Bound and Shagged: Degradation, Deprivation, and Humiliation

Editor’s note: This article was initially published in The Daily Gazette, Swarthmore’s online, daily newspaper founded in Fall 1996. As of Fall 2018, the DG has merged with The Phoenix. See the about page to read more about the DG.

Hello again! Sorry I’ve been quiet a while! I hope you all had a lovely break thanks to Frankenstorm, and a fantastic Halloween. I know I had a blast!

Now, onto even more fun things. We talked about sadomasochism. This week, I’m going to go a bit more into depth with the stuff that falls outside the realm of physical pain. So here it is: degradation, deprivation and humiliation, in a series of personal anecdotes.



I’d been to this club before, but it was still shocking. Before the first time, I’d thought places like this only existed in porn – clubs where barely-clothed submissives writhed against ropes and chains strung up on contraptions a medieval dungeon-master would have a hard time conceiving of; clubs where leather-clad Dominants took the opportunity to explore an unlimited supply of toys in a room that smelled of disinfectant. But they were real, and now I was one of those bodies, my arms hoisted above me and looped through a ring in the ceiling.

“Tell them about what a slut you are, pet.” I knew what he was doing: the words I liked, pet and kitten and little one, were endearing. They put me in my place, of course, but they weren’t negative and they still showed that I was special. The words like slut and tramp and whore – I hated those. They were debasing in the worst way. But sometimes, he liked making sure I knew that even a prized possession is still a possession. He owned me, and he liked making sure I knew it – and making sure everyone else knew it, too. I could tell that there were others watching us, listening.

“I’m a dirty slut,” I whispered. He’d want me to say it louder, of course, and eventually, I would. But for right now, the words couldn’t force themselves past the lump in my throat. “A whore.” There was my voice again, too loud in the quiet room. “A whore,” I said again.

And somewhere inside me, something broke.



“Wear the see through one, with nothing underneath.” I was picking an outfit to meet his parents in for the first time and had tried on everything in my closet. A sky blue dress I particularly liked and a yellow one had made it to the final round, but the yellow was see-through if I didn’t wear a slip underneath.

“I can’t wear it without a slip. Your parents shouldn’t be able to see my underwear.” I reached for the blue dress, making my decision, but it was taken from my fingers and draped back over its hanger.

“Then don’t wear any. I said to wear nothing underneath.” I looked at him as though he was insane. He couldn’t seriously be proposing that I wear nothing at all over a thin yellow sundress. I tried to talk some sense into him, but he wouldn’t budge. He reminded me that it was rude to question his orders. And so I slipped out of my pajamas, and tugged on a yellow sundress over nothing else at all.

All through lunch, I could tell people knew: the waiter and his not-so-covert glances at my chest; the way his mother’s eyes went wide as saucers as I introduced myself for the first time; his father’s attention to me as I walked away to use the restroom. And the whole time, he smiled. I had never been so ashamed in my life and, when we finally left the restaurant and were safely away from his parents, I nearly broke down and cried.

“You did good, kitten. I’m proud of you.” He took his jacket off and held it out to me, expecting me to take it. I smiled at him and shook my head, refusing the garment. He liked me this way, and I’d do anything for him. I straightened my posture, and walked proud.



It could’ve been an hour, or two, or eight. I’d been tied and blindfolded, arms and legs fastened to the posts of her bed. I’d had encounters with her her palm, a flogger, and a whip all interspersed between getting her off with my mouth. I’d had a vibrator strapped in place the whole time, but I wasn’t allowed to come.

If I got close, she’d be there teasing me, making me go right to the edge. But if I went over? There’d be hell to pay. I wasn’t allowed to come. She knew all my spots, and she was really enjoying watching me squirm as she expertly moved her hands over my skin. She enjoyed watching me squirm, generally.  Actually a lot of what she did was chosen particularly for its ability to make me wriggle against my bonds.

Her teeth sank hard into my shoulder and I squealed, the feeling unexpected. I tried to arch away from her teeth but her nails dug into my skin and pulled me against her, the fingers of her other hand moving around my throat.

“Come. Now.”
And I did.


Hope you enjoyed this week’s article! Next week, join me as a (vanilla!) confederate and I adventure deep into a sex toy shop and give you a sampling of what pain-play toys are out there!

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