The Most Violent

       I was at my first dungeon, about two weeks in, when I had my first professional session in which I was to play the submissive role.

       Nothing about the man alarmed me in consultation.  He was a clean-cut white guy in a very good suit.  He carried an umbrella with a fancy handle carved into the shape of a hawk’s head.  I remember enthusing over the umbrella, and he handed it to me and let me examine it up close.  He told me that he picked it up at an umbrella store on Madison Avenue.  I was unaware, at the time, that such places existed.

      He was the eldest client I’d seen thus far, two weeks out of the gate.  He was older than my parents, who bore me late in life. He had to be past sixty-five.  I thought this made him “safe.”  I mean, how often does one hear about senior citizens attacking women?

       He wanted to spank me with his bare hand.  He was experienced.  And of course, he knew that I’d keep my underwear on.

       Well, okay.

        He tipped me up front.  $50.  If I’d known what was coming, I would have charged at least an extra $200…or not done it at all.

        But I didn’t know.  I was green, green, green.

       Which, I was to learn, was typical of his MO.  He stalked the dungeons looking for new girls.  After you’ve been in this industry for a little while, you know what that means:

       Predatory scumbag looking for women without firmly established boundaries.

       Fucking management.  I can’t believe they sent me in there without warning me.  Because this guy was well-known.

       I put my money away and returned to the room, and I was startled because he’d stood up…and he was much taller than I’d guessed when he was sitting down.

        Then man was huge.  6’4″, at least.

        I’ll never forget what happened next: he approached me, as I stood there nervously in my corset, bra, and heels, and looked me right in the eye.  Smiling.  He was forcing a lot of direct eye contact.  And once you’ve been in this industry for a little while, you know what that means.

        I kept looking away, but there was nowhere else to look.  The room was full of mirrors, and I was suddenly very self-conscious.

         What the heck am I doing here in this room with this strange man, wearing these clothes..?  I asked myself.

         Ah, yes.  My first moment of clarity in the Biz.  Today, I call these moments “What am I doing with my liiiiiiiife?” moments.  
          He stared me down, got up close and personal, and then (get this)–

          He put his huge, long-fingered hands underneath my hair and cupped my skull, turning my face around towards his.

          Then I registered something else that alarmed me: his hands were hard.

          What?  What was a businessman his age doing with hard hands?  What the hell was going on here?

          Oh boy.  I had a lot to learn.  

           But that was okay…because my teacher had come to my house.

           “You are a very pretty girl,” he said.  He did not say it as a compliment.

           You know what I felt like…?  I felt like a maiden in a Grimm fairy tale about to get eaten by an ogre.

           I tried to look away because I couldn’t stand to meet his awful hungry eyes, and got another look at myself in the mirror.  Ah yes: how did I get here, and what am I doing with my life?

          He flipped me over as if I weighed no more than a bag of feathers and started to beat my ass.  No warm-up, no warning, no safe word, nothing.

         I felt like I was in the room with a dangerous animal, like a gorilla.  There was no communication or connection.  It was plainly obvious to me that he was going to do what he wanted when he wanted to do it.  And he was fucking strong.

         It occurred to me that he could kill me.  Then my mind went blank.

        I was just hanging on.  Yep.

       The good news was that it was over with fairly quickly–if it lasted ten minutes, I’d be surprised.  

        But ten minutes can be a long time.  It can be a long, long time.

        I screamed.  It’s a good thing I did, because it seemed to excite him, and that probably made it end more quickly.

       I assume he came in his pants, but I really have no idea.  I was too afraid and trying to stabilize my body to pay much attention.

       He stopped as quickly as he started and pushed me away.  I stumbled in my high heels and fell on the floor.

        He did not try to help me stand.  He adjusted his necktie and smoothed his hair, and asked to use the restroom.  I got to my feet and led him there.  My whole body was trembling.

        It was not the worst spanking I’ve ever taken–not by a longshot.  

        But it was one of the most violent. 

       What did I make from that experience…?  $140?  It happened around the start of the semester.  I probably used it to buy textbooks.

4 thoughts on “The Most Violent”

  1. *Sigh*

    Why do some men hate women so violently?

    Because women, for all sorts of reasons, make them feel vulnerable, and there can be no sexual intimacy without a degree of vulnerability.

    That vulnerability is an existential threat to the male false-self system based on absurd phallocentrism and its equally absurd bedfellow ‘masculinity’, that male children introject from their earliest years.

    And men are secretly terrified that the whole rotten, wormeaten edifice of masculine superiority and entitlement will come tumbling down if a woman so much as touches it with her little finger.

    The more beautiful and desirable the woman, the greater the threat.

    Fear begets hatred as sure as night follows day. I bet your punter felt mucho macho after taking out his insecurities on your pretty little arse.

    1. Hi Tony;

      Thank you for this thoughtful comment.

      I agree with your thesis in general, but something tells me this particular guy has zero self-awareness.

      I’m sure scaring the shit out of me (because that was the worst part of the experience) made his day, though.

      He came back to see me next week and I refused. I bet that gave him even more satisfaction.

    2. Some clients are the worst! I wonder if the clients of other sex workers such as escorts or strippers are as bad, or if fetish workers get the bad apples because we work at the apex of sex and violence?

  2. Knowing what you do now, is there something about him that would have tipped you off during the consultation? How can you detect these dangerous clients and protect yourself?

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