I think we all remember the first blowjob we ever gave. But do we remember why we gave it?
"The few studies that exist on oral sex among teenagers indicate that although teenage girls perform fellatio more often than in the past, they do so without pleasure, usually to please their boyfriend or to avoid the possibility of impregnation."
— Joan Jacobs Brumberg
Back in my early college days, in those oh-so distant late-1990s, I found myself reading and furiously disagreeing with a book called The Body Project. “An Intimate History of American Girls” is the subtitle, the author is Joan Jacobs Brumberg, and in as much as it crams close to 170 years of adolescent teenaged female sexuality into 214 pages, you can guess it’s a fairly swift read.
It is also a fairly conservative one. Well-meaning in content and scholarly in tone, the book nevertheless came down firmly in favor of the notion that, when it comes to sex, teenagers really don’t know what they’re doing, what they want, or what they are getting themselves into. A generalization which includes those who patently did. Either way, I have to admit, I came away from The Body Project with what I would describe as a seriously bad taste in my mouth. And not because of the things I’d been putting in there, either. Although, according to what I was reading, nobody would have blamed me if that had been the cause.
You’ve read the quote that opens this piece, and the second clause - yeah, I’d go along with that. Blowjobs are great birth control, provided you don’t kiss him with a mouthful and then have him go down on you. I’ve counted three “friends of friends” who got pregnant that way, and who am I to say it’s an urban myth? As excuses go, it’s a lot more interesting than the old burst condom.
The first clause? To please the boyfriend? Well, you can’t argue with that, either, because you’d hardly be doing it if you thought it would piss him off. (And we’ll get to that later.)
But “without pleasure?" Which leads into the author’s next assertion, that the first blowjobs a girl gives are usually a result of coercion....
Okay, them there’s fighting words.
A few years ago, I was interviewed about my erotic fiction writing and asked why so many of the stories I write focus on first time oral sex. I can’t remember how I responded at the time, but working on another project more recently, and rereading The Body Project in pursuit of some background, I think I know the real answer to that question.
I wanted to disprove that statement. Not for the benefit of the author. Not even for personal satisfaction. I wanted to disprove it because I cannot (or do not want to) believe that the majority of people receive such an unpleasant introduction to an act that is...fill in your own adverbs here, but I’ll go with “intimate,” “beautiful” and “fun.”
Now, I’ll admit I’ve heard some horror stories, and I brushed against one in another article I wrote here, recalling “the first time you were making out with a guy and he put his hand on the back of your head and... push[ed] your face down to his cock.”
Which can be traumatic (or so I’ve heard). But it can also be the hottest thing you’ve ever experienced.
Some girls resist, others shrug and say “what the hell.” Some will never overcome their initial distaste. Others get used to what are indeed an array of funky flavors and odors...my first time, my first shock was being sure that I could smell pee. Only faintly, but it was definitely there and I rifled through every past fantasy I’d ever had, and every word I’d ever read, for the tiniest hint of a warning that such a sensation awaited me. I never found one. But I mentioned it to a friend one day, and another and another, and the fact is - boys? I hate to tell you this, but...
I digress. Some girls resist, others shrug. And others still have been waiting all relationship-long for him to signpost his desires so strongly. Because, among the manifold signals that modern culture sends out about the importance of fellatio in a relationship (okay, it may not usually be phrased quite so politely), there are also a few that leave some room for doubt, and not only the (old-fashioned?) notion that nice girls don’t.
There was an episode of [italics|Friends] broadcast...I’m not sure when, but I want to say it was around the same time as I read that book. I don’t remember the title, I don’t remember the plot. But I do remember Monica making a remark that could be construed as a reference to her love of blowjobs, and Chandler responding that he was sorry, but he just didn’t like them.
Pause. Freeze frame. Collective intake of breath. A. Man. Who. Doesn’t. Like. Blowjobs.
It was a joke, right? An ironic twist, a thoughtful contradiction. Or...
...it’s true. Again, thanks to the predominant theme of my fiction writing, I have struck up e-mail conversations with a number of men who have admitted in the course of detailing their fantasies, the acts that they don’t consider fantasizing over at all. “I have never cum from a blowjob.” “They just don’t feel good.” “I let her do it because she wants to, but it doesn’t do much for me.”
Again, at first I thought such comments were a joke. But they’re not. And you know what? It must take an awful lot of courage for a guy to stand up, even via the anonymity of the internet, and admit that alone of his species in our super-sexualized world, he does not care for what every erotic writer, ever porn star, every learned sociologist describes as the gold at the end of the male sexual rainbow. Again: A man who doesn’t like blowjobs. Okay, and there are icebergs in Hell.
I’m not going to say that my first time was with a Chandler. Far from it, as it turned out. But I still waited until I’d been invited before doing what I’d spent so long dreaming of, and here’s something else you don’t read about too often. That first time, nobody expects the girl to be certain exactly “what to do next.” Well, I don’t believe guys are that sure, either. Not in my experience, anyway. And so the two of us lay clamped, unmoving, together, his cock in my mouth or my mouth round his cock, and both of us thinking “okay... what happens now?”
You figure it out fairly quickly, of course. It may take a few minutes, it may take a few tries. But you get there in the end and, so long as nothing takes place that you consider untoward, there’s a lot of other first times to look forward to. And many more to learn about from stories and pictures and clips on the tube-sites, but best of all from your own imagination. Yours and his.
But you don’t forget your first time, no matter how many times you do it in the future. That first breath, that first taste, that first stretch, that first thrill. The first scrape, the first bite, the first thrust, the first gag. The first spit, the first swallow, the first time you cum...
So here’s a thought. A couple of years ago, I was co-editor on an anthology called The Bad Girl’s Sweet Kiss, in which a couple of dozen fiction writers recalled (or invented) their first experience of either giving or receiving a blowjob. How fascinating would it be now to hear the same stories, told by our family of non-fiction writers.
To repeat what it says in The Body Project, “few studies...exist on oral sex among teenagers,” from the past or into the present. It’s time, I hope you agree, to change that dour scenario.
Eleven seething tales of scalding raunch set in that most sacred of sexual sanctuaries - the public library. After hours, off the cuff, behind the bookshelves or under the desk, The Nympho Librarian and Other Stories is the book that defies the Dewey Decimal System. It ought to be filed under Red Hot Erotica. But you'll keep it under 69.
FROM THE INTRODUCTION
“When I grow up,” I once told my journal, “I want to be a hooker.”
I was a slow starter in the sex stakes. I realized very early on that a name like mine was worth its weight in gold when it came to attracting boys’ attention… that it was the nomenclatural equivalent of a pair of big tits. But I also knew that I wasn’t interested in boys. I wanted men and, quite frankly, I didn’t have a clue about how to get one. I certainly wasn’t going to start walking up to strangers and introducing myself, although, in my fantasies, I did it all the time – “hi,” I’d say. “I’m Jenny Swallows, and I do.” And I was fairly certain that I would. Swallow, that is. But I didn’t know for sure because I’d never had the chance.
So, I decided to become a hooker.
Looking back, I hadn’t really thought it through. How much would I charge? How would I find clients? And how would I weed out the icky guys, so that all my clients were the same handsome studs that gyrated through my imaginings? I didn’t know, so I didn’t worry about it. All that mattered to me was what happened once all that was taken care of…. And it went something like this.
He was usually tall, blonde and occasionally English. A businessman in town for a few days, and he’d got my name from a friend. We’d meet in the lobby of his hotel, a swish joint in Abilene, and he’d wine and dine me at the best restaurant in town. Then a cab back to the hotel, an elevator up to his suite, and that’s where it would start, with me dropping to my knees before him, and resting my cheek against the erection that our earlier conversation… as I outlined everything he would get for his money… would have set in motion.
He’d be torn between desire and embarrassment – what if the lift should stop, and someone should come in? “Well,” I’d reply, as I unzipped his pants, “they’d see what a handsome prick you have.” And it would be handsome, well-shaped and uncut, long and thick but not so fat that I wouldn’t be able to fit it in my mouth. I remembered watching a porn film once, where the guy was so huge that the girl could barely get the tip in her mouth without dislocating her jaw. I wanted to suck the whole thing.
“Not here,” he’d gasp.
“Well, where?” I’d reply, as I licked his shaft from balls to bell end, then ran my tongue around the crest.
“We’re almost at my floor.”
“I’m almost at the top,” I’d say, and I’d give his helmet a long, deep kiss. But he was right, we were almost at his floor, so I’d zip him back up and then patiently wait while he found his door key and let us into his suite. Candlelit, with champagne already on ice – you see, I told you I hadn’t thought any of this through properly. But it was my dream, so there it was, champagne and candles and a pair of pants that vanished the moment we got into the bedroom, and now there was nothing to stop me.
I push him back on the bed, his legs hanging over the edge for me to kneel between, my elbows resting on his thighs as his cock rises unaided towards me. I clutch it with two fingers, gently move it towards my mouth, and then I begin to suck.
And suck and suck and suck, until he is so close to coming that his entire body is in ecstatic spasm. Then I pause and wait for the moment to pass, allow him to gain control once again. And then I start once more.
I rarely wore a wrist watch, and there was no clock that I could see. So I don’t know how long it lasts for. But whatever he paid me, he’d get a minute for each dollar, and believe me, I wasn’t cheap. A two hour blowjob? Three hours? Four? I didn’t mind, and neither would he and when, at the end, I finally did let him come, it was like placing my mouth over the end of a hosepipe and then turning the water faucet on full. Except it wouldn’t be water, it was honey and liquor and candy and joy, and every drop tasted better than the one before.
And he’s paying me? Unbelievable!
I’d stay the night, or what was left of it regardless, and maybe we’d fuck or he’d eat me or whatever. But I’d have got what I came for, and the rest was just a bonus. Fuck, the cash was just a bonus. But I’d never heard of hookers who gave it out for free, so I didn’t let it bother me. Plus, it was better than working.
Or so I used to think. Until I found a proper job....
We'll get the bad news out of the way first. The packaging looks good but it is flimsy flimsy flimsy... by the time my order had made its way through the mails, bumping against another toy in the same box, the pleasure kit's casing looked like a bag of cat treats going three rounds with a dog. All of which I mention only if you're thinking of giving this as a gift. Nothing says "oops" like a battered box.
Bombarded by imagery of sex and death, politics and disaster, life - like the movies - sometimes feels like it's lost all grip on what matters. Some ruminations on the meaning of intimacy, seen through the lens of a forty-five year old subtitled Swedish movie.
It always surprises people when the conversation turns to pornography and I tell them that the first blowjob I ever saw on screen was in film class. Director Vilgot Sjöman’s I Am Curious Yellow was the fare of the day, a late sixties Swedish movie whose reputation, sadly, precedes it wherever it is mentioned. Because of the fuss surrounding its content, because of the controversy that greeted its US release, and because of the bans that so many communities bound it with, anybody today who has heard of it usually shrugs it aside as a dirty film. Well, it is Swedish.
In fact, it is a political movie more than a sexual one. Its motives and messages being bound up in that same ferment of student unrest and discontent that flavored so many movies of the age, from Godard’s Sympathy for the Devil to Easy Rider and beyond.
Yet there it is. A sex scene that is clearly not your usual “put on the body stocking and think of cold custard," and following the conclusion of the main course, heroine Lena Nyman leans into her love and plants a kiss on his flaccid penis.
That’s it. A kiss. No penetration, no devouring. The moment is over in a moment. Yet every guy in the class was howling for the movie to be paused and wound back a few seconds, and I suspect that half the girls in the class felt the same way silently. And whatever the stated purpose of the class may have been (it was indeed something political) was immediately subverted to a more fascinating discussion on the role of reality in the cinematic experience, which was the professor’s intention all along, albeit one that must have been (and I would guess still is) extraordinarily difficult to frame.
Reality in the movies is, after all, subjective. No matter how much ketchup and prosthetics, special effects and effective screams might be lavished on a scene, still we know that all the dead bodies got up and walked off the moment the director cried “cut.” There was, in the mid-1970s, a media panic concerning the supposed existence of genuine snuff films making it onto the underground circuit, but nobody was ever able to conclusively prove one, and the fuss died down in the end. A situation with which few people would disagree, one hopes.
Love scenes, too, are difficult, at least if the director wants to remain within the realms of anything approaching the mainstream, and that has always been one of the underlying reasons why we even have a XXX industry today. There is a line that does get pushed every time Hollywood squeezes another glimpse of naked body past the censor (and it is not that long ago that full frontal male nudity was strictly prohibited), but we still have a long way to go before erect cocks and gaping pussies will be flashing across the Multiplex screen. Again, a situation with which few people would disagree.
The fact is, though, it is an industry that is built upon blurring the distinctions between fantasy and reality, which is deemed to have failed miserably if we are not, at least for the length of the movie, convinced that a monster icequake has just unleashed a horde of vampire spiders onto a sleepy city, believability is crucial.
Watching Lena (the character shared her first name with the actress) make love with her married boyfriend Börje, the viewer does not even consider the possibility that the action is “real.” Nothing suggests it, the camera does not gloat. It is the kiss, and only the kiss, that lifts the scene out of the mundane and into the memorable. And even today, with all this and more just a mouse click away, that scene still possesses the capacity to surprise, or even shock. Not because of what it is, but because of what it depicts.
That is the magic word that is lacking from so much modern film - and yes we are talking mainstream and XXX now. We see people love, we see people die, we see people fuck and suck and do everything we can imagine to one another; we can pause and drink in the details, we can go slo-mo and make a simple cumshot last for hours.
But what we cannot see - or, if we can, it is overwhelmed by everything else that is happening - a single, simple moment of genuine spontaneity, mindless of lights and cameras and action. And it doesn’t even matter if the scene had been scripted, and Lena’s action was as calculated as any of the movie’s other set pieces. The fact is, Sjöman’s camera caught a moment that today still stands as one of the most nakedly honest ever framed on a cinema screen, and it is that which the viewer still reacts to.
I Am Curious Yellow reached American shores in 1969, two years after its Swedish release, and three years before Deep Throat ushered in what cinema historians describe as the age of Porno Chic, a brief period in time when out-and-out pornography was being screened and discussed in media circles far removed from its traditional seedy haunts.
And in as much as it did cause such a fuss (it was banned in Massachusetts, while a Texas movie house was burned to the ground in protest at it screening the film), it might well be considered one of the building blocks upon which the modern industry, or at least our acceptance of it, is built.
Which seems a peculiar fate for a movie whose greatest crime, then and now, was not to show a forbidden act, but to depict a sensation that we all crave. Intimacy itself has been devalued in modern culture, the word slipping so far from its actual meaning that celebrities now deliberately pose for “intimate” photographs, and songwriters spill their putative guts to convince us how much they mean what they sing.
But line any of them up with those few seconds of celluloid, and then decide for yourself who is telling the truth. And tonight, when you settle down with your partner, ask yourself again which moment means the most.
The one where you repeat the same pattern, the same words and actions, that have always constituted love-making as long as you’ve been together?
Or the one where you just leaned over and...whatever...simply because you felt like it?
It's close to forty years now since movies like Deep Throat, Behind the Green Door and, best of all, The Opening of Misty Beethoven burst onto the scene with what American cinema regarded as an hitherto unimaginable combination - plot and porn! It was a brief flowering, one that nodded towards the tremendous advances taking place in European XXX cinema at the same time, but which was swiftly cut down again by any number of factors, ranging from increased legislation to the arrival of VHS, and onto the questionable insistence that audiences really didn't want plot. They wanted sex, and the more of it, the merrier. That latter picture hasn't really changed too much, with the consequence that even the most carefully schemed out sex movie (and there's a lot of them around) is forced to double its running time by dragging every XXX scene out for fifteen, twenty minutes... at the end of which, almost without fail, you've completely forgotten what the actual story is. Thank goodness for fast forward buttons.
Throat: A Cautionary Tale might surprise you, then. Read more at Eden Fantasys
There are many ways of exerting control, and the best ones are those that really don't seem to demand any effort. Not on the part of the controller, at least.
That's the first lesson you learn from Kristina Lloyd's "No Sleep," as the narrator kneels awaiting her master's pleasure, watching his naked body silhouetted against the TV screen in a cheap hotel that she booked by the hour - and all he seems to care about is locating the remote control. Until the moment when he affects to notice her, then lackadaisically turns to write "free whore" on her chest. Read more at Eden Fantasys
I was thrilled this morning to find Naughty Miranda ... that's me!!!!!... has entered the Top 5 most popular authors over at Erotic Stories! Thanks to everyone who has voted for me over the years... and cheers to everyone who might in the future.
If you get the chance, please drop by. It's the best erotic stories on the web by a long way, with over 6,500 authors contributing stories and verse, and updated every day. So look around, read what you like... and if you get the chance, take a look at Naughty Miranda.
Three things made this book stand out for me. The cover, which matches a welcome understatement (compared with most books on this topic) with a sense of humor that matches the writing. The writing, which delivers every tip with a twinkle in the eye. And the brightly colored lay-out, which remembers the one thing that, again, a lot of the books on the subject forget. This is not rocket science, and it's meant to be fun. And until some brave and enterprising publisher gets round to the How To... blowjob pop-up book, well this may not quite be the most fun you can have with your mouth closed, but it's certainly a great conversation piece.
You can find anything on the Internet. Including, apparently, footage of your friends having sex.
It was an e-mail from my friend Margie that started me thinking. “Doesn’t this look like Sheila?” she wrote amid a sea of the most evil smileys she could find, and when I clicked on the link, I had to admit... yes it does. But not doing anything I’d ever seen her do before. Or, I imagine, anything she’d want to know I’d seen her do.
Or would she?
Homemade online porn is an interesting phenomenon, quite possibly the single most liberating development that the Internet has yet delivered to us. Pictures of cats, message boards, Facebook, EdenFantasys... all have opened up the world to us in ways that were unimaginable a couple of decades back. But it’s homemade porn that has really changed things. Not just from the perspective of the viewers, but for the makers too.
I’m guessing that most of us, whatever age we may be, have thought at some point of taking a few pictures. Maybe we’ve fantasized about movie cameras too. And maybe, just maybe, we’ve acted on those impulses and, tucked away in a drawer some place, there’s some Polaroid snaps... or a roll of undeveloped film... of our younger self doing, wearing, or posing in a fashion that definitely won’t be appearing in the family album.
In the old days, pre-Internet, that was as far as it went. And today, for many people, it remains that way. Yes, they’ll maybe admit under threat of dire torture that there’s a memory stick somewhere, and an “ex- and I” frozen forever in a sequence of blurry, under-lit hot shots. But no, you can’t see it and I may have thrown it out already.
But watching Sheila’s “movie,” and then exploring the rest of the site upon which her three minutes (and forty-three seconds) were posted, I suddenly started wondering. How many people are actually up on this site? And all the hundreds of other sites like it?
We’ll excise the pro-shot movie clips from consideration, and the dubious “reality” of the gonzo brigade. Yes, perhaps there are a couple of guys who tour the country with hard cock and camera, convincing total strangers to bare all for fun. But they’ve never slowed down beside my bus stop, and their cast always seems too casual for this to be anything but a set-up.
No, we’ll concentrate only on the obvious amateurs, the shaky cameras and muffled sound, the TV too loud in the background and the dog barking out in the yard. To the girl who looks at the camera cautiously even as she tries to muster the right sultry glance, and the guy who can barely point the camera straight, and holds his breath throughout the whole thing, for fear of breaking her concentration.
I bookmarked three sites that upload new films daily, and over the course of the last seven days, I counted no less than eighty three clips that meet those criteria. Some were better shot than others, a couple suggested that the makers were already au fait with the demands of the home-made porn movie. But still; eighty-three couples equals 166 people. Across three sites in one week. Let’s say there are seven further sites that I didn’t check, but maintain a similar ratio. That’s 1,660 people a week and 86,320 a year. And that’s a conservative estimate. Add in the weeks with heavier traffic and a few smaller sites. Then round up to the nearest whole number and suddenly you are looking at 100,000 people a year who not only film themselves having sex, they then post it online for the rest of us to watch.
Excuse me while my mind boggles.
Researching my study of the London porn industry Soho By Spotlight a few years ago, I ran across a couple of women who, back in the late 1960s, “starred” in a handful of “stag” films. They did it for the money, and/or as favors to other people involved, confident in the knowledge that very, very few people who knew them would ever have the opportunity to see their work. And, for the next thirty or so years, that was the case.
But now? Erotic archaeologists have digitized every old film they can access and posted them online in sundry collector’s forums, and both the women I spoke to claim now to be living with the constant, daily, threat of exposure. No matter that the movies were made close to half a century ago; that they are wholly anonymous; and you really do need to dig around some often scholarly, somewhat arcane, and generally subscription-only websites to find them. The movies are up there and anyone can see them.
Take those risks and multiply them by the sheer popularity, and ease of access, of the various Tube sites. Multiply them, too, by the fact that sociologists reckon we have far greater circles of acquaintances today than we ever had in the past. True, my 100,000 figure is worldwide, but still. Each of those 100,000 has friends... family... co-workers... any and all of them could be surfing one day, and pause to watch “fucking my gf while we listen to Adele.” And stare in disbelief because - well, as Margie put it, “doesn’t this look like Sheila?”
I’m not condemning here. I’m not even questioning. It’s just an observation. We think we know the people we know, and we’re all largely certain that they could never shock or surprise us. I’ve been writing erotica for a decade now, and most of my friends are well aware of it. But Sheila? To the best of my knowledge she has never more than glanced at one of my stories, and her idea of a good time is the Wednesday night crocheting club.
And now she’s an Internet porn star.
A very accomplished one too, if that clip is to be believed. Certainly she’s better at on-camera sex than she is at denying it was her, but I wasn’t going to argue with her because her denials, in a strange way, actually answered the question I most wanted to ask her. What will you say if anyone asks?
Multiply her response by 100,000 as well. That’s an awful lot of body doubles! I just hope mine keeps her clothes on.
Immortalized in fiction, fetishized in art, and lionized in some of the internet’s most fascinating corners, we probably think we know everything about the life of a Dominatrix. In which case, we are in for a few surprises. Note: I've chosen to present this strictly in the words of the interviewee, removing my own questions and prompts.
There is one conversation that I can guarantee I will have, at least three times a week, every week of the year. And it goes like this:
“Mistress, I have been a bad boy.”
What did you do?
“I insert some piddling minor fantasy usually involving boots and/or masturbation here. I should be punished.”
And how should you be punished?
“You should force me to lick your pussy/asshole.”
Is my pussy/asshole so disgusting that you would consider licking it a punishment?
“Oh no. I would be honored to lick it.”
Then it wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it?
Followed by the suggestion that my visitor is not so much in need of a Mistress as he requires a woman who will tell him what she wants, and not leave all the thinking to him all the time. At which point a light will go on in his eyes, and nine times out of ten he will answer that that’s precisely what he needs.
Which says a lot about the nature of sexual relations today; not that there are still women who won’t tell their partner what they want him to do (and there’s a million reasons for that, most of which we all have used), but that there are guys who won’t tell their partner that that is what theyneed. Who would rather seek out the services of a professional...and in my case, a professional Dominatrix...than whisper seven little words in their lover’s ear, and not take “I don’t know” for an answer. What would you like me to do?
Forbidden Fruit A professional Dominatrix. It sounds so grand, doesn’t it, and occasionally it can be. For some men - the stereotypical management types who need a spot of role reversal, ex-military souls who still crave order and discipline, and yes, a handful whom you can only describe as momma’s boys, taking their fantasy to the next level - I provide a regular and reliable service that they would be uncomfortable, if not altogether incapable of, enjoying elsewhere.
But for others, and this is the majority of my clientele, I am a taste of forbidden fruit, a once (or sometimes twice) in a lifetime experience that scratches an itch, resolves a curiosity, answers a question. Again, we come back to regular relationships; it requires a lot more courage and sexual confidence than Mr. Average usually possesses for him to turn around to his wife, Mrs. Average, and tell her he wants her to spank him, to make him dress in her clothes, or to be tied up and denied orgasm for hours.
Not because any of these things are in themselves wrong. But because he worries about her response. He fears her scorn. He dreads the morning after. “How,” one client asked me, “could I face her over the breakfast table, knowing I spent the night before licking my own cum off her boots?”
Well, there is an answer to that question, and indirectly it is what brought me into this field in the first place.
Behind The Scenes I majored in psychiatry and worked in the field for several years before I realized...no, let me rephrase that, before I had the courage to admit to myself that the vast majority of what my colleagues call the “bread and butter” cases (which is the vast majority of what I was getting) related to sexual issues that neither patient nor doctor was willing to discuss. And I don’t mean the Freudian cliches of everything going back to your mother, or the phallic properties of a cigarette. I mean personal fantasies, sometimes bleeding into unconventional desires, which even the unconscious mind doesn’t want to unwrap.
This is not a secret. Most of my colleagues are aware of it. But it is difficult to act upon an awareness that at best could see you accused of malpractice, and at worst could lead to a prison cell. All too often, and all the more so now society is so litigious, it is for the patient to make that breakthrough him or herself, and for the patient to realize that, while professional help should still be sought, maybe it’s not the same type of professional that your friends at work all recommend.
Many of my own clients have confessed that at some point in their life, they had sought psychiatric help for what they considered to be their “problem”; some acknowledged that it was that that opened their mind up to investigating matters for themselves. But others stumble upon their “answers” on the internet, in conversation with friends, in dreams...or, most recently, in their reading - Fifty Shades of Grey has a lot more to answer for than putting porn to the bookshelf at Walmart. It has also brought a lot of work in my direction, men who read it to find out what the fuss is about, and now need a little Mr(s) Grey in their own lives.
Back to my story. My own “great reveal.” The day I realized that so many of the problems I was hearing every day could be resolved if people just talked to one another. The client licking cum off the bathroom floor, for example. He worried about what his wife would think of him afterwards. Well, she would probably have been as excited by the spectacle as he was, and might well be fearing his response to her reactions. So - easy. Create a “safe place” in your lovemaking, within which anything goes, and outside of which, nothing is said.
Which is easy to say but not, I fear, so easy to stick with. It only needs them to have one major argument, in the heat of which she brings up something that happened in the safe place, and uses it to beat him with (figuratively if not literally), and the entire edifice collapses. And that does happen, it has happened, and I have picked up the pieces on more than one occasion.
So the safe place moves outside of the home, outside of the marriage, to the basement apartment in a well-to-do side street to which potential visitors are directed by discreetly worded advertisements placed within the network of magazines, websites and outlets that cater to...shall we call it “a certain lifestyle” for now? Where I await, with whips and chains, should they be required, with menacing dildos and terrifying plugs, but also with an open ear and a cup of tea. Because that is where reality diverges from everything you may have heard about my trade, and certainly from everything that fiction paints it to be.
Don't Believe What You Read I have read, and possess a vast library of, the literature of dominance and submission, and I can safely say I have rarely read so much hooey in my life. It would take me a year to live what the average fictional Dominatrix paints as a typical week in her life; and while I readily admit that that is partly my own doing (for reasons I will explain), all the other women I know in this business will agree. Ninety percent of what we call the foot traffic (pun intended) come because they are curious. Seventy-five percent of professed fetishists likewise. Fifty percent of masochists. And so on. They just want to find out what it’s like. And the rest? Most of them just want to talk.
I said there were reasons why my average day is, by most folks’ reckoning, so dull. One of them is my insistence on finding out exactly what a client wants before proceeding to dish it out. The exchange with which I opened this story, for example. He did not want to be punished for what he had done. He wanted to be told what he should do.
Another reason revolves around my refusal to step in to where the (in inverted commas) “real action” is, hanging around the hardcore BDSM scenes that flourish in most large-ish cities, and which advertise their presence by staging regular “munches,” word-of-mouth open days designed to attract aspiring Dominants and subs for a taste of what “it’s really all about.”
My refusal. That’s not strictly true. I have attended several (make that “many”) and I am a willing participant too. But I tell myself it’s professional curiosity that keeps me there, storing up the absurdities that people say and ask for...the wanna-be submissive who marches in and announces she has absolutely no sexual limits, then faints at the first swish of a crop. The so-called Master who blithely dismisses everyone as amateurs unless they agree that knife play is the only practice that matters. The guy who wants to go down on a woman while she’s having her period, and has convinced himself that this qualifies him among the sickest creatures ever born.
And why do I store these up? Because I know, sooner or later, I will be meeting these same people, or someone very much like them, in somewhat more intimate surroundings, and will spend the next hour unraveling the myriad contradictions and erroneous convictions that “someone I met at a munch once told me....”
None of which, I’m sure, is what you want to hear. You want to learn about bank presidents who like to be treated like toddlers, the top politicians who pretend they’re bad doggies...how about the guy who asked me to waterboard him with urine and a pair of my panties covering his face? (I said no, by the way, and sent him packing.)
Well, I could tell you about them, but really, you already know their stories. Because they’re the ones who you can read about in every memoir ever written, and you know what’s really strange about that? The fact that the story never changes. Minor details may waver according to personal kinks, but it is almost like there’s a sausage factory somewhere, churning out identical chains of Submissive CEOs, all with the same basic needs and desires, and all with the same excuses for having them. And if you really want to know more, you should head down to the bookstore and browse the erotic fiction shelves. Because that is where the real action is.
I sometimes don’t think I’m a Dominatrix at all. But I am a very demanding listener.
It lay propped against a table, a sheet of almost opaque plastic, stretched between two pairs of poles, one set long and vertical, the other, short and horizontal. As I approached, a figure lay it on the floor and pulled back one sheet of plastic… no, latex. A second sheet lay beneath it.
A voice commanded, “Get in.”
Gingerly, I stepped onto the sheet, then lay down at an angle, my head poking out of the turned-back corner. Someone kicked me in the side. “Get in properly.” Feeling the first flush of panic begin to flutter in my chest, I obeyed. What was this thing?
I lay down “properly,” my face beneath the latex layer. Somebody shifted my arms and legs, spreading them until I lay in an exaggerated X. Hands then pulled the top layer tight and secured it.
“Does she know where the breathing tube is?” I heard someone ask.
“I hope so,” somebody else said. “She’ll be needing it.”
I felt with my lips, shifting my head slightly; my nose, then my mouth, met a plastic nozzle; I clasped it greedily between my lips. However it worked… later, I saw a black plastic tube leading away from the mouthpiece… it brought me air. And, as I’d been warned, just in time. A high-pitched whine kicked up, followed by the indescribable sensation of all the air being sucked from the sack. I was being vacuum-sealed in a latex bag.
I could hear everything and, as the latex formed itself tightly over my body and face, see everything. I could even feel everything; I realized that, when a hand slapped down onto my thigh, then lingered long enough to draw its fingertips up my leg towards my groin. But I could not move a muscle; even breathing was an effort, although I was in no danger of suffocation. I just hoped that my body wasn’t nursing some long-hidden latex allergy.
I lay there, my eyes alone moving, following the figures as they drifted around me. Somebody knelt and pressed fingers to my lips; somebody else was stroking something hard against my pussy.
I resolved to remain calm. True, I was trussed up like a turkey. But if I couldn’t touch them, it meant that they couldn’t touch me, not really. And that meant there could be no penetration, not so long as I was protected by that membrane-thin latex barrier.
I don’t know how long I lay like that. Periodically, somebody would pass, glance down at me, maybe run a hand along my body. One pair of fingers tweaked my left nipple viciously; another spent an inordinate amount of time pushing ineffectually at my pussy. It appeared that this contraption was as novel to them as it was to me, and I wondered if that was the point of the exercise… a demonstration of some new invention by the friendly neighborhood scientists.
Penelope appeared. At first I didn’t recognize her; I’d never seen her, after all, from my latest perspective, spread-eagled on the floor while she stood directly above my head, affording me an unrestricted view straight up her skirt, to the shaven pussy that crowned her thighs.
She crouched slowly, her fingers between her thighs, spreading her pussy lips wide. I watched as she started to masturbate herself with one hand; then, as she replaced her fingers with a vibrator. She did not enter herself, merely played the humming toy around her lips, letting it dip occasionally to brush against my mouth. It felt like an electric toothbrush.
Suddenly she spoke, as though she’d just noticed me for the first time. “I told my Masters about you,” she chirped happily. “They said I should show you what I like doing. They were amazed when I told them that you didn’t know how to… you know.”
I'm a writer, not a photographer. So just be aware that the pics on this site were not taken by me, and aren't owned by me either - not even the ones that I'm in. If you are a photographer and find your pics on this site, please get in touch - I'd love to credit you (if you wish), and even use more of your work. If you're here it's because I love the photo!
MISS AMERICA - A BDSM VAMPIRE TALE
An ancient cult, a modern secret society and one of the most extreme erotic adventures you have ever read. Buy it now from Amazon.
The Nympho Librarian & Other Stories
Eleven scalding tales of lust and love in the halls of public learning - the town library!
The sex is hot, but the librarians are hotter, as authors Chrissie Bentley and Jenny Swallows reveal the lip-smacking truth about what goes on behind (and on top of, and around as well) the bookshelves.