a BDSM club memory

As I wrote my last post, I was reminded of a visual experience I had at that BDSM club. For all the shade I throw at the club thing, this indelibly stuck in my memory and may have been a little nudge in my later lifestyle choice to enter D/s.

I’m sure I’ve nurtured the memory over time, enhanced it in my repeated mental viewings. Yet, I was still a vanilla girl at the time, just beginning to know my own submissiveness and exploring the lifestyle by curiously tip-toeing into its world. The visual I saw was shocking to me and searingly vivid.


I saw a woman strapped to a cross.

She seemed to be about thirty, had short blonde hair, and was nude. She had a striking body with broad hips, a narrow waist, and, notably, full breasts the size of cantaloupes.

It was what I now know as a St. Andrews Cross. Her arms and legs were bound to the inverted V’s of the frame, forming an X. As I recall, though it may be a doctored memory over time, the X was more square than vertical, meaning her limbs were more extended. More to the point, her legs were stretched unusually wide open.

I don’t know if I was simply attracted to her physically, responding to her from my nascent bisexuality, or if my interest was more submissive, identifying with her in the bondage. Perhaps both. Our body types were similar, the difference being her short blonde hair versus my long red hair, yet we were close in age and height and shape. I, in those brief snapshot moments, could see myself perched in her strappy heels, bound to my own cross.

Each of her breasts were cinched at the base by rubber rings. These gaskets caused her tits to swell big and made them a shade of lavender. I remember specifically imagining my own breasts so bound, the specific feeling of which I had yet to experience, which I would later know to be pressure not pain.

Her nipples, too, were tumescent and extended, displaying what seemed to be her natural arousal, betraying the secret, forbidden pleasure she harbored. Or perhaps back then I was assuming such and imprinting myself, my own yet-private secret, upon her. I don’t remember if my own nipples were swelling in that moment — in those days, I was still firmly encased in a bra and other forms of structured repression.

Below, she bore a narrow stripe of pubic hair, almost as an arrow pointing down to her pussy, which was otherwise clean-shaven. Her thighs being stretched so wide caused her labia lips to flay open and hang down, engorged, slick with her wet.

She was ball-gagged with a white rubber ball. It served as contrast to her bright red lipsticked lips, which stretched almost freakishly around the orb, making her mouth into a plump, garish sex organ.

All of her flesh glistened in the neon lights. She had been oiled — shined and polished like a porcelain figurine of a slick pig, served on a platter with an apple stuffed in her mouth.

The woman could not move, could not speak, could not say no. But her eyes spoke volumes — sometimes glazed from her own pleasure-shame, other times closed as she fell back into her private submissive space.

I remember feeling that all the parts of her — squeezed breasts, screaming nipples, plump labia, and hyper-extended lips — were ready to explode.


I watched her for a couple of minutes, as I recall. A man was there, standing to the side, but nothing happened. Perhaps later she was whipped or fucked or both, I don’t know.

People on a cross tend to take on our own reality. Or portend the reality we are about to live. Her bound, immobilized body in that particular moment is seared into my memory. And in my desire.

In that moment, I wanted to be her.

2 thoughts on “a BDSM club memory

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s