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.

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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.

Some Bitch Stole My Purse


The Show Must Go On.   I’m going to San Francisco tomorrow, and I’m doing it on a shoestring.   The Greyhound bus ticket is $9 (at least they offer onboard wifi now, or so they say).   And, best of all, I found a last-minute deal on a 3.5-star hotel in Union Square for $91/night on  This is wonderful, because usually I have to pay at least $220/night to get a 4-star in that area.

The hotel looks nice enough–the Tripadvisor reviews are good.  The room’s the size of a postage stamp (“boutique” and “European” are the euphemisms used on the website), which is going to be a challenge in a session, but hell, I’ve still got lots of bondage options, and if I can do BDSM in my bedroom, I don’t see why I can’t do it in a little hotel room.  I’ll try to look extra-beautiful and give a great performance, and if the room turns the clients off and they don’t come back, well, I still got their money, and there’re always more clients in the world.

I’m also saving a lot of money on gasoline and parking garage/valet.  Cuz I don’t have a driver’s license (I’m going to the DMV today, wish me luck).

I’m going to have to get up at 4 AM tomorrow.  My biggest fear is that Greyhound will be “you get what you pay for” and will be, like, two hours late, which will cause me to miss my first booking.

I also need to drop off my pet parrot, Abe, at Birdy daycare (the boarder).

Here are pictures of Abe.  I have lots of videos, too, and I’m trying to figure out how to upload them on the blog.  Cuz that is what my 8 readers all really want to see, I’m sure: parrot videos.



He likes to look out the window


First Snow
First snow of the season


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What a disaster.

Yesterday morning I got up early and went to the gym before my alcohol rehab support group.

I’d been there about five minutes.  The place was almost empty, because it was 8 AM on a Sunday.  Went into the locker room/bathroom, took off my coat and purse.

I left both on the countertop by the sinks.  I did not see anyone else in the locker room.

I went into a stall to take a leak, and when I came out 30 seconds later, my purse was gone.

My purse that had my wallet and my sex work cell phone.

I panicked, of course, and ran out of the bathroom to see if I could find anyone carrying it out.  The gym is huge, but I didn’t see anyone.  I ran past the front desk and out to the parking lot, looking for someone getting into their car or walking away.


I dashed back inside and told the front desk that my purse had been stolen and asked them if they’d seen anyone just walk out.  They said no.

(I am willing to bet you anything that it was a staff member of some sort who stole it.)

I went back out to the parking lot and looked around, and then back to the locker room.  I looked underneath my coat.  I looked under the sink.  I looked, for no reason I can discern, in every single locker, and then I went out to the floor and approached everyone in the gym.

Then I went out to my car and sobbed.

I fucking hate thieves.  There is no reason for anyone older than, say, 14 to be stealing anything but food. Being stolen from is the worst feeling in the world, a mixture of helplessness and violation.

But let me tell you why having my purse stolen is especially bad:

First, the phone.  It’s an expensive phone that hasn’t been paid off yet.  I needed a work phone to keep things discreet and separate.  I wash the phone on a regular basis…delete phone logs, text conversations, stuff like that.  But…it has my client list in it (no last names, just first names or the affectionate or UNaffectionate monikers I think up to describe the guys), with phone numbers.

More importantly (from my viewpoint) I have the numbers tagged that have been abusive, timewasters, no-call-no-shows, drunk/inebriated, blacklisted.  That way I can recognize them on sight when they reach out to me and IGNORE THEM.

I’ve also used that phone to take pictures of clients who want a photo as a souvenir, or who as for a photo of me as a souvenir.  I never let them photograph my face, and I try to delete the photos after every session…but what if I didn’t delete them all?

I take pictures of my hotel rooms, pictures of sightseeing in SF…there’re lots of videos of my pet parrot in there, because I watch the videos at night when I’m on tour and sad and lonely.   So now this THIEF has video of inside my apartment.

But wait, it gets worse.

On Friday, I did my banking and paid for all of my monthly bills at once, because that’s how I like to do it.  Then I took out some cash to pay for Abe’s boarding at birdy daycare while I’m on tour, and the month’s alcohol rehab support group.

And I also took out the money to pay for this week’s tour to San Francisco.

I do that because I keep a separate bank account, at another bank, that I use for anything Biz related–ads, hotel rooms, BDSM gear.  I take the money out of my main checking account and deposit it into that other account.  I only check that account from my home PC.  I’m very secretive about it.  Like, I don’t want to accidentally leave my online banking browser open on my tablet and have my mother see it and ask what all the hotel bookings are for.

I should have gone to the other bank to deposit it immediately, but I procrastinated and just took the money home with me.

So, in addition to getting my wallet, this thief also got all the money.

My savings is tied up in a CD.  I have $10k and I can’t touch it. I have almost nothing left in checking after paying the bills.  I’m strapped, and I need to go to work, and I have no idea how I’m going to do it.

Anyway, one I was done sobbing, I filled out a lost-item report in the gym and then went to the cell phone store and had them turn off my phone and disconnect the number.

Went to the police station and filled out a police report (I almost didn’t do that, because it means claiming the sex work phone…but it’s not illegal to have phone numbers).  I know I’ll never get anything back, but I wanted to make a paper trail.

Then I took my guns and all of my gold jewelry and started touring the pawn shops.  What depressing fucking environments.  I mean really, really depressing and sad.

Everything that I have of value is hawked.  Oddly, I feel saddest about my revolver.  I’ve had that thing for 15 years.

It’s not enough.  I have enough money to get to SF on the train (because I can’t drive there without a DRIVER’S LICENSE and the only ID I have is my passport) and a day and night in a hotel room.  I have three sessions lined up and I’m trying to get another.  If they all come through, I can extend into the next two days and meet the sessions I have scheduled for those two days.

If I get cancellations or no-call-no-shows, I am fucked.  If anything goes wrong, I am fucked.

The only reason I am not completely freaking out is that at least all my monthly bills have been paid (except for food.  Ha! Ha!).

I want to find the bitch who stole my purse and beat her head in with a rock, caveman-style.

Misogynistic Client

I almost didn’t blog this, because this jackass doesn’t deserve even ten minutes of attention, but he upset me…so here it is.

Indian guy.  Young.  My age.

I hate to say it, but: my experience with Indian clients is almost all negative.  I really do hate to say that. because I had Indian friends in my grad program, and I had an Indian client/boyfriend in New York I was tremendously fond of…a genius, a very enlightened feminist gentleman.  He was a wonderful person in all respects and he enhanced my life, and I have nothing but appreciation and admiration for the man.  I don’t want to sound like a narrow-minded provincial bigot.  I don’t want to be racist.  I am a guilty polite liberal.  I don’t want to be racist.

But Indian clients…are the worst.

Disingenuous and hostile, for no reason.  And misogynistic.

Get this: this Indian guy books a session, passes screening, arrives to my hotel suite.

He claimed to be submissive…but he wasn’t.

Less than 10 minutes into the session, he said to me, in a very strong and judgmental tone, out of nowhere–apropos of nothing: “Your pussy stinks.  Go wash it!”

I was stunned.  I stood there blinking at him like I was pole-axed.

Okay, first of all, I was wearing two pairs of underwear–a thong and lacy boyshorts.  Under a cocktail dress.  And I was standing five feet away, and this man had no contact with my crotch at all.

How on earth could he have any idea what I smelled like…?  (Answer: he was making it up)

Also: I’d just taken a shower!  Not even 30 minutes ago!  If I physically exert myself in a session, or have any significant physical contact with a client, I take a shower afterward!  I stagger my sessions with (at least) an hour break in between, so that I can bathe and clean the room!  I’d just had a hot shower, with soap!  Certain-Dri deodorant, shaving, the works!

Now, I’m embarrassed to admit this, but: this douchebag made me second-guess myself.  I stood there, mortified, wondering if maybe I was getting my period…?  Did I have a yeast infection…?  Did I smell bad…?   

It took a minute, but confidence returned.  I looked at this pathetic, twitchy little misogynistic asshole.  I mean, who speaks to a woman like that?   And What did I ever do to him?

It was all about cruelty and control.  Shame.

“The only thing RANK around here is your MISOGYNY.  This session is over and you need to get the fuck out of here RIGHT NOW,” I said.  I walked to the door and opened it, standing in the doorway.

He looked utterly astonished, as if I’d done something bizarre.

Then the hatred clouded over his face, and he started getting dressed in a hurry.

I know that I shouldn’t have explained or said anything else, but my feelings were hurt!  I was so offended!  I said: “I am a nice clean girl and I just got out of the shower!  I can’t believe you could be so rude!  Why do you even see sex workers, if you hate women so much?”

He was FURIOUS.  I could feel it coming off of him in waves.

I gave him half of his money back.  I know I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t want to antagonize the crazy man.  He’d only been in the room 15 minutes.

I was still upset and I couldn’t control my mouth.  I said: “You know, most heterosexual men adore the smell of a clean woman.  Maybe you should check your sexual orientation.”

He almost punched me in the face on his way out the door.  I stepped into the hallway and reminded him that he was on camera.

He walked to the elevator, trying to look cocky…as if he hadn’t just been FIRED BY A SEX WORKER.

You were fired…by a sex worker.  Think about it, dude.  Think about it real hard.  You literally cannot pay a woman to hang out with you.

What a jerk.  BLACKLISTED.

P.S.  Sorry this post is depressing…I also saw an awesome Japanese client who was wonderful, and he’s taking me out for sushi next week! lovely man

Another Hostile Client

……annnnnddddd we have a new one!

It was so fucked up that I had to take a week off, and that’s why I haven’t been blogging.

Okay: exactly what am I to make of this?

Guy books a session, passes screening, and arrives at my hotel room.  He is well-dressed, well-groomed.  He is wearing a pinstripe suit and leather gloves.

I just met him, for the first time.  I offered him a refreshment from the minibar, which he accepted…

…after which, he physically charged up to me, majorly violating my personal space, and ripped his glove off in a very dramatic fashion…

….and his hand was malformed.  He had, well, I don’t want to compromise his privacy, but he had only a few digits, and not cuz they’d been amputated by some catastrophic injury.  I mean his hand was fundamentally malformed.  A rare, but not exceedingly rare malformation–everyone has seen this, yes…?  I am pretty sure he was born with this. 

“Is this okay with you?  Is this okay with you?” he asked, waving his hands in my face.

I am a mature, polite individual, and I do not judge clients by how they look (I only ask that they be clean).  I do not even judge potential BOYFRIENDS by how they look–I have fucked  “ugly” guys.  And I am a compassionate human who is not going to look askance at a person because his hands are deformed.

But the way that he did this, showing me his hands all at once, waving them literally inches from my face, was shocking.

He could have told me in the booking emails: hey, my hands are malformed because of this genetic disorder. (that’s all, he wouldn’t need to explain it or apologize for it in any way, just let me know)

He could have sat down on the bed or the computer chair when I offered him a refreshment and said: Hey you see these gloves…?  Well, my hands are not like what they look like in these gloves.  I just want to let you know.

He was confrontational and he did it to “shock” me and, I expect, to elicit revulsion/rejection. Or to test my cowardice, or to “test” something else.

I have plenty of my own psychological “issues.”  But I wonder what it must be like to go through life with this level of rage, alienation, and hostility.

This man was sick….and it had nothing to do with his hands.

I remained totally calm…and I reached up, and touched his hand, grabbing his finger, and lowering it.

This emotionally moved him.  He gasped and drew back.

“Your hands are fine with me.  Is it on your feet, too?”  I asked, because I know that it usually affects the digits of the feet, as well.

“Yes,” he gasped.

“Okay, no problem.  Would you like to start the session?”

I could see the thoughts and emotions, going round and round inside his head.  It was confusion and pain, mostly, but there was also a gratitude, or, at least, an awkward acknowledgement.

This job is high-stress and difficult and I do not believe it is sustainable (for me personally). But it has awarded me with incredible experiences and insight to the human condition.

Why did I have compassion for this man, who came in with such rage, determined to scare me…?

It was my compassion, and the fact that I was willing to touch his hand, that changed him.

Sorority Paddle

Behold the sweet manna the prodomme goddesses in heaven have chosen to rain down upon me!

I was at the used furniture store the other day, shopping for a bedside lamp and a gift for my mother’s birthday, when, what did I see hanging on the wall but this!

An authentic sorority paddle from 1956, engraved with the logos and official seals of my undergraduate university!

I couldn’t believe it!  It’s perfect!  It’s everything I ever wanted in a wooden torture instrument!  And it only cost me $20!

“It’s been hanging on the wall forever,” said the salesman, who seemed honestly confused by my delight and rapturous enthusiasm. “It came from an estate sale.  We found it in a box of random junk.”

“It’s not junk!” I hissed, as if someone had just insulted a prized family heirloom.

He pulled back, startled.  “Well, I’m glad you like it, Miss.”

I handed it to him, but before I released it into his hand, I said, “I’m going to keep shopping, but I want this paddle!  Under no circumstances are you to sell it to anyone else!  I’ll be done in 20 minutes.  Hide it in a drawer, so nobody else can see it!”

He looked increasingly alarmed and promised me that he would keep it safe for me until I was done shopping.

I was so happy that I came straight home and took a zillion photos of the thing.  Here are a few.  Sorry, I can only show you one side of the paddle…the side with the sorority crests and the writing, “CHRISTMAS FORMAL ’56.”  I can’t show the college seals for security reasons.

It’s so special that I almost don’t want to beat a boy with it.



christmas formal 56 1





Tales from The Biz: Evading a Rapist “Client”



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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.

Client Warning: Tale of the Bad Domme

This post is about something that has been bothering me for a long time.  I’ve never discussed it with anyone but other dommes at the Studio, but I want to write about it because I think it’s important for clients to know what’s out there.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, because I have a 19-year-old client I’ve decided to re-book with.  He LOOKS about 17.  I knew he was young, because he described himself as an undergrad in his emails, but I didn’t know how young.  When I opened the door, I couldn’t believe it!

“How old are you, son?” I asked, when he came inside.

(Interesting note: for once, I was not remotely afraid of a new client, even though, statistically, this guy was almost the top demographic for male violent behavior.  I felt like I wanted to take him out for ice cream.)

“My birthday was last week.  This is my birthday gift to myself.  19!”

I asked for ID.

“How do I know you’re not a cop?”  He was so nervous that he was trembling all over.  He had a buzzcut, light brown hair, and big eyes with thick long camel’s eyelashes (why do men always get the best hair and eyelashes?  Why?)

“It doesn’t matter, because what you’re asking for isn’t illegal,” I said, which is technically true but also bullshit because the police have an “arrest-em-all-and-let-the-judge-sort-em-out” mentality.  Then I opened the suitcase by the bed to display my gear, which, in retrospect, was probably not a good thing to do to a novice like him.  It probably looked like a freaky-deaky torture chest.  “Do you think the cops are carrying around a thousand dollars’ worth of SM equipment?”

He was so nervous that I offered him a drink from the minibar–he had two rums and Coke.  It’s something I do automatically for all clients; I forgot he was too young to legally drink!  Perversely, this is what I feel the most guilty about…giving liquor to a minor!  I’d hate to encourage a kid to get a habit that becomes a problem, like mine.

We did the session.  It was simple: a little tease and denial, clothed female naked male, very light bondage, and some spanking (no marks, nothing very heavy).  He came three times.  The first two times were involuntary, lol.   He was really embarrassed by that, but I just found it amusing.  The stamina teenagers have, WOW!  I don’t have a lot of experience with young men…just a few.  Even when I was his age, I was almost exclusively attracted to much older men, so this was an almost-novel experience for me.

Well, he wanted to book another session with me, and I thought long and hard about it.  I don’t want to be responsible for corrupting the youth!  PLEEZE PASS THE HEMLOCK (I am not seriously comparing myself to Socrates.  Just trying to make a joke.)

But then I thought: If he doesn’t see me, he’ll choose another, and who knows what he’s going to get?  At least I can…keep him safe, and give him a quality experience within his boundaries.  A safe place to explore.  What if he gets someone like Bad Domme?

Which brings us to the Tale of the Bad Domme.

There was a woman I worked with at the Studio who sexually assaulted her clients.  I’ve honestly never heard of anything like it.  I worked in commercial dungeons, all in all, for approximately 3 years total, and I never heard of anything like her, but she exists, so, it happens.

Intelligent woman.  Not educated, but intelligent, you can tell by listening to her speak.  Quick with the wit, observant, keen.  She also had a great sense of humor. She was aggressive.  A true Domme/Top…not like me, who’s more of a Service Top when I’m in that role.

She was beautiful, a stone fox.  We attracted a few of the same clients because we were both tall, leggy, and had similar coloring–light hair, light eyes.  Some drive-thru dungeon clients just pick a domme based on the physical “type” they are attracted to, so we got the same clients even though our personalities and temperaments were very different (most notably: I am….calm.  She does not).  She was younger than me, though.

She liked me a lot, and I know why: she was the same age as my students, and I was highly educated even though I came from a working-class background like she did, and she looked up to me and wanted my approval.

I liked her too…at first.  She was hilarious, generous, attractive.   Emotionally raw and transparent, which is a little fascinating for a super-cerebral INTJ like myself.

As I got to know her better, though, I started to withdraw almost at once.

She was very emotional, but her emotions were primitive, not complex.  Also, she was impulsive and fearless, which sets off tons of red flags.  And the aggression!

As I mentioned, we shared a few of the same clients…

….and I started to hear stories about her, from them.

I heard from four clients in all, over a period of about three months.  The story was the same, every time: she tied them up (which they had asked for), and anally penetrated them (which they HADN’T asked for).  

They were all uniformly aghast and appalled at their experience, of course.  They said things like (I’ll never forget): “I didn’t want to see a domme again for about seven months.  It made me really afraid to trust a domme again” and “I’ll never let a domme tie me up again.  I can’t do bondage any more” and “I can’t believe that happened to me.”

These guys contacted the dungeon before they came back to make sure this domme was NOT WORKING when they wanted to come in.  They were afraid of her.

As they should be.

I’ve heard of dommes doing batshit-crazy behaviors.

I’ve never heard of a woman sexually assaulting men/clients like that.  It’s disgusting!  There’s nothing wrong with getting butt-fucked, if that’s your thing, but you can’t do it to someone who doesn’t want it!  That’s sexual assault!  If you reverse the genders, it is obviously and completely criminal and unacceptable!  It’s not less reprehensible just because the victim is a dude!

And these clients WERE JUST THE ONES I HEARD FROM!  Who knows how long she’d been doing this?  When this happens to men, they are even less likely to talk about it…and she knew it.  She knew she could do it with impunity.  What is a client (probably married) going to do?  Go to the police and say, “I was sneaking off to the dungeon during my lunch break, and my dominatrix tied me up and fucked me up the ass with her fingers even though I asked her to stop?”  Of course that’s not going to happen!

This is wrong on so many levels!  These men are paying a lot of money for a professional service.  They are trusting us and putting themselves in a vulnerable situation.  How can you do this to them?  And, also, who the hell wants to stick their fingers in some random stranger’s ass, especially if they are freaking out?

Answer: a psychopath and/or some sort of fucked-up sexual predator.

I approached the Bad Domme about this.  She didn’t deny doing it.  AT ALL.  (Why not?  If I did it, which I can’t even imagine,, I’d fucking LIE about it.) 

“He wanted to be dominated.  Are you telling me you feel sorry for these guys?” she asked, with an eye-roll.

Well, yeah, I guess sexually assaulting a person is DOMINATING them.   And the clients were confiding in me and treated me perfectly okay in our time together, so, yeah, I do feel sorry for them.  Nobody deserves to be penetrated against their will.  What is wrong with you?  As a woman, how could you not know this?

But I knew, instinctively, that she DID know it…and that she was doing this for revenge. 

But that’s not okay.  That’s something you need to work through with a psychologist.  I admit that I have deeply ambivalent feelings towards men, because of my life experiences with them, but I am not motivated to be a domme/fetish worker because of my hostility towards men.  I feel compassion for my clients (unless they are total jerks), because I know what it’s like to have weird sexuality and needs, and I am open-minded and…well, I’m me!

I didn’t confront her further, because I was afraid of her.  Bitch could kick my ass.

I went to a manager I trusted and told her what I knew.

She was not sympathetic to the clients.  Hate to tell you that, clients who are reading this blog, but that’s the truth.

I tried another tactic, since the appeal to human decency wasn’t working out well: “What she’s doing is illegal!  What if she brings the cops down on this place?”

“Ha!  You think the client is going to complain to the cops?” the manager laughed.  And, as we know, she was right.

Bad Mistress was fired a few months later…for punching another woman in the face, in the locker room.

She went to another commercial dungeon, but I don’t see her listed on the Mistress page there anymore.  I assume they fired her, too.

If you are a client in the Tri-State area, email me and I’ll tell you who she is.  She’s dangerous.  My email is

I have to go to work now, but, to wrap this up: I was thinking to myself, what if my young 19-year-old client booked a session with someone like her…?  What would that do to him…?

I can keep him safe.

Tales of Three Clients

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.

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.


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.