Confronting a Molesting Client

      The Studio acquired a new houseboy while I was away.  We’ll see if he lasts.  Most of them are excited by the fantasy, but quickly tire of doing real work, and men are useless as cleaners.  They have to be taught how to do it correctly.  Yesterday, this dude did the floors FIRST.  Who does the floors first…?  A man, natch.

       He kept sneaking looks at me and it got on my nerves.  The Studio is full of crazy bitches, but I have to say, one thing that I like about it is that apart from clients, it is a dude-free zone.   Readers will know that I am obsessed with men, but even I need a break from them every now and again, and a girl can spend a whole afternoon in the dungeon and not hear a single male voice unless it’s some poor loser screaming down the hall, and if you’re in a foul mood that screaming is music to your ears anyway.

       Houseboy kept looking at me.  I was sitting in back defragmenting my hard drive.  I think my laptop is dying.  It gets really hot.  One day soon it is going to burst into flames.

        I told him to stop looking at me.  I told him that I do not like a man in the locker room and the only reason he is allowed in back is so that he can sweep the floors.

       He said sorry, but he was STILL looking at me, and I lost it.  I lost my temper, which almost never happens.  

        I made him take his shirt, shoes, and socks off, threw a cup of water on his head, and left him outside on the roof for half an hour.  It was 29* outside. 

        The cold gets miserable in a hurry.  I learned that the hard way once when the Surgeon left me chained up in the closet for an afternoon.  We were in Florida in July and he’d cranked up the AC full blast and forgot to turn it off before leaving me.  By the time he got back it was fucking Siberia in that closet.  To his credit, it is one of the only times I saw him truly apologetic about something.  He gave me a warm bath.

        By the time I came to collect him, the houseboy was all red and holding his hands in his armpits and his nose was running.  I was in a bad mood, so I thought it was funny.  He was unhappy, but I bet you anything that he jerked off thinking about it when he got home.

         Yesterday I also told off a client for the first time in a year.  Life has really sucked recently, and I just ran out of fucks to give.

        The guy was supposed to see another mistress, but she was busy with family drama and couldn’t come in, so he rescheduled with me.  

        My heart sank the minute I got the news.  I’d seen this guy twice before, and I hated both encounters.  There are two positive things to say about him: he’s very clean and well-groomed, and he tips very well.  You’ll walk out with about $300.  That’s excellent money for an hour.

       But he has to tip well.  Otherwise, nobody would see him.

       He’s not a monster like Chopin…but he is a molester.  A boundaries-pusher.  He gets grabby.  He wants to cuddle and hug.

       And tickle.  That’s his thing.  He has a major tickling fetish.

      I don’t think I’ve blogged about tickling fetish as of yet.  I don’t have a strong opinion about it.  I think that I grasp the psychology behind it: just about everyone was tickle-tortured in early childhood by a sibling, parent, or babysitter.  It can hurt, but it’s also arousing. Vulnerability is involved.  It induces laughter, which is much less frightening or alarming than screaming.  I’ve talked to several tickle-fetish guys who report that their first conscious memory of having an erection was when they were being held down and tickled by an older girl.  So, yes, it makes sense.

      (side note: I have never met a woman with a tickle-fetish.  It seems to be a very dudeliocentric kink.)

      It does nothing for me.   I actually think it’s a bit lame.  But then, I sought out Abduction Weekend, so who am I to judge a man and his jones for tickling?

      I am not ticklish…just a little, on the bottoms of my feet.  This is good, because if I really was ticklish, I couldn’t do tickling sessions.  I’d lose my mind.  

      When I get a tickling session, I fake it.  It is very tedious. 

       So, yesterday…this  molesting client comes in for me.  

      First of all, he wants to “punish” me for being late.  I know it’s illogical, because he was just looking for a pretext to belt me, but I was irritated nonetheless because I was in the room and ready to go five minutes after he walked in the door.  I had everything prepared ahead of time.  

       Then I was tied down and the tickling started.  Whatevs.  I was doing my best.  I really was.  An Oscar-worthy performance.  Laughing, squirming, howling, the works.  

       And then, sure enough, about halfway through, the guy starts to get handsy. 

       I do not care if a man who pays me to be submissive cops a feel (so long as his hands are clean and he’s groomed) of my tits or my ass.  Truly, I don’t care.  I am a very practical woman and you can’t be in this business if you’re squeamish about physical contact. 

       But do not touch my face, don’t force eye contact when I’m in the submissive role, don’t touch me between my legs, and DO NOT TRY TO LICK ME ANYWHERE!

      Why, oh why, is this difficult for you to understand, Molesting Client?  

       Molesting Client starts forcing the eye contact.  Dude, I do not want to look into your face that is three inches away from mine while you tickle me.  Sorry, guy.  I just work here.  I do not want this image branded into my brain.  I do not want to have flashbacks of our special time together.  Stop telling me to look at you.

     Stop nuzzling my hair, please.  If you like the way my hair smells, you can go to Victoria’s Secret and buy some Amber Romance body mist.  It’s only $14.  

      Are you kissing the underside of my arm?  What is the matter with you?  You did not ask if you could do this.  

       You want to tickle me with an electric toothbrush?  The absurdity of this situation is starting to freak me out.

        You want to rub vaseline on my skin?  Over my ribcage?  What?

       Hahahhahaha…hey…no, sorry….can’t touch me there.  

      (three minutes later): Nope, please don’t touch me there.  No touching between  my legs, please.

      (Two minutes later): Quit it.  That’s illegal.

      Then Molesting Client puts his tongue in my ear.

      I was done.  It was over 50 minutes into the session anyway.  He got his money’s worth.

      I slipped out of my wrist cuffs and stood up from the table.

     “You’re not supposed to be able to do that!” he said, taken aback.

     “Do you think I’d let a strange man tie me up?  What sort of moron do you take me for?”

      He just sat there in his white boxer shorts, looking like an idiot.

     I was angry, but I was very composed.  I went to the supply closet and took out the spray bottle of rubbing alcohol and the paper towels.  I started to spray myself down in front of him, so that he could see that I considered myself dirtied from his touch.

       He gaped at me.

      Then I said something.  I said something just as I’ve written it on this blog.  I never thought I’d actually say this to a client, but I did:

      “Let me ask you something.  Did it ever occur to you that I am a complex emotional creature who might be unwilling or unable to achieve orgasm with a complete stranger I met 30 minutes ago?”

      He sat there, totally stumped, like he was watching me sprout a second head.  Then he said: “But I’m not a stranger!  I’ve had sessions with you twice before!”

       “You ARE a stranger!  I don’t know you!  I don’t even know your name, buddy!  What makes you think you can touch my privates or give me an orgasm?  You’re not my boyfriend!  What makes you think you get that intimacy?”

        He looked stunned.  I just can’t imagine it.  What is with these men and their empathy deficit?  

         “I thought you liked it.  I wanted to give you pleasure.”

       “I told you to stop three times.  How many times do you have to hear it?  Do you know that you have a reputation in this place?  Mistress X told me that the last time you had a session with her, you kissed her on the mouth.  She brushed her teeth afterward and said that you were gross.  You need to hire a fetish-friendly escort.  It will only be a little more expensive and she will let you touch her.  At the very least, you need to tell fetish workers in dungeons what you want to do to them BEFORE the session starts to make sure that they are comfortable with it.”

       More staring.  I guess I blew his mind.

      Then: “You’re making me out to be like a rapist.”

       “Well, you’re not a rapist, as best I know, but you do exist on the continuum of sexual assault.”

       “Like how?  Didn’t you want it?”

      “I told you NO.  You know that asking a stranger to tickle her in her ‘special places’ and then groping her crotch is ILLEGAL, right?  Why would I think that was sexy?”

      He says: “You’re making me feel bad.”

       Oh, so now I’m responsible for your feelings.  Sorry I made you feel bad, dude.  I am the one with the memory of your wet tongue in my ear, but I made you feel bad for telling you that I didn’t like it.

      He looked sad…as if I’d broken his favorite toy.

       Then he took out his wallet and tried to give me money.

       “Keep your money,” I said.

        “I insist,” he said, standing there with $100 in his hand.

        “I don’t want your bribe.  And if you tell management that I was mad at you, I am going to tell them that you touched my vagina.  All the other women know about you.  You shouldn’t come back here unless you behave yourself.  I think you should see an escort willing to meet your needs.” 

       There are not many feelings better than telling a rich man that you don’t want his money.  It stuns them.  Threatens their whole world view. 

       What a jerk.

        If you are a fetish worker in NYC and want this man’s info, please contact me and I’ll tell you how to identify him.  He’s not a dangerous psycho, but he is a boundaries-pushing molester, and IMO he’s not worth the money.  He’s gross.  


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