Pain Series: Literal Strokes

WARNING: THIS ARTICLE MAY SET OFF A CHAIN REACTION OF SWOONING FEELINGS THAT MAY RESULT IN FLASHBACKS, TEARS, AND PTSD.

I can’t recall how many canes I threw over the fence of my childhood home. One could say that I was a bit stubborn growing up. So what had happened was for some weird reason, in Primary three, right after transferring schools, my performance in school took a turn for the worst. I struggled academically and what came as a result of that, were strokes of the cane.

On the plus side, all of the asswhooping improved my pain tolerance. My buttocks-clenching technique was impregnable. But I wasn’t a goat, obviously, and I soon grew tired of the consequences of being leather-headed and unserious. Did the cane strokes I endured have an impact on who I am now? That is another topic about which I, and I’m sure many other Nigerians, are traumatized. But hearing it’s a sexual predilection as a Nigerian can’t help but make you laugh (chuckle).

Countries like India, Pakistan, Iran, and most jurisdictions of Nigeria support the use of corporal punishment to ‘correct’ bad behaviour. Now, these practices have found their way into the genetic makeup of bedroom practices. Several continents around the world have welcomed this BDSM practice with open arms and as a result, dungeons and kink rooms have sprung in its wake. I don’t mean the Game of Thrones kind of dungeons. A BDSM dungeon, also known as a sex dungeon, is a room or space that is solely dedicated to BDSM play or BDSM scenes. Private dungeons, such as those found in people’s homes, are most commonly found in basements, but they can also be found in bedrooms, spare rooms, or even large walk-in closets. Because Nigeria is a huge importer of everything shiny and fancy, there may already be a few dungeons docked in various parts of the country.

If I can draw your attention quickly to the part where I chuckled lightly, you were correct to assume there was a story there –if you did. My journey today took me to a club in Victoria Island, Lagos. It was the first one I’d seen with a stripper pole, and I’m sorry, but I wasn’t interested.

Time passed, and the longer I spent in the club the more intrigued I got about the whole pole dancing experience. How were they treated? What does security mean in the community? But most importantly, I was looking for professionalism, sportsmanship, and voluptuous derrieres. I got you right? Moving on, the music is on full blast. The top songs in the country are getting rinsed and repeated. There’s a rave happening, waists are defying physics in its midst, and there is a petite belle in pink dancing wondrously. ‘What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?’ I could feel the musk of lascivious intent in the air. The amount of time spent on her lustful glares at me was overpriced and every time I stared back, we found ourselves in a staring contest.

I found my way to her and spent the better part of that night dancing to the tune of her waist embellishments like a snake charmer and a snake. We talked over the loud music like it wasn’t there. She was a bootstrapper and driven. She exuded confidence, and from the way she spoke, she was calculated. Going to clubs like this was a routine most nights, she fluttered in and out of famous nightclubs that rich Alayes frequent.

Debbie catered to certain unique and exotic kinks of dignitaries. Her telling me she was a dominatrix didn’t come to me as a surprise; I could tell she had control of everything around her –an important quality needed in her line of work. She told me stories about politicians and beer-bellied aristocrats who enjoyed being tied, gagged, and whipped because it gave them sexual satisfaction. I had no plans to look into it any further. I wasn’t interested in her talk of grown men voluntarily taking lashes for the sake of pleasure. We said our goodbyes, and I watched as she walked into a car.

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