Behind the Camera, My Mistress Never Faked the Hits

Vera had been in the industry for five years and had built a name for herself as one of the most sought-after dominatrices in the catalog. Not because of scandal, but because of method: she never improvised a blow she hadn’t measured out beforehand, never let loose an insult that wasn’t written on the face of the person receiving it. That morning she was scheduled to shoot with Aldo, a middle-aged, broad-shouldered, shaved-headed man who paid his bills by letting himself be mistreated in front of a camera.

Aldo’s specialty was a single one, and everyone who bought those videos knew it well: offering his crotch as a target. His cock was small, almost an excuse, a little scrap of flesh that barely peeked out between his legs, and that was how he made his living. He accepted mockery the way others accept a compliment. The only thing he never showed was his face; for that there was the black leather mask he fastened on just before every take, like someone putting on a work uniform.

—Ready, Vera? —Renata asked from behind the camera, not lifting her eyes from the viewfinder.

—Ready —she answered, turning toward the submissive—. And you, Aldo? Shall we begin?

He nodded in silence. He adjusted the mask with two fingers, checked that the straps weren’t too tight, and in that instant he stopped being the man who had been checking his email that very same morning. He became something else.

***

The studio had bought a remote stretch of land precisely so they could shoot outdoors without witnesses. A strip of coast, a dirt path, an empty park. That freedom was gold: they could walk their talent down the street like an animal and no one would interrupt the shoot. That morning they chose the dirt road that ran along some pine trees.

Aldo came into frame naked, with a wide collar cinched around his neck and a chastity cage locked over his crotch, flattening his ridiculous cock against his balls. Vera held the leash in one hand and brushed her hair back with the other. She wore a short sheer dress, chosen so the camera would catch it without ever making him the center of the image. The center was her.

—Mistress, I want to go home —he recited, crawling on his knees through the dirt.

—Silence, dog —Vera snapped, giving the leash a hard jerk that twisted his neck.

She walked him for a long stretch. She tied him to a post for a few minutes and walked away as if she’d forgotten him, letting the camera capture the image of the man chained in the open air. Then she untied him and they kept going. Renata silently calculated how many usable minutes of footage they had gathered; these filler shots were what gave the final video its length.

When they had been going for close to ten minutes, Vera led him to a wooden bench and sat down. Aldo knelt in front of her, facing away, offering up his backside.

—More —he asked through clenched teeth, loyal to the script—. Harder, Mistress.

She obeyed her own character. Every lash landed on skin with a clean crack, and he growled, half performance, half truth. Vera knew the difference between the two sounds and knew when one turned into the other. In the middle of the set, without warning, she brought her foot to the exact spot and struck. The toe of her shoe sank in right between his legs, against the cage, and the metal transmitted the impact straight into his crushed balls. Aldo folded in on himself, the air bursting out of him.

—You should be grateful for it, dog —she said, setting the sole of her foot on his back, holding him down against the ground.

—Thank you… thank you, Mistress —he panted—. I love getting your kicks.

—Of course you do, pig —Vera murmured, and kicked him again, this time from below, a sharp blow with the instep that jolted his balls up inside the cage—. With that tiny little cock you’ve got, what else are you going to do in life besides serve me as a punching bag?

—Nothing, Mistress, nothing —he panted, his eyes wet behind the leather.

The humiliation and the blows continued along the path. Vera especially liked those empty roads, that feeling of absolute power with no one else around. When she considered the shot complete, she looked at Renata and gave the agreed signal. The camera stopped rolling.

***

Break time was part of the job. Aldo sat on the bench, caught his breath, and Renata handed him a bottle of water. For a moment the three of them stopped being dominatrix, submissive, and camera operator, and went back to being three people sharing a workday under the sun.

—I’ve gone hard —Aldo commented naturally, showing what the cage no longer contained.

—You call that hard? —Vera laughed, and Renata joined in, looking at the swollen little dick, barely longer than a man’s thumb—. Aldo, please, I could cover that with two fingers.

—And suck it in a second —Renata added without stopping laughing—. Not even time to taste it.

He nodded without taking offense. They were right, and it was part of both the character and the person at once. Vera handed him a bag of ice.

—Get it down; we have to put the cage back on you —she said—. The cold works miracles.

The ice did its job. Within a few minutes the erection had gone down enough to fit the device back on, pressing the wrinkled skin of the glans against the metal. It was pure logistics, the kind of detail the audience would never see and yet one that held the whole illusion together.

***

They resumed filming at another point along the path. This time Aldo got down on all fours and Vera took position behind him. The camera first sought out his masked face and then dropped to frame the movement. She worked with a watchmaker’s precision: no more and no less than necessary so the scene would feel believable without tipping into an accident.

—Hold the position —she told him quietly, out of character.

—I’m holding it —he answered, also in a low voice.

He slipped back into character and kicked him between the legs from behind, making the cage clang against his balls. Aldo howled, forehead pressed into the dirt and ass raised exactly as the script demanded. She set her heel on his exposed hole, pressing only lightly, teasing the idea without actually going in.

—Look at you, dog, with your little ass open and waiting —she hissed—. And that ridiculous thing locked up there, unable even to get hard when your mistress needs it.

—Forgive me, Mistress —he moaned into the dirt.

They stayed like that for a good while, alternating measured blows with pauses Renata used to change angles. Then came the next break. What made Aldo so profitable was not his anatomy, but his ability to endure humiliation without breaking, to deliver exactly the reaction the script called for at the exact right second.

—You’re the best at this and you know it —Vera told him as she drank water—. Half the guys who come here can’t even handle the first take.

—I’ve been doing this a while —he simply replied with a shrug.

***

The final sequence of the day was the most theatrical. They had set up a scene that imitated a veterinarian’s office: a metal examination table, cold lights, prop instruments. A third woman, Sabrina, came into frame wearing a white coat and a surgical mask that covered half her face, the same precaution he took with his own mask. Renata held the camera. Vera directed.

Aldo, lying on the table, pretended to struggle against the straps. His role was that of someone trying to escape something inevitable. They had taken off the cage for the shot, and his tiny cock was left exposed, shrunken and pathetic between his spread thighs.

—I’m sorry —Vera said, approaching with studied calm—, but you’ve behaved far too badly. We’re going to do to you what we do to dogs who can’t control themselves.

—It won’t hurt —Sabrina added, without conviction, because the script demanded the exact opposite.

—No —Vera corrected, her voice dropping a tone—. I want him to feel it.

Before the final cut, Sabrina leaned over him and took his little cock between her index finger and thumb with a nurse’s contempt, then shoved the whole thing into her mouth. She sucked it three, four times, a dry motion of hollowed cheeks, and pulled it back out slick with saliva. Aldo growled inside the mask, hips pushing into the air.

—Last time your cock gets hard, puppy —Sabrina murmured, spitting on the glans—. Enjoy it.

Vera came in from the other side and squeezed his balls with her palm, measuring the force for the shot, crushing them against his shaved pubis.

—Look at how that little piece of shit swells up —she mocked, giving a small upward yank that tore another moan from him—. Five centimeters of nothing, and he’s still leaking pre-cum. What a disgusting little thing you are, Aldo.

—Mistress, please —he panted, and a transparent drop ran down the frenum.

Sabrina ran her tongue over the glans once, very slowly, collecting that drop, then pulled away. She handed the little cock back to Vera with two fingers, as though passing an instrument.

She took a prop tool from the equipment, designed to look convincing to the lens without actually hurting him. She brought it close to the submissive’s crotch, leaned in, and left a brief kiss on his mask.

—You’ll serve me better this way —she whispered, loud enough for the microphone—. You’ll be a perfect dog.

The camera caught the two women and the tool in position first, then moved up to Aldo’s black leather face. Vera marked the count.

—One… two… and… three!

At that instant Renata played a dry sound effect from her phone, a recorded crack. Aldo let out a howl and began to writhe in a perfectly acted convulsion while the lens closed in on Vera’s satisfied face, tool held aloft. Ten seconds of theatrical agony, not one more. Then, cut.

***

Aldo sat up slowly and removed his mask. His face was soaked and his hair was plastered to his forehead, and his cock was still half-erect, wet with Sabrina’s saliva.

—Good take —Vera told him, handing him the water—. That convulsion was textbook.

—I almost believed it myself —he joked.

The three of them sat around the provisional editing screen and reviewed the raw footage, commenting on the scenes between laughs. There, seeing it from the outside, it was impossible not to notice the distance between the pain the video promised and the meticulous craft that had produced it.

—I really felt that kick from the bench —Aldo admitted, taking a hand to his crotch.

—I did overdo it a little —Vera admitted, without sounding too sorry—. Well, actually, no.

—You’re something else —he laughed.

—Do we shoot again soon? —she asked—. With this video we’re going to recoup the week’s investment.

—We shoot again —Aldo said—, but on one condition.

—What condition?

—I want to shoot on the coast. And I want the two actresses I worked with last winter there.

Vera took a sip and nodded. No problem; quite the opposite, those names sold themselves.

Renata filled three glasses and handed them out.

—To the next one —she said, raising hers.

—To the next one —Vera and Aldo replied at the same time, and they toasted amid laughter, already thinking about the numbers that shoot would bring in.

***

That night, in the shower, Aldo let the hot water loosen his overworked muscles. He took his cock between two fingers —that was all there was to grasp— and started to masturbate in short, almost wrist-like strokes, the only technique that worked for him at that size. He checked that everything was responding normally; there were stretches when an intense session left him sore for days, unable to react. His balls felt heavy, swollen from holding out all day inside the cage, and he felt them tighten quickly, loaded with delayed semen.

He thought of Vera pressing her heel into his ass, of Sabrina sucking his little cock with that disgusted face, of saliva dripping over his balls, of the two women laughing at his size. A groan escaped him against the tiles and the load came out with a force he hadn’t felt in a long time: three, four, five thick spurts that slapped against the shower wall before sliding down the drain. His cock kept throbbing, spitting thin threads, milking itself dry. He finished with his body trembling and a stupid smile beneath the steam.

From the next day on he decided to wait. No touching himself until the date of the next shoot. He wanted to arrive loaded, tight, his balls ready to burst, so the performance would be perfect and the surrender total. His life as a professional submissive paid his bills and, in passing, gave him a pleasure few would understand: turning pain into work and work into desire, take after take, always with the mask on.