Heinrich Dominates Margo

It was the second night of my tour to San Francisco, and after thirteen sessions I was emotionally drained and exhausted.  Thirteen sessions is a LOT of BDSM.  Some of the sessions were very physical, and I was spotted with bruises even though I hadn’t been subbing (domination and fetish only).  I was still fucked up emotionally from Therapist Jung, and I’d just completed a session that involved publicly humiliating a client in the bar of the W Hotel in Union Square.

I was begging Heinrich to dominate me.  Usually I don’t feel sexual after a long day’s work at all–so much of my energy goes to my clients, and coping with their eroticism–but now, this moment, I needed something.  I felt afraid and out of control.  I felt all alone.  I felt like my clients were making me crazy.  I kept wondering if Therapist Jung was right, and my sexuality made me a sick person.  Thinking about my sexuality made me feel sexual.  I felt like I was going to act out–get on Craigslist and find a date, or go hunting at the hotel bar.

Heinrich to the rescue.  He talked me through it.  He did it in the middle of the night, too, and he had to be at work early in the morning.

His English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the right words.

“You are a weak, docile, small female animal!  Weak little prey for any man who walks along.  I should take you back out to the country.  You can serve me and my friends after we have been walking in the fields all day.”

I was kneeling in front of my computer in my black cocktail dress, still decked out from my session at the W Hotel bar.  He had me on the floor.  Heinrich doesn’t usually let his subs use the furniture.

“You are good for that.  Tending to us and meet-ink the needs.  You really are an obedient child and a well-trained servant.”

The wave of emotion that came upon me was overwhelming.  Maybe it was just catharsis after two hard days of sessioning out of a hotel suite.  Maybe it was all the second-guessing of myself I’d been doing for Therapist Jung.

Maybe it was just feeling like I was seen.   Seen and recognized and accepted for what I am.

(I really was an obedient, submissive daughter.  I did everything that was asked of me, and I was calm, and never resisted.  I worked hard, was responsible and dutiful. I don’t understand why my obedience never earned me the love of my parents.)

I started to cry, right there on Skype, on the floor of my hotel suite, in front of my computer screen.  Great hitching breaths, tears running down my face.

“I’m sorry!” I apologized.

“Nein!  You are a beautiful submissive woman, and what you have, for the offering, is very rare.  Your future husband should be keeping you in a closet, and beat you every day.  You need leading.  Like” he flapped his hand, trying to think of the word, “anchor.”

I was sobbing, yes, just sobbing on the Skype.  And, readers, you know I never cry.  Honestly, I cry maybe 6 times a year.  Ten times at most.

“You need some pain to focus you.  I am sorry, that I cannot do it myself.  Do you have the wood paddle?”

I sniffled: “Yes.”

“Bring it, please.”

I went to get my nice heavy wooden paddle.   I showed it to him on Skype.

“You need to take the pain where you have no wish.  Hit on the tits.  Five is good.”

Heinrich knows that I hate to be hurt on my breasts.  It’s a big deal for me.  Usually, I don’t even let men touch me there, even boyfriends, and I definitely don’t let men touch my nipples.  The Surgeon could, but he’s about it.

Well, I smacked my breasts five times, with the paddle, for Heinrich.  And it hurt, and I have mild bruising.

“Sehr gut!  Wonderbar!” 

And that was the session.  I don’t know how to end this blog post.


The Dinner Party


I keep everything on this blog Rated R.  I think I have only written two sexually explicit posts.  Well, this one’s the third.  It’s not exactly lurid, but it is very graphic by my standards.  It contains descriptions of sex and sadomasochism.  If you don’t want to read that, you should avoid this post.  Thank you.

*                                     *                                      *

I knew it something sexual was going to happen, but I didn’t know when.  Heinrich had it planned out in advance, but, naturally, he didn’t share his plans with me.   It was a surprise.

We’d just finished a light supper at his friends’ apartment in Brooklyn.  There were four of us seated at the table–Heinrich, myself, and our hosts, who were a couple.  What can I say about them that won’t compromise their privacy…?  The man was tall and dark-haired and worked in the arts.  The woman was a redhead, a true redhead, with long springy hair and freckles on her arms.

I’d just met them both for the first time.  I went with Heinrich to their apartment.  Heinrich carried a bottle of wine, and I bought a bouquet of flowers.

I felt an affinity with them when I stepped into their home: it was full of books and musical instruments.  The woman helped us with our coats and hanged them in the closet.  I felt a little nervous, because I knew something was going to happen that evening.  Also, they were Heinrich’s age–10-15 years older than I, and obviously well-off.  Their apartment was spacious by New York standards and they had nice things. Internally, I geared myself up to practice some class drag: I can pass as bourgeois if I need to, at least superficially.

They were charming and gracious hosts.  The woman brought us drinks (I had tea) and propelled the timeline: first, drinks and a tour of the apartment (a custom that I’ve never understood–why show guests your entire house?), then conversation in the living room, where the man answered questions about his musical instrument.  We talked about music for a while.  Then the woman seated us for dinner, which was delicious but seemed catered.   There were several candles on the table of various heights.  Heinrich moved one closer to me to emphasize my décolletage. 

Now the plates were cleared and the others were drinking port, and I was wondering when it was going to happen.

Heinrich turned to me and told me to stand up, please.

“Pardon?” (for a fleeting moment, I thought that perhaps I was being asked to help with the dishes)

“Stand up, please.  From the chair.”

I did.

He stood up beside me and put his hands on both my shoulders.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Here it is.  It’s time, I thought.

I nodded.  After Abduction Weekend, how could I not?  I knew he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.  But, still, the anticipation.

He slid the straps of my white dress over my shoulders and it fell in a puddle to my feet, chiffon and sequins.  Then I was standing there in my underwear and my stockings (I hadn’t worn a bra because of the cut of the dress, and my breasts are small).

The couple put down their glasses and clapped their hands a few times.  They were smiling.

I have no hangups at all about nudity, but suddenly I couldn’t face them.  I focused on a painting on the wall instead, behind the table.

“She is beautiful, yes…?”  Heinrich asked his friends.

“Oh, yes! Just wonderful!” said the man.

Heinrich grabbed my upper arm.  There was pressure in it this time.  He leaned in and nuzzled my neck.  I felt his breath on my skin.

“Recite, my dear,” he whispered.

My brain froze.  I stood still as a statue.  Then I remembered…from Abduction Weekend.

“Schön war ich auch, und das war mein Verderben,” I said, and I was so relieved that I remembered my line.

(“Fair I was also, and that was my ruin.” Faust, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe )

Heinrich led me away from the table by my arm, halfway across the dining room.

“Move onto the floor.  Onto the floor!” he said, pulling my arm down.

I dropped to my knees and went to place my hands behind my head, as I’ve been trained, but he told me to go all the way.  Hands and knees.

The couple had pulled their chairs away from the table.  They were staring at us, still smiling.  The guy in particular.  Heinrich put his shoe on my back, like a huntsman posing with a trophy.

“Crawl to him,” he said, and then he gave me a hard kick in the ass.

I started crawling…and then I heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being pulled out of a pair of trousers.  I’ve heard that sound many, many times in my life.  Oh, the belts I have known!

I knew it was coming before it actually hit me: Heinrich belted me.  It hurt and made a loud snap.  I yelped.

“Crawl to him!  Make it sexy!  Make it good!” he roared.

I focused on my movements and dropped lower to the floor.  Now, I was looking at the couple’s shoes.  I focused on his.  They were black loafers.

I crawled all the way across the room, with Heinrich beating my ass every step of the way.  The sound of the belt was the loudest thing in the room, much louder than the Mozart in the background.  After the first hit, I didn’t yell, though I exhaled hard.

When I got in between his knees, I cautiously looked up at him.  Ah, yes, the familiar pose.  I’ve spent a lot of my sex life on my knees, looking up at a man.

At least I knew where this was going.

“Do you like her?” Heinrich asked his friends, the man specifically.  The couple were looking down at me and holding hands.

“She’s perfect,” he said.

“Ask him for it!  Beg him!”  Heinrich said, and belted me again. “Beg him!  Grovel!”

(Heinrich’s English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the words pertinent to his sexual proclivities.  I mean, how many Germans would know the word grovel?)

I asked the man if I could suck his cock.  Please.  I made eye contact.  It was humiliating.

“Beg more!” Heinrich roared behind me.

Dignity has its charms, but this was neither the time nor the place: I started to beg.  Just like Oliver Twist, asking for more.  Please please please, may I blow you, Sir?

“Go ahead,” he said, and my hands flew to the button of his trousers.   I unzipped his fly and then exposed his penis.  He was hard as a rock.

I went to work.

Heinrich finally came out from behind me and stood by my side.  He leaned over and kissed the woman.  I saw it out of my peripheral vision.

“Remember, I don’t do pain like her,” I heard her say (referring, obviously, to me).

“For you, I will be gentle, very gentle,” I heard Heinrich say.  They kissed again.

She got up from her chair, and he picked her up off the ground, holding her in his arms. He carried her to a sofa in the adjoining room.  It was within eyesight.

I was wondering about this moment–how I’d feel inside, knowing he was making love to someone else.  I am not a jealous person at all, but I’d wondered if it would still hurt me somehow.  Sometimes you can’t control if you feel hurt or jealous, even though you know it’s not rational.

It didn’t hurt (thank God).  I had a partial view of them, reflected in one of the mirrors on the wall.

Even when he was bent over her, fucking her, her head with its coils of red hair nestled in his armpit, he was almost completely focused on me.

He stared at me the entire time.  And he looked hungry.

Hot Awesome Client

Hi!  I just got back from San Francisco.  This trip was not very lucrative, unfortunately.  I only had three sessions!  I think the Backpage disaster has (temporarily) torpedoed my business.  Now that Backpage is letting users advertise for free, there are about 6X the ads there were a week ago…the market is flooded.

But I’d much rather Backpage provided FREE ads than shut down it’s “adult” ad services altogether.

(Note: Backpage gets a bad rap, in my opinion.  People say it’s sleazy and unprofessional and low-rent, but I’ve met some of my all-time BEST clients on Backpage!  FORTINBRAS and MR. WOLF both contacted me through Backpage!)

Speaking of great clients, I have a short tale to tell of a new client I saw last night!  Since Therapist Jung threw my job and all my clients under the bus, I wanted to share this story of an awesome guy and a session that was nothing but happiness for all!

I don’t know what to call him….”Hot Asian Motocross Client”?  That’s too long…”Berkeley Grad Federal Agent”?  That’s too long, too!

The man made an appointment, passed the screening process with no problems, totally transparent, and showed up on time…

He knocked on the door and I let him in.

He was wearing–GET THIS–a hawt as hell motocross jacket, black with red shoulders and stripes (nothing too flashy, it was very svelte and understated), jeans, and hawt new black leather motocross boots!

ARRRRGH why don’t men wear this stuff every day…?!  It should be a LAW for men to wear it!  A LAW, I am telling you…!

He was carrying his motorcycle helmet in his hand, and he was wearing GLOVES, man!

He was an Asian gentleman, maybe 50 years old…?  He was just a little taller than I am, so about 5’11”.  His face was plain, and deeply lined, but it had a lot of character and it was expressive and interesting to look at, which is what is most important to me.  I know some women don’t find Asian men to be very attractive, but I’ve always liked the way they look.   He had a trim, athletic figure–moved very well, great posture.

He apologized for carrying his helmet, and said that he couldn’t leave it with his bike on the street because it would be stolen.

I took it from him and found a place for it, and then offered to help him with his jacket.  We started to make conversation about his motorcycle–I know a little about them, because my Uncle and Brother have them, and my Uncle taught me how to drive them.  I took off his jacket and hung it in the closet.  I got to touch his jacket, and talk about it with him.  It was KEVLAR, he explained–lighter, and more breathable in the summertime than leather.

(I wish I could have put it on and rolled around in it, like I did with Mr. Wolf’s, but I just met this guy, and that would have been unprofessional.  Though, I bet you that he’d have let me do it.)

I gave him a bottle of water, and we started talking.

Hot Motocross Client was a brianiac with an excellent sense of humor who spent 20 years as a Federal Agent working in LE in Washington, DC!  And the best part is, he didn’t have a “cop” mentality!  He was, like, a sensitive, skeptical, and self-aware cop!  A cop with an understanding of political power!  I wish they were all like him!

“Have you ever met an ATF Agent?  THEY’RE THE WORST!  Knuckle-dragging fascists (YES he actually used that phrase!  I am not making it up!) who always side-eyed me because I’m Asian!  But, you know what? I grew up here, I paid my dues, I know exactly what I’m looking at!”

I was howling in laughter in the chair by the desk.   We talked and talked like two birds in a tree.  He liked me so much that he extended for an hour, so that we could keep talking.

Then it was time for the session.

I told him to take off his shirt, because it was time to start.

Then I did something: I offered to help him off with new black leather moto boots.

He said, “Well, sure! That’s very nice of you!”

I told him to lay back on the bed, and I GOT TO TAKE  OFF HIS BOOTS!!!

(squirming in joy)

They were Italian!  Short–I just unzipped them and pulled em, and them came right off, unlike Mr. Wolf’s, whose took some muscle power.

They were beautiful.

He took a quick shower, and then we did the session.  It was a fetish session–obviously, if he’d been a submissive client, I would not have treated him that way.  I don’t want to talk about his fetish because I don’t want to violate his privacy.  I will say, though, that it was a totally harmless non-exploitive fetish.  It was a PG-13 fetish…maaaybe Rated-R.

I don’t go to work to meet my own needs or desires–though I always empathize with my clients as much as I can, as long as the clients are safe, and I try to find something lovable or charming about each of them–but ever now and again, I meet one that “clicks,” and it’s so much fun.  I know my job is to be there for the client, and not the other way around…but…this was nice.

Hot Motocross Client left floating on air.  And so did I.

And I know it’s an anecdotal experience, but Jungian Analyst can eat it.

Meet Top Gun, Shark of the Skies

This blog post will be considerably more cheerful than the last one…

I recently decided that I was sick and tired of not getting my masochistic needs met.  I’ve seen Heinrich a few times, and he gives me assignments to do via email and on skype, and he’s an excellent Top (I mean that), but our relationship is kinda rocky right now because of the fact that I’m doing sex work.  He doesn’t tolerate it.

So, that meant I had to search for a new guy.  I wasn’t looking for a master, a boyfriend, or a real relationship.  Just someone safe, who I found attractive, who visit me and manhandle me once a week, and maybe order a pizza.

I put an ad up on the internet.  I was completely frank about what I was looking for.  Why be coy?  Why fuck around?  This was the opening line (and the ad is taken down now, so don’t bother Google-stalking): “Very experienced slavegirl, single/unowned and not on the market…but I still have needs and they must be met.”

My email box blew up immediately.  Predictably, most of the mail was from idiots who got their ideas about how to be dominant from disgusting misogynistic porn.  Sorry, pornsick dude, I’m pretty wild in bed, but sex with me will never be an episode of facialabuse.com!  Pass!

The next largest group of emailers were just horny guys with no BDSM experience who said that they wanted to learn and were eager to try it.  While there’s nothing wrong with that–I’ve taught a few of my vanilla boyfriends how to meet my needs–I really don’t have the patience right now, and also, the time and the effort that would require teaching a new guy how to be my Service Top, would move the relationship into a level of intimacy (emotionally, psychologically) that I am just not interested doing.  I taught my vanilla boyfriends because they were already my boyfriends and we had intimacy and an existing relationship.

I was almost positive that I was going to find my new Top in San Francisco.  I was extremely skeptical that I’d be able to find anyone local.  I mean, there’s no kink scene in this stupid town–it’s one of the reasons I had to move away.  It’s true I met my first-ever Top here, but that was a random fluke, incredible good luck, like winning the lottery!

Well, incredibly, I hit paydirt!  I found someone local (well, sort of)!

He’s a military guy who works at the Air Force base outside of town.

I know, I know….you’re thinking to yourself, Huh?  Miss Margo and a military guy?  How’d that happen?

I’ll tell you how it happened: beggars can’t be choosers, and since I have absolutely no intention of dating this man or sharing any romantic activities or feelz with him, I set the bar much lower than I usually would.  I don’t need an intellectual scumbag with good taste who can impress me with his conversation and the things he’s accomplished in life.  I just need a safe, competent, experienced male who will respect my emotional boundaries, not get possessive-stalker-y on me,  and who will go away and get out of my hair when playtime is over.

And, of course, who won’t chicken out on the violence when it’s time to get down to business.  That’s happened to me a few times, and it’s frustrating, and it’s another reason I wasn’t interested in training a novice: sometimes guys are not as capable of being mean and violent as thought they were.  It’s exasperating to weed out a contender, email him for a week, go out to dinner, get him home, and find out all he really wants to do is slap some handcuffs on you and have sex. :/

Meet Top Gun.  Whatever else you can say about the man, he’s not a chicken.

Top Gun has a long career of flying airplanes and serving in our various illegal and ill-advised military campaigns.  The first photos he sent me were of him flying some freakishly fast-looking fighter jet.  I wrote back, asking for more elaboration, and he actually sent me a link to a video of him doing maneuvers.   I couldn’t believe it.

I’m sure his pilot abilities and the video would be enough to give the average woman major vagina tingle.  I’m sure it’s been getting him laid, and attention from chicks in bars, his entire life.  Macho shit like this doesn’t do much for ME, I’m afraid–I’m much more impressed with intellectual stuff–BUT, I will concede that it suggests some things about Top Gun that are attractive, and germane to our purposes:

Flying planes for the military, while uninteresting, is not a small accomplishment.  In fact, it is infinitely more impressive than anything I have done with my life thus far.  So, kudos.

Also, it means that the government trusts this man enough to let him fly very, very expensive pieces of machinery.  That means that he is competent, responsible, and not an idiot.

And he’s not an idiot.  He took me out to dinner at a local seafood restaurant (a nice place! Good food, ambiance, not cheap!  Sorry, hate to sound like a bitch, but if a grown-ass man took me out for buffalo wings on the first date, well, yeah, I would raise an eyebrow.  College is over with) where we could sit in an isolated booth and get to know each other.

He’s not an idiot.  I’m really good at getting a handle on peoples’ intelligence.  I think this guy would probably get about 115 on the ole IQ test.  He has a degree in Engineering from a very respectable school (memorable quote, over our crab cake appetizers: “I got good grades in college because I had to!”  This quote caused my inner educator to die a little.  He went on: “But school was such a pain in the ass!  I was glad to be out of there.  Professors are some of the stupidest people I’ve ever met!”  To be fair, he said this before he learned that I used to teach college.  He did feel embarrassed, and apologized to me.).

Politically, he is an atavisitic knuckle-dragging fascist.  I expected that he would be, because military guys skew right-wing.  Normally, this would be a deal-breaker for me.  The idea of actually sucking a Republican’s cock is pretty depressing.  But, what are you going to do?  What did I expect, that this macho career military person, who voluntarily terrorized a bunch of foreign brown people for four tours of duty, was going to tell me that he was a huge Dennis Kucinich fan?

“Women don’t belong in the Navy OR the Air Force!” he told me, with complete confidence, over his drink.  He was snarfing Royal Crown.  What a shocker!  “They’re ruining everything!”

I almost said: “Well, given the astronomically high rates of rape and sexual assault in the military, maybe you’re right.”


But I didn’t.  I just nodded politely and smiled, a skill I have perfected from many long, excruciating dinner-dates with clients.  In my head, I was wondering if maybe there was a way to work with this awful chauvinism: was there a way to somehow make it sexy?  Maybe I could somehow eroticize this piggish male dominance?  Can I make lemonade with this, somehow?  I am a sub, after all!

I continued to observe him and listen to him talk. The Empire needs guys like Top Gun.  He is a happy, contended man (well, somewhat–the government won’t let him fly as much now, because he’s getting too old, and I think that’s really crushing his self-esteem, which is understandable and which I actually found touching).  He is completely unburdened by imagination, introspection, or curiosity.  I have never heard anything remotely speculative come out of his mouth.  He never says things such as, “I wonder why that would be?”

What Top Gun is, is a big dumb shark.  That’s what he is!  He’s at the top of the food chain, a big dumb dangerous predator shark, just cruising along in the ocean.  The only thing he knows, is what he likes and wants, and that hunting is fun.

“Are you going to punish me for voting for Obama?”  I asked him, at the dinner table.

That made him start laughing very hard.  Then he got serious and nodded solemnly: “Yes ma’am.”

That’s when I knew, that this guy could do the job.  Getting shit done–completing the mission, following orders, bringing back the prize–is this man’s entire reason for being.  He wouldn’t be afraid to get violent.  Violence is his job.  Some of my readers will probably find my characterization offensive, but when you get right now do it, the military exists to secure resources via death and destruction.

And I was right: I invited him back to my place, and he tore off my dress (that actually pissed me off, but he paid me for it, including the underwear) and beat my ass.  He brought a pair of sap gloves.  It was the only piece of gear he brought with him.  Which was fine.  I have plenty of my own.  I asked him to use my favorite wooden paddle, and he did.  He didn’t have much experience with that, but, you know, it’s a paddle.  It’s not rocket science.  He did just fine.

Hottest part of the evening: I was over his lap, screaming (it hurt a LOT, there was no warm-up), and he told me to shut up, and put his enormous hand, still wearing the sap glove, over my mouth.  It covered the entire lower portion of my face.  Pretty hot!

It is with great shame that I report that I did end up sucking a Republican’s dick.  I’ll never forgive myself for that.  But, what are you going to do?

The shark took a shower and left.  He returned to his cruising.

I’ll probably see him again, if I develop a craving (the bruises are going to last the better part of a week).  I don’t trust him enough to let him tie me up yet, which is too bad, but we can do other things.  He doesn’t know how to use a lot of the other BDSM gear, but I can teach him.  I’m sure he’s a quick study.  I taught the Surgeon.

And that’s my blog post about Top Gun.  I dunno, readers.  I kinda-sorta like him.  He’s polite and respectful (except when he’s not, if you know what I mean).  He brought me flowers, called me ma’am, pulled out the chair.  He’s safe.  Didn’t complain about the condom (always the mark of a gentleman).

But he doesn’t capture my imagination, at all.  But maybe that’s a good thing.  He can’t get into my head.  Can’t seduce me, can’t rattle me.  I will always be in charge of this relationship.

But his job is Service Top.   And he’s good enough at that.