The Pleasure's All Mine: Memoir of a Professional Submissive (19 page)

    I let Lissette’s joking flirtation go straight to my head. First, I was given the VIP treatment with the private room, and now I was someone’s little angel to boot. Where had New York City been all my life?

    “Mara, come see what they got me for my birthday!” Lissette yelled again into the hallway. The blond receptionist poked her head around the corner.

    “Cute,” she nodded, sizing me up as if we hadn’t met in the lobby a short while before.

    “Adorable!” Lissette sang, cupping my face in her soft brown hands.

    I went against my grain and let her hold my face instead of pulling away — it was her birthday after all — and when she finally left and shut the door behind her, pretending to lock it so that no one could come in and steal her “present,” I missed her. It hit me that I’d be back in Los Angeles in less than forty-eight hours. I wished I could put my finger on some imaginary emergency stop button to make the time go by slower. I felt like I’d only just stepped off the plane at Newark, and it was getting so good, it was already awful to think I had only one more full day here after this one.

    Pushing thoughts of returning home out of my mind, I pulled off the rest of my clothes and put on one of the no-longer-new leopard-print dresses I’d bought a couple of months earlier. They’d be fresh to my Manhattan clients, so I hadn’t even bothered to go shopping before I’d left home. As I was finishing up with my stockings and some lipstick, there was a knock at the door and Lissette opened it a crack to whisper that my client had arrived. I thanked her and looked in the full-length mirror one last time before heading out to see what kind of kinky men the Big Apple had to offer.

    

    

    What with the little office/dressing room and the little lobby, I wasn’t surprised by the size of the room Ava had given me for my session. I
was
surprised by how unusually tan my client, John, was.

    The map of lines on his face and neck indicated that his dark skin was something he’d been working on for years, not simply sprayed on hours before. I never saw tans like his anymore, even back in California. He had a pleasant enough face — straight nose, tired but lively eyes, even, white teeth when he smiled — which was framed by graying, sandy-brown hair that he’d grown into a short shag that just covered his ears. His body seemed in fairly good shape for a man who looked to be in his fifties. He was tall and probably had once been lanky. He motioned for me to sit down next to him on a low bondage table that took up half the room.

    “I was thinking we could start with a role-play where I’m your husband and I’ve caught you running up our credit card bill. We’ve agreed previously that anymore reckless shopping sprees would result in an old-fashioned over-the-knee spanking, but you try to talk me out of it because you think it’s ridiculous now.”

    “That sounds fine to me,” I nodded.

    “Then I was thinking that we could switch, only I don’t need you to actually spank me. I just want to pleasure myself while you talk dirty to me about how you would punish me if I were your misbehaving husband,” John said.

    Suddenly I was alarmed. I had never switched before, and he hadn’t mentioned it in the phone call the previous day. If he had, I would have counseled him that I had no experience, and doubted my ability to successfully role-play the punisher instead of the punished. It’s something I would have at least wanted to practice, without pay, a couple of times before doing it in a professional session. You wouldn’t ask a foot doctor to fix your teeth, and I felt in over my head the same way with his request.

    But if I told him, I knew it could mean forfeiting the session and losing out on even more cash for this trip. Not that it was the only consideration, what with having all my expenses paid already, but it wasn’t like I’d been raking it in back home before this. Maybe it wouldn’t be any more complicated than simply saying things that I knew would turn
me
on from the submissive point of view.
Surely I can play a bitchy woman who wants physical retaliation against an offender. I do it for real almost every day inside my car in L.A. traffic.

    “That’s fine, too.” I forced what I hoped was a confident smile onto my face.

    Through no fault of his own, John and I exchanged some uninspired role-play for the first half hour.
I warned you about what would happen,
he scolded, pulling me gently across his lap.
I can’t believe you’re serious,
I tried to shout back, but ended up laughing, instead. I was just in too good of a mood to feign outrage at that moment, and was still getting used to kinky improv anyway. After a good warm-up with his hand and an even better light hairbrush spanking, John let me up so we could switch roles.

    “You ready?” he asked, after taking off his clothes and stretching out on the bondage table with his legs spread wide. I nodded and climbed up to sit in the large V between his open legs.

    “Are there things in particular that push your buttons?” I asked before starting.

    “A lot of humiliation. I like the idea of being made to dress up like a girl before being spanked, possibly in front of others.”

    I realized it would be even easier than I thought, thanks to his helpful details. All I had to do was keep harping on a few key ideas — the embarrassment of being made to cross-dress, his helplessness, being exposed — and I could fish around for any other potential triggers while I talked. I knew from talking to dommes and reading I’d done that a lot of men who liked to cross-dress were not into other men sexually. But some were definitely into the fantasy of a “forced bisexual” encounter. I’d have to see with John.

    “You ready? You need any lube or lotion or anything?” I asked, as he began to massage himself into an erection.

    “I’m fine, thanks, and yes, I’m ready.”

    
Please help me get this right for him,
I prayed silently, and began describing my imaginary plans.

    “First I’ll take you shopping for frilly panties, a pretty pink babydoll dress, black Mary Janes and some new white ankle socks.”

    I spoke low, hoping it made me sound sexy. “On the way back, we’ll stop at a wig store and get you a long blonde head of hair with bangs, just like the little girl in
The Bad Seed.
I’ll put it in two braids, and then take you and a lawn chair out into our front yard where all the neighbors can see us.”

    John moaned and began breathing harder, pulling faster on his erection, his eyes squeezed shut. Most spanking fetishists liked the idea of very “domestic” forms of embarrassment around spanking, not being taken out to an S/M club or another formally kinky environment. They had either been spanked as kids in front of neighbors or friends, or they had wanted to be, and if it wouldn’t have freaked out their real neighbors in adulthood, they’d all be out on their lawns right now, too. Running my fingers softly down the insides of John’s thighs, I went on.

    “If you’ve been especially bad, I might ask Mr. and Mrs. Jones to come over and help me. I might ask Mrs. Jones to pull you across her knee and lift up the skirt of your dress, and have Mr. Jones pull down those frilly panties so that his wife can spank your bare bottom with the wooden hairbrush I hand her.”

    “Will you teach me to be a good girl for Mr. Jones?” John gasped at me.

    “I might.” I smiled, knowing I’d hit pay dirt by mentioning the participation of another guy. “I might have him stand in front of your face while Mrs. Jones punishes you. I might have you unzip his pants — not unbuckle his belt or unbutton the top, but just pull the zipper down, and pull his cock through the open fly. I might have you take your tongue and run it from here” — I used the tip of my index finger to trace a line from the base of his erection to the most sensitive area of the tip — “all the way up to here.”

    John gasped again and switched hands before returning to his furious stroking. As I went on with my pornographic descriptions of John’s apparently ideal block party, I was relieved at how enjoyably effortless this scene had turned out to be.

    “What happens if I don’t do it right?” he asked, in reference to the blow job he’d be giving Mr. Jones.

    “Well,” I thought about it for a moment, “in addition to a longer, harder spanking, you might have to learn better technique by watching me, your wife, go down on one of the other neighbors so you can see how it’s done.”

    Another common fantasy of men who liked humiliation was to see their wives with someone else. I waited for John’s reaction, to see if I’d gone off track or brought him closer to his end point.

    “Really?
Ahhh… ahhhhhh.”
He sounded like he was about to come.

    
Christ, I’m good at this,
I thought smugly, and looked up expecting to see John finishing himself off in his hand, a serene smile on his face. Instead, what I saw was a limp wrist, a still-hard-but-fading-fast penis, and the slack jaw and closed eyes of a man who was no longer conscious.
Did this man just have a heart attack?
I stared nervously at his chest, and wasn’t sure if he was still breathing or not. I did see a quick pulse beating through the thin skin at the bottom of his rib cage.
Can you be alive if your heart’s still beating but you’re not breathing?
As I hopped off the table so I could come around his side for a closer look, John’s chest rose and fell as he abruptly began to snore.

    Now it was
my
jaw that went completely slack as I stared at him. I simply could not believe that a person could be so fast asleep, so suddenly and in the midst of such previous, hyper-awake activity. I pressed a hand over my mouth to keep from giggling. Pulling up a chair from another corner of the room, I sat and watched him to make sure he was really sleeping and not in some kind of snoring coma. He looked so vulnerable with his noisy mouth slightly open and everything else so still, I felt like I wished I knew him well enough to do something like kiss him on the forehead. I also felt a little guilty for not nudging him out of his nap, as if I were assisting him in cheating himself out of his paid time with me. But then I thought —
Someone who falls asleep that hard and fast must be really exhausted. Would I want to be woken up if I were having a peaceful doze with a nice person watching over me?

    “Mmph, huh. What’s — Are we at my place?” John’s eyes fluttered open finally, and he squinted at me in confusion.

    “No, baby, we’re at the dungeon. You okay?”

    “What’s going on, what happened?” He sat up on his elbows and looked around.

    “You, um, fell asleep for a little bit,” I said, trying not to laugh.

    “Oh, shit. Really? Aw, man, how embarrassing. God! Did I snore? Please tell me I didn’t snore.” He looked at me with real concern.

    “Nah, you didn’t snore, you just went out really fast and slept quietly for a few minutes. I didn’t know if I should wake you or not—”

    “That’s okay. I just feel like a big dork. Jesus,” he sighed, and rubbed his eyes as he lay back down. “I’m not a weirdo, I swear. I just have sleep apnea, and it makes me have narcoleptic seizures every now and then. Do you know what those are?”

    “Yeah. I’ve known a couple of people who had it. I think one of them got an operation on his nose, and it went away,” I offered.

    “Actually, I’m scheduled for late this summer, when work should be settled down some,” he nodded.

    We looked at each other for a couple of seconds, and then I went back over to the bed.

    “So, do you want to go back to what we were doing? We have time for you to finish, if you’re still in the mood.”

    “That’d be great!” he grinned, and made room for me on the bondage table before going back to work with his hand.

    

    

    As strange as it was, it had to be one of the sweetest, easiest afternoons I’d ever had. Even the hot spanking session later that night — with an unexpectedly cute, thirty-something guy who had a thick New York accent and looked Italian enough to get cast in a Martin Scorsese movie — couldn’t trump the good feeling that John, and Lissette and Ava before him, had left me with. K had been right: it was a whole different ball game in New York.

    It wasn’t exactly that I’d been unhappy in L.A. It was more like I felt
extra
capable of happiness in New York City. Like those laundry detergent commercials where the customer doesn’t know how dingy her white T-shirt is until they hold up a blindingly clean one next to it, I’d had no idea there was this much excitement, this much desirability to revel in on the east coast. The next day was more of the same — two more spanking sessions with cute, nice guys — and people still calling me for appointments by the time I was walking my luggage back to K’s hotel the day after.

    “I want to come back next month,” I told her excitedly, as we rolled her two large suitcases out of her hotel room.

    “I knew you’d love it!” K laughed. “I can give you the woman’s number for the sublet if you want it, or you might try Priceline.com as well. I hear they have good deals for hotels. I’m so happy for you that you had such a great time!” she beamed.

    “I really did. I don’t know how I can ever thank you, or your client, for bringing me here.”

    “You’ve already thanked me enough, and my fellow was sorry to miss you, especially after hearing what a wonderful sub you are. I’m sure we’ll have a chance to get together on one of your future trips East, now that you’re planning on becoming bi-coastal!” she teased.

    Although I would have been happy to rehash the details of my trip and to hear about hers, I was secretly relieved when K fell asleep in the cab on the way back to Newark. I wasn’t really ready to leave yet, and wanted to take in every last bit of my favorite new place through the windows as we left it behind.