Personal BDSM narrative describing 'predicament bondage' and flogging experiences

So yeah, "bondage" -- rope, cages, etc. -- is not so much my thing. But there's one phrase I absolutely love: "predicament bondage." Predicament bondage is usually presented in a very elaborate way: for example, a submissive might be tied up with ropes binding him such that his arms are in pain -- but if he moves his arms then his legs will be in pain. It's a predicament! And it's bondage! Whee! Predicament bondage! However, it doesn't have to be elaborate to be predicament bondage. I'm not into rope obstacle courses, but I started loving the phrase "predicament bondage" after a friend went to a workshop run by Fetish Diva Midori and reported back. He said: Midori had two pitchers of water, or maybe a pitcher and a glass. She told us, "This is the simplest form of predicament bondage," and she had the demo submissive hold his hands straight out at shoulder height. Then she placed the water in his hands. The submissive had to keep holding the water; if he failed, he knew he would be failing Midori. But there was never any threat of "Midori's wrath" if he failed her. In fact, she spoke as if she was on his side, part of his team. In many ways, her sympathy for his plight made it all the more cruel, because she was the one doing it to him. She explained this. She knew that his sense of disappointment in "failing” her was worse than anything she could actually do to him. So, the predicament in that case was the submissive's increasing arm agony vs. his fear of failing Midori. For me, that concept is infinitely hotter than a rope obstacle course. Although for me, in practice, I'd also want the pain to be a bit more... um... personal. te Ok ok The first time someone flogged me, I had no idea what he was going to do beforehand; he and I had the strongest dominant/submissive dynamic I've ever felt, and I put myself in his hands with almost-total trust. A night came around when I felt that itch under my skin, the dark burn in the back of my mind... I knew I had to go see him. I wasn't hugely experienced, but I knew exactly what that slow burn meant. It was late. He was in bed, and I lay down next to him. "I think..." I said slowly, "I want you to hurt me. A lot." I felt him tense beside me. "Why?" he asked. I didn't look at him. "Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer?” "Sometimes I just want to hear you say it," he said, and stood up. "Take off your clothes and get on your knees.” I caught my breath; did as he said. When I felt the ends of the flogger trail lightly down my back, I wasn't even sure what the soft sensation meant, but I was already trembling anyway. I am surprised by my memory of how much it hurt when he hit me. These days, I don't think of floggers as especially painful, but then again, I seem to recall that he left more marks than I'm used to. (I loved taking off my shirt and examining the bruises in the mirror. I glowed for days, afterwards.) So maybe there was something particular about what he did, or about his materials. Or maybe it's just that it was my first time. HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_018635