A while ago, it seems like ages, I agreed with Mistress Elita that at some point between then and my June holiday her man, a serious BDSM practitioner, would appear unannounced in one of our sessions. I described the motivation for this unusual agreement here. It seemed likely that the session we had pencilled in for May at Blue Door Dungeon would be the one, but it wasn’t certain and definitely wasn’t certain enough for me to relax.
Which, for a fear junky, was rather the point.
When a sex worker finds herself with unexpected time available, perhaps through a cancellation, she might tweet about it so that clients can contact her for a short notice session. This is how I came to be in a coffee shop last Friday, watching the time inch slowly towards our meeting, delighted by the prospect of an hour of unplanned kink before my poker game.
Obviously this wasn’t going to be THE session because it was at such short notice.
Obviously this wasn’t going to be THE session because she had tweeted earlier about how horny she was becoming while HE was away.
And when I had asked to delay for an hour and she had said: “Yes; Sure, but can it be at the dungeon because I have to be there later?” that all made perfect sense.
When a twitter friend, who had read the ‘monsters’ post, asked if I was worried this was going to be THE session, how else should I reply?:
When I phoned Elita from nearby she answered in her usual out-of-session, cheery, up-beat voice:
“Come on up! I’m ready.”
I crossed the road enthusiastically; both excited and turned on; looking forward to seeing her; looking forward to the things we were going to do together.
The door into the darkened room was open, so I walked in, pushed it shut behind me and turned round. I turned round slowly, anticipating the vision of Elita in her goddess lingerie, a sight that always takes my breath away.
It wasn’t her waiting behind me but him. Her man. The man who, last time we met, had beaten me past all my limits and left me curled up in a small corner of myself, shaking like a sick dog. My reaction was immediate and physical; I felt panicky and my breathing became fast and shallow as my ‘fight or flight’ response took control of my body. Unfortunately, neither was an option so the adrenaline ran unused in my veins.
But where was Elita? Oh God! Surely she hadn’t left me alone with him!
Looking past him, into the dungeon itself, I saw two sights that told me all I needed to know about how the next hour was going to be:
I saw Elita in a steel bondage cage looking nervous. It was clear that this was no “double dom” session but that she was to be at my end of the cane. (She was also looking absolutely glorious – lustrous black hair, beautiful matched lingerie. I think she’s been working out, she looked so sleek)
I saw around a dozen implements laid out in a long line; not the kind of “intro to 50 shades” sex toys you can buy at Coco de Mer or Ann Summers. These were BDSM weapons. Even lying inert on the floor, they were full of threat. I saw a cane, short but thick and heavy; a wooden paddle you could use to drive a canoe cross a lake, a long single-tail whip, a belt that would be more appropriate on a Victorian steam engine than around the waist. And there was a tawse, a full-on Scottish disciplinary tawse. I’ve never been hit with a tawse.
I looked from Elita to the long line of implements and back again. Her gaze into my eyes communicated so much: it was full of fear; it was full of excitement; it was full of challenge. I suspect my return expression held only the first of those.
As for what happened next: Well, when I’ve got my head around it I might come back and write a bit more.
The implements:
