Episode Five: Empty pages

Pain had always been a problem. Didn’t like it. I was a total wuss. On the other hand I was becoming increasingly obsessed by mistresses, sorry Mistresses – that’s better. It all seemed simple. Find one on the internet: google ‘Mistresses’ and away you go.

But what to do about the pain thing? Well, Mistresses do things to you and it doesn’t necessarily have to involve pain. It can be about domination and submission, bondage, teasing. This is intriguing stuff. I was determined to have some.

I checked a few web sites. Some were intimidating; some were terrifying; others merely expensive. In true Goldilocks fashion I eventually determined on one that seemed just right:

Accessible – i.e. not too far away,
French – has to be a plus – French women are so sexy n’est pas?
Affordable – yes,
Testimonials – yes, good ones – she obviously knew her stuff.

I duly arranged my appointment. Bought a ‘gift’ (sexy white lace knickers – Mistresses like gifts, apparently) and turned up at the agreed time.

Mistress lived in a modest, modern apartment block, within easy reach of the North Circular Road. I walked briskly up the drive and followed a path round the side of the building to the main door. I rang the bell. My feelings of anxiety and anticipation mounted as I was buzzed in.

Mistress was not intimidating; on the contrary, she seemed almost unassuming, not very commanding and with a demeanour that definitely did not inspire subservience. Never mind, I was here now, so better make the most of it.

At least she was French so that was a start. She thanked me for the gift, we took care of the financial arrangements and she bade me get undressed, which I did. She had seemed disappointed when I intimated that spanking was not to be on the agenda.

Mistress then insisted on accompanying me to the bathroom where I was instructed to stand in the bath and wash my interesting bits with a shower spray. Was this required for reasons of hygiene? (I was clean already and I knew that fucking Mistress was not permitted.) Or was it an introduction to ‘doing as one is told’, adopting the correct demeanour and assuming an appropriate mental state?

Probably the latter, I surmised. Standing in a bath washing your cock with a shower spray while a bored, slightly sniffy woman watches you, is not a sexy experience. I dried myself and followed her back to the lounge/scene room.

Now we were going to start the real stuff; whatever that was to be. Mistress seemed to be slightly at a loss – perhaps because spanking was not scheduled. Maybe spanking was her big thing. Maybe it was her only thing. Fuck – what was I doing here?

I was instructed to lie on the floor. Mistress walked about and poked me here and there with her shoe, muttering to herself in French. She prodded my cock a bit, but this had no effect. She was wearing a long black simple shift dress; it almost reached the floor. Black pointy heeled bootees emerged from it. The dress emphasised her flat chest. I am not a boob man, but some evidence of secondary sexual characteristics would have been welcome relief. Mistress continued to pace the room, looking unsexy and bored. My neglected cock remained flaccid. In my slightly pathetic naked state, I was beginning to feel cold.

Then she had an idea.

“Slave would like to worship Mistress’s pussy?”

This was either a statement or a question, depending on one's perspective.

I replied in the affirmative; the merest whisp of a thought that a large black cat was about to be introduced to the scene was immediately banished from my mind.

I was told to stand up and move a small chair/stool thingy to the centre of the room. It was too small to be a chair, but it had a back and appeared to be an upmarket commode. I placed the Mistress Commode in the middle of the floor. Mistress told me to lie down again, this time with my head under the commode, so that I could look up through the hole in the seat. We were getting somewhere.

It became apparent that Mistress was not wearing any knickers. She had probably been waiting for my gift and did not wish to sully her Mistress bottom with down market cheap knickers in the meantime. She lifted up her long dress and crouched down on the commode. My view of the approaching Mistress Cunt was short lived as it immediately became dark under the commode with her dress hanging around outside.

“You may lick me now, slave”, Mistress commanded.

I strained my head upwards and began to lick the protruding lips. Giving head is one of my favourite activities, but in this position it was difficult to get my tongue to the best spot. My neck began to ache.

“Are you pleased to be able to pleasure Mistress in this way?” she asked, distractedly.

“Mmff mmff”, I responded, not wishing to talk with my mouth full.

Mistress seemed to be enjoying the experience and began to squirm in the seat, making my task more difficult. As she responded to my ministrations, my cock began to harden, moving up the scale from ‘little useless winky’ to ‘half erect useless squashy todger’. Progress indeed.

Her squirming became more energetic and she emitted a short squeak. Either she had come, or she had noticed the time and needed to wind things up and get ready for the next session.

She stood up, nudged the Mistress Commode aside and gazed down imperiously at my unimpressive half erection.

“You may come now slave”, she commanded. I looked up, enquiringly.

“You can make yourself come in my presence”, she repeated.

One feeble wank later, I was out in the street and ready for new adventures.