Dreaming

“Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.”

I have been reading a lot about how people have been having vivid, even disturbing, dreams during this period of lockdowns and restrictions. I have had my share too, most recently, finding myself in Australia with no money and a hotel bill to pay. I knew I had money in my savings account, lots of it, but I could only transfer this to my current account by actually going into the building society branch in England. And I had no money to go back to England to get the money I needed to eat and have a place to sleep in Australia. I was marooned. I woke up, sweating and shaking at 4 am. And not in Australia! And this is far from my weirdest dream.

None of these dreams, however, has been about sex or, for that matter, kink. I have, instead, daydreamed about these pretty much constantly. having taken a break from the kink sense for mental health reasons last winter, and my planned return having been unavoidably delayed, it is a year since I last played. Sex, too, has not been part of my bodily life for a while either. But kink and sex remain integral to my life. They have migrated into my head and I dream aboit them.

I have written a lot of stories both on this blog and elsewhere and these stories have drawn more directly on my own past than anything I have written before. They have been both therapy and catharsis. They have also served to draw a line under aspects of my past, a clearing of the decks for 2021.

And I am dreaming of the future now, of what I will do when fetish clubs open, when sexual partners emerge from the COVID darkness into the light of the new world I have dreamt for them. My dreaming has been a long course in self understanding, and most definitely a guide to action. Come 2021 I will be a better lover, a more attentive domme, (though possibly a mote sadistic one). But my dreams are only part of the plan. The rest we do together, and I look forward to being taken into the dreamworlds of subs, play partners, of lovers.

A post for Quote Quest. Click on the badge below to see the dreams of others.

QuoteQuest

The Hangman’s Fracture

The hangman’s fracture is a break of the second vertebra of the spinal column. It is so called as the British method of hanging, the long drop, aimed to kill swiftly and painlessly by breaking the neck at the second vertebra. There are stories of the hangman Albert Pierrepoint feeling the necks of his victims after taking their bodies down to check that he had done his job properly. It was part of the justification of the whole system that death was both quick and painless. This may be a myth.  Analysis of the remains of some 34 hanged criminals showed that the hangman’s fracture was present in only a minority of cases. In some there was no cervical fracture at all which suggests that these victims may have died by strangulation (a risk if the drop is too short) and this would not have been either instantaneous or painless. Yet in every case a doctor had written out a death certificate stating that the cause of death was the hangman’s fracture. This, in turn, suggests that the medical profession was complicit in a rotten and inhumane system.

This digression does link to the theme – bear with me! I heard recently that an elderly kinkster I met once or twice at events in the West Midlands had died during lockdown. Derek (not his Fet name and probably not his real name either) was in his mid 80s and I believe his death was peaceful. And we all hope for that don’t we?  Not Derek actually. For he had a most unusual fetish. He wanted to die by judicial hanging. He was, of course, old enough to have been hanged but presumably had scruples about committing the kind of offences that might have earned him a death sentence. Unsurprisingly he was unable to find anyone to cater for this fetish, so hanging never became more than a fantasy.

I am sure, too, that Derek was not alone in his death fetish. I know of kinksters whose homes are shrines to death, with skulls, human and animal, adorning their rooms. And many of us kinksters are drawn to darkness. We like to inflict, or receive, pain and suffering. I sometimes think that a submissive moving from agony to ecstasy (it is said that a hanged person experiences orgasm as their last sensation) and into the sweet oblivion of subspace is experiencing a kind of surrogate death.  And the return to life has to be managed as carefully as a resurrection, one reason why aftercare is so important.

So it is not surprising that those of us who crave darkness seek out cemeteries. I love to walk in old, abandoned cemeteries, where the headstones have been washed blank by a century or more of weather, and lean drunkenly, the flatbed graves that are opening up, as if there residents might rise again, I long to take a willing submissive, strip him, flog him with nettles I have picked from an overgrown tomb, to make him lean against a stone, to take my whip on his back, my cane on his bottom, to suffer the extremes of pain, and the pleasure that flows from it, there in the last resting place of hundreds of human beings who learned his pain and pleasure resolve their tension in oblivion.

It is in cemeteries that I feel most alive, because I must, we all must, confront death in order to live. to love. It is mortality that gives our kinks sense. The fetish for death is a fetish for life.

Hanged criminals were not buried in cemeteries. They were interred in lime filled coffins in the prison yard, in unmarked graves that denied death as much as they denied life. Derek would never have wanted that, I am sure.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the lips to see what other writers have to say on the subject of cemeteries and graveyards

Nights at the Taj

It was just 13 days ago that I last had a curry at my favourite Indian restaurant in Birmingham but that seems an age ago as I write. It could many months before I go here again. And I will miss the Chicken Rezala as much as I will miss my own personal stash of Wolf Blass Chardonnay, not on the wine list but kept specially for me and those lucky enough to go there with me. For the service I receive here is second to none.

A restaurant called the Taj Mahal  founded in 1962, as the sign proudly proclaims, should have flock wallpaper and have Chicken Tikka Madras as the signature dish. No doubt it did at one time but that was long before I discovered it with a girlfriend some years ago. The decor these days is bright and contemporary and the menu has a range of dishes that were unknown when I first went to curry houses nearly 40 years ago.

I mention it here as it is where I go or a quiet chat with my slave once a month, schedules permitting.  We have the Wolf Blass, we have our own discreet table out of sight, and earshot, of anybody else, and we talk kink and the stuff we do together with surprising freedom  for a vanilla location. He has a fantasy about drinking my champagne in public, in the restaurant, but we haven’t managed that yet. But there are many different and subtle ways in which I can exercise dominance over him that nobody watching would even notice.  And so The Taj Mahal is more than a friendly restaurant for us, it is a safe space.

As I left two weeks ago the manager said to me “you are not just a customer to us, you are a friend.”   And I will miss my friends over the coming months. But when my slave and I go there again I think we just may have champagne to celebrate.

A post about food. You can find more bloggers musing on eating out here

The Key To His Soul

“Control a man’s cock and you have the key to his soul.”

As I left the hotel and set off in search of a restaurant, I kept repeating this over to myself.  The session had not gone quite as I had planed it.  I was more intuitive and spontaneous in those days.  As I sat in the armchair I was using for a throne, one booted leg folded over the other, observing him with my best poker face, the idea came to me like a flash.

I had never sessioned with Steve before.  He was a little nervous but clearly deeply submissive. After a little humiliation play and an over the knee spanking I saw him get hard. His cock was magnificent, it jutted out ramrod straight, and I could have sworn it was pulsing with anticipation. An idea came to my mind. Such an amazing member needed taming.

“Play with yourself for my entertainment” I ordered him.

He complied eagerly, too eagerly,  so I added

“You are not to come until I give you permission.”

He looked worried by this as he had come quickly to the brink of ejaculation.

There he was to remain. He slowed and stopped.

“Did I say stop? Did I?”

“No Mistress.”

“Keep wanking then.”

“But I am about to come Mistress.”

“Is that my problem? I ordered you to wank and not to come. Get on with it!”

“Yes Mistress.”

I saw fear and anguish in his eyes and felt a rush of sadistic elation as I sat, expressionless, enjoying his torment. He was trying so hard, to obey, tensing his body, contorting his limbs into the weirdest shapes as he fought against his own body, fought out of fear of the punishment I might inflict, or oit of his need, as as submissive man, to please me. And I knew then that he would do anything for release.

But I was not yet ready for that. And I made him suffer for a few more minutes before moving on to my kinky dance class.   At the end of the session I permitted him release. He knelt before me ad came in torrents over my boots, before greedily licking them clean. He had learnt his lesson well.  He understood that release is a reward not a right.  And I realized that sadism is not only about canes and clamps.  Get inside a submissive’s  head and the possibilities are endless.

As it turned out I never sessioned with Steve again. He got in touch a few months later to ask for a session. I replied to say that I was happy to see him but reminded him that he was getting a two hour session with me that, if he went to a professional he would probably be paying north of £200 for.  I didn’t want money but as I would be putting my free time into planning and conducting the session, a small gift would be appreciated, specifically a bottle of my favourite malt whisky.  I never heard from him again.  That, I like to think, is his loss. But if I were to see him again I know I hold the key to his soul.

This is a post for masturbation Monday. Click on the image below for more masturbatory delights.

Masturbation Monday

 

Kosher Kink and Honey Cake

This is my final post from Smutathon 2019, a story set in Poland.

I live in a land of ghosts. I live in the nondescript town of D. in south western Poland that was once the German town of R. The area is actually scenic. Just twenty miles away, the Sudeten mountains rise up on the Czech border. There are historic towns and castles nearby.  There are palaces. Most of them crumbling ruins, witnesses to a German past most people would happily forget. That last part of that past is dark. The area was littered with forced labour camps, satellite camps of the larger camps whose names still bring a shudder. My town has a synagogue, boarded up and derelict since   it was trashed and defiled on Kristallnacht. There are no Jews in D.

Actually, there is one. I am that Jew. My name is Alicja Bromberger. I am not from here. I grew up in Warsaw. I came here to live among the ghosts.  I felt drawn to the darkness that hangs over the quiet countryside like a pall. I am single. I am often lonely, But I feel that this is my fate. How can I be happy in the face if what befell my people, my family? And don’t think it ended in 1945. I have an uncle and aunt in Israel, forced into emigration in 1968. I live among ghosts and tell no one here who I really am.

I have another secret I keep from my neighbours. In my professional life I am a dominatrix. I work as Mistress Alice, Queen of Kosher Kink. Have a look on those pro domme websites. You will find me easily. There are only a handful of pro dommes in Poland. In real life I am a bit out of the way in my Silesian hideaway, but I have my regular clients, some of them from Germany. I make enough to pay my bills.

I first met Marcin the day I came home from the sops to find graffiti on the wall of my house.

“Precz z Zydami!” ”Jews out!” it read.  There was a crude Star of David overlaid with a swastika sprayed on in strokes of sinister violence. I froze. I looked around, searched for my key in my handbag and disappeared quickly into the house. I shut the door behind me and burst into tears. Who had found about me? And how? And what else did they know? If they also knew that my second bedroom was a BDSM studio, and that I did this professionally, I would have to leave. And I needed the dark solitude of the town of D.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it to a Polish man of about 30 who had a bucket of soapy water in his hand and a sponge.

“I’m Marcin. I think it is really awful what they have done. I’ve come to wash it off”.

“Thank you” I mumbled, “that’s very kind. “

He went to work and when he had finished, I invited him in for a cup of tea.

I set down a tray of tea and little cakes and sat down, watching him closely as he stirred sugar into his tea,

“Please have some cake” I said and, after a moment’s hesitation he took one.

“Actually, I knew you were Jewish, myself, I kind of found out, and I know what you do.”

“How?”

“I look at sites. I found you on InternationalDommes.com I am single, I don’t have a girlfriend, I just think about this stuff. And I hate myself for it. And I hate this country. Look, my grandparents came here from central Poland after the war. Some of my family were involved in the pogrom at Kielce. The Poles have been as awful as the Nazis, some of the anyway, And my family too. Mistress Alice, will you punish me for wat they have done? Please! I have always fantasised about being on my ness before a Mistress, but if I could kneel before you as a Jewish mistress, please”

“I can’t promise. I need to think about it.”

“But I need this. I can’t cope with the shame. Please punish me. And our town, you know it was designated as a town for Jews after the war, before the Germans were resettled? The Germans had to wear a special badge, and had to bow whenever they met a Jew, and step off the pavement”

“I had read that” I said.

“That was so justified, But I think we should made to do that too. I crave humiliation at your hands.”

He broke down and wept and I agreed to see him, despite my doubts.

**************************

“Kiss the Star of David!” I ordered him after he entered my chamber and held out my pendant towards him.  When he had kissed it I pushed him to his knees and ordered him to lick my boots. He started nervously, I could see him trembling in fear and anticipation. I grabbed his hair and yanked his head upward so that his face was looking into mine.

“You confessed to being from a family of anti-Semites. You confessed to telling Jewish jokes. What  else have you got to confess?”

He looked blank.

“Nothing Mistress.”

“What about the graffiti on my door the other day, the graffiti you mysteriously turned up to wash off for me.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I am not stupid Marcin.”

He bowed his head. I pulled it up again and spat in his face.

“You had better be sincere in your desire to submit to me.”

“I am.”

“Prove it.”

He resumed licking and I saw him go into a trancelike state as he finished the soles and worked his eager tongue up the shaft.

“How does that feel Marcin?”

“Mistress?”

“How does it feel to be on your knees, licking the boots of a dirty Jew?”

“MIstress,  I don’t care what people say abou Jews. I have read books I have…… “

He wept again. I knew that the catharsis he sought would not be easy to find.  I sent him on his way.

************************************************************************************************************

A month later he came back. Again he kissed the Star of David. Again he licked my boots. This time I judged him ready. I had done a lot of thinking. I strapped him to the bench. And showed him the canes I was going to hit him with.  I went into the emotional void that was the main feature f my life here in the town of D.  formerly R. No anger, no feeling, just a cold concentration on the task in hand, the placement, the technique.

One hundred and one strokes, and I made him count every one, each stroke a shedding of a burden, an act of contrition for things done long before he was born, that had trapped him in shame and guilt. He breathed in deeply ahead of each stroke, fought against the agony that radiated through his body. And then surrendered to it.

When I released him from the restraints, his buttocks were an angry red, bloody and marked with the tramlines that are the marks of my craft, of a caning delivered with accuracy, with utter ruthlessness, yet with profound care for the man who had trusted me enough to give himself to me in this way. I took hi into my arms to hug him, give him reassurance, aftercare, and love. Few of my sessions had been as emotionally charged as this one. He wept again, but I sensed that these were tears of release. I kissed him gently on the forehead. He wept uncontrollably

“Thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress.”

“And next time,” I said, “I am going to cut off your foreskin and then I will know that you have embraced the redemption you asked for.”

He slipped free of my grasp and prostrated himself on the floor before me. I raised a foot and pressed a stiletto heel into his burning, bloodied backside. He screamed. I laughed, as I hadn’t laughed in years. I was free too.

 

******************************************************************************

Marcin is devoted to me. He comes most days to cook and clean. He will be here tomorrow with honey cake he had baked for me. We will celebrate New Year together, eat sweet things and maybe I will give him a caning to finish up.

It is Rosh Hashanah and I wish you the very best dear reader. I had to get Eve to tell you my story because my English isn’t great but If my story has spoken to you, please consider a donation for abortion rights in the USA. And please, also think about the isolation of so many people like me in a country not so far from many of you. I don’t mean Jews, but as kinky people, LGBT people, anyone who is sexually alternative. This is not such a bad country in many ways. There are good, tolerant people here. But we need your love too, and the strength it gives us.

 

SoSS – October

It is Saturday 19th October as I write. I am listening anxiously for news of the votes in Parliament on you know what. But there is good news, one part of which I will turn to later. For bow I ma very happy that we stuffed the Aussies in the rugby this morning.

Here are some things that I have enjoyed reading over the last couple of weeks. I was a late comer to anal sex and them mainly in a BDSM context.  I ave both given and received and there is nothing like it for making the recipient feel vulnerable. In the right headspace it can release powerful emotions. May More discussed anal here in the context of a post that looks into wider consent issues.

Sweet girl talks about the emotional aspects of anal here.

I enjoyed this story by Posy Churchgate.

Three weeks ago I was busy with Smutathon I have still not got round to reading more than a handful of the 49 posts. I will feature more  of them in a future post. This week I enjoyed this by The Other Livvy and this poem by Quinn Rhodes.

Photography is something I used to enjoy but these days rarely have time for. Some thirty years ago I bought a Minolta x300, my very first SLR camera, and for a few years I  took t wt me everywhere.   These days I tend to be on the opposite side of the camera. I found this by Exposing 40, she who exposed my 57 a few months ago.

And now the good news. This week the Government announced that age verification for accessing online porn was to be abandoned after being deferred several times. They had been told by those with expertise in the area that it would be unworkable. This is apart from issues of privacy, of the security of personal data, of the effect on niche and ethical porn,  (much of it produced by women.)

Read more here:

As ever I am finishing with car porn.As a vintage girl I own a 1958 Ford Prefect 100E, the perfect car for a summer’s day in a circle dress,  and here is the official launch film for the range from 1953,

 

Strap Lines

I was born in 1962. It was well into my lifetime when corporal punishment was abolished in UK schools and some of the things that happened, even as David Bowie was reinventing himself as Ziggy Stardust, now seem truly shocking. I remember coming home from school in tears after a headmaster had threatened to cane the whole year over something (admittedly something particularly unpleasant and upsetting which I won’t describe here), that someone in our year had done and for which the culprit had not been identified. I remember comforting a girl in my year after a caning administered by the male headmaster with nobody else present. Britain in the early 1970s could be a brutal place for children and issues like concern over wellbeing and safeguarding, were seemingly far from the thoughts of those in authority over us. To those of us who were there, the revelations of the sexual abuse of children in those distant times that have dominated headlines in recent years have been shocking but unsurprising.

By that time, corporal punishment (the birch) had been abolished in UK penal institutions. In Canada corporal punishment in prisons lingered on until 1972.  The implementation of choice there was a leather strap. In BDSM circles the strap is still referred to by many as the Canadian prison strap. It was a particularly vicious thing and differed from the straps I have used in kink play in having holes. These were to allow the strap to travel faster through the air resulting in a harder impact and more pain. They also bit into the flesh and pulled away bits of skin as the strap was lifted off the buttocks, causing particularly nasty wounds that took a long time to heal. This was a particularly cruel punishment and one that, as we know from the testimony of those unfortunate enough to receive it, left lasting mental scars.

Despite knowing about its dark history, the prison strap is one of the favourite items in my toy bag. I bought mine at a fetish fair in Birmingham five years ago, shortly after discovering my dom side.  I took it to a play party and used on a new play partner (who was to become a regular play partner). After a warmup I showed him my new strap. One stroke with this and he screamed with pain and cried “Red!”.

This remains the only time that a sub or bottom has safed out on me. This was partly due to inexperience on my part and to my not appreciating just what a strap can do. We talked the failed scene over and played again a couple of weeks later. This time I was a bit gentler, but he still cried “yellow” after three strokes and we moved on to other toys. This scene taught me something else. That is that the submissives’ fear of the strap is as powerful as the strap itself. I love the look of fear in their eyes, the pleading. I love messing with their heads too. I show them the strap, make them kiss it, then when I am behind them, put the strap down, pick up a nice suede flogger and hit them with that instead. Every time they scream as if they had had the strap, feeling the pain they had steeled themselves for, and not the actual pain.

In my experience it is only the strap that does this. I have a few nasty canes, and I don’t generally get people queuing up for 50 with the dragon. I have some quite fearsome paddles too. But only the strap arouses that raw, elemental fear.

I started this piece with a brief discussion of the sheer cruelty of the strap when used in an institutional context, because it helps to illustrate the emotional power of BDSM for its practitioners. It takes activities that are deeply unpleasant and recreates them as parody for the pleasure of participants. This enables BDSM to be both subversive and cathartic. I know a number of people on the scene who, through their play, are able to deal with their demons and emotional baggage. It is through kink that they can work things through in a safe and accepting environment.  Not everything can be dealt with through BDSM, of course, and there are those who just get pleasure from pain. I am one of them. In terms of dynamics I can never be other than a dominant but I do need to be beaten from time to time.  For feeling good, it can be even better than running!

Bog Standard

1.

We came down the escalator and turned towards the exit from the shopping centre when he grabbed my arm and steered me towards the gender-neutral toilet with the baby changing facility. He pushed me inside and locked the door.

“We can’t” I protested, “not in here there are too many people about.”

But he was already fumbling with his belt, and, as he unzipped his flies, his rock hard cock burst through the opening, the end glistening with precome. I let my skirt drop to the floor, climbed on to the baby changer and he was quickly on top of me.

I arched my back to give him a better angle and he pushed hard into my still dry cunt. He winced too from the abrasion but was soon pumping furiously as I finally got wet

But it was as hard as fuck on the baby changer, each thrust hurt and I needed it to be over.  I fingered my clit vigorously and said,

“Come now. I will come with you.”

And we came together, trying so hard to suppress he sounds that might give us away. We dressed quickly and left the toilet quickly, hoping no one would see us. He looked down and exclaimed “Of fuck!”

I looked at him, looked at his trousers. There was a ten pence piece sized come stain 0n the crotch, all too visible against the light grey, I smiled How was he going to explain that to his wife?

2.

After the third beer I knew I wanted her. But making out with women was a whole new territory for me. I just didn’t know how to approach this. Erotic tension was hanging in the air as I sat with Adrienne on a summer’s night in the garden of a lesbian bar but I was on new territory foe which  had no map.

“Come on” she said, “let’s go.”

I hung back as she headed for the outside toilet. Then she turned and said

“Are you coming Eve?”

She bundled me in and bolted the door. She pulled off her top ad stood bare breasted with her back to the door.

“Take me”

I moved in to kiss her n the mouth before kissing her breasts, sucking m her nipples, squeezing them between my lips as she gasped. Soon I was on my knees, pulling down her jeans and panties to eat greedily at her cunt.

There was a loud hammering at the door. And voices.

“I don’t know what thy are doing in there?

“Can’t you guess?  I don’t want to spoil their fun but I am fucking bursting.”

  1. He looked anxious as he knelt before me.

“Have you been following orders since I last saw you?”

“Yes Mistress”

“And your toilet, is that flushed and clean this time?”

“Yes Mistress”

”Prove it.”

“But how Mistress?”

“Lick it out.”

He took a while to absorb this order and when he did I saw fear in his eyes.

“But Mistress no…. I mean I.. .”

“If you want to serve me you do as you are told.”

“Yes Mistress”

Crushed, he went to the bathroom on his hands and knees, and, with weary resignation, lifted the lid and plunged his head into the gleaming white porcelain.

I laughed my most evil laugh.

4.

The scene began to go wrong when, at the moment, I went to flush the toilet, someone grabbed a shampoo bottle and poured shampoo over my sub’s head. I had to stop the scene as he was clearly in difficulty, the flush having washed shampoo into his eyes. It was becoming clear that demonstrating bathroom humiliation for an audience was not a good idea. Neither of us could get in the headspace somebody had interfered with our scene. To cap it all,  someone then complained that it was gross and disgusting and they didn’t ever want to see it again. Well maybe but there is a thing we have on the scene called Your Kink Isn’t My Kink But Your Kink is OK.  There are many different kinks and we accept the kinks of others which may do nothing for us. We don’t judge.

 

Actually I generally like to be on my own in bathrooms, and am often to be found with a book, the radio, even a malt whisky. Me time, me space.   But I do occasionally have company. The 4 scenes are fictionalised accounts of things I have done.

Sex in toilets for me generally means public toilets.  Why would you bother at home? It is generally spontaneous rushed, with a fear of discovery to add a frisson, and frequently uncomfortable.   But sometimes you just have to don’t you? And it’s usually fun. Or maybe you just remember it as fun once the bruises and aches and pains have been forgotten!

BDSM in toilets is quite different. It needs planning and time, which means domestic or hotel bathrooms, and it is a niche kink. Degradation play is edge play and needs to be handled very carefully by the dominant. It is also incredibly intimate, and few things create bonds quite like having a submissive use his tongue to be your toilet paper! But, even in he context of a kinky private house party , it is not for an audience. That we learnt the hard way.

Mornington Crescent

Not least of the attractions of being with James was that he was a wonderful cook. Most of the time they were not in the bedroom they spent in the kitchen with Debbie obediently preparing the vegetables, washing up, doing everything Chef required in anticipation of the treats ahead.

It was a Monday evening, a Bank Holiday Monday to be precise. After a day of enjoyable outdoor play, when Debbie had brought home the nettles needed for the soup inside her panties, they were in the kitchen preparing dinner. The nettles were wilting nicely in the saucepan as Debbie’s buttocks bubbled red with pain and discomfort. She had been ordered to prepare the vegetables and took out a wooden chopping board and Sabatier knife.  Debbie chopped the thick courgettes with their bulbous ends and soon fell into a reverie as she contemplated their similarity to what she doubtless had awaiting her after dinner.

‘Are you listening to me slut?’ asked James suddenly with obvious irritation.

‘I’m sorry sir,’ answered Debbie, clearly flustered at being so rudely woken from her dreams.

‘I said switch the radio on and tune it to Radio Four,’

‘Yes sir, I am very sorry sir’ .

She switched the radio on and selected Radio Four as ordered. There was a panel game on , or rather, the antidote to panel games as she noted. Debbie returned to chopping courgettes telling herself that she needed to be more attentive.

As the panellists launched into a game called Mornington Crescent, Debbie noticed a glint appear in James’ eye.

‘Your task for this week slut is to be fucked by a complete stranger at Mornington Crescent tube station and to bring me proof. Is that clear?’

‘Yes sir’ said Debbie and carried on chopping.

The following Wednesday Debbie took the afternoon off to prepare for her assignment. It was a chilly day and she selected her favourite fur and black patent boots. She would have nothing on under the coat. She loved the way that a heavy fur could naturally fall open, expose her breasts and help her trap her prey. She stood in front of the mirror and arranged and rearranged the coat just to see how she could show her cleavage to best effect.

Debbie had decided to head out at two o’ clock when there might be men about not in too much of a hurry to stop for sex, when it would be busy enough to trap a suitable partner but not so busy that you couldn’t have sex on the platform once you had waited until the passengers had drifted away. The station was relatively quiet in the afternoon, you might have three minutes, what more did you need particularly if you could get ready while you were on the train.

She slipped her keys, her Oyster card, phone, packet of condoms and her little Chanel No. 5 spray, into the deep pockets of the fur coat and set off walking briskly and confidently down the road to the Tube station.

She changed onto the Northern Line at Charing Cross, stood by the door of the carriage, making herself as visible as possible, breathing slowly and deliberately, letting her breasts move up and down with stately magnificence, licking the lips on which the bright red lipstick had hardened nicely. She took out her bottle and sprayed a further thin mist of Chanel behind her ears, on her neck. The trap was set.

By Leicester Square the train was quite full and a tallish balding man got on and stood next to her pushing himself against her.

‘A frotteur’ she thought with quiet satisfaction.

Debbie did not yield but pushed back against him and forced her left knee between his legs. She breathed slowly, looked at him. He went red. She looked to the floor and his eyes followed. Now he could see the gleaming black boots. She pushed her knee up towards his crotch and felt his cock, felt it begin to stiffen with the excitement of a booted female leg rubbing against his inner thigh.

He smiled and shut his eyes.

‘I’ve got you mate’ thought Debbie with satisfaction.

She shifted her position slightly and moved her face to a position where she could smell his breath which was fresh, with a touch of mint. He looked and smelt clean. That was a relief.

The man pushed back against her and began to grind his crotch against hers. He looked furtively around and seeing that the other passengers were engrossed in their Kindles and newspapers, began to grind against her. He then slipped his right hand inside Debbie’s coat and began to squeeze and twist her right nipple at the same moment as he slipped his left hand in further down and after a little fumbling found her swollen clit. He worked it with his finger, breathed heavily and ground and ground before starting a pumping motion. Debbie could feel his huge stiff cock straining against his trousers, straining against the fur, like a missile seeking the target that was so close, the target that was dilating, was getting wetter and wetter. As he slid two, then three, fingers inside her, Debbie felt her clit rub against the lining of her coat. She wanted to do it now. She could not wait to Mornington Crescent. She was aware that she was panting and gasping, aware suddenly that people were looking at them. Debbie didn’t care. She just needed to be fucked.

‘Discipline’ she said to herself, ‘Self control.’ That much James had taught her well.

As the train pulled into Euston the man made no move to get off with the crowds. Debbie was relieved. He wanted this as much as she did. As the train rolled out of the station and plunged back into the dark tunnel, she heard herself saying

‘Dark tunnels, do you like going into long dark tunnels?’

She was astonished. She hadn’t intended to say anything to the man. He looked away, too embarrassed to speak but, using the motion of the train as a pretext, pushed against her hard so that they were crotch to crotch. Again he ground his crotch against her, this time he tormented the left nipple. The pain and the pleasure worked together in an intoxicating medley of sensation. She felt relief as the lights of Mornington Crescent station began to flash past. Debbie simply could not wait any longer.

The doors opened and she virtually pushed him out of the train. She pushed him into the corner by the clock at the far end of the platform. Soon they were alone on the platform. Debbie looked at the platform indicator. There were four minutes until the next train.

‘We’ve got two minutes I reckon. You’ve got me ready, now you’ve got to fuck me and fuck me hard’ she said.

She bent over, threw up her coat and placed her fingers between her legs to massage the wet cunt again, prove to herself just how wet it was and to show him the way. He unzipped his trousers came forward and as he did so Debbie grabbed his huge swollen cock, rolled on the condom and guided him in.

‘We’ve got to be quick. Just give it to me hard, hard.’

And he began to give it to her with big pelvic thrusts that forced his cock deep into her, His flesh thumped against her thighs harder and harder. He began to flag and paused to pant.

‘I can’t ‘he said. ‘I can’t manage any more.,,,’

‘Yes you can I haven’t come yet,’

Debbie spun round and knelt before him, removed the condom and took the diminishing cock into her mouth. She tongue whipped the end, she licked her way along, licked her way along the shaft before taking as big a mouthful as she could manage without choking sucked and pulled, purring with delight as the man stiffened and threw his head back, as if he was seeing stars. She felt the cock begin to swell and harden then he gasped and come began to flow into her mouth. She swallowed then pulled back to look up at the man, like a naughty girl caught with the remains of a cream cake around her mouth.

‘Now do it again ‘she said rubbing the cock, and sliding another condom on.

She stood up and bent down facing the tiled wall. There were people gathering on the platform now. She draped the coat over the man’s cock and grabbed his buttocks to pull him in close and guide the cock into the hole that was by now a gateway to a warm and sensuous lake that was being filled by her fountain of arousal. The man pumped and pumped and as Debbie bent down further to allow him to penetrate long and deep she placed a finger on her clit and began to rub vigorously. She heard a train rumbling closer, closer. Soon it would disgorge crowds of passengers who would catch them in the act.

They came together just as the train pulled into the station, rushed to rearrange their clothes as two dozen passengers stepped out into the platform. The man walked quickly away and Debbie suddenly realised she had forgotten the proof.

‘Shit!’ she said but the man was already on the train which was pulling out. She had done her duty but had no proof!

As she turned to head for the southbound platform she felt a tap on her shoulder.

‘Could I have a word madam?’

She started. It was a bearded transport policeman.

He held out a pair of handcuffs.

‘I’m arresting you for lewd behaviour in a public place.’

She held our hands to be cuffed, too much in shock to resist and meekly complied with his instructions as he led her away down a tunnel to a door marked No Entry to General Public.

He pushed her against the wall and said

‘I have photographic evidence of you committing a serious criminal offence. You could get two years for this. ‘

He showed her the footage on a mobile phone.

‘This matter will go to court unless………unless………’

‘What?’

‘Unless you kneel down and blow me.’

‘But that’s outrageous’

‘Do it slut do it now.’

He took out his cock and Debbie knelt before him. Either this or prison, she thought, and maybe he would let her have a picture for James…….James? She looked closely at the cock, she looked up. The policeman pulled off his beard and said

‘Well done slut. A task completed to my complete satisfaction. But carry on, don’t let me stop you.’

And Debbie took James’ cock in her cuffed hands, took it to her mouth and began to suck her dom’s magnificent member. She had been obedient and surely James would not withhold her reward.

‘By the way’ he said ‘we’re having roast duck tonight, with apples and red cabbage.’

Scratching the Itch to Switch

So what did I get up to on that Monday after Eroticon? I did something I hadn’t done for several years and booked a session with a pro domme. I did this for a number of reasons.  I wanted to explore the dynamic of submitting to a woman as a woman. I had previously played with submissive woman as a top but somehow it never quite worked for me. I had a number of mental blockages that stopped me getting into the headspace. I have always felt more comfortable dominating men. And yet I had watched women play in clubs and seen that the submission of a woman to a woman could be a thing of great beauty. I needed to see if that could work for me.

The other thig was that, reflecting on past experiences, I understood that I had never really experienced a deep subspace. Domspace yes, absolutely and my domming career has given me so massive highs but looking at the deep subspace that our play has sent my slave when a scene has gone really well, I understood that I had never experienced this. I began to question my own approach to submitting in a scene and think about what I was doing wrong that was preventing me from getting into a properly submissive headspace.

So this session was about scratching an itch and something in the way of an experiment. I did my research, sent a detailed e mail to the lady setting out what I was looking for and setting out limits and so on. This all sounds obvious, but I had never before done this I in such a structured and factual manner. That I was able to do this is itself a product of 5 years on the scene as (mainly) a dominant and a lot of play with a range of people. I know myself and I know what a prospective play partner needs by way of information.  We had a telephone conversation and I had a good feeling about the lady. We were, I felt, on the same kinky wavelength.

And so on to the session in the traditional discreet location, in this case in South London. The session worked for me. No subspace and I never felt even slightly out of my comfort zone (and I think being taken a little of your comfort zone is a part of a good submissive experience – it reminds you who is in charge) but this was a first meeting with someone who really knew nothing about me. We learnt a lot about each other, and I will see her again as I think there are good things to build on coming out of the session. Her domming style has also given me a few ideas.

Most importantly we liked each other, and this is massively important.   I did say I didn’t experience subspace. True but I did cry cathartic tears at the end, and she gave me good aftercare.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I said as I made to leave.

“Thank YOU, Mistress,” she replied and we both laughed.

We hugged and I left. I heard the door swing shut. I didn’t look back. But I know I will be knocking on that door again in a few months’ time.