Bit tied up at work.

I get a message from a client who asks me if I can come to his work to attend a session.

He’s an optician and the session will be in the basement of a well known chain of high st opticians. They didn’t see that coming. Or him for that matter. I’m guessing he knew where in the building they have CCTV.

He says we can meet there and do the session after the shop is shut. I’m thinking it’s obvious we wouldn’t be able to run the session when the shop is open but it seems the guy is having a mid life crisis. If he can’t see that then he should have gone to spec savers. Which may or may not be the name of the optician he works for.

The guy says he wants to go on a ritual journey to find himself. I think of suggesting he goes to India if he wants to find himself, as he finds himself in basement of space savers most days of his life but I agree. Of course I’ll run the session there. The customer is always right if not quite right in the head.

The guy wants to be induced into a trance and have visions. I think there can be no better a place to have visions than the basement of a high street opticians. The incense and candles have been lit and the shamanic drumming track downloaded from Spotify and the Bluetooth speaker is connected. I tie him up and take him on a guided meditation that I nicked from youtube. He says he wants to see things and asks me to administer some poppers.

I start seeing things. It’s a vision of me getting taken away from the police because the guy has asphyxiated in this shop basement from a mixture of excitement and semi legal highs.

Afterwards he tells me he had visions and that he had seen things. Perfect place for seeing things. In the basement of an opticians I think plus you don’t have far to go if you need to get your eyes tested.

Continue reading “Bit tied up at work.”

Plenty More Cocks in the Tree.

He said he wanted me to shove a sock in it. His mouth rather than my mouth or any other area of of our respective anatomies. And keep the other sock on my foot and trample on his testicles

I think that’s what he wanted me to do.

He sent me a video link. I think I watched the right one. I didn’t check, before I bound him and gagged him with the aforementioned item of soiled footwear.

Maybe he had a different fetish entirely. Before he arrived.

It was definitely his fetishise by the time he left.

The returning client is cute and young and looks like Sly Stalone, in the first Rambo if Rambo had spent the whole of First Blood adjusting his mullet reflected in one of those ‘hall of’ mirrors. The type that make you loose about ten pounds in money rather than weight because the ride owner pickpockets you while you’re distracted looking at yourself.

However the client is cute. He has eyes so big, deep and dark you could throw unwanted kittens in them and drown them. In fact I do. Well, I need to make their beauty work for me somehow.

I remember a meme I read that says witches used to keep penises as pets. It is a shame that we have lost touch with many of the great traditions of this island. We kept Morris Dancing… but what happened to having penis’ as pets. We are on the worst possible timeline.

He also has, I notice, a shaved a heart, into his pubic hair. It is large and reaches nearly to his side. He has not only made art but a mistake, I note, coming back here. I’m not going to fall for his charms. Or charm. The one between his legs. Which charming as it is, isn’t charming enough to make up for his lack of. I’ve never liked a man who has more going on in the head between his legs than the one on his neck.

As I think this the heart begins to look like a pair of angel wings. And the erect penis bouncing to attention at about at 45 degrees from the cute pert body looks like it is readying itself for flight. I imagine the penis flying off with its angel wings, I imagine it in a gilded cage, I imagine it flying from its perch and settling on my shoulder before I stamp it to death as with my one remaining stripey socked foot. As the client requested.

Continue reading “Plenty More Cocks in the Tree.”

That’s bananas!

I receive a message. It begins with… This may seem a little strange. People always apologise for fetish. They get off on doing it. All these woketards who handwring about kink shaming clearly don’t know the first thing about it. The shame is a big part of the kink. Do they want people to have sex lives as unsexy as theirs. Anyway I digress. To a kink of my own. Humiliating people. Especially illiberal idiots.

The client continues oblivious to my well meaning misgivings. “I have a thing about PVC inflatable bananas. I will send a deposit to ensure you understand I am deadly serious about this. People always think I’m joking. ‘

How someone can be deadly serious about being turned on by an inflatable PVC banana is beyond my comprehension but such the nature of kink. If I tell this guy. It’s fine, not to worry, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s perfectly normal to be turned on by PVC bananas like the (i)liberal left suggests, I’ll loose the booking and he’ll find someone that will tell him that it isn’t.

On the day of the session he arrives and he’s cute and Welsh. I love the Welsh accent but as soon as he says ‘I have the inflatable bananas here.’ In a an accent deeper than a disused coal mine in Kidwelly I know I’m going to have difficulty keeping my kink face unkinked. Im going to end up with face less straight than can cooked spaghetti but with a fanny that’s wetter. And I’m not talking about the Welsh dude.

I go to open the packet containing the PVC banana I’ve been handed but he tells me to wait until the session starts.

He tells me it is the smell of the fresh pvc which really arouses him and explains that this dates back to when he was given an inflatable plastic banana by an Aunt that he fancied. I ask if that was recently. He laughs and answers last week and then answers honestly. I think. ‘It was when I was thirteen years old’ and adds ‘I’m not that much older, in my head, now’

Most men aren’t. If they haven’t had kids and they’re being honest.

I begin by tying him to a chair as he specified in his virtual missive. I place a foot on the seat of the chair and leave the the point of my stiletto tantalisingly close to to his crotch, like I could crush his testicles if I wished but that’s not really his thing and I’m just playing for time whilst I figure out how I’m meant to do something sexy with a giant inflatable banana.

I remove the banana from the packaging and waft it under his nose. ‘Oh my God’ He gasps. ‘That is SO sexy, you can’t imagine how hot that makes me… the smell of fresh PVC.’

I can’t imagine that at all and the combination of that, the giant comedy banana and the welsh accent, deeper and more redolent than Dylan Thomas’ radio voice; which was of such a low resonant frequency, it apparently made audiences shit themselves, is too much.

I start laughing and decide the best thing to do is to blindfold the guy for the rest of the session so he can’t see me stifling my laughter as I attempt to erotically rub his convulsing, ecstatic body with a giant yellow banana.