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.”

The people most likely to survive this apocolypse are the gimps.

Ironically gimps will be the safest people in a viral apocolypse
The geeks will inherit the earth.

Like all industries that involve immersive participation the sex industry is having to adapt and survive the current global crisis. Times have changed. People are worried about catching things from door handles and kissing. It’s not like the good old days when the people worried about catching the clap. Or feelings. Or both.

People pay well and by the minute for this type of entertainment. I’m sure other entertainers in other industries wished they had this option to fall back on.

People in other entertainment industries- comedy for example probably wish there were private rooms where people could go to hear comedians telling jokes, just for them and at extortionate prices.

There is. Of course. It’s called the Edinburgh festival.

Coco was also available for private sessions on Skype

Doninatrix’s are… I was going to write forced, but no one tells a dominatrix what to do…. Dominatrix’s are currently choosing to reassess the way they engage with their clientele.

Dommes, like all self employed people are looking into monetising their on line profiles and presence.

Sex workers have a head start on most self employed people as they have tried and trusted outlets for this type of activity that are ready, tried, trusted and to use domming terminology, crave to be exploited.

Webcamming. In this instance. Is the direction de jour.

For my first foray down the online rabbit hole Mistress Psyche decided to become Mistress Alice, from her version of Archytypal perv Lewis Carroll’s ‘Through the looking glass’

It seemed poetically appropriate and also she had been gifted an Alice costume as a tribute by one of her loyal subs. My Alice was not the archetypal version. Mistress Alice has long black hair and black lipstick has more in common with Wednesday Adams than a blonde Disney princess.

I’d go as far as saying my Alice looks less like Alice and more like a delinquent, semi feral Wednesday Adams’s who has dressed up in Alices little blue frock after mugging her for it. And that little bottle that says ‘eat me’.

Less Alice, more Malice

Mistress Alice ordered along one of her subs for the ride as she wanted a plaything for the experiment and also it would mean she’d get paid whether the online punters decided to play along.

The sub she chose was Josh, who looks very happy in the picture above and is a little baby investment banker. He is in his early twenties and is therefore quite new to everything in the world including bdsm so he was happy to join in with the live streaming experience especially as he could still say he was working from home and not be lying to his boss.

I told him that he would be safe from the possibility of Corona infection (and being identified by anyone he knew) as he’d have the honour of wearing, for the entirety of the session, my charming 1989 Ukrainian, army issue gas mask. A thing more desolate, obsolete than communist regime that manufactured it

He was told he would be allowed to cancel his appointment in the event of his death by beer virus or martial law, or another act of a non existent God restricting travel. He duly complied like a good little gimp boy.

‘The buttplugs are this big’ mistress Tina controls her gimp army with the promise of extreme bum fun.

As someone with an interest in BDSM I am obviously interested a Mad Max style apocolypse as fetishwear is its attire de jour.

Bondage trousers and buttless chaps wouldn’t have originally been my first choice for an apocolypse.

However Mad Max has set the bar on that. It’s a spreader bar and your nuts are attached to it with pegs.

That’s where they’ve set the bar. I don’t make the rules

Personally, l think tracksuit bottoms would be more practical attire but people should be free to express themselves. Especially in the eventuality of an extinction event. Personally I wouldn’t wear buttless chaps to an apocolypse as I think I’d have more pressing issues to attend to than degritting my bum cheeksb ut maybe it’s a small price to pay for rocking a strong look and people have inevitably suffered, throughout history for fashion.

I would speculate, as it is supremely impractical, the reason everyone is wearing fetish wear in Mad Max, (apart from the fact the costume designer attended a sex party just before the commission) is that when they dropped the bomb the only people that survived were those who happened to be underground and in a sex dungeon.

Humans are notoriously bad at deciding on what to wear without being told so one would speculate that any other other survivors saw the ones crawling out of the dungeon and just thought ‘I wasn’t sure what you are supposed to wear to an apocolypse, however that’s cleared that up… Marlene fetch me my manacles and gimp suit.. We’re going to steal a petrol tanker’ …

Dave realised he might have got the wrong idea when he was told everyone is wearing gloves and masks down the supermarket

Anyhow…. speculations on what’s hot or not to wear to the rapture aside, myself and ‘virus boy’ as I had named him made ourselves ready to cam.

Josh the investment banker craving to inflate his ISA

Mistress Alice, went through the virtual looking glass and found herself and virus boy in a strange new world where she found herself reminded, when she looked at the gammon pink boy in the mask, of the chapter in ‘through the looking glass’ when the Duchess has a baby that turns into a pig.

‘And in this instance a baby banker that turns into a paypig.’

The gas mask even gives him a little snout. Role play gets ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ thought mistress Alice and so did a potential punter who at that moment whisked them off into a private paid chatroom.

What goes on it the chat room stays in the chat room but it was a successful endeavour and Mistress Alice will be returning down that particular rabbit hole regularly, with or without virus boy in the foreseeable and unforeseeable future.

Oh, and have your bondage trousers and latex tit tape ready, the post apocolyptic wasteland awaits and wants to party.

You don’t want to be caught with your trousers down. Unless you do and obviously if you just start wearing your buttless chaps from now that won’t be a possibility.

Rush out and panic buy as many pairs of buttless chaps and studded dog collars as Anne Summers is allowing per customer and you won’t be caught with your trousers down and that’s the joy of buttless chaps. They always stay up.

Mistress Alice in Looserland.

Mistress recieved a wonderful request to run a fantasy role play session dressed as Alice in Wonderland

So she decided to follow her rampant rabbit down the rabbit hole.

Her sub. Peter, a generously proportioned quality surveyor from Harlow messaged to say that he has purchased the outfit and a pink neon fishnet bodysticking for himself or herself, his alter ego. Truckstop Tracey

Mistress remarked that this was a wild fantasy session and what look Peter the generously proportioned quality surveyor aka Truckstop Tracey was attempting to pull off. If it was a beached whale that had become enmeshed in a net trailed by the yellow submarine then he/she was on track.

Peter responded that his feelings were mildly chaffed by being referred to as a beached whale. Mistress responded that he should apply his skill as a quantity surveyor to the portions of chips he consumed and that ‘Truckstop Tracey’ may want to find an outfit more befitting a lady of her size.

Mistress received no further complaints regarding her critique of Truckstop Tracy’s eccentric dress sense.

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.”

Gagging for it

I receive a message from a potential client

He goes into great detail about how he wants me to gag him and tie him up and throat fuck him with a strap on

I tell him I will happily do these things for my standard rate. He says he wants to pay me me more, he even says that he wants me to film it and to sell the film on line and show my friends and he’ll pay me more money to know that they’ve seen it and if they send him an insult. Telling him what a looser he is. Or words, the harsher the better to that effect.

I tell him I can arrange this but I don’t wish to enter into any more correspondence until the session. He offers more money so we can continue exchanging emails with huge amounts of information including a spreadsheet which details the two hours of the session, the toys and times and tortures that are to be used. Some people really get off on doing admin for these sessions. This guy is one of them. He’s paid for my time so I indulge him and his whims.

The session is arranged for the Hilton and there is something about the meticulousness of the planning that slightly in nerves me. It isn’t how I like to work. I prefer spontaneity.

I needn’t of worried however because on my arrival he seems unwilling to start the session and seems to actually just want to have a chat. I make a number of attempts to begin but he is disinterested and instead asks if I want to go for dinner.

During dinner he tells me his he has been involved in a court case which ended him with a gagging order. It seems the whole session plan was him processing this experience. Wanting to control the process of being gagged and now he’d talked about it he felt better. After dinner he thanked me for my time and seemed much more settled and happy in himself. I think what he wanted for someone to listen to him and hear his story and once that had happened the interest in being gagged disappeared because he wasn’t … being metaphorically gagged.

Or he bottled it. Either way. I got paid a lot of money to have dinner. Sometimes, actually a lot of the times I really like my life


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 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, I’ll loose the booking. He doesn’t want to be reassured. He wants to be told he’s a very naughty boy for craving the companionship from inflatable fruit.

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.

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.

Anyway 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.