A lesson, perhaps.
I recently started a new series from my girl, Daisy. In it she shares a variety of adventures from her past. She's a very special girl who keeps her time with me generally private, but I'm pleased to share her musings and more than happy that she is gradually agreeing to share more of her pictures.
Here, Daisy demonstrates quite clearly why you should check up on who you are seeing, ensure respect is in place (both ways) and that there is a solid understanding of what you hope to achieve and your desires....or things might go disastrously, painfully wrong.
No, not Claire Balding……
She advertised on the web: “TV Mistress Christine”. She’s gone now, probably a blessing………
It was early days, maybe fifteen years ago, more likely twenty. I knew by then my marriage was never going to provide the sexual satisfaction and fun I had known previously. I was exploring. I was beginning to understand my sexuality and my nature. I booked a session. As a new experience. I like those and I didn’t know if she would be touching my clit or not….. I assumed not.
It was a distance from home, definitely far enough. On the way I stopped and bought some flowers, it’s only right. I affixed the tribute envelope to them. I know it’s a business and still no reason not to be gentlemanly about it.
I arrived. A small Lincolnshire village. A well-maintained cottage. I did as instructed and pulled my car up onto the sheltered drive, willow trees overhanging and providing shade. I knocked on the side door.
Mistress Christine opened the door. A step or two up, wearing black patent high heels and towering over me. I went inside, handed her the flowers, still taller than me both standing on the kitchen floor. She barely looked at the flowers, thanking me as she laid them on the draining board.
She ushered me over to a corner of the kitchen, hooked a brass ring set in the polished timber floor and raised a hinged hatch. She motioned me to go down the stairs to her dungeon. All a bit unexpected. I knew she worked from somewhere in the house, I’d seen the pictures, but a genuine subterranean dungeon?
Anyway, I went. She followed thankfully. Once down, we could both easily stand upright in what was a large, well-appointed and quite dark cellar dungeon. All the accoutrements, a St Andrew’s cross, punishment benches, straps hanging from the ceiling joists, bondage frames, lots of “toys”. Whips, floggers, canes. You name it. Some I actually couldn’t name.
I was instructed to undress and kneel on the stone floor, knees apart. Mistress would be back in a while. As she went back up the stairs, she turned “I want to see your tribute envelope in your mouth when I return, your hands on your head. You will speak only when I permit it”. Then she was gone.
I did as bid, though the envelope was lying on the draining board with the flowers. She returned about five minutes later, not happy to see my mouth empty. “The tribute, worm?”. I looked at her in a hopefully appealing fashion, I had been instructed not to speak and I was surrounded by potential pain.
A sigh. “Speak”. I explained where the envelope was. “Stay there”. Like I was going somewhere else? Mistress went back up the stairs, located and opened the envelope, and then returned and stood directly in front of me. She was slim, though large, wearing black sheer hose, a black leotard-like top and a cinching leather corset at her waist. She had an impressive, though appropriate, bosom and was clearly tucked, with a flat pubis.
She came closer “kiss”, pointing to her mound. I did. “Good, now if you are a good slave you may get a blow job at the end”. What? “Though I hope you are a grower” as she slightly lifted my sac with her pointed patent toe. Unsurprisingly, my clit had decided it was a scared tortoise.
She got to work. My hands fastened behind me and ankle restraints on each leg, she attached clamps to my nipples and told me to hold the string joining them in my mouth, after she had adjusted its length to tug slightly with my head level. She then placed a cock gag in my mouth, the string over the short rubber cock, and fastened it around my head. She attached a ball stretcher to my sac, a leather “parachute”. It buckled into place as a truncated cone, forcing my balls down and stretching my sac. “Not too bad” I thought, until she attached a fine chain to a loop at the bottom of the ball stretcher and pulled back on it, taking the chain behind my hands and my sac between my legs. Ouch, the parachute was lined with steel spikes…….
Mistress pulled my head back, the string in my mouth pulling hard on my nipple clamps, and then attached the taut ball stretcher chain to the rear buckle of the gag.
I could reduce the pain in my nipples by moving my head forward but only at the cost of pulling harder on my scrotum, the spikes digging deeper. The reverse, of course, was also true….
Finally, Mistress attached a second short chain to the ball stretcher loop, connecting that to my ankle restraints and then to the floor so that I could no longer stand nor fall forward.
I looked at her fearfully. “Much better worm. Let’s get you warmed up”. She reached for a black leather flogger, many thin strands on a plaited leather handle.
She clearly enjoyed her work. I had told her I couldn’t be marked and she clearly didn’t understand what that meant. She did start slowly but eventually I was left with a very red bottom. It became a sort of challenge to me and I decided I absolutely was not going to cry out. I am my own worst enemy sometimes.
I was then moved bodily to a padded punishment bench, the nipple clamps and ball stretcher released, and strapped face down over the bench via a waist strap and lower thigh straps, before my arms were released and then fastened down to the bench.
She reached for a traditional school cane. I just looked at her and shook my head, I was still gagged and drooling. She smiled, actually smiled. “Let’s play fair. I’ll roll a die and that’s how many you get. You have to thank me for each one though, or it doesn’t count. OK?”.
I thought about it. I couldn’t get off the bench, she was offering me a gamble that could mean one stroke or could mean six. Alternatively, she could do what she liked. I nodded my head.
She reached forward so that I could see the die as it rolled. As it moved I realised it wasn’t a cube. The bitch had used a gaming die. It had 21 sides and it came up on seventeen. I shook my head. “Oh, yes worm. You agreed”.
I won’t describe the whole thing. It was painful and bloody. I counted the strokes out as she insisted, “One Mistress, thank you”, “Two Mistress, thank you”, to its natural end. By 5 I was vocalising, by 9 I was begging and by 12 I was crying. She gave me the whole 17.
At the end, I was put back on my knees on the floor. A blow job was definitely not happening. Mistress turned around so that her bottom was in my face and said “kiss”. I leaned forward and did as I was told. As a final insult I can confirm that she definitely ate a curry the night before. Ewwwwwww……..
I was released, given an adult nappy (I was grateful) and told to get dressed. I was shell-shocked.
I more or less crawled up the stairs and back into the kitchen. Mistress was there with his wife. She was calmly making dinner. She must have heard me, must have.
I left, vowing to be much more careful in the future. I literally didn’t sit for a week and more, claiming a running injury, and had to dress the weals every day before using adult nappies.
Never again.
As always, thank you for sharing, Daisy. You are being such a good, kind girl with me, and I appreciate you giving my readers an insight into your previous adventures.
More another time.
Mistress Brianna xx