As the door connecting Mistress Elita’s sumptuous lounge to her bedroom inches open, giving you a, perhaps unexpected, glimpse of what she’s doing with her client, what is your first thought, your first reaction, to the scene?
Do you only see a beautiful woman jerking off some naked, overweight, businessman on the bed? Does the scene perhaps merely serve to confirm your preconceptions about sex work?: the empowered older man paying the younger woman to satisfy his lustful urges, using her beauty to boost his flabby male ego; the epitome of the entitled patriarchy in its worst form.
Of course, there is truth in that interpretation of the scene and, as the man on the bed, I have to accept that truth; I have to own it and live with myself afterwards.
But, in my position on the bed, I see more than you see, feel more than you feel. If I turn my head to look in the Mistress’s long mirror, I see a beautiful, intimate and exquisitely managed exchange of power and eroticism between two people who, through these sessions, have come to know each other well.
The 12 solid, meaty cane strokes she surprised me with as soon as my clothes were off, re-established her dominance and my submission after a long absence, leaving me floaty and calmly accepting of her bondage as she tied me down to the bed.
Her harsh nipple clips are now generating spikes of sharply focused pain, exacerbated by their connection to the cord wound tightly round me cock and balls. Every time she pulls on the cord my cock hardens in response to the heightened level of pain. And, God, my cock is so hard, veins pulsing, the pressure making me more conscious both of how hard I am and of the tightness of the bondage and these things makes me harder still. At my age, to be this hard, this erect, to feel this virile, is a wonderful and somehow unexpected thing.
Ah, she knows me so well; the precision with which she uses her sensuality and her sadism to manage my responses and to position me so precisely on the spectrum of pleasure and pain truly is a wonder.
She’s kneeling over me, making me feel that if I pulled against the rope I could touch my thigh against hers, or get my hand close enough to her smooth skin that I might feel it. And so I’m straining towards her, desperate for that touch, pulling hard against the rope, twisting and turning in my desire for more physical contact with her. The whole scene could not be more erotic, pressing hard on all my kinky buttons: pain, pleasure, submission, bondage, all at the same time.
And all the time her hand is on my cock, on my balls, touching and caressing then pulling and hurting. I already know that I will orgasm in this session and she knows it too. That knowledge allows the tension to leave me and I swim in her river of sensations, pulled along by its eddies and currents, all the time getting closer to the rushing waterfall whose approach I can sense. Finally, when she’s good and ready, when I’m good and ready, she throws me over the edge of it, into the free-fall of an all-enveloping, seemingly endless orgasm that lifts me off the bed and shakes my whole body repeatedly until it has wrung me out completely.
The pool below the fall is floaty and calm and disturbed only by ripples of aftershocks which she seems to delight in as much as me, smiling into my eyes, sharing the moment with me. She seems to relish the effect she has had on me and take joy in my responses to her skill.
So, yes. If your vision of sex work doesn’t let you see past the beautiful young woman jerking off the fat, old guy, that’s fine. I get it. But know this: we do see past that and, to me, and I think to Elita also, in our short time together we made something that was beautiful and intimate and, in its way, quite perfect.
This short piece is based on a beautiful moment in a recent, rather impromptu, session with Mistress Elita. It follows on from a description of a similarly beautiful moment created with Miss Hunter in a very different situation.
