I look at my watch — 2pm. My expected visitor is usually punctual, should be here any minute. Ah, there’s the bell.
I buzz to admit her to this, though I say so myself, classy mansion block in Marylebone and she crosses the threshold, an elegant and beautiful (an overused adjective, absolutely appropriate in this instance) woman. Many of you – especially theatregoers and film fans – would recognise that face. For the purposes of this tale I shall call her Billie. We exchange warm greetings; this is not a first encounter. Billie has ample presence and charisma, no shrinking violet but content to let me lead our conversation.
“Did you have a good journey?” The Queen’s opening conversational gambit — well, we are both British.
“Black cab dropped me right at the entrance — no one saw, except the concierge.”
“His discretion is absolutely to be trusted. You brought the necessary items?”
“Of course,” Billie reaches into a capacious leather tote and proffers a lipstick and small cloth bag.
“Excellent.” She stands, clam and collected as I make an unabashed physical appraisal, compliments are clearly in order. “You look ravishing.”
“I was rather hoping to be ravished,” her response is instant, and unembarrassed. Billie has a slender gamine frame, long bare legs and naturally blonde hair. A high-end designer dress and strappy sandals showcase her figure; less is more, class doesn’t need to be flashy.
Aside from her own box-office success Billie is married to a very famous and considerably older theatrical icon. She loves him deeply; sadly he no longer has sufficient stamina to keep up with his sexually imaginative young wife’s needs. Which is where, adept at indulging certain fantasies, I enter the picture.
By mutual consent we embark upon today’s role-play, the raison d’etre of this brief liaison. As yet she has no clear idea how events will unfold. I bid Billie sit in an upright wooden chair strategically placed at the room’s centre. Slip a scarf around each elbow and pin her arms behind her back. Big brown eyes look up intently, intrigued. As ever my role is to command, Billie’s to obey, no personal choices permitted while within these walls, an interlude from social norms and expectations wherein she’s free to indulge her inner libertine.
Wet with arousal from the moment she walked through the door – she admitted as much on previous assignations — Billie’s been excited at the prospect for days. Thinking of what might happen, squeezing her thighs together in anticipation while trying to concentrate during script conferences and rehearsals, masturbating each evening to ease her pent-up tension.
“‘Keep ’em mean to keep ’em keen,’ said a shady character in one of my movies, that’s what you do for me isn’t it?” she observed perceptively during her last visit. Quite so.
Lifting the hem of a garment costing the price of a small car (quite likely on loan for a film premiere I know she’s attending later) I coolly instruct madam to open her legs.
“No knickers,” I observe neutrally, making no effort to disguise my pleasure at the sight of her denuded sex.
“In my bag — thought it’d save time,” she replies with equal sang-froid.
“Let me remind you,” there’s a deliberate edge to my voice, “I decide what you are allowed to wear.”
“I’m sorry,” Billie assumes a suitably convincing expression of penitence — she does after all act for a living.
“Do I need to tie your ankles?” She casts her eyes down as if considering the matter.
“No,” Billie’s eventual responds in a sensual whisper. “I’m a good girl. I know to keep them spread wide for you.”
“Correct answer.” Taking the lipstick I draw three stripes at intervals along each inner thigh. She looks momentarily puzzled, then the truth dawns.
“You’re not going to..?” Acting a role perhaps, but there’s no disguising her very real apprehension.
“I most certainly am, helps focus my aim.”
Drawing two fingers up and down her soft and pinkly pouting pussy lips I elicit a moan of arousal. Carefully I apply six sharp strokes with a riding crop, each coinciding with a lipstick mark. Billie writhes at each impact, yelps at the sharp sting but commendably stays in place.
I step behind her, roughly shoving my hands down the front of that expensive dress to fondle her exquisite little tits.
“Perhaps I should use the crop on these, the nipples are standing proud already.”
“No I mean, I’m not sure if…” Confusion and momentary panic are writ across her sweet face.
“Another time perhaps,” I say, casually tossing the crop aside.
“Let’s see what else you bought.” I take a vibrator from the small bag, switch it to a low speed and apply to the nub of her clit.
“Oh Jesus,” her hips buck involuntary at the insistent stimulation. In response I push the humming device between slippery quivering labia, enjoying the blissful expression on her face. Billie is caught between pleasure and pain, stinging thighs and a craving cunt. I take her to the brink of orgasm then abruptly withdraw the sex toy, denying a final release.
Although disappointment and frustration are etched upon her pouting expression Billie knows better to express discontent when I — literally – hold the whip hand
Untying the scarf to free her upper limbs my next instruction is brusque and to the point.
“Kneel on the chaise longue, head down, arse up, knees apart” Billie looks at me with a glazed expression struggling to keep up with the pace of unfolding events. “Now girl!”
She scrambles to obey thrusting her perfect peach of a posterior, labia gaping lewdly, high into prominence. A stirring sight, I sense my erection hardening, it would be so easy (and from Billie’s perspective) entirely welcome to plunge into her beckoning honeypot. Instead, with a heroic effort – gratification for both of us must be deferred – I retrieve the crop.
Sensing my intention Billie tenses as I measure my distance. Yelps loudly as it makes blazing contact with first one then the other bottom cheek. I follow through with another four strokes in rapid succession.
This is painful. This is punishment. This is precisely what Billie desires. Her bottom burns, skin stinging like crazy and transmitting waves of endorphins through Billie’s body, turning her on like no other form of foreplay.
I let her absorb the after effects of the crop’s noisy impacts then without warning apply another half dozen strokes onto already hot, sore buttocks. Unable to stay silent Billie gasps and moans, distress mingling with sexual excitement, close to sensory overload. My hands trace the faint crimson welts now decorating her pale moons — hope she’s not doing any nude scenes anytime soon. It’s time.
“Over,” I order urgently, freeing my straining cock. She needs no second bidding, turning to sit legs astride the chaise, wincing as her chastened rear makes contact with the plush covering. Arches her lithe body, proudly pushing shaven pudenda provocatively up towards me, feet on tiptoe, alive with expectation.
I flick the crop’s tip against her engorged vulva and Billie’s eyes bulge with alarm. This is a moment for penetration not pussy punishment but she’s kept guessing until the last moment when pulled firmly forward onto my erection.
“Ooh it’s too big, you’ll never get it all in.” Billie always says this.
“Then I’ll stretch your tight little fanny until it does.” I always say that. (US readers — out of step with the rest of the English-speaking world – might now cotton on they’ve been wrongly attributing this word to an opposite anatomical area…)
“You didn’t have to beat my poor bum so hard,” Billie gasps, “I’ll feel those marks when I sit down.” I’m fully inside now, impaled up to the hilt and grinding against her super-sensitised clit.
“Actually I did,” I reply unapologetically, thrusting more forcibly within her velvet vulva. “And when seated you’ll also be reminded of how it felt to get spanked and fucked”.
Which turns out to be quite sufficient dirty talk since, body shaking with pleasure, Billie looses it completely and comes. Just a few lunges behind, felling her internal muscles grip and spasm in the throws of a crescendo is enough to tip me over the edge too. I flood her pussy with come and immediately trigger a second orgasm before Billie collapses in a post-orgasmic stupor.
“Oh my, you certainly know how to give a girl a proper seeing to, I am well and truly screwed’ she eventually declares. “I’m going to replay this in my head while fingering my kitty all week.” These disreputable details sound all the better enunciated in a posh voice.
“Glad to be of service,” I respond. “Time to get cleaned up my dear. You’ve precisely five minutes to get that delicious derriere out of my door.”
“Oh,” Billie bats her eyelashes, “couldn’t we just indulge a few minutes of post coital chat for once?”
“No, we most certainly cannot,” I answer promptly. “You know the rules, no lingering no attachments, however fleeting.”
“Fair enough,” she brightens, “anyway I’ll be here again in a couple of months.”
“Same time, same place, I look forward to it,” I say, entirely truthfully. “Don’t forget to send me your requirements.”
“I though today’s scenario played out rather well,” observes Billie coyly while combing her glossy tresses.
“Certainly did, and I appreciate being able to choose some innovative chastisements.”
“It’s why I come here,” Billie grins at her intentional pun. “My poor thighs don’t thank you,” she adds ruefully, “but that was such a hot idea.”
“Indeed, perhaps we should include your ebony hairbrush in our next erotic encounter?”
“You’re a genius,” she smiles, momentarily abandoning protocol to deliver me an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Thank you my darling,” Billie adds, pressing an envelope into my hands as she departs. Cash naturally, untraceable, especially by the taxman. I begin to tidy up. Fortunately there a few hours before my next appointment — just as well, it’ll require stamina, taxing in an altogether different way…
I don’t advertise and to ensure complete confidentiality don’t go near social media, my clientele was built slowly, by personal recommendation and word of mouth. Communication is strictly non-digital, routed in an old-fashioned analogue world. Handwritten letters sent via snail mail; appointments recorded only in a large hardback diary.
Everyone is sworn to secrecy; besides, my afternoon callers and I each hold so much knowledge of each other’s preferences and peccadillos any revelations would only result in mutual destruction. So successful is this system I’ve had to put a cap on client numbers, there’s even waiting list.
To be frank, my unique services attract a certain demographic, professional women mainly. Airheads rely upon sugar daddies; I cater for an altogether different customer dynamic, those who enjoy submission yet still made demands. Some are as famous as Billie, a couple even more so, others content to occupy positions of power and influence while remaining below the radar. Either way, my performance must be up to the mark on every occasion.
Not all want sex, for many the act of discipline is sufficient, the release or culmination of long suppressed yearnings. A few begin chastely then, as our sessions continue and trust grows, lust outweighs caution and they tentatively suggest I could “finish them off”.
Role play is popular, an international pop star likes to brat and wear what she swears (I have my doubts) is her original cheerleader’s outfit; another once wore her old school uniform, whatever floats their yacht.
I do set a few parameters; daddy/daughter scenarios are definitely out. Yes, I understand it’s only a fantasy, but the whole idea makes me shudder; an unhealthy power dynamic that really doesn’t need to be indulged or perpetuated. Anal (with one notable exception) isn’t on offer. Too fraught with possible physical danger, hygienic misfortune and mental mishaps; except, of course, for Mrs Armstrong…
A tad plump but violet eyes to die for, as was once said of Elizabeth Taylor to who she bears a close resemblance. Aged indefinably in her middle years this handsome woman invariably dresses in a form-hugging retro style. Think Selfridges’ fashion modes circa 1957, a look flattering to her bounteous figure. Mrs Armstrong is without fail immaculately coiffed and painted, nylon clad legs and feet shod with sky-high heels, clearly seeing no reason to sartorially deviate. The same applies to her particular requirements, explained candidly to me during our preliminary meeting in an upmarket West End cafe.
“Something my late husband did right from our honeymoon night. Being young I initially foolishly resisted. Fortunately he permitted no dissent and my arse was soundly thrashed and corked. I miss him terribly.”
Don’t be misled by her quaint turn of phrase. This is a shrewd and successful businesswoman who has built and maintains a retail empire by ruthlessly crushing the opposition. Conversely, four times a year she voluntarily relinquishes control and submits to an identical routine, a comforting re-enactment of sublime sexual satiation.
Just as I predicted, today’s assignation is identical to its predecessors. No preliminary spanking, no touching, Mrs Armstrong begins by bending over the back of a sofa almost as well upholstered as is she. Lifts her skirt and tugs surprisingly racy knickers down to the tops of sheer stockings, revealing a full, firm bottom with a jewelled butt plug glistening in the cleft.
“Ready,” she announces, maintaining what – given the circumstances — is considerable dignity. My instructions are unambiguous: a dozen strokes and “don’t hold back”.
By the time I’ve finished Mrs Armstrong’s substantial posterior is emblazoned with livid parallel lines. Throughout she absorbs her punishment stoically, although intermittent gasps and wriggles provide a clue as to its salutary affect.
Next she reaches back to pull her cheeks apart and, plug removed and a dash of extra lube, I carefully begin my entry of her enticing rosebud. Slowly engaging the head of my cock into Mrs Armstrong’s most intimate office, pushing past the pulsing sphincter I allow a moment for her to adjust to its girth.
“I want it all,” she announces lasciviously as I plunder her back passage, gradually introducing my full length, ruthlessly reaming her rear. Breathing heavily Mrs Armstrong surrenders to the feeling, kicking off her shoes for greater stability, accommodating each of my vigorous thrusts with evident enthusiasm. Shafted to the limit, decorum surrendered and deshabille she climaxes, trembling and whimpering to an orgasm so fierce it convulses her entire body.
After taking a few minutes to recover both her balance and composure, Mrs Armstrong gingerly walks on weak knees to the bathroom. Eventually emerging with makeup and hair restored, clothes straightened and appearance once again immaculate you’d guess she’d been consummately caned and buggered. Favouring me with a rare smile she departs regally into an unsuspecting world. No further words exchanged, only the customary envelope.
Sadly, I suspect this session to be the last. Press reports of a cherished peerage, an elevation to the House of Lords, mean I’m unlikely to hear from Mrs Armstrong in future. I’ll remember her fondly, not least for paying double my customary rate.
No matter, there’s plenty to keep me busy. A politician, government minister in fact, terribly keen on law and order. The head of a famous public school, stickler for discipline apparently. A star from the nation’s best-loved soap opera – you’d recognise her instantly. So many women who know precisely what they want, and where to get it…