gain from the experience. He is thorough and professional and I already trust him.
The Sir introduces himself and tells me that for the next hour he will be beating me up and treating me like shit and then he is going to cuddle me. This makes me smile like with a childlike innocence and laugh a little. He is going to be fun.
But wait, cuddle me? What is this about affection? I came to be treated like trash and taken out of my comfort zone, not to receive affection. I seem to have forgotten about aftercare but it is an essential part of the experience as I later come to understand. A good Dom will always engage in aftercare and check in with you.
He tells me to stand up. I stand before him and he asks me to make eye contact. I immediately like that he does this. Eye contact establishes connection, safety and is proven to bond you in a way that is biologically calming. It is how we share intention, and emotion. It is crucial to our capacity for empathy. I immediately think of Serbian performance artist Maria Abramovic’s “The Artist is Present'' 2010 MOMA performance where over the course of 3 months, for 8 hours a day she sat with over 1000 people staring deeply into their eyes, bringing many of them to tears. This was extremely fitting as shortly after, I began to cry, in heaving, unapologetic sobs that seemed to go on for the duration of that hour under his spell.
Tears are not a safe word.
His words flashed in the forefront of my mind, like some sort of cosmic, electrically glitching billboard suspended in space. He liked tears, and I wanted to be ripped apart, internally and externally, left in a sniveling, puddle of despair.
He ran the back of his hands over my tits, over my shirt before pulling them out. I remember him commenting on how nice they were before slapping them hard in one quick, downward motion.
He kicked my legs open, kicked my cunt and swiftly punched my chest with a flat fist that startled me, and surprisingly, I really liked it. It was the first moment I realised this man could fuck me up properly and to not try my luck, and I liked that even more.
I had explained before arriving in one of our pre-session chats that being fully naked was something I wasn’t comfortable with, but he suggested that maybe that would be the reason to work with it. Wanting to benefit from the experience as fully as possible, I agreed.
Being stripped naked was very hard for me. I’ve had body image issues for most of my life and lots of self-hatred for far too long. Being naked, being forced to see myself and expose myself in that way to a complete stranger was beyond difficult and a huge catalyst for my crying fit. The physical torture was minimal. I didn’t need much to suffer; as so much of my suffering is self-inflicted. I just needed a vessel to pour it all into, to pull it out of me and release it into the ether. I needed therapy, a healer. And this unconventional portal was my escape into the catharsis I so desperately craved.
The rest of the session was a blur. These tits are yours to use Sir. Being shackled to a spanking horse. Being spanked, tits slapped. Thank you Sir. Face slapped. You’re a painslut, aren’t you? Crying and being held. Trying to pull away. Cunt kicked repeatedly. Stupid slut. Dumb whore. Tears wiped as I try to look away. Look at me. Don’t take those from me.
A signature adornment of his seemed to be his detachable talons; sharp, pointing metal rings for the tips of his fingers that fittingly resembled the beak of a plague doctor mask. He ran these with intermediate pressure on the raw beaten hide of my backside after having administered a substantial amount of corrective spanking with a rather large slab of leather. Thuddy pain, as they call it. I tease him about these afterwards when I’m in the safety of his arms, asking if he got them from Hot Topic, knowing very well that I would not be backhanded for my cheekiness.
Afterwards he sits on the couch and pulls me onto him. I am curled into some sort of fetal, shrimp-position and I am uncomfortable. He makes me hold him. I try to squirm away. This caring physical intimacy from a man is strange to me. I don’t like it. He calls me out for being uncomfortable receiving affection. He tells me it’s difficult for him to receive affection too. I want to ask why, but I don’t, but I appreciate the exchange in vulnerability.
I have the tendency to talk too much and it’s not too long before I start blabbering again. It’s then that he makes me get dressed (only shorts and shirt, not underwear) and forces me to crawl to the door and kneel outside on the rocks. He tells me to shut up for a second and stop talking and gather spit in my mouth and say AHHH. It takes me a second to realise he is smoking and I’m about to be his ashtray. I have never been anyone’s ashtray. My anxiety starts to seep in. Will I get stomach cancer from swallowing ash? I realise I haven’t eaten all day and my first meal will be the ash of this man’s cigarette. I am in such a state of elation that I would do anything for this person. It is exhilarating. I eat his ash with pride like a 5 star slab of steak. At this point I would eat handfuls of dirt and rock for him, but I do not. Luckily for me, he does not ask me to.
Subspace.
I believe I had reached it. Subspace is a state of being in the BDSM community referring to the feeling of euphoria or being high after or during a session, due to an influx of adrenaline and endorphins. I was floating in a limbo of sorts, high and exhilarated from being exposed and brutalised. It felt amazing. I felt completely empowered. I was able to deal with all the uncomfortable issues that had made me cry during the session with complete clarity and acceptance. It was like an alternative form of therapy I didn’t know I needed but suspected was right for me. Dealing with uncomfortable traumas or triggers in conventional therapy always left me feeling dark and unsettled and sad, yet here I was having been faced with them but I felt liberated and peaceful, with clarity on how to move forward with my issues.
It was time for me to go.
He didn’t let me wear my underwear on my ride home. The experience, though sexual in nature was not meant to have it’s focus be centered on my sexual pleasure in any respect but by default, an experience of that nature will have me extremely wet for I am a slut for torture, mindfuckery and pain. The ride to the beach afterwards was highly uncomfortable with my soaking cunt and my stomach full of ash but I was so high on all the happy chemicals released into my bloodstream that minimal discomfort was the least of my worries. Subspace, baby. I was riding the wave.
I went to Topanga State Beach and sat in the sand with my tiny shorts and wet pussy, which was not ideal as we can all imagine, but that uncomfortable fate is exactly what he would have wanted for me, and I was there for it.
I was clear. I was at peace. I was elated. And I already wanted more.
***
It’s a Friday evening overlooking the Marina. Weeks have passed since I’ve visited the dungeon and the experience continues to unlock my most depraved desires. I’ve escaped to a hotel in Redondo beach and I’m in a deep white bathtub on a balcony, letting the water run onto my open legs as I finger my nipples and listen to the voice in my head tell me what a dirty piece-of-shit slut I am. I imagine him spitting on me; ashing his cigarette onto my flesh, smirking through fangs that don’t seem to be that of human teeth. Various putrid, forced commands run through my mind: a cock being placed in my enclosed mouth, piss shooting down my throat that I have to drink down and if I spill a drop I’ll be choked with said cock until I puke, crying makeup stained tears, gasping for breath, cowering and shaking in fearful embarrassing sobs. I cum in one huge gasp and wonder if the two men down in the boat three stories down beneath the hotel in the docks could hear me.