by Abby Lee
I was amazed at what I saw.
Until then, I had never understood why people fetishise rubber. As far as I was concerned, it was just weird. I mean, getting excited about a material? Please. Get a life. It’s just a garment, for heaven’s sake.
But now I finally understood: I looked HOT in rubber. The dress clung to every curve on my body. Its tightness was like a corset, holding everything in, and accentuating my figure. It displayed my breasts in all their glory, proudly cupping them as if they were the firmest, roundest bosoms in all the world. It gripped my arse, squeezing the cheeks together like two delicious hardboiled eggs vacuum-packed in black cling film. It smoothed my body into an hourglass, a shiny, sleek, utterly erotic form. I felt like a seductress and I loved it instantly.
Of course I didn’t want to go next door into the dungeon, after that. I was turned on and I wanted to play instead, but Fiona came to get me and finally the session with the client began.
All last week Fiona had been reassuring me that I wouldn’t have to participate in any way, but I still felt uncomfortable. All the pleasure I’d taken in the sight of myself poured into the rubber dress evaporated as I stepped out of the changing room.
I watched Fiona strap the guy onto a gurney. His hands and feet were bound with ropes and chains. OK, I thought, simple enough, nothing too heavy. I can cope with this.
When Fiona started slapping him around, I didn’t think much of it either; I like to think I am an open-minded person.
But when Fiona tied some rope tightly in between and around the guy’s testicles and then strapped them to a pulley, which hauled them above his body, I began to have second thoughts about the whole thing.
I could see he was in pain: his body was pinned down, his balls pulled up. They started to go purple. I felt sick as I saw him grimace and then moan.
Instead of releasing his balls, Fiona abused him verbally, humiliating him, calling him all kinds of names. When that didn’t have the desired effect, she spat into his mouth. Yes, spat. Gobbed. Big ball of saliva. Into his mouth.
The guy just smiled at her and swallowed it. Fiona told him he was a good boy and then tapped her cigarette into his open mouth, as if it were an ashtray.
I thought about leaving at that point. Some pain I can understand, but to be abused like that – I found that very disturbing.
Somehow I hung in there – probably because my curiosity about human nature got the better of me.
After a while, Fiona undid the guy, leaving the rope tied around his balls, and he moved to another contraption, a type of half-table. He was duly strapped face down to that with some leather cuffs and Fiona proceeded to use some of the ‘toys’ I had seen lined up against the wall earlier.
I lost count of the different instruments she used. Various whips, paddles, canes, crops and wooden rulers. There was a lot of blood, and his backside was criss-crossed with welts.
It looked excruciating but at the back of my mind I was trying to convince myself, Each to their own. Don’t judge others just because you wouldn’t do it.
Fiona got out a latex strap-on dildo and then proceeded to fuck the guy up his arse with it.
Although I found the idea of this disturbing, I realised that watching a man being penetrated was exciting for me too.
It showed me that:
I like to watch sex
I like penetration of any sort, either watching, doing or being done to
I want to fuck a man up the arse myself
I found myself getting turned on again by the thought of doing this to a guy – although I saw myself being less aggressive, far more gentle.
But when she pulled the strap-on out of his arse and forced the guy to lick his own arse juice off the condom, I thought about getting out of there. I thought I’d reached my limit then; I couldn’t overcome my revulsion.
Luckily the session was almost at an end, but before it could finish, there was the small matter of his orgasm to contend with. Throughout the session, his cock had been totally flaccid, and I had wondered if the whole S&M dominatrix thing was just a mental fantasy, especially since Fiona swore that she never performed any ‘sexual’ acts on her clients.
I was wrong. Fiona told the client she wanted him to orgasm, and he got hard immediately. She then instructed him to climax on cue, and so he grabbed his cock and wanked himself off in front of us, finally climaxing as she commanded. He spunked a wad all over her latex-clad hand, which she then shoved into his mouth. If I hadn’t been so repelled, I might have been impressed by the way she made him ejaculate on command, but I was pretty sick to my stomach by then.
Here was an average bloke, dependent on paying someone to get his rocks off. Someone who would never love him, who would always abuse him. I couldn’t get my head round it. I have no interest in being abused, or abusing another to such an extreme.
But seeing Fiona in action and, surprisingly, feeling myself respond to a few of the activities has me intrigued about experimenting with a little light S&M for myself.
Tuesday 26th July
I now have a fetish to go with my obsessions – the sex one and the lingerie one. Not rubber; although, yes, obviously there is that now, but not only that. You see, I have discovered I have a thing for men in suits.
That’s right, suits: buttoned-up shirts, stylish ties, smart trousers with matching fitted jackets. Anything that makes a man look like he’s going to work – serious work. I’m not sure when I began to find this attractive, but it’s got more and more appealing over the last few months.
I do find my new weakness odd, because a suit is so intrinsically conservative. It represents everything I dislike so much about the Establishment: the suit is the uniform of all capitalist moneymen and bullshit politicians.
But then it’s not so much what the suit represents as what lies beneath it – the male body. Maybe it’s the contrast between the two: the cut, rigidity and conformity of the clothing juxtaposed with the hidden texture of a man’s body hair, his muscular curves and the hardness of his cock.
Or perhaps it’s just that it seems so tantalising to see a guy fully suited and booted, with his erection pressing up against the fly of his smart, pressed trousers: his carnal desire contrasting with his otherwise restrained appearance.
It makes me think of a mild form of bondage: the shirt buttons tight across their chests, the tie choking them, the trousers squeezing their genitals – just like the rope I saw Fiona take to that IT specialist. To me suits are the male equivalent of a short rubber dress and platform heels: everything’s packed in tight and it is hard to move, but damn is it a good look!
When I see a man dressed in a suit, it makes me want to rip his jacket off, pull him roughly towards me by the tie with one hand, while whipping down his zipper and freeing his cock with the other. To have him – and his suit – at my beck and call, a reversal of the power that this uniform seems to epitomise, is tantalising to me.
Then there’s that air of authority in a suit. I don’t mean in the traditional ‘this man is obviously brainy and important’ way. Rather, in the dominating ‘throw me down on the bed, tie me up and spank me’ kind of way; something that I know I now want to experience.
It seems to me that being smartly dressed not only allows a man to be elegant and appear important, but it also gives him a mask to hide behind. Like the sharply dressed, James Spader in the film Secretary, a man in a suit appears to be polite and decent, but given half a chance he’ll pull his cock out of his tailored trousers, bend his girlfriend over the desk, and fuck her hard from behind. Elegant and rampant together – yes, please.
And that’s why I can’t stop watching the men in suits when they pass me in the street. Are they a normal, everyday guy who likes football and beer, or, are they the intense, thrusting, craven man who wants to tear off his suit and give his wife a good seeing-to?
Sadly, most of the men I meet don’t wear suits, and those I meet who do are more the type of bloke who has to take each piece o
f clothing off one at a time and fold it neatly before entering into any nookie. A passion-killer if ever there was one.
So for now it’s just a fantasy: the lover who will turn up at my house wearing an immaculate new suit, unzip himself and tell me to ‘suck it’, before bending me over in front of him and fucking me ruthlessly whilst slapping my arse. It’s a damn good fantasy, though. Maybe I shouldn’t be too hasty in dismissing it.
Where was it that all those City boys hang out again?
Friday 29th July
It’s been almost two weeks since Blog Boy and I last slept together and I still haven’t heard from him. I know I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I know it’s pathetic, but I’m hurt by this lack of contact.
I guess it’s silly of me to think that having sex with him meant anything – I know a one-night stand when I see one, after all, but I thought something was developing between us. Am I totally wrong?
Blog Boy said he wanted to be friends and not fuck-buddies, then he slept with me – three times – and now I don’t hear from him at all. Not even a text to say hello – as a mate.
I finally emailed him today to wish him well on his holiday – I think he leaves tomorrow. He replied, somewhat blasé, and wished me a good summer.
So much for our friendship then – let alone anything else.
It seems like he now has no interest in me at all; so why do I care so much?
Sunday 31st July
I wasn’t expecting a threesome last night. In fact I wasn’t even expecting a twosome. I was expecting to get well and truly slaughtered on cocktails with Fiona. I really, really wasn’t expecting to end up in bed with a total stranger and a professional dominatrix, but that was where I found myself, a few hours into the evening.
At some point on our cocktail crawl last night, it had got to the point where both Fiona and I were wobbling unsteadily, giggling madly and talking absolute nonsense. We discussed my sex life and my frustration at the lack of adventure. There I was, prepared to experiment and eager to try out new things, and yet I still hadn’t experienced any S&M. I was gutted – surely everyone has experimented with some light bondage and spanking by this point in their life?
So I moaned, and Fiona cut me short by asking me what I thought of a guy at the end of the bar. He was well built and fairly good-looking, tall and blond too, so I gave Fiona a drunken, ‘yeah, I would’. She grinned at me, and, being a generous sort of girl, asked me whether I wanted her to pull him for me.
This didn’t make sense; I mean, if I wanted to shag him, I could have asked him myself. I wasn’t sure why she was offering to oversee the whole process. She looked at me with a sly look on her face, and said that I was going to try something new tonight, and that she was going to invite him to join us in it.
Now Fiona is my friend – we aren’t lovers. Nor am I interested in being sexually involved with her. Not that she is unattractive or unsexy to me. On the contrary, with her auburn hair and blue eyes she’s quite the opposite, but I have a little rule that I like to stick to, and that is I do not fuck my friends.
Sleeping with Harry all those years ago I learned the hard way that, at best, shagging your mates always results in some kind of confusion and plenty of complications. At worst, someone gets hurt or feels too uncomfortable to continue the friendship. In the past this has resulted in me having one less friend in my life – a sad sacrifice to make for a night (or nights) of passion – and I don’t plan on doing this again in a hurry.
Real life is not like a movie, where two best friends end up making out. Real life is embarrassment and nervousness and insecurity, and waking up the next morning and realising your friendship may never be the same again. Real life is losing your best friend of 20 years because you got drunk together and fooled around. Real life is where you are nervous being alone together even though you’ve spent your childhood sharing a bed with this person. Real life is where you’re not sure whether your friend is looking at you because they want to rip your clothes off or because they think that skirt doesn’t suit you. Real life is about making sure boundaries don’t get crossed and sex and friendship are kept separate.
So it was with some hesitation that I responded to Fiona’s suggestion that we have a threesome together. She swore blind that it wasn’t that she had some kind of unrequited love for me, nor was it because she was dying to get into my pants. Rather, she was offering to let me experience some S&M under her protection – so that I might finally know what it was like and tick it off my list. She argued that if we had sex, it didn’t need to mean anything because she didn’t fancy me. She was just offering to help me out, nice friend that she is.
Boozed and a bit horny, I said, ‘Yeah, whatever,’ and left Fiona to work her magic with the guy at the end of the bar. Not many people say ‘no’ to Fiona. She is the most assertive woman I know; her personality is so magnetic that even if you found her point of view disagreeable, you’d soon find yourself coming round to her side, because she leaves you no other option.
That was exactly what happened to this man: he never stood a chance. A short time later I was in his bedroom with Fiona, watching him strip off his clothes.
He stood there naked, looking at Fiona and me, somewhat wary. I wasn’t quite sure what to do either. Was there some kind of etiquette I should know about? Who goes first, who touches whom where, who is the ‘toucher’ and who is the ‘touchee’? This could be a minefield, but Fiona had a game plan and she suddenly became Mistress F – and the bloke and I were going to follow all her orders, or else.
Fiona told me to get undressed and lie on the bed. I took off all my clothes except my bra and pants and moved towards the bed, but I didn’t do it quickly enough and warranted a quick sharp slap on my arse from Fiona’s hand. Ouch! It hurt, but the sting felt good somehow – it throbbed almost pleasantly.
I felt my arse cheeks smarting and lay on my front, quickly. Obviously this wasn’t to Fiona’s satisfaction either, she whacked my arse again, but this time the pain seemed more direct, more focussed. I was aware of something more than her hand moving through the air and heard something crack. I turned my head to see that she now had his belt in her hands and it was still swinging after she’d used it to lash my poor bottom. The pain changed from an intensely sharp sting to a warm soothing pulse. I rubbed and it felt sensitive to my hand, the skin tingling as I caressed it. Nice.
Fiona crawled up onto the bed with me and whispered in my ear, ‘Are you OK, do you want to play like this?’ I looked at her, my friend, and knew that I could trust her unconditionally. I replied ‘Yes’ and that was the last Fiona/ Abby conversation we had with each other until the whole episode was over.
Fiona turned me over and grasped both of my hands above my head. In a matter of seconds she had them expertly tied together with the belt and strapped to the bed. My wrists hurt and I grimaced slightly. This earned me a quick slap on the face, then she stuffed the guy’s t-shirt in my mouth as a gag and pulled apart my legs.
Now she removed my pants and bra and was hovering over me, grinning. She pulled off her own top and bra and sat on my stomach so I could barely breathe.
‘Are you a good girl?’ she asked me.
I nodded. She slapped my face.
‘I said, are you a good little girl?’
I nodded enthusiastically, scared of what Fiona might do next.
‘Good girls don’t make a noise when I do this,’ she said, and then grabbed my nipples so hard I thought I would scream. But I just bit down on my gag and tried to endure, thinking to myself that it would all be worth it.
Fiona moved down my body and knelt between my legs.
‘Spread them,’ she said, and I opened my legs as far as they would go.
‘Mmm, nice pussy,’ she remarked, ‘good girl, you keep it nice and trimmed,’ and she pressed her fingers against my labia.
I wondered if she was going to do something painful to me and I flinched as she stuck her fingers inside me, aware that my excitement was
increasing with her touch.
‘Good, you’re nice and wet,’ she said and removed her fingers. ‘Come here, Slave,’ she called across to the man.
All this time he had just been watching, busily stroking his cock, probably thinking he was going to stand on the sidelines and see some girl-on-girl action. He hadn’t reckoned on Fiona, though.
‘I said come here, Slave. Now.’ Fiona stood up and walked over to him. ‘Bend over you little slut!’ she shouted, and he did as he was asked.
Fiona whacked him so hard even I could feel his pain: my spanks were nothing in comparison to what he was getting. She carried on spanking him for a while and when she felt he was getting too vocal, she slid a hand between his thighs, gripped his testicles hard, and whispered in his ear:
‘You little piece of shit, you don’t make a fucking sound unless I tell you to, you don’t move unless I tell you to. You do everything I tell you to. Do you understand?’
He nodded.
‘And you call me Mistress, got that?’
He nodded again.
‘Right, now you’re going to go over there, lie between Abby’s legs and eat her pussy until I tell you to stop. Do you understand?’
He nodded once more.
‘And don’t even think about letting this get soft for one minute’ – she gripped his cock tightly – ‘We’ll be using this shortly. I want it hard all the time. Got that?’
He had no choice but to nod – she had him by the balls. When Fiona let him go, he got onto the bed with me and ate my pussy hungrily.
With his head eagerly lapping between my legs, Fiona dealt out occasional slaps sharply onto his arse. Then she moved over to me and removed the gag from my mouth, replacing it with her breasts, which she pushed forcefully into my mouth. It was strangely unerotic – not that I dislike sucking on some nice breasts – far from it, especially not large ones like hers – but it was Fiona, my friend, and that was too weird. I think it was for her too; she removed them and resumed walloping the guy’s arse instead.