Goddess Alice invited me to her apartment for a session. I left late and took the wrong subway, and so ended up having to walk about ten blocks as quickly as I can which left me filmed and dripping with sweat throughout the session. I told her my sweating embarrassed me and she assured me she didn't mind; she actually like it, having a fetish for sweat and bodily odors. I don't remember the dress she was wearing except that it was dark. All I remember are her stockings and her shoes and her cleavage. She instructed me to take off my clothes then left the room. When she returned I was on my knees. She was annoyed by this and asked, "Is that what I told you to do?" Apparently I missed one of her instructions. I am getting old and feeble, hard-of-hearing and incompetent. Every time I had to ask her to repeat herself I burned with shame inside. Fifty-four and already I'm doddering. (And I get annoyed with my 92-year-old mother when she asks me to repeat myself!) She had wanted me leaning against the wall spread-eagle, I finally managed to understand. I quickly complied. Was it then she roughly shoved her hand between my legs, crudely investigating me with her fingers until I moaned with desire? I'm not sure. It happened at some point though. I remember her ordering me to kiss her shoes. I remember how excited I was doing this, being anywhere near her gorgeous legs, my hands getting the chance to brush against the tops of her stockinged feet exposed by her cut-away, 4-inch heels. And to demonstrate my submission by hungrily pressing my lips against unfeeling leather always excites me. I do it with genuine passion.
Then came the first moment where I really knew she was different, that she would take me further. "Deep-throat my heel," she commanded. Sharp, dirty, stiletto heels. I briefly wondered if they were her street shoes and what kind of filth I was putting in my mouth but I didn't hesitate for a second. I'd developed a sneaking pride in my ability to deep-throat a small dildo and had come to love being throat-fucked by dommes. Andto me heels seemed designed for no other purpose than to fuck men with. I was in heaven. I twisted around face up, mouth open, guided her stiletto into my throat and let her fuck it with her heel, almost stepping on and crushing my face with each aborted thrust. I was hers after this. I begin to suspect (as I look back on this moment, my cock stiffening in the panties she bought me) that I will always be hers. Next she ordered me to lay down on the bed where she tied me down with heavy cord. Face down, spread-eagle, utterly helpless, the thrill of physical contact as she sat on me like like furniture, legs spread against my back as she expertly secured my wrists, was divine. I may have moaned. I wonder if she knew how much I savored that contact, how the chance to experience the weight and pressure of her was worth enduring any amount of pain to me. And then she hurt me. She struck my legs and ass with what felt like a riding crop, a whip, and her hand. I remember the force of her bare-handed slaps. Like a boxer's open-handed punches. Like being bitch-slapped. If I had been standing and she'd slapped my face that hard my knees would have buckled. I’d have been stunned. She made me count the strokes and the blows out loud which soon became a challenge as the numbers in my mouth turned into shrieks of agony. She made me count out fifty. Fifty one for good measure. By thirty I think I was bruised, my right buttock especially, and each blow on my bruised flesh seemed twice as painful as the last—not just a sting or shock of pain, but a deep, damaged ache that tore cries from my lips and overrode all my efforts to endure it without a struggle. I began to writhe with each stroke as I screamed out the numbers until the Goddess told me to breath through the pain. That helped, but only a little. I was crying by the time it was over (and it wasn't really over). As she unbound me, I wondered what would come next and, despite the pain I felt, I was full of anticipation. She blindfolded me, put on a leash and collar, and made me follow her. She carefully guided me up a short flight of stairs. A door opened. She walked me through and suddenly I was outside. I heard cars and voices close by. I didn’t know whether or not she had actually lead me into the street wearing nothing but briefs with a leash and collar around my neck; I didn’t know if I cared. Was I about to be set on by Brooklyn toughs, mocking that most pathetic of creatures, the submissive older man? Again, I didn’t know if I even cared. I trusted her. I was in her hands.
I felt an obstacle in front of me and she commanded me to lean over it. Apparently it was a wall about 3-feet high. Resting my stomach against the cold concrete, the voices of passersby loud in my ears, she began beating me again. “Count them out she ordered.” By this time my ass was thoroughly bruised and every stroke was agony. Tears were streaming down my face before she'd even reached five. And for all I knew we were surrounded by a circle of spectators. The wind blew; cars passed, voices spoke from seemingly only a few feet away, and the lashes continued. I screamed out the numbers and writhed under her blows. I reached 25 and she kept going to 30 and then 31 just for good measure,
“How many did we say again?” she asked.
“T-twenty-five,” I answered.
“Hm. You should have said something,” she said with what sounded like a shrug or maybe a smirk. “Wait here,”
I still have trouble believing what happened next. How did this girl from Tennessee become such asexual daredevil? Such a monster of depravity and perversion? Where did she learn this stuff? What drove her? She returned and I heard her set some equipment down on the wall by my head. “Did you peek?" she asked me.
“No Mistress,” I replied, and I hadn’t. I’d merely stood there with the breeze cooling the tears on my cheeks and the voices and sounds of traffic as unnervingly close as before, waiting obediently for my Goddess to return. The next thing I knew my briefs had been yanked down around my knees and I felt a hard, plastic knob probing at my backside. I couldn’t believe it. I reacted with an animalistic hunger, bending over further and raising myself on tiptoes, positioning myself and even thrusting backwards a bit until the hard, lubricated, plastic dildo had slipped inside of me to the hilt. I don’t know how loudly I moaned. I didn’t care. I had once watched a porn video of a scene like this: a domme fucking her boy in front of a street-level window and waving at the passersby as she pounded him. I’d watched it over and over, thrilled by the abject humiliation the sub must have endured. Now I was experiencingit myself, though by that point, all I could really focus on was that hard, plastic dick in my ass and how good it felt. I no longer cared about anything else. I was gone. I was free. I wanted to shout and cry and laugh; but most of all I didn’t want her to ever stop fucking me. If she’d suddenly pulled out I would have wept in frustration and begged for it. Even when it stopped feeling good, I still wanted it.
Time started again. She finally pulled out and announced she was going to the bathroom to wash up. She returned in a few moments and said I could take off the blindfold, so I did. We were on a long balcony running along the back of her apartment ending in a 3-foot wall facing the street. We were maybe one story up and there were pedestrians less than 50 feet away. Though the wall obscured most of the activity, anyone who cared to look would have seen a gorgeous domme standing behind a shirtless, collared, blindfolded man bent over the wall. I wondered if anyone had watched her thrusting into me or had listened to my squeals of delight.
“I want you to write a card for me,” she instructed. “It’s for a neighbor boy I think I’m in love with. I want you to write about how much you enjoy serving me and how lucky he is to have my attention.”
I picked up the pen with a trembling hand and did my best to follow her instructions. I doubt the lines I scrawled were legible. Under her gaze, I put the card into the envelope she handed me, licked the envelope, and sealed it. She took the card and started inside, gesturing for me to follow. I caught my breath and followed her inside, stupefied. I thought the session was over but there was one last humiliation in store for me. The card needed to be delivered.
Dressing me in a short, thin, vaguely feminine bathrobe, Goddess Alice informed me that I would now be delivering the card I had written. With a huge bulge clearly visible through the thin robe, she lead me by the leash into the public corridors of her building. We went up one or two flights, then down a lengthy corridor until we reached the door of the boy she liked. I was afraid she would make me knock but she was satisfied with me sliding the card under the door. So far we hadn’t run into any neighbors but my luck ran out and we passed a couple on the stairs as we were returning to her apartment. Mistress didn’t bat an eye as she lead me past them on her leash. She explained that it was a very progressive crowd in her building and that they would understand. When we reached the apartment, she lay me down, took out a Hitachi Magic Wand, and gave me what must have been the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced.
Thus ended my first session with Goddess Alice. I wish I had had more time to talk to her, to tell her what she was starting to mean to me, but within a couple of minutes she had called an Uber car and sent me on my way to recover. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover or if I want to.
I know that there are now no limits for me. She can do whatever she wants to me. Nothing she does could even approach the agony of being ignored by her. Once when I was complaining that she hadn’t answered my texts, she told me she had over 300 unanswered text messages on her phone. How many lovers does she have? How many clients, slaves? Does she seduce everyone she meets? I think she could rather easily. How will I ever get close to her, become part of her life? How will I stand out among the whirlwind of experience her life must be?
I am changing. She is changing me or I am using her to change myself. I can not believe the passion she has awaken in me. The overwhelming urge to debase myself, erase myself for her. To curl up at her feet like a cat.
My God, what will I do when she gets bored of me?
Side note from Mistress Alice: This was a lifestyle slave and not a professional session! I do not offer strap on play professionally.
