Cattle Prod

UPDATE:  I’m not getting too many comments on this one, but I have received a few emails from readers.  The consensus is unanimous: He’s crazy. Dump him.

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This is going to be a GREAT BIG VENT!  I am dumping the Collector until he gets rid of the cattle prod and apologizes for real, and if he reads this, I don’t care!

A while ago, he bought a cattle prod (presumably from Amazon, as there are not many ranch-supply stores in Manhattan).  It’s very similar to this one.  I recognized it because we had one at my old dungeon, although we seldom used it.

 

 

 

livestock-prod
FUCK this thing

The thing is, he didn’t introduce me to it until I was tied up and blindfolded.  I could intuit his presence leave the room, and then he came back a minute later and he turned the fucking thing on close to my ear.  They make a very sinister low-pitched humming noise.  It’s not loud, but it sounds like…well, electricity.

Oh boy, I thought.  I really hope that’s not what I think it is.

Now, I don’t mind playing with electricity–either giving or receiving.  I have a pretty powerful TENS unit that I use on myself, another one that I use on clients, and at the dungeon we had a fancy E-Stim and a violent wand (of course) and those gloves that convey electricity.  I’ve even used those anti-barking shock collars for dogs (on clients, not on myself, but I guess if I had a Top who really wanted me to wear one, I could endure it for a while).  I have fried the shit out of some guys like they were Floridian death-row execution victims.

The cattle prod, though, is different.

Besides the psychological terror aspect, it’s mostly harmless and as long as it’s functioning properly, it’s not going to burn you.  That said, livestock hates it for a reason, and a human being is much smaller than a pig or a cow…and without the protective thick hide and fur, either.

He started zapping my feet with it, and I confirmed what it was right away: it makes an evil little sparky noise and the pain, which lasts less than a second, is shocking (ha, ha!) and deeply unpleasant.

I tried to be a good sport and put up with it, and I’m sure my wiggling and toe-curling and teeth-clenching were entertaining to him, but my anxiety was compounded by the fact that he wasn’t communicating anything and I was concerning he was going to start using it on my genitals or my breasts or, God forbid, my head.  I had a blindfold on, so I couldn’t see where it was coming.

I begged him to stop and he did, so I guess it wasn’t quite a safe-out, and I guess it was my fault for putting up with it for so long, but I was a little pissed that he’d sprung such a serious implement on me without discussing it beforehand.

I also made it quite clear, in as non-confrontational a way as I could, that the cattle prod was not something I enjoyed or could even tolerate for more than one or two zaps and that it detracted from my sexy mood.

I didn’t really feel like it anymore, but I went through with the session and it was okay after that.

I thought that the cattle prod would be immediately retired to the Box of “Wish-I-Hadn’t-Wasted-the-Money” tools.

(You can see where this is going now, can’t you?  I’m sure you can.)

Well, the next evening he wanted to put me in the crate while we watched an episode of Frontline PBS he wanted to see.  Okay, that’s fun, I like Frontline (though it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t) and he always gives me water and a snack or a Diet Coke while I’m locked in there.

You remember the crate, don’t you?  I wrote about it here.

Halfway through, he gets up to leave the room (I thought he was just going to use the restroom or something)…and he comes back with the goddamned cattle prod! 

“What do you want that thing for?” I asked, trying to keep calm.  As if I didn’t already know.

He turned it on.

“Collector, this isn’t funny.  You know I don’t like that thing.”

Then he started brandishing it like he was going to zap me with it.  I drew back, as much as I was able, and told him to please knock it off and don’t hit me with it.

Then he ACTUALLY DID IT, and pandemonium broke lose: I went nuts.

I almost never lose my cool and I almost never cry or scream, but I did then.  The cattle prod scared me.  And it was more than that: he was acting in a very strange and threatening way, and I was in a vulnerable position in an enclosed space where I couldn’t get away or even try to protect myself besides covering my head with my arms.

Once I tried to grab it and pull it out of his hands, but I couldn’t get any leverage in the cage because of the bars and the fact that I couldn’t draw my elbows back and couldn’t control it.

“Don’t wiggle around so much.  I wouldn’t want to miss and hit the wrong place,” he laughed like it was a joke.

“FUCK YOUUU!” I screamed, and started kicking the door as hard as I could.  Which wasn’t very, because I couldn’t pull my legs all the way back to really hit it hard.  Frankly, I don’t think it would have mattered.  It’s a heavy piece of furniture.

He stopped zapping me and watched.

“Let me out NOW!” I screamed.  I was flaying around so hard that I knocked over the cage while I was still in it.  I rocked it over onto its side.

Then he finally let me out and I ran to a bedroom with good locks on the door and cried some more.  My bare feet and shins hurt from kicking on the wood and wire.

Emotionally, I was…extremely distressed.

Then, get this: about half an hour later, he came by and rapped softly on the door and asked if he could talk to me.

“Go away!  I don’t want to talk to you!”

Then he started jabbing the cattle prod under the door like he was trying to zap my feet!

I screamed and jumped in the bed.

I stayed in there all night.  He didn’t bother me anymore.  In the morning, before he left for work, he knocked and asked me if I was still pouting and said that he was sorry and he wouldn’t do it again.

I got my stuff and Abe and booked a flight out of there using his Frequent Flyer miles.

Cattle prod needs to go and I am NEVER getting in that cage again.  He ruined it.

Meet the Boys II

So, the next evening started as a scene of domestic tranquility, until it got weird and sexualized.  It was actually so normal that it struck me as bizarre, because readers will know that normal is not my thing and it was not exactly typical in my childhood homes.

Dad was in the kitchen making dinner–a pork loin–and he’d baked bread, too, so the house already smelled good.  I was in the big room playing chess with the young one. I was losing, as usual, because I’m the world’s worst chess player (I’m not so bad at the logic part, but the game involves spatial reasoning, and I can’t reason my way spatially out of a wet paper bag), but we were enjoying ourselves.

After he mopped me up with ease in about a dozen moves, I asked him if he wanted to play again.

“Yes!” he said.  “It is fun!  When I play with Father, I always lose.  Everyone always loses with him.”

Oh, believe me, I know, I thought, but of course I did not say that.

Then, I suggested that we switch colors because maybe I would get his good luck if I played black.

He said that he always played black, and so I did the next reasonable thing and challenged him to a thumb war.

It was the first time I ever touched the boy, other than when I shook his hand when I met him.  As I said in my last blog post, I’d been trying very hard to avoid even the slightest suggestion of impropriety.

Well, for whatever reason, we both found it hilarious and started laughing.  He was making these kung-fu noises before he smashed my thumb down.  We were both laughing really hard and telling each other not to cheat.

Then I said we should arm wrestle, and that was even funnier because it was even more ridiculous.  He is only 14, but he is still bigger than me and I have skinny little bird arms that have gotten even skinnier because I haven’t been able to lift weights since the grease fire (couldn’t risk opening the wounds), so the “competition” was a joke and we were both laughing our heads off like it was the funniest thing in the world.  You know how sometimes something is so funny that you can’t stop laughing…?  It was like that.  The tears were coming out and I was probably running my makeup.  I don’t know why it was so funny.

Then he suddenly stood up from the table, ran over to me, and picked me up.  He started spinning me around, making helicopter noises, until I had vertigo.  I was screaming and laughing, but I didn’t seriously tell him to put me down, so I guess it’s my fault…?

He ran with me into the kitchen to show his Dad.

“Look!  See what I’ve got!” he said.

Dad looked up from the oven, with a big smile on his face: “I see you take after me!”

The kid started laughing again and reversed himself, making car motor noises, and started to run off down the hallway.

“Hupp!  Don’t run too far with my prize, boy!” His father shouted after us, laughing.

He carried me into the reading room just off the hallway, which is essentially a minor library.  It has windows in it, and the orange sunset light was coming in, but it was a bit dark.  New York doesn’t have the amazing, world-renowned sunsets of my homeland, but sometimes the colors still come through.

Then the elder son came in.  The one who’d looked at me in my bath the night before.

I don’t think that I can convey the change of atmosphere in the room.  We both stopped laughing immediately.  You could have heard a pin drop.  It was as if the temperature dropped 20 degrees.

He strode right up to us and extended his arms…and then said, incredibly:  “It’s my turn.  Give her to me.”

What THE FUCK?!  I thought.

The young one gripped me tighter and started to back away.

“Put me down, please,” I said.  My voice was calm, not breathless or screetchy. I was suddenly scared and I wanted to re-exert control. I also noticed that in all the roughhousing, my skirt had ridden up.  I was wearing bike boyshorts underneath for modesty, so nobody was getting a show, but, when your skirt goes up, well, it’s a thing.

He did not put me down!  WHAT?

I started to try to help myself out of his arms.  I wasn’t making a huge fuss because I didn’t want to be dramatic, but I wasn’t going to just sit there and take it.  The situation had suddenly gotten weird. Also, even though I’m skinnier now, I’m not a small woman–I’m quite tall and I’m not going to let some teenager hold me after I told him to put me down.

THEN it occurred to me that he did not put me down because he was scared of his brother.  I don’t think he was ignoring me; I think he was off in his head.

Something is going on here that I don’t understand, I thought to myself. I felt I was looking at two boys that had a secret together.

The older one approached again, still holding out his arms.  Like I was a book or an inanimate object.

“Put me down NOW!” I repeated, and rolled out of his arms and onto my feet.

Then came the voice from behind us, in the doorway.  It was in his language, so I couldn’t tell what he said, but it sounded a lot like What is this?

It was Dad.  The Calvary had arrived.

He extended his hand to me and I immediately ran over to him.  I know that made me look weak, but I was scared. At the same time, I didn’t want to get the young one in trouble, because he hadn’t done anything wrong.

“(Young one) and I were just horsing around,” I said.

Dad stood there, appraising the situation.  I understood, instinctively, that the boys were afraid of him.  There was a lot of tension in the room.

He told the younger one to keep an eye on the pork loin in the oven, and then took me by the hand and pulled me down the hallway to his bedroom, where he fucked me, quickly and violently, on the carpet.  The competition–if that’s what it was–had apparently excited him.  I tried hard not to make noise, but, you know, it had to have been obvious to the boys what was happening.

Then we all ate dinner at the table.  I guess you can imagine the ambiance for that one. Dad was the only one with any appetite, but we all ate, all right.  The wit here, on the scenic Western slope, is: If he’s treatin, you best be eatin.

Secrets run in families like streams of water, down through generations.

Welcome home.

Chromebook of Doom II

I managed to calm down before he got home…at least somewhat.  I took Abe out of his cage and put him on my shoulder, because his birdie warmth is always a comfort to me.

I kept reminding myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong and that, if anything, I ought to be angry that he’d violated my privacy, but the truth was that I felt anxious and defensive (which was his intention, I’m sure: leaving the Chromebook out like that, instead of asking me about it immediately in a gentle and non-confrontational way, was his way of maximizing the suspense.  He knew he wouldn’t have to torture me while he was working all afternoon–he set it up so that I’d do it to myself).

How was I going to behave when he walked in the door?  What did I do?  He hadn’t given me anything to work with, so I had no idea what he was feeling.  I jumped out of my skin every time my phone beeped, but he wasn’t sending me any text messages.  I was just twisting in the wind.

Well, I’m not proud to admit it, readers, but, since I was afraid and, irrationally, felt guilty, I folded like a cheap card table before he even got home and decided the safest thing to do would be to acknowledge my supposed “crime,” explain myself–if he was interested in hearing it–and offer to do whatever I needed to do to diffuse the situation.  I surrendered at the first whiff of gunpowder.

It’s embarrassing, really.  Other people in my life would be taken aback by this passivity.

When he returned, I’d dutifully returned Abe to his cage and taken off my clothes and was working on one of these watercolor paint-by-numbers books he bought for me last time we went to the Met.  My “paintings” all turn out horrible because I can’t paint for shit, but he finds them charming and sometimes hangs them on the fridge like I was a little kid or something.

The elevator stopped at his door and my stomach flipped over.  I asked myself which was better: to look like a guilty Golden Retriever who’d scattered the trash all over the house, or to try to look “normal.”

I heard his shoes rapping on the wooden floor as he walked into the room, a little past the doorway.

“Welcome back.  Can I get you anything?  I put a bottle of wine in the fridge to chill,” I said.  Sometimes he likes to have a beer or a glass of wine when he comes home from work.

He stared at me, expressionless, and then turned and walked out without a word.

I heard him walk down the long hall to his bedroom.  Then, the sound of running water.  He was taking a shower–it was a hot, sticky day outside.

I suddenly felt exposed, alone in that big room without any clothes, and I put my painting away and retired to my doorless bedroom.  He’d come and get me when he felt like it.  I lay down on the bed, curled up on my side, and stared guiltily at the big book that held the chromebook.

I heard him making a few work calls from inside his office, and that was it: no music, no TV news, no invitation to conversation.  It was silent in the house, and it was making me a nervous wreck, because it wasn’t normal–he wasn’t a noisy guy, he never played anything at a high volume, but he typically kept to a routine: relax after getting home (or work), dinner, bathtime with me (or go back to work), etc.  Even Abe was silent, and usually he sent me the occasional contact call when I was out of sight for too long.

Finally: cooking noises.  If possible, my heart sank a little more.  Dinnertime was usually a delight, part of our quality time, but since the toast, I never trusted it completely again.

He appeared suddenly in my bedroom doorway and I jumped, startled.  This time, I hadn’t heard him come up–he’d taken off his socks and leather-soled shoes and was in his bare feet.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, and blurted: “How long have you known?”

He cocked his head to the side and calmly laid out a trap: “Known what, Margo?”

“About the book!” I pointed at it.

“Oh, Margo,” he said, softly. “I’ve always known.  Do you think I don’t know what goes on in my own house?”

Oh, the horror, the horror.  It reminded me exactly of growing up in my mother’s house, when she would give me no privacy and go through my rucksack and all my stuff even though I wasn’t acting out or disobeying any rules or having any behavioral or academic problems.  It gave me a neurosis about privacy that’s endured all my life, and it made me paranoid as hell.  It’s not fun, being paranoid and unable to trust people.

Well, I couldn’t take it.  I burst into tears.

Now, I don’t know about you, but usually when someone I care about starts crying, I feel compassion and try to comfort them, even if I’m angry with them.  It’s alarming to me, because nobody in my family ever cries and when I see someone else do it, I think they must be dying or something.

So, I don’t know, I was hoping this would be sufficient evidence of contrition and how miserable I was and maybe he would come over to the bed and give me a hug.

Instead, he just said, softly, “Dinner is ready.  Come to the table.”

I shook my head.  “I don’t think I can eat.”

“You will eat.  Come to the table.  We’re having ravioli.”

(In retrospect: telling your sobbing houseguest/girlfriend “We’re having ravioli!” strikes me as distinctly bizarre.)

I nodded, got up from the bed, and said I’d be out as soon as I blew my nose and got myself together in the bathroom.

I did that, smoothed my hair, and walked to the dining table.  The table was set and he was dishing out the pasta.

“Have a seat,” he said, nodding at my chair.

I sat down.  Again.

The pasta was fresh from the Italian deli up the street and so was the marinara sauce and I had no appetite whatsoever.  Quite the contrary: I felt like I was going to throw up.

What is up with this guy’s weird desire to control the food? I thought.

“The cheese filling gets hard as it cools,” he reminded me.

I started to eat, mechanically.

“How do you feel?” he asked, as if it was not obvious.  I sneaked a look up at him from my pasta.  The expression was one part condescending smirk and one part devouring eyes.

“It’s not fair,” I said, slowly chewing and forcing myself to swallow.  It wasn’t easy.

“What’s not fair?”

“It’s just a computer!  You can’t go through my stuff!”

He cocked his head again.  “I can do whatever I want.  The computer is not the issue.  I’d be happy to buy you ten computers.  The issue is that you tried to hide it.”

“You make me paranoid!  The stalker app on my phone!”

He ate another ravioli.  He was enjoying this, I could tell.  Savoring it.

“Is there anything else you want tell me, Margo?  If so, now is the time.”

It was too much pressure.  I started crying again.  At the dinner table.  My mind was swirling with all of these little trivial things that I had no idea whether he knew about or not.

Sometimes, when I get really upset, I throw up.  Involuntarily.  Or at least heave for a minute.  It happens.  I’ve always been that way.

“Can I go to the bathroom?  I’m going to be sick.”

“You can throw up on the floor and clean it up later.  We’re not done here yet.”

I gagged.  My mouth was suddenly full of spit, which is always a good gonna-vomit indicator.  I pulled my chair out a little way and bent over at the waist with my head between my knees.

“Don’t leave the table,” he said.  His voice was firm now.

I nodded and waited for the nausea to pass.  When it did, I sat back up and pulled in my chair.

Yeah, it went on like that for about an hour.  It occurred to me, in retrospect, that I make the same mistake every time with these guys: when they’re legit torturing you, you can make the mistake of thinking that an apology and display of pain will eventually provoke compassion in them, but that doesn’t happen.  The only thing it does is compel them to twist the knife.

Well, dinner ended at last, and I was feeling pretty traumatized, and I thought it was finally over.

I asked him if I should get ready for the nightly bath.

“Bathe yourself tonight,” he said curtly.

Ahhh, rejection.  Although, after the ice-water bath, maybe this wasn’t so bad.

So I went to take a bath, feeling utterly emotionally exhausted.  I just lay there and stared at the ceiling.  The sad this is that I really missed him now, and just wanted him to not be angry with me anymore.

Time for bed.

TO BE CONTINUED

Chromebook of Doom

He found the Chromebook.

The secret Chromebook.

I’d bought the secret Chromebook a few weeks previous because I was becoming very paranoid that he’d installed a keyboard logger and/or some of that software that records all the internet sites visited by the user on my regular laptop.

It’s not that I had anything to hide.  I wasn’t sneaking around or lying to him about anything.  But you don’t have to be hiding anything to not want someone monitoring your private email accounts without permission.  Nor did I want him reading this blog.  Because it’s…well, nobody in my private life knows about it, and that’s just how I like it.

So, I went to BestBuy and bought a little Chromebook and paid for it in cash.

Then I went to The Strand bookshop and shopped until I found a hugeass hardcover book that was the right size for my purposes…and that book wasn’t cheap.  Cost me $125.

I hollowed out the book with an X-Acto Knife and put the Chromebook inside, and then put the book in the bookshelf in my bedroom…and that is the computer I would use to check my private stuff on the internet when he was away, or to maintain my dream journal, or drafts of blog posts.

Well, I came back to his apartment and walked into my room…

…and found the book open on top of my bed, with the computer inside.  There was no note, no nothing.  Just the open book.

You can imagine my reaction: I froze in terror and felt all the strength draining from my legs.  It was all I could do not to collapse on the floor.  My face went numb.

I closed the book and put it back in the bookcase where I stored it.  I couldn’t think of anything else to do with it.  My hands were shaking.

Then I walked stiffly out of the room and sat down on the couch, trying to calm down…but calming down was impossible, because now I had to look forward to the inevitable confrontation when he got home from work…four long, long hours from now.

It was uglier than anything I could have anticipated.

To Be Continued….

Don’t Keep Him Waiting

(The blog’s been quiet because I burned the hell out of my hand and upper arm in the kitchen fire.  The injuries hurt like hell and also prevented me from typing.  I still can’t make a fist with my right hand and I had to take last week off from work because I look like a leper.  The wounds are improving daily, however, and they shouldn’t scar.)

 

It was 12:45 PM and I was in a cab going from his place near the Flatiron Building to the Upper East Side to meet him for lunch.  He’d made a reservation at a special place and wanted me to meet two of  his friends for the first time, who would be dining with us.

Well, I’d been in the cab for almost an hour and we’d just managed to pass Times Square.  Traffic was an absolute nightmare; the street might as well have been a parking lot.  I was freaking out because the reservation was at 1 PM and kicking myself for not taking the subway–I’d decided on a cab because it was hot and sticky outside and I knew that if I took the train I’d sweat all my makeup off and ruin my hairdo by the time I arrived.

On top of that, I couldn’t text him and let him know what was going on because my phone was dead. 

Now it didn’t matter whether that the cab had AC: I was sweating it out anyway.

After half an hour, we’d gotten to the East Side, but were still only halfway there.  I was panicking and knew that I needed to contact him and explain–there was no way I could just stand him up in front of his friends.  He’d kill me.

I asked the driver if I could use his phone.

“Sorry, no,” he said, which I felt was pretty fucking rude, given the fare I was running up.

Ten more minutes.

I saw a Radio Shack, told the driver I’d get out, and bolted for it.

Inside, I bought an overpriced phone charger and begged the staff to let me use an electrical outlet.  They could tell I wasn’t lying when I said that it was important.

Once I had power, I sent him a text explaining the situation.  By this time, I was about 40 minutes late for lunch.

He wrote back: Forget it.  Just go back to the apartment.  I’ll meet you there. 

(I would later learn that his friends had to cancel last-minute because of an emergency at work, which meant he’d been sitting at a table alone 40 minutes.)

I apologized profusely and took the subway back to his place.  I changed out of my dress and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich, because I still hadn’t eaten.

I was two bites into it when he walked in the door.

“I am so sorry about this afternoon.  The traffic was horrendous and I was stupid not to make sure my phone–”

He walked right up to me, snatched the sandwich right out of my hand, and threw it in the garbage can.

“If you won’t eat with me, you must not be hungry,” he said.

I stood there, blinking in surprise, letting it all sink in.

Finally, I sighed and nodded.  I understood: he was pissed and punishing me for it.  Okay, fine.  Personally, I didn’t think it was fair–the traffic wasn’t my fault, and I’d left in plenty of time–but, well, that’s life.

I guess I’ll have to wait till dinner, I thought.

I picked up a glass and went to the fridge to use the water filter.  I’d been in all that heat and I was very thirsty.

“No,” he said when I put my hand on it.

“No water?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I put the glass away and checked the clock.   Only about five and a half hours until dinner–unless he was working late or coming back to town completely jetlagged, he was a pretty consistent dinner-at-8 guy.  And when I was there, we always ate together.

Five and a half hours of thirst.  Not fun, but I’ve had worse.

“Stay in the library,” he said, and walked out.

I thought of dashing to the fridge for a bottle of water and immediately decided against it.  Better to wait.

I got my laptop and played on the internet for a few hours.  He came in to check on me every now and then.

Thirst isn’t fun.  I can ignore being hungry.  It’s much harder to ignore being thirsty.  My mouth was dry and it felt like my tongue was swelling.

Then I got a “bright” idea: the next time he poked his head in the door, I asked him if I could take a shower because I’d sweated on the subway all the way home (he’d taken one; I’d heard the water running).

“Why?  So that you can drink from the faucet?  No.”

Foiled.

I kept waiting, and at about 7 PM, he came back, and this time he was happy.

Oh thank God it’s over, I thought.

“I’m making shrimp scampi for dinner!” he announced, smiling.

“Great!  Do you want me to help you in the kitchen?  Set the table?”  About half the time, he wants me to help him make dinner.  He’s a good cook, and he teaches me things.  Other nights, he prefers to do it alone–besides torturing women, I think it’s how he relaxes after work.

“No, I’ll do it myself.”

Soon, I could smell the cooking and started envisioning a plate of shrimp and a few big glasses of ice water.  With condensation dew on the glass.  And a wedge of lemon.

“Dinner is ready, Margo!” he called from the kitchen.

I practically ran to the dining room.

It looked how it always looked, unless he was in a big hurry to get back to some work project: tablecloth, cloth napkins, two candles.  He was already seated.  Beautiful, aromatic plate of scampi, rice, glass of white wine, and water.

I pulled up to my place.

There, in the middle of the plate, was…a single piece of toast.

You son of a bitch, I thought.

“Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing with his hand.

I stiffly took my seat.

“You know, I think I lost my appetite,” I said.

“But I cooked for you!” He laughed at his own joke (it was true–he had, after all, toasted the bread).  “It would be rude not to eat.  So eat.”

Get it over with, I thought.

I picked up my toast and took a bite.  It was unbuttered, dry, and crunchy, and chewing it took forever in my desert of a mouth.  I couldn’t produce any saliva.  It scratched going down.

He sat there and ate his meal, happy as the proverbial clam, no doubt getting lost in self-congratulation at what a witty and clever fellow he was.

“This wine really matches the dish perfectly,” he said.

If I’d had cutlery, I just might have stabbed him in the hand with my fork.

I got about halfway through the slice of toast when I couldn’t take it anymore and  meekly asked if I could have some water.

“Of course!” he said, rising from his chair.  He went to the cabinet and selected a wide, shallow soup bowl, which he filled with water from the sink and carefully carried to me.  Then he took his chair.

I stared at it.  What the hell was I supposed to do with it?

I looked at him.  No feedback.  He just watched me and ate his food, smirking.

I reached out to grab the bowl in both hands–I guess I was supposed to tip the water out to drink, and hope it didn’t spill out the sides of my mouth and down my chest.

“Don’t use your hands,” he said, sharply.

“Well, hell, can I at least have a straw?

“No,” he said.

The bowl was shallow and had a flared rim.  There was no way to drink the water without literally putting my face in it.

Should I have been stubborn?  Refused?  My dignity was already gone, and I was thirsty.

I bent my head to the water and slurped at it.  It took a few slurps to get a mouthful of liquid, and they were loud.  The human face is not designed to drink that way.

When I sat back up, I felt water running down my chin.  He hadn’t given me a napkin, so I wiped it with the back of my arm.

“Better?” he asked.

I didn’t respond.

“Well, wetter, at least,” he said, and chuckled.

I finished my bread, took a few more noisy slurps of water, and asked to be excused from the table.

“No,” he said.

So I had to wait for him to finish his food and clear the table.   He blew out the candles, came up behind me, and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Ready for bath time now?”  He always gave me a bath after dinner unless he had really important work to do.  It was part of our nightly ritual when we were together.

Was it over?  Finally?  Was he done; satisfied?  I was angry but I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones if it meant he was finally going to forgive me and relax and I wouldn’t have to be stuck in this house with an unpredictable sadist anymore.  If he was happy with me again, well, hell, what’s a little Humiliation by Toast?  I’ve had a fuck of a lot worse, believe me.  In fact, I’ve done a fuck of a lot worse.

I pulled back my chair to stand up to go draw the bath, as usual.

He gently pushed me back down into the chair.

“I’ll do it tonight,” he said.

Uh-oh, I thought.

TO BE CONTINUED (it’s not pretty)

 

 

 

The Puzzle

He was on top of me, which is usually very enjoyable to me because I like to feel the man’s weight and warmth and to smell him, but this time it felt claustrophobic.  His thumbs were grinding into the nerve that runs under the arm and the armpit, and it hurt.

“I love your expressive face.  I want to see what you look like when you cry,” he said.

“I…I don’t know if I can.”

“Did your last master ever make you cry…?”

Not exactly the happiest thought to have while in bed with a different man, but I was, as always, honest (besides, he would have known if I lied): “Many times, but not from pain.  If it gets very intense, my eyes tear up sometimes, but that’s an involuntary physical reaction, not from emotional distress.”

“That is a barrier I want to break with you,” he said.  His hands were grinding, grinding, grinding away and his face was right in front of mine.  I couldn’t look away from him.

“I’m…I’m not sure if I can; if I’m even capable.  I don’t think I even want to,” I said.  The pain and the warmth of his body were starting to make me sweat.  At the same time, my mouth was dry, and when I swallowed it made a clicking noise.

“We’ll find out together,” he said, and gripped the nerve in my armpit as tightly as he could.

The pain was too much and all at once, and I couldn’t process it, I couldn’t transform it, as I am usually capable of doing–doing automatically, even.

He lowered his head and started to bite my shoulders.  Hard.  The impressions from his teeth were gone in a few hours, but his probing fingers left bruises in the morning.

I started to squirm and writhe around, making screechy little noises.  I couldn’t help it.

“What will it take?” he panted against my neck.  “Do I need to hurt you from inside?  You know I am learning all your tricks, Margo.”

With that his hands relaxed, and he lifted himself up onto his arms, looking down at me.  He was smiling–I could see it, even in the dark.

I shuddered and relaxed.  Assuming it was over, and now we’d just have sex.  I don’t know if I was aroused, per say, but I was certainly geared up: adrenaline going, heart pounding, the long muscles in my thighs twitching.

He slowly bent his head, and I thought he was coming in for a kiss.  I opened up my mouth and pressed my body up against his.

Instead, he spat onto my upturned face.  Laughed.  And then reached back and slapped me upside the head.

When I dominate men, I never slap them in the face unless they specifically request it, because, as I’ve written in one of my very early blog posts, it’s both extremely intimate and psychologically loaded.  It’s humiliating.  And, like being strapped by a belt, a lot of people have negative memories associated with it from childhood.

He reversed hands and slapped the other cheek.  Seemed to know what he was doing–his aim was true, and he avoided my nose and orbital bone–but it was a hard slap.  It made a thunderclap in the room.

He pulled back and did it again, his other hand pinning my shoulder down on the bed.

Besides the emotional distress, in my experience, being hit in the head causes one’s thinking to short out.  I can think–to a greater or lesser extent–when I’m being hurt on any other part of my body.  Not so on the face.  When I’m being hit on the face, all I can do is have the experience and the feelings.

“I want to see you cry.  I want that part of you.  I am greedy, and I want it all,” he said, smiling.  He pulled back and did it again.

He did it again.  And again.

The first emotion after disbelief was rage.   I screamed at him to stop it, baring my teeth, all the tendons in my neck standing up.

To his credit, he stopped immediately.  He was always in control of himself, this one.  He didn’t slap me again, but instead turned my head to the side and pressed it down, hard, into the pillow.

“What will it take…?” he asked.

“More than that!” I snarled.

“We will learn together.  I like puzzles.”

He hasn’t solved this puzzle yet.

The Puppet

 

CONTENT WARNING: This one is more sexual than most of my posts.  I think it gets an “R” rating and it’s not pornographic, but there is sexual content and description of masturbation and a little (consensual) sexual violence.  I feel a little bit weird putting myself out like this, but, hell, it already happened, and it’s not like I’m claiming credit for it under my legal name.

In any event, if this sort of content offends you, you shouldn’t read.

*                         *                                    *                               *

He told me to masturbate, which startled me because he’d never asked for that before.  I am almost completely sexually uninhibited, but this is one thing that makes me feel self-conscious.  It’s a very vulnerable feeling, doing that in front of a partner.  More: it’s potentially humiliating.

But I did it.  I did it there on my knees. What was I going to do, tell him no…?  My cheeks were burning and I couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds at a time.  He watched me from across the room, with his arms folded across his chest.  His eyes were keen, but the rest of his expression was neutral.  He wasn’t giving me any feedback at all.  I sneaked a glance at his crotch, looking for evidence of an erection, but I couldn’t tell anything through his trousers.

I stayed in position, working at it, for what seemed like forever.  I was too embarrassed and nervous to get myself off, or even to become really aroused.  The insides of my thighs were trembling a little, though, from being in a difficult position, and I’m sure the top of my chest was flushed.

Suddenly, he strode over to me at a brisk pace and grabbed a handful of my hair.  Hard.  It hurt, and I sucked in breath.

“Komme,” he barked, and started walking, pulling me by my hair.  I got on my feet and scrambled after him.  He held his hand at elbow level, so I couldn’t stand up straight or look around me.  The leather soles of his shoes rapped on the hardwood floor.

He dragged me down the hall and into his bedroom.  Then let go of my hair, and I stood up straight, panting, my eyes watering.

He grabbed me by my upper arms, lifted me, and literally threw me onto his bed.

I already knew he was strong—he’s in fantastic shape for a man pushing 60, and he has a pilates instructor and a weight room—but he was a small-ish guy, wiry, shorter than me.  I am almost 5’10”.  I did not expect him to be able to throw me like that.

I yelped like a kicked puppy and landed on my back on the white duvet.

I did not sit up.  I lied as I had fallen, waiting for instructions.  My skin was broken out in gooseflesh and my scalp hurt where he’d pulled my hair.  I watched him from the bed.

He looked down at me, and his expression wasn’t neutral at all now.  Now I perceived an odd mixture of emotions on his face: he looked tense and hungry, but also triumphant.

“Finally,” he breathed, more to himself than me.

I got a chill on the back of my neck and down my spine, and the hair on my arms stood up even more.  I realized I was curling my toes and that my hands were clenched in tight little fists.

He unbuttoned his suit vest and then his shirt, not taking his eyes off of my prone body.  He dropped the clothes on the floor, which I’d never seen him do before—he was always very fastidious, and, at minimum, would drape them on a chair, or on a hook on the back of the door.

He stepped out of his shoes, took off his socks, and then unbuckled his belt, still looking at me. The jingling of the belt buckle.  Oh, the belts I have known.  Are there any sounds I know better, more intimately, than those associated with men’s belts?

Then we were both naked.  A first for us.  He’d seen me naked many times, of course, and I’d sucked his cock on multiple occasions, but, like most male Tops I’ve known, he always declined to fully undress (he would often remove his shirt, but no more).  I understood why: clothes give you power.

“Do you know what you are…?” he asked me, approaching the bed.

I thought fast:  “A…slave?” I guessed, hoping for the best answer.

“You are a toy.  A toy that I bought myself for Christmas.”

He climbed onto the bed and straddled my chest, pinning my arms under his knees.  He put his hand on my neck, but didn’t squeeze.  I could feel the heat radiating off of him.  I looked into his face, trying to read him, but I suddenly felt that I could not predict this man or what he had in store for me.

“You know that sometimes boys break their Christmas toys,”  he said.

With that, he brought up his hands and brought them down hard on my upper chest, just around the sternum (not the breasts—I never could have handled that, no matter what, and he knew it.  I never let men torture my breasts.  The Surgeon could, but he was it.).  The slapping noise was very loud and the jarring sensation shook me.  He hit me very hard.   I think he probably hit me as hard as he could.  It felt a little bit like being thrown forward into a safety belt when the car slams on the breaks.  It felt a little bit like falling from a height onto your back.

He did it again.  And again.   And again.

It was a strange feeling, looking up at his face over his erection.  Strange.

He climbed off of me and grabbed my hair with one hand, my bicep with the other.  Even after that violence, he was not trembling at all.  He always ran cold, this one…not like the Surgeon, who ran hot, and would fill up a room with his emotions.

He flipped me over and maneuvered me into position, on my hands and knees.

Then, penetration.  As he kneeled behind me.

The first time.  We’d done the “Bill Clinton Compromise” (as he put it) after our 6th session, and I was always comfortable with it because I was attracted to him and trusted him, and I wanted to do it, even though it made me feel distressed  about breaking my sexual boundaries  (it was the third time in my career as a fetish worker/prodomme/pro-sub  that I broke a sexual boundary—the previous two times were with the Surgeon and the Mathematician).  God knows how many blowjobs I gave this man in limos or sedan cars outside of Lincoln Center or the Met.

But, we’d never had intercourse.

He grabbed my hair again and I felt his fingers raking down my back, over my spine, while he drilled into me.  His fingernails were extremely short, but the tips of his fingers dug in.

“What sort of toy are you…?  Are you a doll…?  A puzzle…?  A kalidescope, like a Rorschach test? ” he asked, again, mostly to himself.

I couldn’t say anything.  Only pant.  My neck and head were bent back too much, clenched in his fist.  And the motion.

“I know!” I heard him say.  “You are a puppet!  My puppet, and I control your body now!”

It is really the oddest feeling, to be out of control of your own body.  It happens to me when I’m in an extreme state of sub-space (dunno if I believe in “sub-space” as it’s currently defined, but I know SOMETHING happens when you get into that head state).  It’s thrilling, but horrifying in its way.

“You were good.  Show me how you come now,” he said, and he released my arm and started smacking my ass.  My neck and head were still held back, taut.

I am an animal.

It feels like being possessed.  Not possessed as in “owned” (tho there is an element of that), but possessed as in being possessed be a demon or a ghost.  I don’t have an explanation for it.

He played with my body for a long time.  An hour, at least.

Then, in the morning, he gave me berries and cream for breakfast.

Tales from The Biz: Evading a Rapist “Client”

UPDATE:  Oh, I forgot to say…THERE WAS NO WEBCAM ON MY PC.  MY SHITTY ACER LAPTOP DOES NOT HAVE A WEBCAM. AND THERE WERE NO OTHER CAMERAS IN THE ROOM.

I WAS BLUFFING THIS RAPIST! TOTALLY BLUFFING!

*                                  *                               *

I was almost raped at work last week.

I debated with myself about whether to write about this story for two reasons: 1) would reliving it in detail in my mind be worth it? and 2) I hate to provide fodder to sex work abolitionists who use any bad experience to “prove” that all sex work is exploitative and awful and that men who hire sex workers are disgusting and deranged.

But…this is a blog about my life, including my experiences at work…the good, the bad, and the ugly.  I’ve never censored my experiences in the Biz and I’m not going to start now.

This man books an appointment with me via email.  He didn’t have any references from sex workers (ha! wonder why?!), but he did give me verifiable employment information, so I confirmed the appointment.

I asked him if he’d seen prodommes before and he was a little vague…yeah, a long time ago, in Miami…he said he had recently ended a relationship and wanted to try it again.

He said that he “liked feet” and wanted a “sexy experience.”

Well, okay.  I was already slightly annoyed because this description didn’t give me much to run with, but I thought, okay, it’s a body worship session.  In my next email, I outlined exactly what I allow and don’t allow.  I was very clear.  He said okay.

Soooo…it was 9 PM, my last session of the day (session #5, but they’d been staggered with hours-long breaks throughout the day, so I wasn’t too tired).  He came into my room, and the first thing I noticed about him was that he was big.  A big beefy man, 6’4″ at least, probably taller than that.

(Bet you anything this fucker played football or baseball in college.)

Middle-aged white guy with a red face, baseball cap, and reddish-brown goatee.

I was trying to start off with the getting-to-know-you small talk chit-chat that almost all new clients (AND ME!) like to have.  After they’ve been established, I can start dominating them the minute they walk in the room, but when they meet me for the first time, most clients like to introduce themselves and talk for a few minutes in order to relax with me and discuss their session ideas, and to make sure they are attracted to me and ready to go forward with the session.  I offer them a refreshment, see if they want to shower or use the toilet…we get comfortable with one another.

Well, this guy immediately sat down on my computer chair (I hate that) and started to undress.  It was a little alarming, and it made me wonder, momentarily, if he was a cop.  But then I thought to myself that a cop wouldn’t get nude because he’d be wearing a wire, and he’s also want to get me to say that I’d do some sort of sex act.

He just threw his clothes down on the floor.  I offered to hang up his jacket and he ignored me.  Then he barged over to me and started yanking on my dress (I’d told him that I was willing to strip down to my bra and underpants, but no more).   I heard a seam rip!

“Don’t rip my clothes!” I protested, and pushed him away (more like, I stepped back.  I was not going to be pushing this guy anywhere.  He was too big).

I pointed at the floor in front of the plush armchair and told him to kneel down on the clean bath towel I’d laid on the carpet.  I told him to stay on that bath towel unless I gave him permission to move.

He paused for a few seconds, and then (grudgingly, I felt) kneeled on the towel.  I did not like his vibes.  It seemed like he did not like to be told to kneel on the towel, which is not the vibe I would get from an earnestly submissive man.

Usually, I have a bit of an act at the start of a body-worship tease-and-denial session: make them kneel, put a collar on them, maybe handcuff their hands in front of them, flirt with them and ask them sensual questions about their fantasies, etc etc…

Well, this man had already ruined “the mood,” but it was worse than that: I felt, instinctively, that he had zero interest in any of those things and was going to complain or resist me if I started with them.  I thought: Okay, he wants to get down to business, he wants to eat my feet and jerk off and LEAVE, and he’s one of those paradoxical clients who are whorephobic and actually resent the women they hire.

I lifted my dress over my head, folded it, and laid it on the bed.  Usually, if the client isn’t an asshole, I do it in a gradual, teasing way while I talk to him, but, like I said, this man didn’t seem interested, and I wasn’t feeling very sexy.

I sat on the chair in front of him, and I was still TRYING to be sensual and nice.  I put my feet on his chest.

Well, he grabbed my foot and put it into his mouth, and he was rough.  He was biting my foot!

“Hey, hey, big fella!  Watch the teeth!” I said.

Well, he switched, and then started biting my other foot! I reminded him to keep his mouth soft, and he would back off, but then start with the gnawing again.  Then he started to go up my legs, and he was sucking and biting on my thighs!

“Hey!  Just licking and kissing only.  Please don’t suck like that.  I can’t have marks,” I said.

He backed off, and was more gentle, and then started again!

I was just about out of patience.  I pulled my legs away and grabbed him under the chin and pointed his face up to mine.

“Tell me: did you have a lot to drink at dinner tonight?  If you have, I just want to know.  You’re being rough and you’re not listening to me.”

He grunted and shook his head.

I dunno.  He MIGHT have been drunk.  I think that a man like him might have been drinking to get up the courage for what he intended to do to me, and his behavior was erratic.  However, I didn’t smell any alcohol smell on him.

“Okay, fine,” I said (also wondering to myself: why isn’t this man TALKING?).  “Now, you need to be more gentle.  I can’t have bite marks, okay?”

He (grudgingly, I felt) returned to kissing my skin…and then he reached up his hand, to touch my hair.

Now, I have very fine, soft, silky hair.  I don’t like it, because it’s so flat and thin, but I know that men like to touch it because it’s so soft.  If the client is respectful and not a DOUCHEBAG, and I like him, I will often throw my hair over him…the men love it, they find it very erotic.

Well, this fuck did not touch or pet my hair.

He grabbed a handful of it and yanked on it!  Hard!

I was done.  Nothing about this man was submissive, he was being an asshole, all the alarm bells were going off, and I was pissed.

I immediately stood up and walked to the other side of the room, grabbing my dress.

“This session is over!  You need to put your clothes on and get the fuck out of here.  NOW.”

In retrospect, I am proud of how composed I was…I guess because I was angry, and not scared (the fear came later).  My voice was loud, but low and firm.

He stood up, all red-faced, nostrils flaring, and he had a look of hatred on his face.  His hands were opening and closing into fists, opening and closing.

And then, I saw it in his eyes: he was going to try to rape me.  There was no doubt in my mind.  And I understood that he came to the hotel with the intention of raping me.

Well, not “me,” not Miss Margo.  He came with the intention of raping a sex worker, (“a whore,” as I’m sure he thinks of us in his disgusting mind).  That is why he didn’t want to talk to me for even five minutes when he came in the room: talking to me would humanize me, maybe make him see me as a real person, and then he wouldn’t be able to do what he intended to do.  

I thought fast, and suddenly, I had a burst of inspiration!

“Hey, guy!  See my laptop there?”  I pointed at my laptop on the desk.  “My webcam has been on the entire time, it’s recorded everything and saved it in the cloud.  Even if you break it, the video is still there, and I have another camera in the room, too.  If you hurt me now, everyone will know about it!  And the hotel cameras in the lobby filmed you coming in!”

He looked at my laptop, and then back at me.  There was a 3-second beat, where I saw him doing the calculus in his mind.

“Get dressed and get the fuck out before I call the police,” I said.  I was staring him down, direct, unblinking eye contact.  I was doing this in my bra and panties, too.  I am really proud of myself for keeping my composure.  I wasn’t shaking or scared…not yet.

And this raping motherfucker…started to pick his clothes up off the floor and put them on.  In a big hurry.

“I thought you liked it,” he said.  “I thought you liked it, I thought you wanted it.”

“Why the hell would you think I liked it?  The entire time you’ve been here, everything out of my mouth as been negative or telling you to stop!”

“I thought you liked it,” he repeated.  He was getting dressed so fast that coins were falling out of his pants pockets.

“I didn’t like it and you know I didn’t like it!”

I thought you liked it, classic rapist’s excuse.

I pulled on my dress, thought for a few seconds, and then said: “I won’t charge you for the full hour.  You can pay me for a half-hour session.”

You guys, I know I was really pushing it with that one, but I was still PISSED OFF, and I knew…I knew that if I didn’t at least TRY to make him pay, I’d hate myself afterward.  He’d only been in the room for 10 minutes, but I earned something, he’d put his mouth on my body, I tolerated his bullshit, and I was going to remember him for many years to come, I earned something!

“That’s $200,” I said, standing by the door.  “And you are blacklisted!” 

(I know you’re not supposed to tell bad clients when they’re blacklisted, because it gives them the head’s-up to change their telephone numbers and aliases, but I was so angry that I wanted to tell him he was exposed.)

He ran to the door, huffing and puffing, red-faced, fumbling with his wallet.

Then, get this: he took out $200 and threw it down on the carpet at my feet.  I guess he thought it would be degrading for me to have to pick up the money off the floor.  Degrade the whore, yup, fits right in with his rapist mindset.

“Have a nice life!” he bellowed, and ran out the door.  Yeah, scumbag, throw down the money and get the last word in.  Really clever reportee there, really clever insult, wow I am so hurt….NOT.

I watched him run for the elevator.  He was literally running away.

I closed the door and bolted it.

Then I took a long, long shower.  I scrubbed and exfoliated and shaved my legs, every place he had touched me, and shampooed my hair.

When I picked up his money, I didn’t feel degraded at all.  I felt like I won.  Paying me was an admission on his part.

Worst client I’ve had in San Francisco, hands down.  Nobody else even comes close.

…except that he’s not really a client, is he…?  He’s just a rapist asshole who targeted me because he thought I was vulnerable and he could get away with it.

You know, I’ve been molested at this job probably a dozen times over the years.  It’s always something like a quick grope where he knew it wasn’t allowed, or a guy suddenly pressing his penis on me or putting my hand on his genitals, or suddenly kissing me on the mouth or putting his tongue in my ear.  Molestation, you know, a boundaries violation.

But I have never thought that I was about to be raped…(the molesters always backed off when I told them to stop).   Yeah, of course I worry about being raped, especially when I was still doing sub sessions and I was more vulnerable, but I have never thought: This man is going to rape me.

Until now.  This asshole intended to rape me, and I am lucky that he did not punch me in the face on his way out the door for revenge that I’d foiled his plot.

I really dodged a bullet with this one.  Skin of my teeth.

But I got out okay…and I won.

(5) A Map of the Pain Revisited

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         I hate to have my picture taken, which strikes some people who know me as odd, since I’m actually quite photogenic.  When I was working as a prodomme I had to get my professional photos redone every year to keep them current, but otherwise I avoid having my picture taken.  I don’t like looking at myself.

        The exception are injuries photos.  From beatings.


En Route

      I’ve documented most of my more significant or interesting beatings over the years.  I know the photos by heart.  If you showed me a random photograph of bruises on my back, I’d be able to tell you where and when it happened: “Surgeon, San Diego 2012.  I was wearing my red dress.”  

         Sometimes I’d take photos of the marks as they worsened and then gradually healed, trying to capture the colors over time, from blood red to hematoma black to gray to green to yellow, and then finally to pale Margo skin.  

        I’d take photos from as many different angles as I could, usually in front of a mirror, or mirrors.  Bathroom mirrors, most often.  

         Sometimes the Surgeon would take them for me.  He was the only person I really talked to about these photos.  Well, I didn’t really talk to him about them…but I shared them with him.  He was very indulgent in this matter.  This was, in fact, one of his rare true moments of grace: he never judged my masochism, my craving for violence.  He accepted that part of me completely, and he did what he could to meet my needs.

          I’d show him pictures on my computer screen: “See that one you left last time?  See, look now!  The chain left that!”

         He’d smile and nod.  That was something else: the marks never revolted or disturbed him.  It must have been all the medical training.  He wasn’t squeamish at all.

          I remember him touching my shoulder one time: “Margo, be careful who you show these to.  I know that they make you happy, but people won’t understand.  Don’t keep them on your PC in case you have computer problems.  Promise me.”

         He was right, of course.  I’ve seen the way people react to my marks.  Even people who ought to know better, like other mistresses in the Studio.  I was photographing my ass after a heavy caning session with a visiting Englishman when I saw Maria looking at me.  Her expression was fear and revulsion.  Sometimes other people can understand how I could do it for money, or do it as a gesture of love for the man who inflicts it.  Almost nobody understands my feelings of excitement or fascination, the curiosity.  Or, strangest of all: my complete disregard for my own physical integrity.  I have fears.  Pain is not one of them. 

        I can get caught up in re-examining these old photos, studying them, reliving the experiences and what happened afterward.  Why? It never gets old.  I look at them as if there will be something new.  An answer, perhaps.  

         That’s all for tonight.  There’s nothing else.  

     


Boots as Inspiration

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         In a recent email, Heinrich asked why I hadn’t finished posting the events of my going-away party, my last S/M session in New York.  

         Well, I was depressed and stressed out about my employment situation, and not in much of a mood to write.  Also, frankly, I felt a little awkward and self-conscious writing about jennings gags and getting your buddy’s splooge on my face, I wrote. 

           He wrote back:  I think the blowjobs were the least controversial activity of the evening.  Not that we did not enjoy them, so thank you for that.

           The pleasure’s all mine, I said. 

           Yes, that is at least somewhat true, for an eager cocksucker like yourself.  Your next master should withhold it as punishment, but most men would not have the restraint.  Anyway: write it all.  I liked to read it. 
        
            It might take a few days.  It’s partially written already, but I need to finish it, I responded. 

            The next email contained only a picture of his boots.  The subject line had one word: Inspiration.  

             And it was, and it has.

                      *                             *                       *                      

            I have a lifelong fascination with the male uniform, and none of it attracts me more than footwear and belts.  I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a fetish, but it definitely captures my attention.

           The psychological appeal is obvious: shoes and belts are used as handy weapons by household tyrants around the world, and the boot is both part of the hunting uniform and a symbol of institutional authority.  The men in my family are ex-military and take the appearance of their shoes seriously, and maintaining the shine on my father’s shoes was one of my childhood chores.  

The Policeman’s Daughter, Paula Rego c. 1987

             Getting kicked around on the floor, or groveling at someone’s feet, is humbling in a way I have seldom experienced and have difficulty describing.   Let’s just call it what it is: it’s fucking humiliating.  There are many activities in BDSM that a person (bottom) can do while assuring themselves–correctly!–that they are not actually being dominated or humiliated.  Getting your neck pinned to the floor with a boot is not one of those things.  Nope, nosiree.  There’s no way that you can experience that and be able to unpack it from its tremendous cultural baggage: since antiquity, if you wanted to humiliate a person, humble them, or publicly demonstrate your superiority, you got them up close and personal with your shoes.  


       It’s also a little scary, as anyone who’s taken a swift kick to the ass–or, worse, the ribs–can attest (if you listen closely, you’ll hear the dogs of the world yip in solidarity).  The Surgeon’s loafers had metal plates under the toes that left crescent-shaped imprints in my skin for hours, like little brands.   

        Because the act is so authentically submissive and personal, I almost never did it for money.  Enduring practically any sort of pain or corporal punishment I could take (if I so chose) as impersonally as if I was doing manual physical labor, but kissing someone’s shoes or letting him kick me was just too psychologically loaded for me to do at work.  Fortunately, it was almost never requested…

        ….which interests me, because, as a Top, it’s a huge fucking power rush.  Boner city, man.  Some of the hottest sadistic memories I have involve getting some poor fucker on the floor and leaving a dirty boot mark on his face.  This is entirely distinct from a typical foot/shoe-worship session–if the guy was kneeling up and had a hardon while drooling all over my heels, it did absolutely nothing for me.  Making a boy get on the ground, though, especially when he doesn’t particularly like being there, is something else entirely.  Extra points if he’s fastidious and the floor or my boot is gross.   Extra extra points if he’s not into humiliation and there are a few other people around to witness his debasement.   Yeah, seeing a scared eyeball roll up at you from the floor is quite a charge, all right.  Very fapp-worthy.  Miss Margo highly recommends this experience.  It definitely gets my Mistress Stamp of Approval.  

         I remember every time I’ve been stepped on by a man, worshiped his boots, or had some other devastating encounter with his footwear.  It’s interesting that the memories are important to me, but they are not purely, or even primarily, pleasurable.  Some of the emotion I feel about it is negative, apprehensive…there is even some shame, which I almost never feel in relation to my sexuality.  There is some shame here, though.  I admit it.  When you clean the dirt off your cheek or rinse out your mouth, you inevitably have to ask yourself exactly what sort of a sick fuck you must be to voluntarily let yourself be degraded like that (and on the heels of that: What does my partner really think of me?).    

           But the pull, the allure, is very, very powerful, the excitement undeniable.  It’s a wonderful, precious thing, that level of intensity.  I enjoy it so very much…even when I don’t.

         Here’s another pair of boots I have known…and unabashedly adored: Mr. Wolf’s.  Gosh, that was a fun session.