Peppermint Ch. 02: Aimee in pain

Literotic asexstories – Peppermint Ch. 02: Aimee in pain by jackthebass,jackthebass
This is the second chapter of the Peppermint story; however, it is set before the events described in the first chapter. I therefore suggest that it may be beneficial to read that chapter.

As I drove home in the hours that followed our session I had plenty of time to think. Firstly, of course, of my delight at having tested you so harshly and you demonstrating a tolerance for pain beyond anything I would have predicted. Secondly, I thought of how much I had revelled in the power I had over you and the delight with which you had accepted it. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I thought about the disconnect between the previous two points and the fact that in addition to your day job, you were a professional, in-demand and highly thought of dominatrix. I still found it hard to believe that not only had I whipped and twisted your nipples, but also left you with crop slashes across your thighs and buttocks, fucked your throat until raw and covered your hair, face and breasts in sperm. I knew very little of dominatrices yet this didn’t seem to me to be something that one would find going on in the home of many of them.

The question also remained: how had we come to those circumstances? How did a young man like me, barely a quarter of a century old, come to be forcing his penis into the mouth of a woman like yourself, and how had she come to suggest it in the first place?

Stories such as this are rarely simple, and I began to think about how we’d met. It seemed easiest to start at the beginning. University had not been, for me, an enjoyable experience. Mostly I had hidden in my room, gone to my lectures and resolutely avoided any normal university activities. Eventually the financial situation became dire, and I looked for a job, finding one in a musical instrument shop. It was here that I gradually found myself being drawn out of my shell by Pete and Mick, the owner and his guitar legend friend. One day, they introduced me to you. The story of this has been told elsewhere, of course, but the short version was that I was instantly attracted to you despite you being nearly twenty years my senior. When you came in the shop my faculties would desert me and I’d be powerless before your beauty, your confidence and your scent. Pete took pity on me, explaining that you made your living partly through your strength, beauty and iron will. Each time you appeared in the shop you would do so immaculately dressed, your dark red hair a waterfall of temptation. For some reason you chose to treat me gently and would request my assistance when making purchases. We became friends, over time. To cut a long story short, we had remained in contact after I finished university and I would drive down to see you when work and family circumstances permitted. This was not a relationship between equals, of course. I was the junior, the project, and you were the senior, the holder of the power. You made the decisions about where we went, what we did, and paid for everything. I’d questioned this, once; your stare had been enough to quell my protests.

One night, over dinner in an expensive Gerrard Street restaurant, you broached the unspoken subject and asked me how I felt about your work. I’d replied that I was interested in what drove you, what you gained from the activities you undertook and how you treated the people who engaged your services. A slight smile played on your face as you asked: “And have you ever wanted to engage me, Jack?” I’d stuttered a reply about not wanting to spoil our friendship, and that was the last time we’d mentioned the subject. We continued to meet, to talk and to give each other what we needed in terms of conversation and companionship, until a few months later.

I may have been young, but I had grown in confidence since my university days. A couple of years working as a roadie for Mick’s band had taught me how to deal with people (especially those who were drunk, over-assertive or out to take the band for a ride) and my gangly youthful physique had been honed into something much more solid. Although not violent, I found that a serious tone and a propensity to loom could work wonders when people needed bending to my will.

The telephone call had come one morning. I replayed it in my mind as the homeward miles unwound themselves. It had been short and to the point: “Jack,” you’d opened with, your voice low, “he’s back, and I need him gone. Can you come tonight? No-one must know we’ve been in contact about this.” I replied that I could, and left work immediately, stating that some important family business had come up. “He” was your ex-husband, an unpleasant and vindictive man who had been known to periodically attempt to blackmail you into giving him money, usually threatening to tell a local newspaper about your parallel careers. I drove home, changed, and then walked to the station, catching the next train into London. I paid with cash, and also bought the next ticket, the one to the small town in which you lived, in this manner. I’d walked the mile or so to your house in the gathering dusk and spent thirty minutes or so in the shadow of the trees in your garden, observing the un-curtained windows as your ex followed you around your house. When I was certain that I knew where he was, I walked quickly in through the front door, found him haranguing you in the sitting room, and lifted him bodily by the collar, forcing him against the wall. You watched, amused, as I ground my left forearm into his throat and held it there against his struggling. As his face began to purple I stared into his eyes, ignoring his weak attempts to free himself. He was unfit and unready for this conflict; I was young, sinewy and, as I saw it, looking out for a friend.

“You will leave. Immediately. You will not come back. If you try to contact Deborah again I will return, and this will be a walk in the park by comparison”. To reinforce my point, I used my right hand to reach into the pocket of my jacket and withdrew an antique silver-handled straight razor, flicking it open and allowing the light to glint along the stropped edge. His eyes widened in fear and a dark patch stained the front of his suit trousers. “If I hear you have tried to contact or make life hard for her, I will carve my initials into your pallid little face. Go. Now”. I released him and he stumbled from the house without a word, flopping into his car and hurrying erratically away.

“Well, Jack, aren’t you the dark horse?” you asked, arching one eyebrow. “I’ll be in touch”. Recognising a dismissal when I heard one, I pocketed the razor and walked back to the station; I was home by midnight. You’d never mentioned your ex-husband again, so I assumed my ministrations had achieved the desired effect upon him.

Since then we had become closer; never intimate, but closer. I found your directness appealing, to say nothing of the power of your personality. We saw each other reasonably often – you would squire me around London, taking me to the opera or an exquisite restaurant, refusing to entertain the concept of my paying the bill. Sometimes I flirted with the idea of enquiring about “engaging” you professionally but couldn’t bring myself to ask for fear of damaging our curious friendship. One day though, six months or so after I’d ejected your ex-husband from your house, an envelope arrived at my house addressed to me. Upon opening it, I found a business card, ruby-red and framed in black, printed on expensive cotton paper. In white type, it said simply “Deborah”. On the reverse of the card, handwritten in black fountain pen, was a date some two weeks in the future, a time (2100), a postcode, and the instruction to ask for Mary.

The intervening period passed quickly, and just before nine p.m. on the given Saturday night I arrived at the address suggested by the postcode on the card. This proved to be a block of very expensive-looking flats just off Brewhouse Lane in Wapping, as I knew it would be, knowing you well enough to have done my research, as I didn’t feel that you would appreciate any tardiness. At the door to the block there were a dozen or so doorbells, the bottom-most one of which being labelled “M”. Grinning despite myself, I pushed the button and instantly a woman’s voice with an Irish accent spoke through the intercom. “State your business, please”.

“My name’s Jack”, I responded. “I’m looking for Mary”.

“Come in please, Jack. Take the stairs to the basement. I’ll meet you there”. Not waiting for any reply, she buzzed me in. I pushed the door open and stepped into a tastefully lit and decorated lobby. My army boots, worn jeans and biker jacket seemed incongruous in these surroundings but I was obviously in the right place. I descended an iron fin-de-siecle spiral staircase to the basement level lobby, where, true to her word, a woman was waiting for me. Despite the lateness of the hour she was dressed immaculately in a black pencil skirt, a cream blouse and a business jacket. Her hair was pale auburn and drawn up in a high bun. When she spoke I heard the softness of the Irish accent again.

“Good evening, Jack. Deborah is expecting you, so we’ll go straight in. Everything is ready”. I followed her as she stepped towards a black, gloss painted door set into the magnolia of the wall. She raised a key fob to the reader on the door, which clicked and illuminated a green LED. The woman pushed the door open and we stepped inside. The woman immediately stepped behind a desk and sat down at her computer, motioning me to hang my jacket on the ornate coat stand that stood in one corner of the small room I found myself in; I did so, and, nonplussed, remained standing for a few moments until another door opened and you stepped into the room.

Every time I saw you I would be taken aback by your presence, but on this occasion I found my breath catching in my throat. Your gorgeous darkflame hair was gathered into a long French plait and hung to the small of your back. A black corseted minidress left your arms and shoulders bare. Beneath this sheer nylon encased your legs, ending at your unshod feet. A strong yet subtle scent enveloped me as you stepped towards me, reaching behind my head and drawing me down to your height and kissing me briefly on the right cheek.

“Thank you, Mary. We will be about an hour, I should think.” The Irish woman, nodded briefly and returned to her work. “I see you’ve met Mary, Jack. She doesn’t say a lot, which makes her an ideal employee. In this line of work discretion is essential. Now, you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here”. I nodded, my confusion obvious. “Well, it’s simple; as a reward for removing that man from my house I felt that it was time for you to see me at work”.

“Uh, Deborah, I’m not sure if…”. You placed a finger to my lips to quieten me.

“Be quiet, Jack. This evening you will watch me at work with a client. I may even direct you to assist; if you make a decent job if it I will have another job for you to do”.

I began to protest, saying that seeing some guy being humiliated, even by you, wasn’t my scene but you cut me off, dead.

“Shut up. Follow me – you will enjoy this, I have no doubt”. Stifling my protests in bewilderment, I followed as you stepped through the door and shut it behind us. In the centre of the windowless room stood a woman, her arms raised aloft by a pair of leather wrist restraints that were hooked to a chain hanging from the ceiling. Her eyes were downcast, and a shapeless white shift covered her from neck to knees. A bit-gag had been strapped around her head, keeping her teeth apart.

Determined not to appear gauche, I looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished, with only a table, an old-fashioned and high-backed Windsor chair and a stainless steel trolley – this last bearing an assortment of sinister-looking items – being in evidence. Various forms of restraints were hung on the walls and a large internal storeroom was reached through a door on the other side of the woman. A discreet susurration bore testimony to the air conditioning system that kept the room at a cool fifteen or so Celsius.

“Jack”, you said, your voice sounding harsh in the muffled atmosphere of the room (which I now realised must be soundproofed) “take a good look at her. Go on. She won’t bite”. I did as I was bid and stepped carefully across the rubber-matted floor to inspect the woman. She was slightly above average height, perhaps 1.7 metres, although it was hard to say with her arms reaching high above her head, raising her shoulders. Her hair was a very dark brown, soft and shiny. She possessed a full figure, complete with narrow waist. I couldn’t see much of her face because her head was tipped forward and obscured by her arms and the fall of her hair. I guessed her age to be around thirty, so older than me but a decade or so younger than you. She stood stock still on a small white square that was pained on the flooring directly beneath the hook. Her only movement was the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

“This, Jack”, you said, moving to the trolley and selecting an item from it, “is Aimee, and she is a slut. She comes from a wealthy background, works in the city where she undertakes forensic accountancy, so she is good with numbers. Aimee has rather unusual tastes for a young lady and comes to me every month or so and likes me to humiliate, degrade and administer pain to her; she pays very well for this privilege. I have told her that you would be joining us this evening, although I have not asked her opinion on this”.

“Why not?” I asked, trying to keep my voice flat and expressionless.

“Because who cares for the opinions of sluts?” you replied, shrugging. “And now, Jack, this is your moment of choice. The blue pill or the red, if you like. You may leave now, having seen my place of business, and we will continue our… arrangement as before. Or, should you choose to show the qualities I feel you possess, you may stay. If you stay, you will watch Aimee’s session, you will carry out my instructions and if you do a good job of that I will give you the task that I spoke about earlier. There’s no pressure, of course”.

The lightness with which you uttered this last sentence left me in no doubt what was expected of me. I walked slowly around Aimee, who still stared at the floor.

“May I ask Aimee a question, Deborah?”

“You may. One. However, Aimee may not speak without permission, and in any case is gagged at the moment. I suggest you ask her a question that she may answer by nodding or shaking her head”.

“Aimee, look at me”, I said, quietly. As the woman began to raise her head you stepped smartly forward, forcing her head back down and turning on me with surprising rancour.

“Jack, one does not speak to a slut like that. One commands respect through one’s voice as well as one’s actions. Do it again”.

I paused momentarily. In for a penny, I thought…. “Aimee, look me in the eye”, I growled, startling myself somewhat with the steel in my voice. Aimee’s head shot up and she turned slightly to face me. She was pretty, with dark eyes enlarged with mascara and eyeliner. Her expression was unreadable, but I noticed her breathing quicken slightly at the sound of my voice.

“Are you the slut that Deborah says you are?”, I asked. Immediately Aimee nodded, showing a degree of enthusiasm I had hitherto not expected.

“Deborah, I’m staying”. There was no hesitation in my voice now. I was intrigued and I decided that I would swallow your red pill. I wanted to see not only what you could inflict on Aimee, but how she would respond, what she got out of that infliction. If I’m honest, a part of my psyche was excited by the prospect of assisting you, of meting out pain on the body of this gorgeous, helpless stranger.

You didn’t reply, but nodded in a businesslike fashion, metaphorically rolling up your sleeves. I watched as you pulled the trolley behind you and stepped in front of Aimee, who immediately dropped her head again. Your palm opened, and I saw a glint of steel as you grasped the vintage tailor’s shears you’d removed from the trolley. Grasping the lower hem of the shift you cut decisively, once, replaced the shears and pulled hard at either side of the cut. The shift ripped neatly up the front, the tearing sound loud in the quiet room. You continued to pull until the shift was in rags at Aimee’s feet, and she stood clad only in an expensive-looking black silk bra and knickers combination, a necklace and a silver belly chain. I watched you heft the flesh of her left breast in your right hand almost contemplatively before dropping it again, admiring her curves as you did so.

“Look at her, Jack. Look at the slut. She wants you to see her vulnerable and hungry. Pay particular attention to her smooth, undamaged skin – it will not stay like that for long. Aimee, nod your head if you want me to use you as I see fit”. Immediately Aimee did so, looking at you with longing in her eyes. “Nod again if you are a worthless slut who just craves humiliation.” Again, Aimee nodded.

“See, Jack, I’m doing the slut a favour. Here, look at this.” You pulled the necklace slowly away from the paleness of her decolletage. I looked closely and see that from the loop of the chain dangled a small silver heart, the words ‘Hurt Me’ inscribed carefully on it. “All in good time, Aimee, but rest assured, tonight I will hurt you in ways you could never have imagined in that empty slutty head of yours”. Unbelievably, a quiet moan made its way past the bit-gag; Aimee was evidently already becoming aroused.

“Of course, Jack, I am not a savage. I will only inflict upon the slut that which the slut wants, needs and can take. My rules are that I will not leave visible marks on the hands, feet or face. This room is equipped with emergency medical equipment and Mary is an ex-paramedic. Should the slut decide that she has had enough, she has the option to use her safe word. If you hear Aimee use the word “peppermint” whilst you are following my instructions you will immediately cease whatever you are doing, release Aimee from any restraints and help her to the chair. I will ask Mary to immediately bring a blanket and a drink. At that point the session will be over, and the focus will shift to Aimee’s after-care. Do you understand?”

“Yes, of course”, I replied. “Does Aimee often use the safe word?”

“If she uses it tonight, that will be the first time I’ve heard her say it. She may be a slut who exists only for pain and humiliation, but she is a strong slut.” You spoke the words as if Aimee were merely an object, a curio to be discussed at leisure.

“It is time to begin. Jack, reach up and unhook the slut from my ceiling. She’s doing nothing more than hanging there like a side of lamb and it’s time she did something more amusing”. I did as I was bid, stepping close to Amiee and reaching above her head to where the manacles’ chain was looped over the hook. As I did so Aimee moved forward, as if to press close to me, but a snapped instruction from you was enough to ensure she stayed still. I hefted the chain in my fist and freed it, watching as Aimee brought her arms down in front of herself, still fettered by the manacles. A gasp left through her nose as the circulation was restored. “Remove the chain. The slut will then remove her bra and I will hurt her nipples, assuming that’s what she wants”. You raised an eyebrow and Aimee eagerly nodded, so I unclipped the sprung catch on the end of the chain that was attached to her left wrist, then followed with the right.

Aimee reached behind herself, still standing on the mark beneath the hook, and began to unclasp her bra. When it was free, she slid her arms through the straps and held the garment demurely in front of herself, her arms framing her breasts. You instructed me to take the bra, which I did.

“The slut has beautiful breasts, Jack, does she not?” you asked, and I replied that I had to agree. They were of very generous proportions and stood proud of her chest, the lightly tanned skin showing in contrast to the darkness of her nipples, each of which was pierced by a silver bar. “Show him your breasts, Aimee”. She did, holding each up in turn, using both hands. “Are you proud of them?” you asked, and she nodded, smiling around the bit gag. “Put them down and let your arms hang by your sides”, you ordered, and as she did so you came to stand between myself and her. “Watch this, Jack. I’m going to suck her nipple, and I shall do so until she gives an indication of enjoyment. At that point I will make her abuse the other until she cries out. Remove the gag, please. The slut will, of course, remain unspeaking until I instruct otherwise, and will remain standing on her mark”.

I removed the gag and watched as you dropped your head to her right breast, kneading it gently between your fingers and taking the firmness of the nipple between your darkened lips. The sight was incredibly alluring; the most commanding woman I knew sucking the nipple of an attractive stranger, faint lipstick traces smearing the aureole. In a moment of haphazard thought, I found myself wondering if there were any other ex-partners who may have wronged you, as if this was the payment I would earn from running them off, I felt sure I could get used to it. How Aimee was able to stand still while you gently nibbled her breast I couldn’t understand, but at that moment, she moaned, barely audibly. Immediately you stood up, the nipple falling from your lips.

“Aimee, using your left hand, you will now pull your left nipple away from your body and hold it as far out as it is possible to do so”, you said. “You will remain in this position”. Aimee did exactly as you told her, stretching her flesh until her breath caught in her throat, using the bar through her nipple to maintain a grip on it. I watched, entranced, as you walked over to the steel table and selected an object from it, an old-fashioned boxwood ruler, and returned to stand in front of Aimee.

“What is the sixth prime number, Aimee?” you asked.

“Seventeen, Deborah” the girl replied, demurely. Her accent was refined and reeked of a comfortable upper-middle class upbringing.

“I mentioned that the slut works in the city, Jack; numbers seem to be her thing. You, Aimee, will take this ruler and slap yourself seventeen times on the left nipple without – and this is important – letting it go or. You will deliver a respectable blow each time. Should I feel that any are substandard I will…. No, Jack will administer two for each you hold back on”. You held out the ruler and Aimee reached out for it. “Count the blows; you may not speak any other words save the safe word”.

I watched as Aimee brought the ruler down in a stinging slap, impacting her nipple and the fingers of her left hand that held it outstretched. “One”. Quickly, she raised the ruler and repeated her action, the sound of the impact surprisingly loud in the quietness of the room. “Two”. I watched as she continued; around the eighth blow her voice took on the very slightest waver. By the twelfth she was breathing hard and “fifteen” seemed to be a barely contained sob. However, she steeled herself and delivered the final two blows hardest of all, and as she said “seventeen” in an openly shaky voice you took back the ruler and gestured for her to let her hands fall to her sides again, releasing the flesh of her breast which was now showing a red weal in the shape of the ruler which reached across the skin of the breast itself, the areola and the peak of the nipple.

“Did that hurt, slut?”, you asked, and Aimee nodded slightly. “Good. Can you take more?”. She nodded again, beseechingly. I couldn’t decide if I found this pathetic or admirable, but either way I wanted to witness the next stage in the humiliation.

“Suck it. Kiss it better”. Again, Aimee responded immediately to your instruction, lifting the breast to her lips and directing it into her mouth. Although an obviously painful process, she set to work sucking, murmuring through her flesh as she did so. “Good little slut. I do like to see a woman with her own nipple in her mouth. It shows a lack of shame I find very pleasing”. It sounded as if you were musing to yourself as you watched her.

“Nod if you would like me to bite the other one”, you said, daring her to agree. Aimee paused for a fraction of a second before nodding gently, and I watched as you moved quickly and bit surprisingly hard on her right breast, just behind where the silver bar penetrated her puckered skin. Her scream came as a shock, somehow, and she threw herself backwards, breaking the grip your teeth had on her. She stood, her breath ragged, with her hands clutching at her bosom as if to protect it from your further ministrations.

There was nothing at all gentle about your voice now. “Jack”, you said icily, “the slut has moved from her allotted position. Re-attach the chain to her restraints and hang her on the hook again. She will now learn just how displeased I can be when my instructions are not followed”.

I strode forward and, warming to the task, pulled Aimee’s hands from her body and hustled her back onto the mark. In addition to the weal on the left breast there was now an angry pair of crescent shapes already purpling on the right. Without pause I reattached the spring clips to each manacle and connected the central link of the chain to the butcher’s hook, hoisting her whimpering back into her original position, her eyes wide. I heard the clank of metal on metal and looked across to the wheeled table again, where you were choosing the next instrument of ordeal, a pair of clamps which were connected by a tough-looking black cord. These clamps were not the novelty ones that could be bought in seedy adult toy shops; these looked like miniature screw clamps such as a precision engineer might use. Despite myself I found that I was wincing in sympathy for Aimee as you crossed the room and began to tighten the screw clamps onto her nipples, their heavy brass jaws closing tightly onto her skin. She continued to whimper, and you said, “Shut up, girl, unless you want to use the safe word”, at which point she bit her lip and stilled herself, accepting the clamps’ pressure.

“Right, for the next stage of the process, Aimee, you will be punished for your disobedience. I told you, did I not, to stay on your mark?”

“Yes, Deborah. You told me to stay on my mark.”

“So, now you have a choice to make. You will hold the cord that connects those lovely little clamps together between your teeth and hold your head up as high as you are able. Yes, it will hurt, I suppose – but it will be nothing you don’t want. What will you do?”

“I will hold the cord in my mouth and pull on it, Deborah”.

“You will. And whilst you do this, Jack will strike you across the backside. What is the ninth prime number?”

Immediately Aimee replied: “Twenty-three, Deborah”.

The ghost of a smile touched your lips briefly and you raised the cord to her mouth. “Begin. I want to see you pull on those slutty nipples properly”. Aimee tipped her head back, a gasp of pain becoming a groan as the tension mounted on her soreness, the darkened skin of her areolae stretching skyward. “Jack, step behind her and slap her twenty-three times. Do it like you mean it. I want to hear each slap as it lands.”

You span Aimee around on the mark until she faced away from us, and silently handed me the boxwood ruler. Although it was not heavy I was sure it would sting hugely. Drawing in a deep breath I brought the ruler around in a wide arc, smashing the flat underside into the unsullied skin of both buttocks with a crack that surprised me with its volume. Aimee screamed and lurched forward against her chain but kept her feet on the mark.

“One”, you said. I repeated my action, craning my neck so I could watch Aimee’s face as the second vicious blow landed. Again she threw herself forward, her breasts reciprocating until their energy was damped by the action of the clamps’ tension. This time she managed not to scream, but panted in agony past the cord that she held in her teeth.

“Two”.

“Three”

You continued to count as I steadily repeated the blows. Finally, I reached the last strike and dropped the ruler onto the steel table. By now Aimee was hanging slumped, held up only by the restraints on her wrists, a reedy continuous moan issuing from her lips. However, she was still able to maintain the pressure on the cord, hauling her heavy breasts upwards even as her tears dripped onto them, darkening the skin with streaks of black make-up.

“For goodness’ sake, girl, stand up properly; none of this would be happening if you hadn’t asked me for it”, you sneered. Aimee pulled her feet together and strugglingly stood up, taking the weight off her arms and shoulders. You gripped her hips and spun her so that once again she faced us. Her eyes were downcast yet her head was held high, and I privately marvelled at her strength.

I watched as you carefully reached out your left hand and brushed her hair away from her face. “So beautiful…. And so wanton. I happen to know, Jack, that Aimee loves to have her pretty little arse thrashed. Normally I would use a leather flogger, but today I decided to shake things up a little, hence the ruler. For a minute, we shall take things easily.” So saying, you motioned for Aimee to release the cord from between her teeth, which she did with a sigh (pain, or perhaps gratitude, I couldn’t tell). Gently, almost carefully, you began to caress each breast, tracing the roundness with the tips of your fingers. “So many women would do anything to have breasts as beautiful as these” you said softly, as if talking to yourself again. Moving to stand behind her you continues to caress her and began to languidly lick and kiss her behind her right ear. Aimee moaned softly and I watched your right hand drop from her breast and slip down the slight swell of her stomach, past the delicate silver belly chain and into the waistband of her knickers. I saw the fabric straining as your fingers worked their way into her centre and began to stimulate her clitoris. “Good girl, Aimee, you’re very wet already” you muttered into her ear between kisses. “Tell us, how does that feel?”.

“It feels amazing, Deborah”, Aimee replied quietly.

“Do you want to come?”

“Yes, Deborah. I want to come on your fingers. Please….”

Abruptly you straightened up and walked away from her, and she sagged in disappointment. You sat in the wingback chair across the room from her and idly licked your fingers, cooing to yourself in enjoyment.

“Oh, Aimee – you’re not ready to orgasm. You haven’t earned it yet”. You sat in silence for a few moments as if contemplating the next course of action before looking at me with a calculating expression. “I think we’ll let Jack warm you up a little bit first. Jack, you have ten minutes to drive the slut to the edge of orgasm and keep here there. On no account are you to let her come. If you care to look at the table you will find a variety of devices that you may use on her. Carry on”. You delivered your instructions in a clipped yet laconic manner and I hastened to obey. “Oh, and don’t do anything too…. Predictable”. You glanced at your watch and nodded.

I walked over to the wheeled steel table which was covered in different tools, most of which were intended to bring pain in one form or another. I thought to myself that Aimee must really enjoy the use of such devices and the sensations they brought her, as none of them looked like the faux-BDSM equipment seen in mainstream pornography. I thought about the little I knew of Aimee and the rather more comprehensive knowledge I had of you. I knew that this would be another of your tests, so I ignored the obvious items such as a steam-bent cane and various dildos in lurid colours. I decided you would be looking for me to prove my creativity and this led me to choose just two small items, a reel of strong red thread and a length of heavy grey linen fabric, perhaps 100mm wide and a metre long. I looked over to you to gauge your reaction and was rewarded with an indulgent expression and one raised eyebrow. This was, I felt, as good as I was going to get.

“Okay, Aimee” I said, again using the low voice. “Have you had enough? Are you in too much pain to continue? Do you need to use your safe word?”

“No, Jack”, she replied, squaring her stance a little.

“Good. I am going to release you from your manacles and allow you to use your fingers on yourself. However, if I think you’re getting too close to an orgasm I will… discourage you from going any further. Do you understand and accept?”

“Yes, Jack. I understand and accept. I want you to…”

“Shut up. This is not about what you want, Aimee. This is about what I want and what Deborah wants. The only way this will change is when you use your safe word”. I felt that I was beginning to understand my role a little more clearly. I didn’t look at you for approval. I moved to stand behind Aimee and ran my index finger of my right hand down the length of her spine, from nape to buttocks, making her shiver slightly in the cool air of the room. I leaned forward and let my left hand drift slowly around her waist and up to the underswell of the left breast, which I squeezed gently. The skin was warm to my touch, especially where the redness left by the ruler impacts were. I checked the screws were tight on the clamp and bounced the breast in my palm contemplatively. Aimee leant back into me slightly, obviously enjoying the sensations. Without pause I whipped the length of linen over her head and tied it across her eyes in a basic reef knot to prevent it becoming removed. Aimee stilled, half in anticipation and half in fear. I reached up and undid each manacle’s buckle, letting her arms fall to her sides and leaving the manacles hanging from their chain.

“Aimee, you will now undo the clamp on your right nipple. Clip it onto your left nipple along with the one that’s already in place. You will not need to speak”. I watched as she followed my instructions, hearing her gasp as the sensation returned to her nipple as the bloodflow was reestablished. She completed the task and stood upright between us, her left breast now being driven downwards by the combined weight of the two heavy brass clamps, with me standing very close behind her and you sat on your chair, your expression neutral.

“Eight minutes, Jack”, you informed me. I nodded, and gripped Aimee by the shoulders, roughly spinning her around to face me. I took the length of thread and tied it tightly around he recently-freed right nipple.

“Aimee, what are you?” I demanded.

“I am a slut, Jack”, she replied. “I am a slut who needs to be treated harshly”.

“You are. So, slut, you will now masturbate. You may use your fingers to stimulate yourself in any way you see fit, but you will not climax.”

She nodded and immediately dropped both hands to her sex, worked the waistband of her knickers downwards and and began to rub her clit with her right hand, so I nudged her knees apart and she began to explore her centre with the middle finger of her left. You and I watched as she pushed herself onwards, her chest beginning to rise and fall deeply, her breath coming more quickly. Soft moans began to escape her lips now, and the first vestiges of shaking showed in her legs. Deciding this was close enough I gave the free end of the thread a sharp tug; the moans turned to a shriek.

“I told you, Aimee. You are not to try and make yourself come. Now, be a good girl and continue. If you feel sustained pressure on the thread you will move to follow it. If you do not, stay still”. I didn’t ask if she understood, but watched as she again began to circle her clit. I began to walk lazily around the room, pulling her by the thick thread tied to her jewellery. I haphazardly changed direction, pulling her this way and that. Blindfolded as she was, she had no way of anticipating when that change would happen, and each time the thread tightened unexpectedly her-pre-orgasmic whimpers turned to a sharper cry as the silver bar was suddenly yanked into or away from her sensitive flesh. Occasionally I would stop and let her raise her level of arousal with her fingers, watching as they glided around her clit or carefully squeezed her painful breasts. On one occasion I had to yank the thread again to prevent her from getting too close to climax, but after that she was able to regulate herself and when she approached orgasm would reluctantly pause for a few moments to allow it to recede.

An idea occurred to me, so I drew her close in front of where you sat watching. I ordered her to stop touching her clit and to stand in front of you. I checked the blindfold was still secure and then dropped the thread to the floor, placing the arch of my boot over it. I then reached down and picked the thread up again, pulling it as I did so. This had the effect of dragging Aimee’s sore nipple down towards the floor and she immediately began to follow it.

“Kneel” I ordered, and watched as she sank to her knees. Still I pulled on the thread, tightening it against the resistance offered by her breast flesh. With my other hand I plucked at the taught thread, making Aimee gasp as the vibrations thrummed into her nerve endings. “Look, Deborah, we have a slut-violin” I joked humourlessly.

“Two minutes left, Jack”, you said, and I could hear approval in your tone.

I reached for Aimee’s left nipple and released the clamps that had hung there, pulling it downwards. A sigh of contentment rose sharply to become a soft whimper as the blood and feeling returned. I rolled the nipple between my fingers and flicked it with my thumbnail. Aimee moaned softly and leant into my hand. Again I marvelled at how she enjoyed having her most sensitive parts treated so harshly. “Would you like me to hurt your breasts some more, Aimee?” I asked.

“Yes. Yes please, Jack” she uttered quietly. I quicky pulled the thread taught, extending the whole breast forward as the silver bar pulled on her right nipple. When it would come no further forward I slapped downwards hard with my other hand, wrenching the thread until the knot broke. Aimee’s shriek of pain was her loudest yet, and I saw tears prick the corners of her eyes. I landed another two blows on each breast for good measure, and turned away from her as she began to sniff quietly, her head dropping forward.

“Thank me”.

She managed to bring her quiet sobbing under control and said “Thank you, Jack. Thank you for hurting me”.

“Aimee, you will now lean forward and rest your forehead on the ground. Deborah will watch as you stimulate yourself for her enjoyment. As you do this you will explain carefully and politely how grateful you are to her for allowing you behave in such a whorish and humiliating manner. Again, you will not allow yourself to come to orgasm; should you do that I will conclude this session. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Jack, I understand you” she said, leaning carefully forward until her forehead rested on the black floor. I pushed her knees apart with the toe of my boot and watched as her hands snaked back towards her sex again. I pulled her knickers down a little to give her better access as her fingers found her entrance and began to explore it. She looked incredible; wanton and needy, yet somehow powerful and whole. I admired the sweeping curve of her back as she knelt in the stress position, her heavy breasts now pooling on the rubber flooring, her backside aimed skywards and her head haloed by clouds of her dark brown hair.

“Deborah cannot hear you, slut”, I said. “You can start by telling her what you think of yourself”.

“Please, Deborah, I’m just a whore who loves having her fat tits and arse slapped. I just want to feel used by you, and by Jack. I want you to humiliate me and treat me like the slut that I am. I want you to let me fuck myself for your amusement. I want to submit myself to your will. I’ll fuck you, or Jack, if you want me to”.

“My my, Aimee” you said quietly, “I don’t think your parents would have been so eager to send you to that expensive school if they’d known you would turn out to use language like this, would they? You really are a little slut, aren’t you? A little slut who cannot help but belittle herself in front of other people. Keep talking; you’re finally beginning to interest me”. Aimee moaned and began to pump three fingers inside herself. “And remember, Jack instructed you not to make yourself come”, you snapped. “Tell me what you want us to do to you”. With great reluctance, Aimee slowed her pace and began to speak again, the well-spoken voice at odds with the words it was saying.

“I want you to force me to come, Deborah. I want you to ruin me with orgasms while I suck Jack’s cock like the worthless fucking whore I am. I want to bury my face in your pussy and eat you while Jack fucks me. I want to be your whore, Deborah”.

“Aimee, whores get paid for tawdry acts with shabby people; I am neither tawdry or shabby, and furthermore it is you who pays me for my services, might I remind you? Also, your language is quite unbefitting for a lady. You will not hear me using words like that without exceptionally good reason”. You stood slowly, vacating the chair, and I watched spellbound as you knelt behind Aimee. “Stop this clumsy fumbling at once. Get your hands onto your breasts and squeeze them”. Aimee did as you said, reluctantly; she arched her back a little to lift her bosom enough to get her hands underneath and began manipulating the reddened and bruised skin.

“Do you still want to come, slut?” you asked, and Aimee whimpered incoherently in reply.

I watched incredulously as you pushed the first two fingers of your right hand inside Aimee’s sex and began vigorously pumping them backwards and forwards as she screamed in delight, squeezing her tanned skin between her clutching fingers, her body shaking in anticipation. “Are you close, slut?”

“Yes, Deborah! Please make your slut come!” she shrieked, and at that moment I saw you reach under her belly and gently touch her clit. Her screams filled the cool air of the room as you forced wave after wave of orgasm from her body, which spasmed and shook as her climaxes wracked her. Sweat beaded on the skin of her back and nectar flowed down the insides of her thighs. “Deborah…. Deborah…. Deborah” she repeated through her clenched teeth. After what seemed like aeons, I saw you stand up, leaving the girl slumped on her side, moaning on your floor, her beautiful hair in disarray, her makeup running down her face and angry red weals on her body. It was the most erotic thing I had ever seen, and although I didn’t know it then it had set me on my current path. Her “Hurt Me” heart necklace hung across her cleavage as her chest rose and fell, sucking the cool air into her lungs. Surely, she could have nothing left, I thought. She must be utterly spent after the intensity of her experience.

“Jack, ask Mary for a blanket, please”, you ordered, removing Aimee’s blindfold, and I slipped out of the door and into the entrance vestibule where Mary was still sat at her computer, working away on I knew not what.

“May I have a blanket please, Mary? It’s for Aimee”. Mary gave me a cool look before replying.

“Obviously it’s for Aimee. It wouldn’t be for Deborah now, would it?”. Her accent left me guessing as to whether she was mocking me or not, but she pointed to a storeroom, inside which I found a grey blanket made of wool, rough to the touch and, I suspected, artfully army surplus. I took it, and thanking Mary for I knew not what I stepped back into the room, closing the door behind me. You were sitting on the floor next to the recumbent Aimee, who was again (somewhat amazingly, I thought) gently sucking on her left nipple, as sleepy and contented as could be. Whoever and whatever she was, this woman obviously had a stamina to match her appetites. You stroked her hair almost affectionately and directed me to cover her with the blanket. I did so; Aimee seemingly ignored me and continued her suckling.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“Goodness me, no!” you half-laughed, “This is the interval. Just a short break between the opera’s acts. I forgot how naïve you can be, Jack. Now, while Aimee takes a short rest, will you please go into my storeroom and bring out the chair that you’ll see in front of you. It’s heavy but on wheels, so just roll it out, please”. You indicated the door that I’d seen as I first entered the room, steel and black-painted. I opened it by sliding open the two heavy bolts that were welded to it and pulling on a large brass handle; the door opened silently on well-greased hinges. I fumbled for the light switch and, finding it, was rewarded with the sight of many strange items and devices, some of which I could tell the functions of, such as the iron cage, St Andrew’s cross and vaulting horse, and others s to whose uses I could only guess. All of it was in spotless condition (of course, I later found out that one of your clients paid you handsomely for the privilege of cleaning and maintaining it). In the centre of the small room stood what looked to have originally been a vintage Walter Knoll swivel chair, upholstered in pale leather and with steel armrests. Small modifications had been made; cuffs had been added to each of the armrests and an electrical cord was looped over a hook on the back, running to a discrete control panel whose purpose was as-yet unknown to me. Laid carefully out on the pad of the seat were leather leg restraints connected by rough hemp rope, and what appeared to be a large steel marble connected to a loop of ball chain. As I wheeled the chair carefully into the main room I thought to myself that Aimee’s resilience must be enormous to say the least. She had already endured several bouts of pain and as many huge orgasms; in the remaining portion of her hour’s session it looked to me as if her wish to be wracked until helpless by orgasms would be granted.

You directed me to position the swivel chair on the square mark under the hook. I did so, and spun it until it faced the door of the storeroom. You stood, pulling the blanket from the decubital woman. “Aimee, stop sucking yourself. You have work to do. Drop your breast and sit in this chair”. Aimee did as you instructed, her nipple dark and spit-slick from the extended period of suckling, the siler bar a bright contrast. She sat meekly in the swivel chair and I watched as you fastened her wrists to the cuffs on the armrests. “Jack, you will restrain the slut’s ankles. Pass the rope behind the spindle so that she cannot move her feet forward. When you have done that, plug the cord into the socket to your left”. I knelt and took Aimee’s unresisting feet in my hands, binding the ankles tightly in the leather embrace of the restraints. I did the right first, and, for good measure, looped the rope completely around the chair’s spindle before buckling her left ankle into its own binding. I stood, took the electrical cable and ran it to the indicated socket, plugging it in and throwing the switch. As I returned to the chair I saw you tying the strip of linen again across Aimee’s eyes, and then throwing the blanket over her head. You beckoned me to follow you and stepped into the storeroom.

Immediately you closed the door and said: “Right, you have a choice to make,” quietly using your normal voice for the first time that evening. “You know what she wants – I’m going to make her come until she has nothing left, but after that, what happens is up to you. You can fuck her, you can make her blow you – whatever you want. The only things you can’t do is make her fuck me or me fuck her. That would ruin the relationship we have, me being in charge and her being submissive. I cannot be in her power or her debt. Do you understand?”

Reluctantly I nodded; if I was 100% truthful I would have liked nothing more than to watch the two of you together. I resolved to think of the next best thing during the time it took Aimee’s orgasm marathon to conclude. I was brought suddenly from my reverie by the sight of you slipping your right breast from the bodice of your dress, and I feasted my eyes upon your beauty as you smiled at me. “Do well, Jack, and you will get more of this”. You reached up and kissed me on the mouth, quickly, fleetingly and then the mask came back down, you re-covered yourself and opened the door and stepped back into the room with me following you closely.

I watched you move behind the chair and whip the blanket off, dropping it beside the chair and kicking it into the corner of the room. You pushed a button on the small control panel and a deep buzzing sounded from within the chair. Immediately Aimee began to whimper, and I realised that some sort of vibration-generator must have been fitted when the chair was modified. It seemed as if barely seconds had passed when Aimee threw back her head and screamed, arching her back and pulling against the chair’s restraints. You turned a potentiometer and the pitch of the vibrations rose. Aimee’s chest rose and fell quickly, a blush of pinkness spreading across its’ skin. I watched you drop your hands to her breasts and roughly massage her aching nipples; this quickly brought her to her third shuddering climax of the evening and she arched her neck so that she could look up at you.

“Thank you, Deborah. Please, let me fuck you. I want to make you come!” she moaned, but you laughed softly to yourself and merely turned the potentiometer up higher.

“Next time you come, slut, I will increase your pleasure to an uncomfortable level” you said quietly, lifting the large steel marble and dangling it on its’ chain in front of the shaking woman, jangling it so that despite the blindfold she would know what it was you held. “You know what this is, and you know what it can do”. You continued to pull at her left nipple with your free hand and I studied her carefully as the blush extended higher into her neck and her breathing became laboured. I sensed she was both keen to orgasm again and reluctant to give in yet, but a sharp tweak delivered to the soreness of her nipple was enough to force her over the edge again, her moans merging into a long, ululating cry as her moistness leaked onto the chair’s cushioned pad. The blush now covered Aimee from sternum to roots and her breathing was fast and deep.

“Jack, observe” you instructed, and I saw you pull the chain that was connected to the steel sphere, which began to emit a quiet buzz of its’ own. You stooped briefly in front of Aimee and slipped it into her vagina before rising and turning the potentiometer up past halfway. “Once the chair is turned up beyond half power the mechanism delivers a much stronger vibration. Coupled with the vibrator inside her, the slut will have no option but to come again very quickly”. You spoke to me as if addressing a quiet lecture theatre, your tone measured and informative; this contrasted with Aimee’s, which was now a wail of torment.

“No…. No…. Please, Deborah, no more…. I can’t come any more” she sobbed.

“I’m not hearing the safe word, slut. You obviously want more”, you said, the relish plain in your voice. You will come again, believe me. Jack, count slowly to ten. The slut will orgasm again before you reach that number”.

I began to count out loud, slowly. Aimee’s protestations that she could take no more continued, and I could see dark patches on the blindfold as tears leaked from her eyes again. Sweat now poured from her skin. My curiosity began to battle with concern as I wondered just how much of this was ethical, but ultimately I trusted you to know your business and I continued counting: “Five… six… seven…”

As I reached this last, Aimee screamed. Not a muted orgasmic moan, a full-throated scream that tore at my ears and drowned out the sound of my own voice completely. She threw herself against the cuffs, arching her back and thrashing her legs as an almost obscenely powerful climax took her, rocking the chair to the extent that I seriously feared it may topple over, sending the helpless victim thudding to the rubber floor. The scream tailed off slowly and the sound of crying filled the room, deep, hacking sobs that shook the whole of her tortured body. You bent again in front of her and, none too gently, dragged the vibrating steel ball from her body and turning it off and moving behind the chair and depressing the button. The chair fell silent, and, apart from the sound of Aimee’s crying, the room fell silent.

“Have you had enough, slut? Have I broken you?”, you asked after a few moments. Despite her dishevelled state Aimee was able to partly raise her head and shake it slowly. She was still crying, but more gently, and it sounded more like exhaustion than pain.

“Well, then, I suppose we are nearly finished. I am going to make you orgasm once more, gently and with care. After that, if you’re lucky, Jack will have a reward for you. Do you want to continue, or will you use the safe word?

“No, Deborah. I will come once more. I will not use the safe word. I want whatever it is that Jack has for me”, Aimee managed to reply, choking back her sobs as she did so. You removed the blindfold and motioned me to unbuckle the restraints from Aimee’s wrists and ankles. As I did so you stepped the few paces to your own Windsor chair and sat, carefully arranging the skirt of your dress and smoothing down its fabric.

“Jack, turn her to face me please” you said, and I spun the Knoll on its spindle until the girl, now slumped against the left armrest, her previously immaculate hair now plastered to her face. “Aimee, you will slip out of your seat and crawl towards me. I want to see you drag those gorgeous breasts along my floor. You will ask me politely to make you come again. Do you understand?”

It was all poor Aimee could do to nod her acquiescence, but she managed to push herself out of the embrace of the chair and onto the cool rubber floor. Despite her limbs shaking, she manoeuvred herself onto her hands and knees, lowering her torso into a prostrated position until her much-abused nipples touched the floor. She unsteadily made her way over to you, her head up as high as her position would allow, despite the last few tears that were still evident, her breasts maintaining contact with the flooring as you demanded. She arrived in front of you, wracked and humiliated, yet unbroken. I found myself in awe at her resilience, realising that some, if not all, of the power in a relationship such as this lay with the submissive.

“Please, Deborah, make me come once more. I am your slut and I need you to use me” she said quietly, her voice hoarse.

You leaned down and gently took hold of her by the chin, tipping her head this way and that as you looked thoughtfully at her. I saw you sit back and pat your lap, as one might do to invite a favoured cat onto it. Unsteadily Aimee pulled herself to her feet and carefully lowered her aching body onto your lap, your smaller frame disappearing almost fully behind her statuesque form. You tipped her slightly to one side so that you could still see me, and she nestled into the crook of your left arm. Using your right hand you lifted her left breast to her mouth and told her that she should suck it again, seeing how much she seemed to love that. You stroked her hair almost lovingly and whispered into her ear that she was a brave and strong slut, a slut who knew how she needed to be treated, who loved to be degraded. She moaned her agreement through her nipple and raised her own hands to support the weight of her breastflesh. You moved your right hand down her stomach and your fingers reached her cleft, questing for her clit. Slowly and carefully you began to stimulate her, and within a few moments she melted into her final orgasm, sobbing almost silently. You pulled her nipple form her unprotesting lips and had her suck your slender fingers clean of her nectar.

“Stand up, slut. Stand in front of Jack and tell him why you need to come to see me”, you commanded. Aimee rose unsteadily from your chair and came to stand before me.

“Thank you, Deborah, and thank you, Jack”, she began. “As Deborah told you, I need to be humiliated and hurt. I need Deborah to control me, to tell me that I’m a plaything. I need her to give me the pain I want. The orgasms she gives me are like nothing else I’ve experienced. I feel…. More alive”.

“Good, Aimee. Now, Jack, do you have something you want to do to Aimee? I’m sure she would be more than willing to let you use her however you see fit”.

Many options had presented themselves since you had told me that I could do whatever I willed with, or maybe to, Aimee. The thought of fucking her across the steel table, for example, or forcing her to fellate me while you watched were both appealing, as was the idea of fucking her breasts while you pinched her nipples. I rolled these ideas around my mind for a few moments before coming to a decision.

“Thank you, Deborah, for the opportunity to use your slut. However, I have my decision. As we seem to be dealing in power rather than sex here, I think I would like to ask Aimee some more questions”. You nodded your acquiescence thoughtfully, and sat back in your chair, fingers steepled.

“Aimee, do you want me to use you for my own amusement?” I asked, my voice steady. “Just nod or shake your head; I’ve heard enough of your voice”. She nodded briskly, her eyes wide. “Would you like me to force my penis into your throat?” Another nod. “Would you like me to ejaculate across your breasts, I wonder, and make you suck that delightful necklace clean? Would you like me to fuck you on the floor whilst I made you verbally abuse yourself? Do you want me to use you like the whore you professed to be while Deborah watches and photographs you?” At this last Aimee let slip a soft moan and looked at me with a beseeching, lust-filled expression whilst nodding enthusiastically.

“Then you are destined to be disappointed this time. Deborah, if you would do me the honour of meeting me for a drink, I will be at the bar of the Prospect of Whitby in thirty minutes. Aimee, it has been my pleasure to see you used, humiliated and debased”. With that I walked from the room before either you or Aimee could utter another word. I closed the door behind me and prepared to face the laconic Mary.

She stood as I entered the small lobby. “Well, Jack, you certainly made an impression on her”, she said, stepping to the coat stand and taking down my battered leather jacket from it.

“On Aimee?”, I asked.

“No, on Deborah. There’s a camera in that room, for safety purposes”. Her tone was much more friendly now. “Obviously for safety purposes; not for my own enjoyment. Anyway, I watched that very carefully and I think you could well be seeing more of Deborah, and certainly more of Aimee. Here”. She put a plain white A4 padded envelope in my hand and said “She drinks Kir Royale for preference. I don’t know if they serve those at the Prospect, but you might be in luck. Now, go; I have to sort that woman out and get Deborah ready. I’ll be seeing you again, surely”. She opened the door and I made my way up the spiral staircase and out into the warm evening air of Wapping, and walked to the historic pub that was to be the scene of our third and final act of the evening.

*

“Well, Jack, as I’m fond of telling you, you’re a dark horse indeed”, you told me as you sat down on the vacant stool next to mine. I had ordered a chilled Kir Royale which had been waiting for you as you swept into the crowded barroom twenty-nine minutes after I left your door. In the meantime I had opened the envelope, finding inside a thousand pounds in crisp, new fifty pound notes and a telephone number written in fountain pen on a slip of cream notepaper. “The money is from Aimee; it’s half of the fee for her session tonight. I have a job for you. Do you want it?” I waited for a few moments, and, when no explanation was forthcoming, I shrugged. “Remember what I showed you in the storeroom. That is what is this job concerns. Do you want it? This is my final time of asking. Oh, and by the way, the telephone number is for Aimee; she’d like to see you again”.

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“Yes, Deborah, I want the job. Christ only knows what it is, but after jumping down the rabbit hole it would be remiss of me to go back now”. I had no idea where this was heading, but Mary’s comments had piqued my interest and the prospect of perhaps becoming further involved with your work with Aimee was undeniably appealing now.

“Good. I want to switch. I have always been a top, but I want to experience what a bottom goes through. Many have offered, but I have not trusted them enough. I do, however, trust you. I will do whatever you tell me to, endure whatever pain you inflict and will perform whatever acts you prescribe. We shan’t use my workspace; we will do this at my home. It will be much more separate from my work if we do it there”.

“But….”

“No buts, Jack. You agreed. The safe word will be ‘peppermint’. I want you to use and dominate me in the same manner we practised on Aimee tonight”.

You were right; I had agreed. Which, of course, leads us to the answer to the question asked at the beginning of this chapter – how did someone like me, a young man with no previous experience of your world, come to humiliate, objectify, and hurt one of London’s most exclusive BDSM practitioners in her own home and leave her with his sperm drying on her face, in her hair, and on her engorged and inflamed nipples?: because she asked him to do it.

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