SUN TZU MASTER OF WAR: SU-SIE MISTRESS OF MEN

January 12, 2011 by

A business client bought me a copy of Sun Tzu, Master of War,  a Confucian guide to battle tactics updated for today’s business berks. Fat, bald men in suits who like to see themselves as wild warriors. (The same Horsemen of the Apocalypse who usually want ‘a bare-bottomed spanking, please. And then I want to suck your nipples.’ ) I flick through this timeless text and find out that it’s not a good idea to attack uphill. Who knew?

Maybe I should write my own man-taming text. I am Su-Sie, Mistress of Men – as hard as taking sweets off children. And involves the same amount of whining and whingeing.  As some tiresome telly bitch recently said, mastering men is usually the same as training dogs. Why don’t I just try these techniques on My Man Max. Why am I pretending life is a Mills and Boon novel?
They’re men. All too aware that, these days, they’re on the losing side. I suppose I could stoop to that. But why can’t any relationship be an equal exchange? I’m a pro-Domme harlot. Surely I’m not being naive? Am I?

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Miss Makeover: The Other Woman is a Ferrari

January 10, 2011 by

My love has only one flaw. Fast cars. Making a dick  of himself with other plutocrats on a long dangerous road. It’s called the Gumboil rally or something equally silly. They race all day and party all night. It seems to attract posh tarts as well as rich boy racers.
It costs about thirty grand to enter, then you need a Ferrari and a string of five star hotels. They get by on very little sleep despite a great deal of champagne being consumed. It’s also possible some may resort to something stronger than pro-plus to make it to the finishing line. There’s no dope test to worry about. You’re a dope if you entered in the first place.  That’s what he’s doing right now. Risking his neck. Perhaps dipping his wick.
The other woman is a Ferrari.

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Miss Makeover:I dangled the tawse between her legs, rubbing it back and forth as she opened further for me.

January 7, 2011 by

I smacked her bottom harder, I used the tip of my middle finger right on her puckered little anus and shoved two of my fingers in her mouth. She sucked on them greedily, eager to show me she would now do anything. Her bottom was red hot to the touch.
“Had enough darling?”
“You call this pain? In Russia we birch each other.”
Bloody cheek! This is sometimes called bratting. Behaving as a bratt to provoke punishment. Some find it cute. I find it annoying but then a pretty bottom excuses a multitude of sins.
“Really?” I said. “I wonder if you have sampled a birch made out of rattan. Lasts much longer than the real thing. Even on an impudent rump such as yours.”
I showed her the birch, tied in a red bow. She was a little frightened now, but trying not to show it. I prefer the birch because canes are harder to control, however experienced you are. It’s quite easy to miss and give someone an extremely painful swipe just where they don’t need it…in the middle of their thigh, for instance. No erotic benefit and a sting like sulphuric acid. An exaggeration perhaps but it’s a sensation you won’t forget in a hurry. As it was, the birch caught her right on the sweet spot. With a few more whacks, just to keep her yelping for more, I picked her up and took her to my bed. It was high time she played with me, selfish little baggage.
We spent the next few hours making each other come, rubbing our faces in each other’s bodies, snuffling up our mingled earth and sea scents. Needless to say this sweet  ecstasy wasn’t enough for her. She needed coke and cigarettes more than anything else.  As the bedroom filled with smoke time and time again I decided that what she needed was a proper caning. I hate smoke!
“Time for you to bend over properly,” I told her. I didn’t have to fake the aggression or the cold hatred. She had been boring me with coke babble and a little ash tray breath in your face goes a very long way.
“Come on. Stand up, bend over and grasp your ankles. You need six stripes across your backside, young lady.”
Her eyes glazed over as she stepped into the world I was creating. She staggered to her feet, wobbled a little, wiped her nose yet again, snorted down some coke-drenched snot, glared defiantly and then bent over. I got up and picked out my thinnest rattan. This was going to sting.
“Grasp your ankles and hold the position.”
She managed it somehow. Now it was impossible to hold back. Her back was arched, her peach was ready and I could resist no longer.
I tried spacing out the strokes, for maximum pain, but the sound of her cries was just too exciting. All too soon I had given her five beauties. She was panting but I still hadn’t broken her.
I drew the cane back as far as possible and landed it with maximum force. She jumped up squealing, hopping around the room holding her bottom. She calmed down enough to kiss the cane and then we feasted on each other.
I will always remember that day, long after the stink of cigarettes evaporated. The frenzied love. The talk. The laughter. But the instant she ran out of Marlborough she vanished for good.
Maybe she found a rich Englishman. Maybe she annoyed the wrong person. She could have drunk herself to death or got into heroin.
I think of her often, My Russian Ruby. But it’s a relief she’s gone.
I’m old enough to know she would have been a disaster if she had hung around. With age comes wisdom. Or perhaps the fires of madness flicker a little softer.
I was a teenage Satanist. Now I’m twice as old as the little girl who courted darkness. Whenever possible, I seek the light. My skin’s still white, my hair is black, but in summer I wear light colours. I still like smacking bottoms of course, all the shades of red my hand can conjure. From the prettiest pink to the deepest vermilion. Suicide now looks like a cop out and as for Sylvia Plath? Thank God for Prozac…

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Miss Makeover: Having her pretty little bottom striped hard.

January 3, 2011 by

They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. So I would have tobe extra hard. Did I have it in me to be so vicious? We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Which reminded me she would have been a terrible hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them.  As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and  pleasure, the site of pride and shame.  It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped, “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible.  I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.
We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Which reminded me she would have been a terrible hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them.  As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and  pleasure, the site of pride and shame.  It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped, “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible.  I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.
We had a few quick drinks, the quickest I had ever had. Which reminded me she would have been a terrible hitwoman. You can’t trust chronic alcoholics. Especially not when they have a bad cold in mid-summer and a need to visit the bathroom every ten minutes. But you can still seduce them.  As soon as we were back at my place we kissed till our lips hurt. I dragged her over my knee. One of her hands found the floor while the other grasped my foot tightly. She started to kiss my ankles. I slowly eased her white lace panties down, I was sopping wet just from the sight of her firm, chubby rump.
“Lay still, my girl,” I told her. “You’re going to get the spanking of a life time.”
She had no more hope of laying still than a landed fish gasping for air. I smacked her hard as she wriggled and sighed. I caressed her, fingering her openings, patting her firm, fleshy cheeks. As the heat built up she moaned loudly but she wasn’t going to beg for mercy.
They don’t spare the rod in Russia. She was probably used to having her pretty little bottom striped hard. And she was drunk enough to take a lot of pain. After a while my hand was hurting too much.
Her bottom was red and glowing, yet still ripe for more punishment. Despite the pain she still managed to stick it out and up. Before continuing I took a moment to contemplate the seat of pain and  pleasure, the site of pride and shame.  It was the finest specimen I had ever had at my disposal. Much too good to rush.
“I keep this heart-shaped paddle for those I love,” I said, picking up my favourite implement. I watched her closely, looking to see
if the word love terrified her. It often does. Because who needs another needy stalker? After a certain age the fiction of a mystic other or perfect lover can no longer sustain us. Luckily our needs and desires remain as fierce as ever, perhaps even more so with the realisation that there is less time in which to indulge our desires.
“Who cares who you love?” she gasped, “Hit me!”
It was the right answer I suppose. Certainly the one to get her bottom smacked as quickly as possible.  I unleashed a quick flurry of spanks. Which gave her something to think about. And then I told myself off for losing control.
I usually ask a receiver to kiss the paddle before and after use. Sometimes I douse the surface with water because it makes an already tender bottom much more sensitive to the smacking leather impact. And because moist reddening cheeks look even more enticing. I asked her to kiss the paddle, already slightly warm from contact with her hot bottom. Then I laid it one side and picked my tawse up.
This’ll make you tingle, you hard-arsed bitch. I gave her three quick, hard whacks. She screamed and begged me to stop. Finally! I was getting somewhere. She reached a hand behind her to block my access but, like any mother since time immemorial I merely grabbed the hand and jammed it further up her back. I raised my left thigh to position her more temptingly. She rewarded my efforts by sprawling lewdly, showing me her shaven pout and releasing more of the scent that drives me wild: freshly spanked, horny young woman. I never tire of it.

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Miss Makeover

December 29, 2010 by

“Vapulation” – an obscure word for flogging – how it hurt memorising that one! “Rubious” was another one of Sylvia’s obscure words, one that would drive any Scrabble opponent into a red mist rage.  It took fewer smacks to learn that one, perhaps because ‘the colour of rubies’ was poetic enough to be memorable.
Now I’m on my fourth twenty-ninth birthday I still persevere with men. Heaven knows why, as they’re mostly useless.  But I much prefer spanking women.  And the most recent jewel in my crown was Svetlana, a Russian mafia princess. She came into my life when I was looking for someone to kill my ex-husband. Too much information? Well, it was only a passing phase. I’d rather have him alive these days. That way he’ll suffer much longer.
Geezer Hardnut, my boyfriend, when I can prise him away from the Playstation, finally arranged for me to meet Svetlana, after a mere six months or so of hypnotic suggestion. Or nagging, as he calls it.
Svetlana was my scarlet woman. You could use ‘rubious’ to describe her crimson lipstick and the broken veins in her bloodshot eyes. She kills people for money. So Geezer says. He might be a liar but he’s murdered more people than I have so I have to go with it. Particularly as I have spent at least a year wanting my ex husband dispensed with. I admit I may have lost a little perspective when they took my child away from me.  Relax, I would never have gone through with it. Some film noir heroine I would have made.
Scarlet was the colour of her pert little bum once I had finished paddling it. Svetlana was thin, chic, adorably scatty and most probably insane. Her skin was as white as the paper I write on, her bruises as black as my ink. Like my teenage self Svetlana wore only black and red. Black boots, red leather micro-skirt. Her conversation also had one theme: what she wanted next.  Apart from her blonde hair this was going to be like spanking my teenage self.
“You talk too much! Beat me! I want to be flogged. Flogged hard!”
Typical Svetlana. She can’t even be bothered to wait for a proper introduction. I can hear her husky voice, too loud from vodka and smoky from too many cigarettes. “Linear narrative? Is for pussies! Pull my knickers down and smack my bottom!. Hard!”
Well. If you insist.

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SVETLANA, RUSSIAN ASSASSIN, RUBIOUS GEM

December 22, 2010 by

I was a teenage Satanist. In other words, I was a Goth embarrassment, a pale, thin brunette in black. Red was my second favourite colour, particular the shade of soundly smacked bottoms. Cane lines crayoned on white flesh. Red passion flowers. Or perhaps it was the canvas on which they were etched. Artists need a flat easel but those who work on flesh prefer curves. This sort of work should be done as slowly as possible, preferably on chubby buttocks, the sort one must fondle before, during and after a punishment. Just to  ascertain whether the skin can take any more reddening, of course. One wouldn’t want to besmirch the noble art of chastisement with sexuality. At least not until the receiver has been allowed to rub their bottom, perhaps while pouting defiantly, and after they have spread themselves in whatever position in which they like to receive oral sex. Or something a little more invasive…

My teenage hobbies were mooching around and deciding how suicidal I was. Usually while reading Sylvia Plath. I would wonder who would miss me after I was gone.  How much I could hurt them. How they would rue the day they upset me, the centre of the known universe.
Perhaps I just needed someone to thrash some sense into me, fortunately I met a wise older woman. Her name was also Sylvia, although, unlike Plath, there was nothing remotely masochist about her. She taught me the benefits of a sound scourging on a moonlit night. Black clothes, red wine, white moon, red bums, shared sighs. We were the cruel sisters, taking it in turns to whip each other into a frenzy. I was fond of my teacher. She whipped me well. She showed me how to make money from my passion, helping me to become a pro-Domme. She even taught me new words to describe a beating, sometimes over her knee, with one spank for each letter.
“Vapulation” – an obscure word for flogging – how it hurt memorising that one! “Rubious” was another one of Sylvia’s obscure words, one that would drive any Scrabble opponent into a red mist rage.  It took fewer smacks to learn that one, perhaps because ‘the colour of rubies’ was poetic enough to be memorable. Just like the way she sucked and fucked me afterwards, till I gasped and squirmed in her arms.

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Miss Makeover’s Xmyth from Hell. My Ex-Husband

December 21, 2010 by

I saw my son. We exchanged presents and hugs, at the fortified compound run by the fat hag and my ex-husband. My son is not allowed to come to my house since I was caught with ketamine at his birthday party. Now before you start siding with him, small amounts of K can act as a sort of sparkly trippy speed and I was exhausted.  Ketamine provides exactly the sort of fairy tale glitter required for a children’s fancy dress party, especially one featuring demanding little princesses. And rampaging  and rampaging little hooligans. It was in fact the only way to get through a very lively afternoon after a sleepless night. Go on then, judge me harshly. I’m sure any mothers reading this haven’t got stuck well into their prescribed painkillers from time to time or taken a quick swig of Chardonnay. My own mother put little nips of gin into my bottle to stop me crying and allow herself some sleep. But that was then. When the parents were in charge. Now the little loonies run the asylum – kids and Guardian-reading pansies like my ex-husband.
How come you fell in love with him? You may ask. Well, he was once a funny guy who had the same problems with his parents as I did. We liked some of the same music and films. He used to wear black silk shirts, faded jeans, lizard skin loafers and discreet red cuff links, this while his OK Yah! mates were wearing rugby shirts. They’d gather to bray at each other in Gastro Pubs, in the same Thomas Pink shirts they wore for business, just leaving the ties off for evenings and weekends.  Now, since the tyranny of the trollop, he looks like a new age traveler, shapeless pullover damp with soya milk, beard flecked with muesli.
Having inherited enough money to become a tireless (and tiresome) eco-warrior, he’s recently grown a beard, shaking his fist in the face of taste, aesthetics, civilization itself.  I bet flecks of muesli stick in it. And it will taste of soya milk. How many time do I hate thee. Let me count the ways. His ferocious nose blowing – random trumpetings that would always catch me off-guard. These dry spluttering eruptions sounded like a knackered car trying to start. And you could never tell when, or if, they would ever stop.
What does it matter? We grew apart. Most people would say he grew up and I went feral. But you know what? Fuck them. They’re just jealous. I do what I want and I don’t have to get up before noon. Enjoy the school run, you prissy prudes, gridlocked up in your four by fours. I’ll carry on striping the backsides of my needy, timewasting ‘slaves’. Caning them from cold till they bleed. Slaves, you’d get more deference from the average snooty fashion shop assistant. It’s always about them. Well, two words for you lot, Fem-Dom. It’s not called Slave-Dom, is it? Just try to remember that the next time you open your mouths to inform me of your needs. To adapt Marcus Aurelius, Don’t get aggravated by Mother Nature. The Goddess doesn’t care. Now be off with you.

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Miss Makeover. Massage with My Man Max

December 8, 2010 by

He pours lavender and calendula oil into my hot, foaming bath, a deep golden blend enriched with soy and avocado. His manly musk mixes in with the fragrance of well-scrubbed Miss Makeover – on heat but trying my best to look aloof. He rubs my shoulders with his strong hands, nuzzles the nape of my neck, whispers some lewdly poetic praise into my ear.
“Down, boy!” I tell him, although he’s making me purr.
“I missed your scent,” he says. “Your soulful eyes, your smile.”
After that it gets too spicy for print. Besides, it’s intimate, just for him and me. My, it’s hot in here. Steamy, too. He must be wilting in his tux, although his starched wing collar remains stiff. Limpness is not an issue with My Man Max. He’s hard when he wants to be and soft when I need cuddling. When it comes to a good cosseting he’ll cherish you till you’re red in the face, sighing for mercy.
He’s an Alpha Male, yet emotionally literate. Such a combination is not easy to find but you can create one. Although, the Goddess knows, you’ll need patience. And a firm hand.
I get the faintest rasp of beard growth as he whispers some sweet and salty sex talk. My Man Max makes the average razor ad Adonis look like an alcoholic rough sleeper but they have yet to invent a razor that can tame his testosterone-crazed stubble. Still, if you want a real man you have to take the rough with the smooth. His blue eyes sparkle as he leans in for more wicked whispering.
“Stop it!” I tell him. Even if I wasn’t giggling he would know I mean ‘Carry on! And crank it up, big boy.’
He’s just back from a City of London function, hence the Tux. Something painfully boring yet massively lucrative has just happened to his firm of arbitrageurs. Sorry, nearly nodded off just typing ‘arbitrageurs’. I’d sooner listen to a weepy drunkathon from my idiot mother than attempt to explain what he does. My Man Max plays with pretend money, which turns into large amounts of real cash, some of which he spends on me (although far too much of it goes on sports cars.) Rich, rugged, racy; he’s still under thirty and yet he is not an arrogant bastard. How often do you get that combination? I could call him a toyboy, as I am on my fourth twenty-ninth birthday. However, I look up to him in more than just height.
He’s very smart, without being condescending, masterful, without being overbearing, macho, without being brutish and sensitive without being a big girl’s blouse. He’s a bigger-brained Pierce Brosnan, tough as early Sean Connery, suave as Roger Moore, smart as Timothy Dalton – all without the wearisome codswallop that comes with real thespians. Maybe he’s Bond without the balderdash. Men like him and women lurve him. Some would find his good looks boring, perhaps even gay. Until you notice the intriguing scar down the side of one cheek. He changes the explanation for its existence as often as he upgrades his computers so I’m assuming he has a dark secret. And, by the twinkle in his eye, the other guy probably ended up worse.
My Man Max puts a manicured hand into the bath and swirls the water around, wafting up aromatic bath oil over us both. He strokes my belly in slow insistent circles. Drifting downwards, sailing slowly into port. It doesn’t take long before my eyes are closed and he gives me a brief taste of what is to come. So handsome. And hands on. Just where you need them. His busy fingers stroke and soothe, rubbing me softly. After a brief sojourn somewhere private he withdraws his hand and dries it carefully. No Mess Max, the only house-trained male I ever knew.
“I’ve fluffed the duvet, mixed your Pink Lady, prepared a Cole Porter playlist.”
Could he be after something? Well, he may very well be in luck. I can’t give in that easily though. It’s the rules. Men should be wrong-footed as often as possible. Which I’m usually happy to do. And then My Man Max opens his mouth and names three romantic classics in that deep, wicked, manly rasp that always turns me all gooey.
“‘You’d be so nice to come home to’. ‘Easy to love’. ‘I get a kick out of you’.”
Three of my favourites. I was a cocktail pianist once upon a time. Then I was Andrew Lloyd Webber’s West End bitch for a while, churning out his synthesized pigswill till drug addiction and various personality disorders terminated any further chance of employment. Pigface often made secret visits to check up on his little darlings and my slapdash keyboard work (a little the worse for lunchtime cocktails) reduced him to tears, the big girl’s blouse. Well, if I achieve nothing else in this life I can still retire happily. I made Andrew Lloyd Webber cry! Which he probably does every time he looks in a mirror come to think of it.
Cole Porter was a genius, as opposed to a fortunate gargoyle. With risible hair. My Man Max once flew me first class to watch a Porter show on Broadway. He’s so considerate. For the moment I stay calm, raising an eyebrow, checking in the many mirrors to see if I look inquiring as opposed to imperious. Max understands my moods. I don’t need to shout. The Pink Lady turns out to have enough lemon to be tangy but not enough to make you blanch.
“I forgot the cherry,” he says, “Sorry.”
“Stuff the cherry,”
“Very well, Ma’am.”
A mock bow, a hint of a smile. I toast his very good health. If only he wasn’t away so often. If only he wasn’t married to fast cars. You think he pampers me? It’s nothing to what those bitches get. He might massage me but they get their bodies rubbed and oiled and buffed and…I’d rather not know what else he does to them.
He leaves on some unspecified errand. I subside back into the water and let it wash away the memory of idiotic clients and the hard ache of missing my son, which is never too far away even during a severe pampering. I picture My Man Max and me on our wedding day. St Paul’s Cathedral or Brixton registry office? And should I have my mother sectioned before the ceremony?
I recall our last lovemaking, the strangled sound of his release, the sigh of his gratitude. For once he wasn’t in control and that’s my fierce pleasure. Unmanning him for a brief moment. He walks past the open door, naked, his tight, taut bum crying out to be nibbled. To be teased and tweaked.
That does it. I was never too good at delayed gratification. I want him. I want him now. I step out, towel off quickly and walk towards my cherishing.
Fill me up. Up to the brim.

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MISS MAKEOVER JUDICIAL CANING. ENDORPHIN EXTREMISM

December 5, 2010 by

Realistic prison floggings. Savage lashes from a long, thick rod. Just when you think human beings haven’t plumbed the depths of idiocy they find something even more dumb to spend their time and money on. I like caning people as much as anyone else on earth. I’d do it even if I didn’t get paid for it. But why risk scarring for life, not to forget extreme pain, without having first committed some enjoyable crime? Maybe it’s an extreme endorphin high, something like bungee jumping. Reading about these grim ceremonies in places like Singapore I imagined the recipient shrieking in agony. Oddly enough the Thai government has put some real judicial caning on You Tube. Men in manky underclothes are called into a jail yard then strapped into some grisly apparatus leaving their buttocks bare. Despite the extreme impact, the tearing of flash to reveal the muscles beneath, prisoner after prisoner makes no sound. Likeliest is that they have all taken opium or heroin before the beating. Maybe, like English Public School boys once did, they train themselves to cope. Whatever, I think I’ll be giving Thailand a miss this year. Don’t want to end up trussed to a trestle. Waiting for some bull dyke to lash the skin clean off my bum.
Today’s client is an unpleasant, over confident, over-fit, builder. Yes, a builder. Those swindling, leering, simian oafs. They’re not even any good at building. Even if the client is happy (rare) the neighbours are in agony for months on end. If he didn’t actually crave this I’d love to give him a good, hard thrashing, just to put him in his place. I’d love to make him wait between each stroke, hold out as long as possible until he has tasted every single reverberation of pain, and until he dreads with entire being the next full armed lash. But that’s not going to work because he’s gagging for it.
I strap a ball gag on, get him over the bench and put some tribal drumming drumming on the sound system. It will ease his pain, intensify the trance. I intone some laughable nonsense about his crimes in a very serious voice. He can’t wait for me to start. Inspiration descends. He doesn’t want to be devalued. He wants to be superhard. So I’ll go the other way. I glove up, walk over and contemptuously slap his firm, shaven bottom. I lean down next to his ear.
“Think you’re tough, soldier? You’re going to be crying like a little baby soon. And there won’t be any mummy to help you. Just me. And the cane. Till you’re crying your eyes out.”
I slap him softly on his sweet spot, low down, in the middle, where it will trigger anal pleasure. I keep on even though he’s tapping the floor with his right foot, a clear signal to stop. If I keep on long enough maybe it will make him a little bum boy eventually. Instead of this swaggering geezer I so detest. I put the tip of my gloved finger right on the middle of his cleft. It’s practically mainstream this stuff. But maybe he’s a little conflicted. I gently prise his cheeks apart, then let them fall together. He’s squirming, shaking his head. This isn’t the fantasy he’s paying me for me. I am being a very bad Dominatrix. But I don’t want him to get quite the thrill he’s seeking.
My fingertip’s inside him again.
“This is what faggots get. Butt-fucking, cock-sucking faggots.” He’s hurting his toes he’s giving me signal red so hard. He’s shaking his head wildly. He can’t get off the flogging bench, as we had agreed he would need to be firmly secured.  He’s trying to talk through his gag. Seeing how much good two rubber gloved fingers have done and insert another, nearly up to the knuckle now.
I’m whispering in his ear again. Matching the words to the beat of the drums. “You hate it. You love it. You hate it. You Love It.”
He’s never loved anything less. But maybe that’ll change when  he’s using this session to come tonight.
Perhaps I’ll be in danger afterwards. I’ve got my mace handy but even so I’d better cane some sense into him. I walk back gat the thickest two metre long Dragon cane and tap him to take aim. One full armed blow and his head snaps back. His eyes close. I can hear a strangled gasp and his breath quicken and deepen. The initial white line goes deep red, the first crimson welt. There’s fear now, perhaps he realises this isn’t just a gig for me. I’m getting off on taming him.
Real judicial would have been silent, in a cold room in clear hard light. Or dragged out to be flogged in the tropical sun.  Still, I’m a lot better looking than a nasty little man in a peaked cap and pressed shorts. I hope that will that console him. Sixty strokes. It’s going to be a long twenty minutes…

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Miss Makeover. A Handsome Client

November 24, 2010 by

Why would a handsome young man pay for sex? Because his wife or girlfriend won’t be dirty. Far too many people are squeamish about sex games. Oh well, more money for us sex workers. More pairs of shoes for me.
Shall I do the obligatory shoe paragraph? Then it’ll be over for good.
I’ve been dying to for ages. Martini Osvaldo, Gianna Meliani, Pollini, Zocoli: even the names of these high heels are pure poetry. To glide around exclusively on these superb creations would be heaven but you must cherish these shoes. They’re almost too good to wear. I would certainly never let a client touch them, although they do ask. Even men – those swinish slobs who are blind to the aesthetic imperative of anything except breasts and bottoms – even the porcine ones can gaze upon the highest of heels and know rapture.
Sorry, but someone mentioned shoes and I went off into a little dream. I have an ideal client! Which might as well be a dream as most of them are flawed. Jerry, my ideal, is clean, courteous and punctual. I couldn’t possibly fall for him but then I don’t want to. I’ve already got enough unrequited love for a lifetime. I won’t need any more. Jerry is a builder (Lady Bracknell. “A builder?”  Well he’s young, smart, fit and handsome. And deliciously rough.)
He had claimed to be big and burly and so he was. Burly as the proverbial brick outhouse and just as solidly built. There was a spare tyre which he had constructed from fry-ups and lager but that’s real men for you. It’s rare to find a six pack on straight men, although they’re standard issue on Muscle Marys. He’s a charming client, wanting nothing more than a spank and a wank, perhaps a thicker strap-on than last time. Most up themselves Dignity Dommes would consider this beneath them, having started to believe their own publicity. They prove only that absolute power corrupts and are best avoided.
My client’s submissive endearments sound genuine yet he’s not clingy. Being happily married (they’ve only just started) he just wants this obsession out of his system before going back to argue over custody of the remote control. I haven’t the heart to tell him that it’s just going to get more intense.
“I’ve going to IKEA later,” he said, without the whipped dog demeanour most men would adopt.
“Your wife taking you?” I asked, a little impishly. I do like a tease.
“Nah! You don’t want women along, do you? Everything you see they’re saying ‘That’s nice. Let’s get that. That’s nice.’ You’d never get out of there.”
Well. Really! I should tell him off. Maybe I should just thank him for him for his refreshing candour.  The condescending,  patronizing bastard. However, his smile could unfreeze Germaine Greer. He’s a handsome bastard. I spank him much harder than usual though, ignoring his outraged cries and gasps, as he has transgressed the unwritten code, thou shalt never criticize another of the sisterhood.  When he starts to struggle, even, heresy!, trying to worm out from where I have trapped him between my thighs, I scold him long and hard, threaten him with a ban, and then tan him till his pert little bottom cheeks are dark crimson. It doesn’t take long to bring him off after that, just three rubber gloved fingers penetrating him and some angry whispers in his ear.

“I’m so disappointed in you. Take your punishment like a man. Not a sniveling little boy.” A final virtuoso accelerando and he’s come therefore  desperate to leave. Which is of course what he’s paid for. Anonymity and the right to leave immediately.

“Don’t write about me,” he says, bounding towards the stairs and  domestic bondage. Soon he will be in IKEA. Furnishing his prison cell. Keeping the head warder happy.
“Of course not!” I call after him.
As if I would…

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