Month: August 2015

I bring you tales of three clients from my last 2-day tour in San Francisco:

We’ll do the gross one first, so that we can refresh the palate with the other two.

This new guy has seen me five times in three weeks.  He’s “in love” with me.  And, of course, I find him obnoxious and barely-tolerable.

A grown-ass Korean-American (East Asians are usually pretty clean) who wears nice clothes and seems fastidious from the outside, one would never think that he was capable of such casual barbarism: in our second session, he came out of the bathroom and left a towel COVERED IN SKID MARKS on my computer chair.  I also heard him blowing snot rockets in the bathroom.

How?  How can some men be so completely unashamed of their filth?  If I left track marks on a stranger’s towel, I’d at least fold it up in a little square and try to hide it.  Or take it with me so that my host never saw it.  Gross!  The towel smelled!

He’s done it twice.  And he emails me constantly.  He wants to schedule a full overnight session, and sleep with me in the bed (he likes to cuddle–barf).  That’s at least $2000.  That’s a really expensive session for a fetish worker.  But it begs the question: exactly how badly do I need $2000?

Next up: probably the sweetest session of the year so far.   Get our your hankies!  It’s an elderly Japanese dentist (so many Asian clients in SF.  So.  Many.  They’re as common as Jews are in New York).  He must be 80, and he’s still working.  Diminutive–smaller than me, both in height and weight.

He’s a widower, and he’s lonely, and his family mostly lives in Hawaii now, and all that he wants is some body and foot worship and to be around my feminine energy, and to talk.

He showed up with flowers, a $45 box of Godiva truffles, and a very pretty wristwatch with Swarovski crystals on the face piece!  For the first session!  What a class act!  Of course, I never expect clients to buy me gifts–the service is expensive enough–but it is nice when it happens, especially if the gift is well-intentioned and the guy’s not trying to be a manipulative prick.

(He also gave me three toothbrushes. “Don’t forget to brush after you eat the chocolate,” he said, looolllllllllllll)

Because the gifts were so generous, I was a little bit suspicious–was he going to try to have sex with me?  Nope, he was respectful, and as good as gold.

Readers, this is the only time I have ever done a body worship session in which I actually felt like I was being worshiped and not consensually molested for cash.  You know how I feel about body worship.  I put up with it and do it when I have to, but, yeah, kinda gross.

Japanese Dentist made me feel like a golden goddess.  And he gave a great foot massage.

We talked a lot during the session.  He was highly intelligent, and a very cultured man.  You know I’m a sucker for cultured men.  We discussed his life and hobbies.  He gardens and also loves to write poetry.

“I finished a poem last night,” he said.

“Oh, yes?  What is it about?”

We went to his suit coat hanging in the closet and took out a moleskin notebook.  Then he sat back down on the floor at my feet and asked me if he could read it to me.

 Uh-oh.  Poetry recital.  In my mind, I braced for the worst.  Under no circumstances could I laugh or cringe if the poetry was ridiculous or…bad.  I must keep the gentle, approving smile on my face.  I can do this, I told myself.  I have survived four undergraduate Creative Writing workshops!  What would it be?  An ode to bicuspids and molars?  The joys of wisdom tooth extraction?  Flouride: How Do I Love Thee?

It was. A. Fucking. Good. Poem.

I couldn’t believe it.  I wish I could tell you what it was about, but it was very personal, so I don’t know if it would be fair to him to write about it here.  But, it was lovely.  I asked him to read it to me twice.

He said that he missed having company and conversation at dinnertime since his wife died (she died of cancer recently. Cancer fucking sucks, man), and he asked me if I’d dine with him when I visited the city next week (paid session, of course).

“We can eat at my house, in privacy, if you’d rather not be seen in public with me.  I can get it catered, whatever sort of food you like.”

“What?  Why wouldn’t I want to be seen in public with you?”

“Well, I’m so old, and you’re so young and beautiful.  I understand it could make you feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.  I’m sorry, Mistress, that I am so ugly.”

(I felt like my heart broke into a hundred pieces.)

I leaned down and stared him right in the eye.

“Listen to me.  I have met many ugly men in this business.  Men who were malformed in every way.  I know ugly when I see it, and there is NOTHING ugly about you.  I would be happy to eat with you any place in town, and I do not care who sees us or what they think.  But if you’d rather eat at your house, because of your professional reputation, we can do that, too.”

He didn’t cry–Asian men, I’ve found, are often very stoical and tough in public, unless they’re drunk–but he hitched in breath, twice.

“Thank you,” he said.

Lovely man, and a lovely session.

(But I exploit my clients, don’t I, Therapist Jung?)

Well, I was going to write about my last notable client, but writing that took a lot of out me emotionally.  I’ll try to get to it tomorrow.  It was an amazing session, and I can honestly say that I’ve never experienced anything like it before.  Here’s a teaser: he was a financial services creature in a great suit who is also (wait for it!) a black belt karate master who teaches part time at a commercial dojo!  I was sexually attracted to him, which almost never happens to me with Bottom men.  He was masochistic, but there isn’t a submissive bone in his body, which is extremely unusual–usually, there’s at least some overlap.  He wanted to be overwhelmed, truly dominated.  It was a hell of a challenge, because he was mentally and physically formidable, and, like me, he simply isn’t afraid of pain.  This dude was a tough fucking nut to crack, I’m telling you.  You can’t phone in a session with a man like this (I never phone in sessions unless the guy is a total offensive douchebag and I have no respect for him–I always give 110%–but you know what I mean).  I knew he’d know if I was faking the dominance, or if I wasn’t giving him authentic aggression, or if I was incompetent about delivering it.

I had to go very deep inside myself to find that kind of energy, that power.  Because, you know, it’s not my natural role, and it was also a 9 AM session, and I was emotionally exhausted from sessioning all day the previous day.

But, somehow, I found it.  I am proud to report that Mistress Margo brought home the goods.  It’s always incredible when this happens–it feels like a transformation when I go there in my mind, as if I’m being possessed.  A transformation, I like that.  Transformed into what…?  Something powerful and foreign, an owl or an eagle, a omnipotent prison warden, a stone-cold killer.  Franz Adler, perhaps.

The first thing I did was put him in a full-body rope harness.  Then I tied a chest harness on top of it, and then I tied his arms as his sides.  I tied the rope tighter than I usually do, because I knew he was going to fight back, and if he broke free, the session (and me) was going to be a lame joke in his mind.  I tied the harness so that the more he fought and struggled, the more pain and pressure he’d put on the rope that went between his legs, up his ass crack, and around his cock and balls.

Then I got him on his knees, and tied his ankles to the rest of his body harness, so he was stuck on his knees in a squatting position.

He was about 40, Korean-American (so. many. Asian. Clients. In San Francisco), and he had a streak of flamboyance to him that I usually associate with younger men–pinstripes on his suit, onyx cufflinks.  He was beautiful.  His body was CUT.  I can honestly say that he had the most impressive body of any client I’ve ever had in my career.  He looked like a fitness model.

As I finished typing the rope to his ankles (and I was doing it focused, fast, and furious–couldn’t be seen fumbling with the rope or dawdling with this man) , I said, “Like it tight, don’t you?”

He chuckled.  It was more like a sardonic sneer-chuckle, actually.

I was on my feet in an instant–I’d decided to go without high heels, because I knew I was going to have to move fast and well with this one.  If I stumbled and fell on my ass in front of him, I’d lose his respect.

I grabbed his nipples in both hands and pulled them hard as I towered over him.  His face scrunched up.

“See something funny?” I asked, crushing with my hands as hard as I could.  I pulled back, hawked, and then spat on his upturned face.  “There’s spit on your face.  Laugh at that.”

Then I kicked him right in the chest.  Hard (the entire session, I kept reminding myself that all the kicks and slaps and pinches and grabs had to be full-force, nothing halfassed, nothing weak, nothing pulled.  If you give this guy a weak little lame hit, he’s going to find you ridiculous).

He fell on his back and twisted there, like a turtle in its shell, trying to right itself.

“Back onto your knees!” I commanded.

He tried.  The bondage made it difficult.

I went and fetched my riding crop.  It’s a Fleck riding crop, finest in the world (imo), and when you hit someone with it, it hurts.  It hurts a lot.  It makes a fun little red impression on the skin in the shape of the slapper.

I grabbed a handful of ice and ice-water from the bucket on the desk and threw in down onto his naked torso, because impact hurts more on wet skin.  And I wanted this to be Blitzkreig.

“I’ll keep beating you with my crop until you’re back on your knees,” I told him.

I must have gotten in at least two dozen hits.  The crop made a whistling noise when it cut through the air, and it cracked on when it landed on his skin. When he finally got back on his knees, he was wet, red, and starting to sweat.

And he was disheveled, and fucking furious.

And oh, my friends: how this made me feel!  Mr. Bigshot peacock-of-a-man karate master, degraded and in my clutches!  And I knew–I knew–that if this man was free, and so inclined, he could kill me in about 30 seconds (I’m not saying he WOULD kill me, because this is still a session–it’s play).  I felt like I was in the room toying with a shackled, muzzled tiger.

“Awww, look at my pet!  He’s so frustrated and angry!” I went to him, bent over, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

He snapped at me.  His teeth clicked in the air by my gloved hand.

“Bad idea, Smiley,” I said, and walked to the bathroom while he kneeled there on the carpet, huffing and puffing.

I broke off a small piece of the bathroom soap bar.  Then I got my length of 1/2″ diameter rough hemp rope and, standing behind him, I forced it across his mouth, like a bit.  He didn’t want to open his mouth at first, but when I dug the my fingers into his neck, he opened up.  I tied it into and across his mouth like a gag, a bit.  I know it had to hurt.  I knew it was probably tearing his mouth at the corners.  And when his mouth was open, and I knew he couldn’t bite me because he couldn’t close his jaws, I inserted the small bit of soap.

He hitched and bent forward, drooling over the rope, trying to force out the soap.

“If you fall over, I’ll beat you until you get up again,” I said.

And I’ve written for three hours.  That is enough for now.