Taking to Task

I love setting tasks. They are a means of extending my control over my sub to the times when he is not physically present to serve me. They are also a another way to inflict various humiliations on him and this is something I love even more than a good caning. It is also a challenge to me to come up with ideas for new tasks and I like to be creative. .

And yet my slave has long had difficulty with pointless and demeaning tasks which served no purpose except to humiliate him. So I have extended the range of tasks to include things of practical benefit to him, and above all, to me. As a Mistress I really shouldn’t have to do menial but necessary tasks myself should I?

So I now set a variety of tasks which fall into four categories:

There are tasks of benefit to him, such as being ordered to inspect himself for lumps etc on a regular basis. This is an aspect of me caring for his well being.

Secondly, there are tasks of benefit to me, such as having my shoes and boots polished, my latex brought to a shine etc. I know my slave genuinely loves these tasks, because although menial, he can see a practical point to them. .

Thirdly there are punishment tasks, which are very often boring pieces of written work, lines, essays and so on. He hates these and that is the point. They are punishment and definitely not to be enjoyed.

Finally, there are the pointless and unpredictable tasks I set for my twisted amusement. Often demeaning and humiliating, these are always set with a smile on my face, if not met with a smile in return. These he has sometimes struggled with. Yet I will persist with these frequently irksome and demeaning tasks. They serve no practical purpose but challenge the sub to the core of his submissiveness. He is forced to overcome his reluctance and distaste in order to please his Mistress. He is forced to win a battle with himself and this is the way to deeper submission and, through suffering, to deep joy.

If you liked this please check out the other posts on this subject at Kink of the Week by clicking on the lips

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One of These Days

These boots are going to walk all over you sang Nancy Sinatra fifty years ago and there’s a clip of her performing this on YouTube which is a boot fetishist’s delight. I have been a boot fetishist since childhood and love the outset of autumn for the riot of boots that will hit the streets, including, of course, my own. And, like my most of my fetishes, I have carried this over into my BDSM play. Most of the submissives I have played with have enjoyed boot worship and my slave regards it as a great privilege to be ordered to clean my boots. I have recently extended foot and boot play to foot massage and foot worship. Until recently, however, I had never considered trampling.

I was aware of it as a kink activity and have a scene friend who specialises in it. I have, on a number of occasions, watched her trample her sub at public play events and wondered if it was for me. The difficulty I could see was that, being transgender, I had a different build to the lady dommes I knew and was significantly heavier, this despite a year of successful dieting and 10k runs and half marathons. I am a bit squeamish too (really!) and had visions of major organs being crushed under my feet.

So it was a little trepidation that I accompanied my slave to a recent Underfoot play event. My trampling friend was there as was a lady I had met the week before at a femdom event who had come to demonstrate. And I had a go. You can trample from a sitting position, trample supporting yourself on frames and bars, trample to your heart’s content without ever putting more than a fraction of the bodyweight on your human doormat. You can make it sensual, you can mess with the head and, best of all, you can make it hurt. I quickly found out how enjoyable it can be to use my heels to play with my victim’s nipples.

You can combine it too with related forms of play such as objectification and human furniture. Well, a lady does need to rest her feet after a spot of trampling and a human footstool is just the thing. As for my slave, he is still getting used to it and, yes, it does hurt.  We will be doing this again.

NOT THE GOLF CLUB….PLEASE

I have never had the slightest interest in golf, that is apart from the time some Frenchman called Van der Velde threw away the British Open on the final afternoon after getting stuck in a stream where it was canalised in a concrete trough and dropped a dozen shots as he hacked away like an amateur. Cue laughter and schadenfreude oh and a little anger at the crass misogyny of Peter Alliss who apparently thinks the sole function of any woman in his life is to make his tea. But I digress…..

One of the reasons golf has never really appealed is that most golfers belong to clubs, which are expensive to join, have bars full of back slapping self-satisfied white men and that, if these things weren’t off-putting enough , you have to be proposed and seconded by existing members if you want to join yourself. I have never been a fan of anything that required you to be approved by somebody else before joining.

I am concerned, therefore, to see that Fetlife is now effectively an invitation only club. New people can only sign up if invited by an existing member. Just like the golf club, really, but without the G and Ts and the Pringle sweaters……unless that’s a particularly esoteric fetish that has passed me by.

I can see why they might have done this. In my early days on the scene I got to know a man who was banned from Fetlife for stalking and harassment of one particular lady and kept rejoining under new IDs and I know, too, if only anecdotally that abuse, trolling, and general dickheadery are not uncommon. I have had to block a couple of people because of the latter. But the new rules will not necessarily deal with these issues. What, for example, is to stop a troll inviting him or herself under new names to have an account ready for when they are banned? And what about those who are simply blocked and ignored but never reported and remain on Fetlife to seek out new victims?

For those not yet in the scene this is a disaster. I, and no doubt many of you reading this, struggled for years alone with my fetishes and fantasies, unaware of the scene, unaware that there were so many like-minded people living within five miles of me. Joining Fetlife opened up to me a world of munches and play events, and led to me meeting a number of lovely people who helped me to love myself as I am and were influential, often in ways they might not realise, in making me the person I am today.

So, Fetlife, please think again. Think of those who don’t know anyone on the scene who have no-one to invite them and, because they cannot join, have no way of finding out about the munches and play events where they can meet kinky people. You have left them isolated in a vicious circle and made it impossible for us, as a community, to reach out and welcome them. Do not deny them the opportunities we all had.

We Are Like Ships in The Night

Sometimes friends mention things in conversation that give you a jolt because they express things that have been gnawing away at the back of your mind and make you think about them in a more focussed way. This happened a while ago as I enjoyed a pub lunch with fellow blogger Eye. She commented that many, if not most, friendships on the kink scene are essentially ephemeral. And this got me thinking.

I had been thinking anyway about how kink friendships differ from vanilla ones, in particular how there is often a weird kind of dislocation. This is particularly true of friends who have been play partners. I can think now of say half a dozen people I am no longer in contact with, who have been naked before me, who I have flogged and caned, spat on, humiliated in other ways, people, in short with whom I have enjoyed moments of great intensity and intimacy. And yet there are so many things I don’t know about them that even casual acquaintances in vanilla life know. I have explored the darkest recesses of their souls, they have bared themselves before me in more than physical ways, and yet, I know nothing about them.

Maybe it is because I know nothing that they are able to have these moments of intimacy. They know too, as I know, that we can disappear out of each other’s lives and they may never be able to find us. I suppose I am fortunate in never having had a major falling out with anyone on the scene although I have been close to others who have, and know just how traumatic these things can be. Mostly I have lost contact with people because, as in vanilla life, we move on, we change, or maybe stop going to the same events. Then there are the people who decide that the kink scene is no longer for them, who press the button on Fetlife and just disappear, knowing that we will not be able to find them. A couple of my former play partners have done this. I respect their choice and will not try to look for them.

A few months ago, at a private party, I met a dominant lady who shared my passion for vintage clothes, and specifically, Vivien of Holloway. She accepted my invitation to join in my play with my slave and we became friends on FetLife . We agreed to meet up again at the BBB and wear our Vivs. The other day I decided to message her about the next BBB and noticed that her profile too had disappeared. She was never really a friend as such but someone I felt I would like to have got to know better but this is not to be.

Falling out is not pleasant but I can handle it, drifting away from people you no longer feel much in common with I can handle too. But the sudden disappearance from the scene of people you liked and respected is different. It always leaves me with a feeling of wistful longing. Even in matters as ephemeral as kink it is sometimes nice to say goodbye.

It’s Painful but Is It Art?

Playing in public at clubs means that you are going to be watched. There are those who find this a distraction.  I realised early on that I didn’t and remember an occasion, early on in my domming career when I was so absorbed in the scene that I didn’t notice that a dozen people had gathered round, in silence, to watch. It was only when I turned round to select another toy to hit my sub with that I saw them, totally absorbed in what I was doing. But I was more absorbed still and pleased that only my play partner existed fort me in that hour. That is as it should be. We play for each other and not to put on a show. Or do we?

I find that at the big public events, such as the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar or Cirque de Chaos play primarily is about putting on a show. The noise and general business make it difficult to get into the required headspace, on the one hand, and I also found it difficult to read the verbal and non-verbal signals from my sub that I need in order to pace the scene properly. I think I tend to err on the side of caution in these circumstances although my slave would probably beg to disagree. I also worry about losing equipment as has happened a couple of times over the years.

I think that, in a sense, all play is performance, even private play without an audience.   I once had a conversation with a highly experienced pro domme who told me that domination was all in the head and that she could dominate any one of her regular clients in sweatshirt, jeans and Uggs. Allowing for the possibility that there are people out there with an Ugg fetish, I don’t entirely agree. When we play we are taking ourselves out of the drab real world for an hour or two, we are creating our own theatre and the costumes we wear are part of the fantasy we create.  The aesthetics of BDSM  have become increasingly important to me over the last year or so. I have a range of traditional fetish out fits in PVC and latex and so on, but have also played in a schoolmatronly skirt suit, in my lovely Vivien of Holloway repro vintage. The latter can be quite disconcerting. Latex, PVC and boots are the sartorial language of sadism and dominance. Feminine 1950s repro vintage isn’t. It can be hard to come to terms with a girly girl in a cerise rose circle dress and pink petticoat who smiles as he wields the cane and the whip, who hurts and humiliates with genuine relish. It is, as they say, a mindfuck.

The dressing up, the make up, the attention to detail are as important as the planning of the session, the skill in using the toys. It is an act of self giving to turn myself into the Goddess that my slave needs me to be, to help him into the headspace, to lure him into the theatre where he can be his true self, where he and I indulge our fantasies and where the pain and the marks I inflict are balm for the stresses  of daily life. Let the curtain rise!

The Prostitution Thing

Prostitute is not a word I like. When used about those who provide professional sexual services it is heavy with stigma, used either to convey contempt or to imply that the person is a helpless victim in need of rescue. It is often used too by lazy journalists. Take the case of the professional dominatrix who was for six months in a relationship with the Culture Secretary John Whittingdale. and who was described as a whore, a Miss Whiplash and so on.

Now most people who are reading this don’t need to be told that the job of a professional dominatrix is in many ways much more complex than that of a full service sex worker. She needs clothing, equipment, and specialised premises. She also needs skill and experience to engage in the various activities safely, Above all she needs empathy and psychological insight.

In saying this I do not want to be seen as driving a wedge between pro dommes and other providers. . although one pro domme (a lady for whom incidentally I have enormous respect) once upbraided me in an online exchange for comparing pro dommes to escorts when I referred to them as hex workers. I felt this comment was unfair. I had never suggested that she, or anybody else for that matter, had sex with clients.

There are reasons for thinking too that the rigid demarcation on some people still see between domes and escorts is anyway quite recent. The distinction is I think quite recent. A couple of years ago I found a fascinating article about the world of professional domination written in the early 1990s, just before the internet emerged as a real game changer for those who provide professional domination services. The piece was illustrated by ladies’ cards from which it is clear that, at that time, many dommes also doubled up as escorts.

But I think the key point is this. All of us who engage in BDSM are expressing an aspect of our sexuality. This very much includes the clients of pro dommes.  A pro domme I spoke to once put it like this..

“I do consider myself a sex worker. OK I don’t actually have sex with clients but it’s all about making people come isn’t it?”

The term sex worker embraces a large number of service providers many of whom do not have genital sex with clients and indeed some, such as webcam girls, may never even physically meet their clients. Melisa Gira Grant in her book Playing the Whore had no hesitation in making the connection. And this is surely right. The attacks on sex workers, the demands for the criminalisation of clients for example, need to be seen in the wider context of attacks on sexual freedom, for example the attacks on mainly BDSM porn and the creeping demands for ever more draconian internet censorship. These are attacks on all of us with alternative sexualities. So the next time someone proposes a law to criminalise the purchase of sex remember…..you and I could be in the firing line next. Get out there and make your voice heard.

Not Losing My Religion

Philip Larkin once wrote that, if called on to construct a religion, he would make use of water. When I construct a religion I will make use of kink. For the two have much in common and not just because the word itself comes from the Latin for tying or binding. I mean, if we are talking domination and submission it doesn’t really get more domly than being an omnipotent being does it?

Religions do things like imposing chastity on their adherents, setting tasks, prescribing bodily positions, respectful language, and if, like me, you were brought up a Catholic, there are few things that evoke BDSM rituals more vividly than the humiliating ordeal of confession. Add in the attractive aesthetic elements of Catholicism and you have something that just cries out to be twisted into a kinky parody in the way that much BDSM practice consists of high ritual parodying power relations, reproducing them for pleasure.

Reproducing religious ritual in a BDSM context is something that I find a massive turn on. And here is a fantasy I want to share with you. .

In the dungeon I become a Goddess. I walk among submissives of all genders, who at My approach, bow their heads and genuflect. I take My seat on the throne and they kneel, take out their rosaries and pray to Me

“Hail Mistress” they intone in a rhythmic monotone as clouds of incense rise up, partially obscuring Me from their adoring gaze. Then, one by one, I summon My worshippers to the darkness of the confessional where they bare their souls and tearfully lost their faults and the myriad ways they have failed to please Me.

Crushed and fearful they listen as I impose the penance of lashes with the whip. The others, yet to confess are forced to kneel and watch as I secure the sinners to the cross and write absolution in a criss cross pattern of agonising stripes on their back. I experience a deep joy that explodes into ecstasy as they beg for mercy (there can be none) and scream with pain.

By the time I have punished and forgiven each one the dungeon is silent except for occasional muffled sobs of pain and shame. My arm aches from the effort of cracking the whip time and time again. I am spent. But one ritual remains.

I call out one of the faithful, make him kneel before the altar, hand clasped in prayer. I lie on the altar throbbing with lust and desire. When ordered he will climb up, will pleasure Me, swallow My juices in the sweetest kinky Eucharist and then come down and take Me, his Goddess, all his for the next few minutes of Paradise.

The Vanilla View

Some time ago I attended a meeting of a TV/TG support and social group in a gay bar just round the corner from the Nightingale Club where the monthly Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar is held. Conversation soon turned to the BBB which one lady had mentioned as a safe space in which to spend the day dressed (which, of course, it is). Another lady commented that I would surely find shocking the things I might see there, what with whips and gags and those things you stick up peoples’ bums.

“Well” I said, “probably not You see, I identify as kinky and BDSM is a big part of my life. I enjoy hitting people and sticking things up their bottoms”

The meeting fell silent and the lady who was so appalled hasn’t spoken to me since. This was all a bit disappointing. I still fail to understand why people who identify on the LBGTQ spectrum have a problem with the accoutrements of consensual BDSM and feel the need to cut a fellow transwoman who identifies as kinky.  There is stigma and prejudice enough, as most of those reading this will be only too aware, without such reactions from those one might expect to be more understanding.

So it was a degree of apprehension that I invited my friend Jane to join me and my slave and ta the February BBB. I haven’t known Jane that long. We met through a shared interest in vintage fashion last year and have met up on a few occasions since.  I told her a while ago about my kink and she seemed understanding and non-judgemental. I could have guessed that she would react like this. Ladies who are into vintage tend, in my experience, to be tolerant and accepting. Jane likes burlesque and there is a considerable crossover between this and fetish clothing. And my Vivs have always attracted admiring comments at fetish events.

Nonetheless it was an eyeopener for her. We went for lunch and she had more questions than I had time to answer. She was intrigued by the relationship I have with my slave and genuinely curious. She loved much of the clothing that was on sale and had even tried on a latex dress but decided against a purchase (even though I think she looked fabulous in it). But her main impression was about the people.

“Everyone was so friendly” she said “so normal. And I hadn’t expected there wold be so many women.”

And this is the point for me. Look beyond the toys and the clothing and you see people, old, young, able-bodied and not, all genders and sexualities, and none. Just people, among them some of the loveliest people I have ever known.  And I thought, too, how  good it is to have a vanilla friend who sees that.

A Short Sharp Shock?

There is a large group on Fetlife for those kinksters with an interest in imprisonment role play. Within this a number of kinks are catered for….some like confinement and constraint, others the interaction with the guards and the humiliation play that this involves, the shouts, the insults, the demeaning rituals. I can do the first but really enjoy the second, which gives full reign to my sadistic imagination. I have run two prison events now and had a great time on both occasions. I have tormented my charges with forced exercise, humiliating prison work details (well what is a toothbrush for after all?), interrogation, punishment with the strap and, most recently, made them eat prison cabbage soup. Given the numbers of Fet who profess an interest in this kind of play I expected a little more interest than  I actually had. But it seems that for most people this is a fantasy they are reluctant to turn into reality.

I suppose part of the reason must be that events run on the basis of consensual non-consent (as prison play has to be) seem to many to be for hardened masochists only. Yet they don’t have to be. Of course, you obey orders and take whatever comes your way. You don’t have a safe word and this can generate feelings of helplessness and vulnerability that may not be experienced in ordinary play. That doesn’t mean that I can do anything I want. This is, after all, CONSENSUAL non-consent. Discussion and negotiation of boundaries before the day are critically important. If you have too many limits this may not be the event for you and that has to be an element of being prepared to go with the flow but I have to respect limits and, equally importantly, read the reactions of my prisoners during scenes to gauge when they have had enough. In this sense it is not that different from more conventional play and yet………on the day it IS non-consent. I guess that makes people nervous. But get into the right head space and you can be taken to places far beyond the grim prison walls.

As I have written elsewhere I am still learning as a domme. I find prison days an incredibly rewarding learning experience. Humiliation and degradation are not things I can always do in other contexts and whilst I enjoy more gentle sensual play my sadistic side needs the outlet of being seriously mean to helpless victims. This includes getting inside their heads. It is not always about what you do but what you can get them to think you might do, in other words, preying on their fear of the unknown, the mindfuck

Best of all though, is the moment at the end when I pronounce the words “You are dismissed”, we move out of role and the nervous, scared prisoner breaks into a big smile that tells me he’s just had the time of his life. This is what makes it all worthwhile.

No Smoke Without Fire

As David was led from the plane by security he looked back and caught one last glimpse of the attendant named Anna. He was sure he made out a look of contempt in her face. He would never see her again. And all because of a cigarette.

It had been the gloves that started it got him, dark brown leather gloves, tight around the knuckle, loose at the wrist. Gloves from fetish heaven.

The Anglo French Airways flight from Paris to Manchester was nearly ready for takeoff. The flight attendants were making the final checks and walking down the plane, counting and checking that the passengers had fastened our safety belts.  David watched intently as the attendant who has smiled at him as he boarded made her way down the plane. He watched her pretty face with immaculate make up, the crisp uniform, the hair worn severely up under a hat, the leather gloves, tight round the knuckle, loose at the wrist, the gloves, the beautiful leather gloves……..he was soon lost in a kinky reverie, transfixed by the gloves as she made her way towards him, checking, counting.  Submissive urges pulsed through his body as he imagined her as a police officer or a prison guard, someone with authority over him, power to inflict suffering. She came closer and closer and the erotic tension of the moment became unbearable. She looked at him and asked him to move his arm so that she could see he had fastened his safety belt. He blurted out

‘Yes Mistress,’

and went bright red. She reacted to this unusual response with practiced sang froid, smilimg a knowing smile which might have meant

‘I know you’re kinky. I might be kinky too, you never know.’

David began to fantasise about smoking in the toilet, about confessing his offence and submitting to the punishment she would be obliged to inflict. And he had lit up, not because of the punishment but rather because he was desperate for nicotine. And now he was under arrest.

 

Three days later he was back at home having been fined and cautioned for his offence. David was sitting in his flat one evening, watching football and drinking beer, when there was an unexpected knock on his door. He opened it gingerly and stood transfixed at the sight of a pair of boots gleaming in the pool of light cast by the security light.

‘Mr. Grant, ‘ said a voice ‘I am from Anglo French Airlines Discipline Unit. I am here to punish you for smoking in the toilets.’

David looked up and recognised the flight attendant from the week before, her uniform under a coat, the same severe hair under a cap and now gleaming knee boots instead of the courts of the plane.

‘Pour that beer away, turn the television off and come here,’ she commanded.

David did as he was told, at first out of pure astonishment and then out of a feeling of submissiveness that was starting to overwhelm him as it had on the plane. He went to stand before her.

‘Take your clothes off’ she ordered.

David undressed and left his clothes in a neat pile on the sofa. He stood before her, watching his cock rise like the nose of Concorde as it neared take off. He felt a surge running down the shaft and saw precome begin to glisten in the light of the standard lamp.

‘What’s that?’ she demanded.

‘It’s precome’ answered David a little embarrassed.

‘Eat it.’

David hesitated.

‘You’re in enough trouble’ she said raising her voice to give a little added authority. ‘I strongly advise you to do as you are told. Eat it!’

David rubbed the palm of his hand against the end of his cock, pulling the foreskin back slightly as he did so to ensure that hr scooped up all of the precome. He raised his hand to his mouth and licked long and hard, sticking his tongue out so that she could see him complying.

‘Good’ she said. ‘Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

‘No’

‘No Ma’am!’ she shouted and David felt a gloved hand impacting violently on his cheek.

‘No Ma’am, sorry ma’am.’

‘Get over here, on your knees,’

As David knelt before her he looked at her lap beneath the skirt that was at his eye-level. He began to imagine the throbbing cunt behind the lace panties that must be underneath the skirt. He would lift up the skirt, thrust his head inside as if into a royal tent, pull the lace panties roughly to one side and rub his cheek against the luxuriant protruding pubic hair before thrusting his tongue in to taste the sour but sweet juices. Again his cock betrayed him, rising inexorably up, dribbling pre-come from the end.

‘What did I tell you?’

She grabbed David’s hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look her full in the face. She was furious, her face contorted in contempt. She spat in his face, twice, the second time with emphatic violence. David suddenly felt he was not enjoying this, felt that somehow he was in out of his depth with a woman who, for all her youth and her pretty face, was a sadist. There was no other word for it as she clearly took the greatest of pleasure in his suffering. She pulled his hair again and he let out an involuntary cry of pain which drew another fierce slap across his face.  As someone had so rightly said when he had told them of his fantasy

‘Be careful what you wish for.’

She took a cigarette packet from her handbag. Placing the cigarette on her mouth she handed David the lighter and said

‘You enjoy a smoke don’t you? Well I’ve got plenty of smoke for you. In fact it might help you to give up.’

She laughed contemptuously, put the cigarette back in her mouth and said

‘Light my cigarette!’

He reached nervously up and she was soon blowing smoke contentedly.

‘Open your mouth.’

He knelt, mouth wide open like a communicant at the altar rail. She drew on the cigarette  and leaned forward, bringing her mouth almost close enough to his for a kiss before exhaling into his mouth. David coughed and spluttered.

‘In hale it and enjoy it. It has been in my mouth. What more could you want?’

She drew on the cigarette bagain and this time David held the smoke in his mouth before blowing it out.

‘That’s what I want to see, smoke coming out of your mouth. I want to see you enjoy it.’

She looked at the cigarette, studying the length of ash at the end. David remembered his duties as host and said

‘Would you like an ashtray Miss?’

‘You’re going to be my ashtray.’

David looked at her, a little nonplussed.

‘Open wide and show me your tongue!’

David thought that this really was like the communion services of his childhood. He thrust his tongue out as of for a communion wafer and felt warm ash drop onto it.

‘Now swallow.’

David did as he was told. He suddenly felt the submissive urges he had felt on the plane return, only this time much stronger. He was enjoying this humiliation. He became aware of a cold string of pre-come hanging from the end of his penis.

‘Have I told you to come?’

‘No Miss.’

‘What’s that on the end of your useless little prick then?’

‘I don’t know Miss…’

‘Well I do. It’s precome and it’s horrible. Clear it up with your hand and rub it round your face.’

David moved his left hand to his cock, and moving it up, caught the filmy thread on his palm before rubbing it round his face.

‘That’s better’ she said. ‘If there’s any repeat you’re going to suffer….like this.’

She held the cigarette by each nipple in turn. He smelt the burning of hair, felt the intense heat, just millimetres from his skin. He cried out, in fear as much as in pain.

‘Aaaah, please Miss.’

She laughed and said simply.

‘It’ll be your cock next, with the foreskin pulled right back. Now open your mouth.’

Again she inhaled long drawing the smoke deep into her lungs. Again she drew close, pursing her lips as if to kiss him before blowing the smoke into his mouth.

‘Tongue.’

Again he felt the warm ash on his tongue, its acrid taste and cloying texture when mixed with the saliva filling him with disgust. He wanted to spit it out but that was forbidden him. He swallowed and showed her grey tongue as evidence that he had obeyed her order.

‘Lie on your back.’

No sooner had he lain down than she sat on him ordering him to open his mouth.

‘I suppose your mouth is a little dry with all that ash?’

David nodded.

‘Open wide then.’

He saw a fat trickle of saliva coming from her mouth which dropped into his. Almost immediately a further little pile of warm ash followed it as she surveyed him with wry amusement.

‘We don’t tell many people about the airline’s disciplinary procedures for troublesome passengers but we find they are highly effective.’

He screamed with pain as the burning cigarette brushed his left nipple, then the right.

‘Just be thankful I’m in a merciful mood today. Do it again, you worthless piece of shit, and I’m going to burn your cock.’

‘No Miss…’ exclaimed David involuntarily, seized with horror at the thought that he was now in the clutches of a sadist who made no attempt to conceal the pleasure she was getting from torturing him.

‘Why shouldn’t I? After all that pathetic piece of skin is no use to any woman is it?

David said nothing.

‘Is it?’

He felt the sharp blow of a gloved hand slapping his cheek.

‘No Miss’ he said, by now crushed and humble.

‘Open wide.’

Again he breathed in smoke followed by the warm sensation of ash on his tongue.

‘Well I think I’ve finished the cigarette. Open wide again.’

She leaned forward, let another line of saliva fall into his mouth after which she thrust the burning cigarette into his mouth and stubbed it out on his tongue.

‘Eat it!’

David swallowed the butt as she stood up and looked down on him. Again he felt saliva , this tome from a greater height that missed his mouth and spattered onto his cheek.

‘Next time you’ll do as airline personnel instruct you, won’t you?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘That’s more like it’ she answered grinding her leather boot into his crotch and laughing again, even before her could let out a cry of pain.

Then she was gone. David lay on the floor, naked, bruised and humiliated.   He felt great peace and calm come over him. He noticed that she had left her cigarette packet behind. He looked inside and noticed that there was one cigarette left. He lit it and drew deeply and contentedly on it. Then lying on the floor he held as close to his right nipple as he dared, burning the hairs of his chest as his left hand took his cock and began to move up and down the shaft. The stewardess he held adoringly in front of him as he imagined the boot coming down on his face, imagined being ordered to lick. Soon he was coming, the creamy emission spilling out and matting his pubic hair. He thought to himself

‘I must go to Paris again – soon.’