Catherine took her seat in Patisserie Valerie on the corner of St James Street and Piccadilly and ordered an orange juice, exactly as she had been instructed. When the client, one she knew well, had suggested a shopping trip she had been thrilled but the instruction to take a table on her own and wait had seemed strange, unusual.
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If the input to a session had included the statements below, sent over several months, it would be unwise to expect only a mild spanking:
- “I’m wondering what it would be like to have been whipped, properly whipped”
- “Progressive CP, caning, flogging, whipping. I’m up for all of it”
- “Marks? I’m good with marks; In fact, I want marks”
“You grabbed the knot on the back of my harness, tightening it and making me feel like you were gripping my whole chest at once with one extended long-fingered hand, forcing my weight down hard onto the vibrator until I nearly screamed, dominating me.”
I’m not a huge watcher of porn but, unsurprisingly, what draws me in when I do is, for the most part, kinky. I remember looking at spanking magazines such as Janus back in the 80’s, usually too unsure of myself to actually buy them; instead admiring the post-spanking blush on the female bottoms that invariably adorned the front cover.
The first part of this story left Miss S and I in a fuzzy, post coital haze, sharing a glass of champagne. However, I was becoming more nervous and jumpy as time progressed and Miss S knew why. Mistress Elita was on her way across town and that could only mean one thing: violence.
(The delightful Miss S sent me her thoughts on this part of the session and I built this post around them. She writes beautifully)
I love this image. It’s from my second one to one session with Miss S. It’s a joint effort; I took the picture on my phone and she turned it into the beautiful, soft, black and white you see here. She thought it looked like a kinky perfume advert and I can only agree.
My first one to one session with Miss S was such a thrilling, emotional, roller coaster that there was a glorious inevitability about the second. The venue was my favourite small hotel near Kings Cross with its huge beds and good bathrooms. (My top tip for hotel encounters with sex workers? Good bathrooms. It’s the first part of your selected venue she’s going to spend any time in and you want her to feel you’ve chosen the location with care.)
I led her down the long flight of cold stone steps, deep into the underground bunker. I had captured my play-thing and was leading her into my lair.
She knew she was in trouble.
For years, too many years, the only outlet for my kink was through hurting myself. A sub-kink developed (is that even a thing?): I found the act of making or buying implements with which to hurt myself became erotically charged in itself. It still is.