Rant about Body Scanners

I had an option to travel this Christmas and it would have been better than staying home alone BUT I could not face the ordeal of travel.

First of all, you got to report early because of increased security measures and of course airports see more traffic than usual. The pat down does not bother me because the officers here explain what they are going to do and why and do it in the most professional way without causing me offence.

Once you've cleared security, time to repair yourself with a nice breakfast (or meal) but oh no! you can't cut the dried bacon and hard sausages with that plastic knife. The server explains they can't use real cutlery because of security risks... and I am wondering what damage can a food knife cause when it has a rounded edge.

So you give up on the idea of eating and you plan to have some biscuits with you and a bottle of water (this way you save on the horrendous markup of airport outlets.) But oh no, you are not allowed to pass your water through - it may be bomb material! But you are welcome to buy a nearly £2 bottle from the shop past security. I ask myself... can a terrorist not make a water delivery to the shops with some doctored bottles amongst the shrink wrapped ones on the palette? Of course they can! But it helps the economy if they force you to buy things after security.

Then you have to squeeze into tiny spaces they call seats and eat your microwave meal on your chest. (We are talking business class here, eh? BA actually served micro meals out of a black container that they had to peel the plastic off in a recent flight, I kid you not.)

You can't hydrate your hands or face because lotions and potions are limited - forget about perfume, toothpaste, etc. It is too much hassle trying to squeeze things into little containers and being questioned what they are. If you are lucky, you might find some lotion in the business class torture chamber which they call W.C., but more likely they wouldn't have restocked it because of a strike or another.

Of course if it is chilly (and it usually is this time of year) and you've managed to secure one of the few blankets, you are stripped from it one hour before landing because you might be preparing a bomb under its cover!

Then you arrive at your destination without mishaps, apart from that sauce that landed on your blouse and the bruises you got trying to negotiate the seat and aisle space. And you have to wait for ages for your little suitcase to arrive on the conveyor belt because you were not allowed to take it on board as you have a nail file, a pair of nail clippers, a pair of cuticle scissors, and that thing you use to pluck your eyebrows plus numerous bottles of essential liquids/creams that you can't live without and you don't want to have to buy locally and then discard barely used.

But you are safe.

In the meantime, somewhere around the world, somewhere where the average person wouldn't be able to pinpoint on an unmarked map, somebody is dying because of our countries' politics. A soldier or a civilian, it doesn't matter. It is a human life ended before its time. But hey, we are safe! Just close your eyes, cover your ears and sing a tune. No need to fight for civil liberties, no need to question the establishment.

Just walk through that body scanner. It is for your own good. Trust the people you have not voted to represent you wisely. How dare you suggest it is for the scanner manufacturer's benefit and for the politicians who approved its use? Preposterous!

Stats and Comments

Either I have a lot of fans in Tanzania, or a very dedicated fan who keeps visiting my blog.

What I cannot understand is why with so many hits no one put a comment on, just to say 'hi' or something nice anyway? I'd love to hear where people are from and what they have thought of the stories/anecdotes of my life. I sometimes feel like a castaway* floating on a lifeboat with ships passing her by but nobody stopping to ask 'are you OK? Do you need anything?' or heaven forbid... 'can we offer you a lift?'

My only consolation is the PMs I am getting on some websites which link on to here.










*Alright, I do not really feel like that, but I love drama - what can I say? :)

RACK and other crap

I had a sleepless night. Many things have come to my attention, lots of emails exchanged with various people, lots of threads read. The realisation that people are getting more and more hardcore is shocking. The Internet is suddenly full of clips of women being debased and abused, not only by porn sites (which of course you would expect to keep up with the times in order to make a profit) but people who practice BDSM at home. I have serious doubts about the emotional and psychological stability of the people involved. But then I have been a victim before, so of course I pass everything through my own filter and some things disturb me more than others.

There was a thread on IC about an elderly couple (she 68, he 75) who ran a professional dungeon (though probably unregistered) from their suburban home. Their client died whilst in suspension bondage. The Dominatrix was unable to get him down, even with the help of her husband. You can read more details here:  http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/3172491/-Tragedy-at-OAP-SM-dungeon.html

What can you say about such tragedies? Of course the blame lies with the Dominatrix. She underestimated the danger and overestimated her powers.

Which reminds me of a session I organised for one of my lifestyle subs some years ago. It was with a fairly well-known professional Domina at her dungeon near the M25. I chose her because of her ethos and experience. The session started off well. My sub was excited. The Domina had a fully equipped dungeon and understood that subbie was inexperienced and promised to take it at his pace. Then at some point she strapped him over a kneeling stool. His knees were on a padded surface, his belly on another (higher) padded surface. His wrist and ankles were in restraints. There may have been a belt around his waist too, but it's been so many years that I cannot recall every single detail.

I sat at a safe distance whilst she flogged and paddled him. Then I noticed his face had gone red and beads of sweat had gathered. 'Are you alright?' I asked, slightly concerned as the level of his head was lower than the level of his heart because of the position and the fact he had a bit of a belly. 'Yes, I am fine, Mistress,' he replied.

The Domina continued to whip him using a variety of implements. Either she was having too much fun or she was deep in her thoughts because she failed to notice that the sub changed from lobster red to straw yellow. I jumped up in alert and halted the session. She immediately released him and made him sit down on a chair. He kept apologising and we told him there was nothing to feel ashamed about but he should have called his safeword. 'I was ashamed to use the safeword,' he panted, 'didn't want to disappoint you.'

The Domina fetched him a glass of water and little by little he regained his colouring. We decided that it was best to avoid positions that would put him in strain and instead opted for the examination table with a nice pillow to support his neck. Then we did some sensory play and he enjoyed it much more than the pain he had savoured earlier. You see many men (and women) will dream of losing control and experiencing pain, but once it starts, they realise pain is hard to handle.

An hour later we were at a Harvester having lunch and talking about the events of the morning. He had a small glass of red wine along with his meal. Then the desert came - a lovely platter of strawberries, marshmallows and chocolate brownie with vanilla ice cream. I studied the platter trying to choose what to taste first whilst expecting an answer from him to a question I had asked. He did not reply, so I raised my eyes and looked at him. The sight I beheld freaked me out. He had gone ashen yellow again, his face had dropped, his eyes had a vacant stare, and a bit of saliva had just began escaping the edge of his lip.

I called his name in panic, asking him if he was alright. The serving staff turned to look and realised there was something wrong. But the sub suddenly regained his consciousness and asked what the fuss was all about. When I told him, he waved my fears off saying he was drooling over dessert and he had been momentarily absent-minded. The staff kept asking me if they should call the paramedics and I was in turmoil. I offered to drive his car back, but he refused. He was a very proud man. I agreed to let him drive on the condition he would drive slowly and the moment he felt bad, he'd pull over and have a rest. It was a very long drive back...

So what was the lesson learnt from that episode? That you can never-ever expect a sub to take responsibility for his/her well being. They have handed that responsibility over to you when they agreed to a play or pay session. If a Dominant decides to play God with another human being's life, then they should make damn sure they are prepared and able to take on that role.

Imagine the horror of someone dying on you and multiply it by 10, if that happened under unusual circumstances, to get the dread I experienced when he had the mini stroke. What do you tell the family? We practised Risk Aware Consensual Kink so he knew what he was letting himself in for?

But more on the subject of RACK later. I feel quite drained now. The icy conditions outside mean I have to brave the weather and the crowds to ensure we do not get snowed in without adequate provisions.

I hope you are prepared!

Cuckolding

Some men are good to love and some men are good to turn into cuckolds. Over the years my interest in cuckolding has blossomed and I have often used men in the manner described below. The story you will read was posted elsewhere some years ago, but I retained the copyright.  

***

The following was taken from an email I wrote to one of my admirers. One of his foremost fantasies was cuckolding... Read on and draw your own conclusions about this unusual practice!

"I do not let men use me, I use THEM to satisfy my cravings. I get what I want and then I kick them out of the house without even allowing them the luxury of washing themselves. Once they have fulfilled their usefulness, what good are they to me?

The most cruel thing I have done so far is to ask a man over to clean the house for me and prepare me to receive another man.

Whilst he is cleaning the house he thinks he must be a fool to let me use him as a domestic when there is nothing in it for him. He seethes secretly but is strangely turned on to think of himself as an object.

Then he helps me get into my sexy lingerie and brushes my hair, his hands trembling with desire, but my cold steely gaze prevents him from kissing or fondling me.

The doorbell rings and he eyes his contender with hatred. He is a young stud who will probably give me a lot of pleasure tonight. I hand my cuckold his jacket and show him the door. The other guy asks 'who is that?' before the cuckold has moved out of hearing range. 'Nobody!' I respond and close the door.

That word stabs him like a dagger in his heart. He sits in his car wondering what to do next, feeling lost and envious. He is a nobody in my eyes, just a thing. And why not, he thinks, of course I am nobody, what do I have to give her that she can't get from other men? I am not that virile any more, not handsome, not rich - of course she is right to think of me as an object when she is so young and beautiful and bursting with life.

He begins rubbing his aching cock and the rubbing turns into frantic masturbation. Right there, in my street, where everyone can see him and call the police. The danger of the situation turns him on.

He imagines me crying out in ecstasy as my stud pushes the right buttons. He knows how long it takes me to cum, so he regulates his release to coincide with mine. And, when it is the right time in his mind, he lets his cum spurt all over the steering wheel, a bit of saliva drooling from his mouth as he jerks uncontrollably in the throes of orgasm.

He stares at his hand, all smeared with thick cum. He has no tissues and he knows what I would command him to do if I was there, so he proceeds to licking his hand clean, tasting his own semen and enjoying his humiliation.

Oh well, that was a fantasy, of course, but somehow I suspect you will enjoy it... very-very much!"

***

The Highjack

Found this story I had written in 2004 which, as far as I can recall, never made it to the publishing stage. Enjoy!

The Unbelievable Adventures of Contessa dei Fiori

© Contessa dei Fiori

Chapter 1 - The Contessa Foils an Air Piracy

It had been one of these gruelling weeks when the jet setting Contessa had to fly from London to Rome, then Athens and Cairo to visit some clients.  She was on her way back now, anxious to get home in time for her pet’s birthday. 

Cairo airport was busy and hot.  The flight was delayed by over an hour due to some security alert.  When finally they were called to the gate, everyone had to go through the X-ray machine and their hand luggage was also examined.  The officer manning the security monitor gave a chuckle when he saw the contents of Contessa’s little suitcase.  She shot him an icy glance and the laughter froze on his lips and shattered into a million little pieces.

She made her way to the waiting area and found herself a seat.  She glanced at her watch, then at the people around her.  There was some commotion at the gate as two armed guards escorted a man in.  They spoke in Arabic and their short sharp tone of voice betrayed their agitation.  “Yala, yala!” they kept saying as they accompanied the man into the airplane.  There was a lot of speculation about who this man was and people whispered amongst them wondering whether he was a prisoner of sorts.

Contessa was one of the last people to board the aircraft. She hated all the squeezing and pushing and as she had a business class ticket she did not have to scramble to secure some space in the overhead compartment for her little suitcase.

As she went through the economy class to reach her seat at the front of the plane, she noticed the man from before, seated on his own in a 3-seat row.  He was reading a newspaper but you could tell he was aloof by the way he sat.  I hope he is not a terrorist or dangerous criminal, Contessa thought to herself.

She stole glances at him as she took her time storing her luggage in the overhead compartment and taking off her straw hat with the flower decorations and short white lace gloves.  The man had the typical criminal face, no wonder the guards had to escort him onto the plane!  He was tall and lean, had a full head of curly black hair and a 5 o’clock shadow on his face.  A nasty scar ran from his right eyebrow to his cheek.  He wore jeans and a white shirt open at the chest revealing a long gold chain with a miniature Koran.   A fundamentalist! Contessa determined as she took her seat.

The plane took off and shortly after the man got up from his seat and made his way into business class.  Contessa nearly choked on the mouthful of water she was sipping from the little bottle she always carried with her.  Oh my God! she thought. Quick, someone, do something!  But nobody seemed to share her sense of alert.  The air hostess was wheeling her trolley up the corridor getting ready to dispense drinks to the passengers.  The man said something to her in Arabic and tried to go past her.  She refused to move her trolley and sent him back to his seat.  Contessa sighed with relief.  They were safe thanks to the stewardess.

The meal served was typical for an airline serving a Moslem route: chicken in a white sauce, beans and carrots.  Alcohol consumption was not allowed and no matter how much coca cola she downed, Contessa’s meal still tasted bland.  She ordered another can of coke hoping to chase the taste away from her mouth.  She had consumed a lot of liquids and was feeling their pressure on her bladder.  She got up to go to the toilet and noticed that the man was making his way towards the cockpit.  She glanced around and saw that all the stewardesses were busy collecting trays and the man had managed to escape their attention.  He was walking down the aisle with a very determined look in his eyes now and slid his hand into his pocket.  She saw the gun outline and gave a silent cry of sheer terror.  Unless somebody did something, this man was going to hijack the plane and take them hostages!

Contessa knew it was up to her to stop him.  So as he went past her she reached her hand and grabbed his elbow.  The man turned around, his face registering surprise and indignation.  But the Contessa had dealt with many men in her life not to feel intimidated by his height and looks.  She held onto his arms and used her knee on his groin.  The man collapsed in pain making unintelligible sounds.  Contessa swiftly sat on his chest eliciting another cry of pain and held his arms down under her knees.  The man struggled to get free but she had perfected her technique of body sitting so much that nobody could escape her 28 st. of weight.

“You bastard, you thought you could take this plane by force and get us to some God-forsaken part of the world to attain your terrorist group’s demands, hey?  Well, think again, scumbag!  Nobody messes up with the Contessa and interferes with her plans!” she almost yelled at him, overtaken by the rush of adrenalin in her body.

The stewardesses run to her aid.  Contessa beamed with satisfaction as they helped her up.  She was a heroine!  Tonight she’d be in every newspaper in the world and everyone would learn her bravery helped foil the terrorist plot.  She was already mentally preparing her answers to the journalists, embellishing her story to make it more sensational.  She turned and had a last look at the hapless terrorist who got overpowered by a mere woman.  Her eyes were full of contempt as she spat straight into his eye.

Chapter 2 - Contessa’s Interview

-      Your name, please.

-      Contessa dei Fiori.

-      That’s not what it says on your passport!

-      No, but that is what you are going to put down in that little notebook of yours.

-      Who are you working for?

-      Myself.

-      Stop lying!  Tell us who you are working for!

-      I told you: My Self!

-      Which groups are you affiliated with?

-      Groups? Ermm…. Weight Watchers and the Society for the Preservation of British Coastlines.

-      You think you are funny, don’t you?

-      You know for a journalist you are some sad arsed bloke!

-      Journalist, what journalist?

-      Which newspaper are you working for?  Can’t be The Times because they don’t hire morons like you.

-      Moron? Who are you calling a moron?!!!

-      Look, you’ve had me in this little room for so long and you haven’t even offered me a drink or a sandwich.  Is this how you treat people?

-      Oh excuse me your Highness, where are our manners……

-      I am a Countess.  You don’t address me as ‘Highness’.  Anyway, why are you tearing at your hair?  You know, you ought to calm down a bit; all this stress can’t be good for you.  Oh my God, you are foaming around the mouth!  What is wrong with you?  Hey! where are you going?  Come back!

***

It took a while for the kind Contessa to realise that instead of being hailed as a saviour she was being questioned as a terrorist herself.  Apparently the man she had immobilised on the flight to Rome was a member of the Egyptian government travelling to Italy for a summit.  At first she did not believe it.  Why would an MP travel economy class?  But it seemed the Egyptian government was making cutbacks on expenditure and required all MP’s to observe the new policy.  Which still didn’t explain why the man looked like a ruffian.

Contessa was assigned a legal counsellor.  She had committed assault and battery and it was almost certain that the politician would sue her as soon as he had recovered from the shock he was in.  She suddenly felt very dispirited and looked like a wilted flower in the little cell she was being held in at the modern Milan Malpensa airport.  She had utilised her free phone call to call Gian-Carlo, her Italian client.  He had arrived a couple of hours later in his business suit, having left an important meeting and having battled through the traffic.

She told him what had happened and he found it quite entertaining so from tears she went into laughter and they laughed so much that the guard had to come to the door and check in on them.  Gian-Carlo had a few words with the guard and arranged for some refreshments to be brought to them along with some food.  It is amazing what connections will do for you, even in the strangest of places and situations.  Her spirits being lifted, she was able to resume her haughtiness and deal with the politician’s visit whilst Gian-Carlo waited outside.  The politician (which cannot be named for legal reasons) was at first very angry with her.  She let him vent out his frustration, sitting quietly at her chair whist he paced the room and shouted insults at her in broken English mixed with some French.  Then when his wrath was spent and he collapsed on a chair looking positively drained, she picked up the pitcher of cold water and poured him a glass.  She offered it to him, looking at him straight in the eyes.

“Look, I am terribly sorry about what happened earlier today.  But you have to admit that you did behave suspiciously and then there was the case of the gun in your pocket…”

“What gun, I have no gun!” he protested.

“Then what is that?” she asked with mock innocence staring at the bulge in his trousers.

He blushed as he followed her eyes down to his erection.

“Isn’t that a weapon of mass destruction?” she asked him with a grin.

He blushed some more and was lost for words.

“Look, let’s be sensible about it, alright?  What happened has happened and there is no way of undoing it.  So far, it has been kept under wrap and although I have suffered the indignity of being questioned as a common criminal, I am willing to let it pass if you promise not to pursue a legal suit against me.”

The man seemed to drown in indignation.  How dare this woman suggest that her suffering was a greater indignity than his being attacked?  He wanted to yell at her and shake her hard by her shoulders till she realised the gravity of what she had done to him.  But her close proximity excited him no end and the smell of her perfume kept him a prisoner of lust. 

The MP was not a fool.  He did realise that if wind got out about today’s incident, he would be made to look like an idiot instead of a victim.  He would probably be called into Mombarak’s office and be told off for causing a scandal.  Let alone becoming the laughing stock of his international counterparts at the summit tomorrow... Still he couldn’t let her go without punishment.  His male pride was hurt.  No woman was ever allowed to get one better on him.  And she would be no exception.

He took a sip of water and met her eyes.  “I am willing to forget it, but -”

“Yes?” she encouraged him.

“But you will come to my hotel room and give yourself to me for the night.”

“You gotta be kidding me!” she exclaimed incredulously.

“It’s your choice, Madam.  You can come to my room and be friends, or you can sleep in prison.”

Contessa’s mind was in turmoil.  This could not be happening to her.  It was absolutely unbelievable.  Surely she was dreaming!  She pinched her arm hard and jumped from the pain.  This little shit, she thought, how dare he assume that I am going to whore myself to him, in exchange for my freedom!

The MP uncrossed his legs and she caught glimpse of his persevering bulge.  Great Scot, there must be at least 10 inches of sheer male power in there!

She felt a familiar warmth spread in her loins.  And now that she looked at him more carefully, she could see the charm of his dark brown sparkling eyes and his wide smile.

“Just one night?” she enquired.

He nodded and jotted something down on a piece of paper.  “Bring your bag of tricks with you and don’t be late.”

Chapter 3 - Contessa Honours a Pact

It was just after 8 pm when Contessa arrived at the five star hotel near the Via Veneto.  Gian-Carlo seemed very concerned as he opened the door to let her out of the car.

“Are you sure you are going to be alright?  You know you don’t have to do this… it is blackmail and he has more to lose than you.”

“I know, don’t worry.  I have a little plan.”

“Do you want me to wait for you?”

“No, sweetheart, you just go home and rest, it’s been a long day for you.  I’ll grab a cab when I am finished here.”

“I don’t know what’s more dangerous, you spending the night with this man or you using a Roman cab!” Gian-Carlo joked.

Contessa caressed his face and gave him a fleeting kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“I will keep my mobile phone switched on in case you need me.  Please do not hesitate to call me, ok?”

“Ok, go now.  I’ll be fine.  Buona notte!”

“Buona note, Signora.”

***

The room was well appointed and had a balcony overlooking the Vatican City.  The table was laid for dinner and there was a cooler with a bottle of champagne.

“Champagne?” Contessa enquired raising her right eyebrow.

“For you.  I had a look at your website and noted that the issue of champagne comes up often.  Of course I don’t drink, but I thought you would enjoy a glass or two.”

“Compliments of the Egyptian State?”

He laughed uproariously.

“You are a very clever lady,” he commented.

“What makes you say that?  Obviously I was not clever enough not to mistake you for a terrorist.”

He shrugged.  “It happens.”

“So I was not the only one to think you were an evil man?”

“You would be surprised how many people look at an Arab or a Moslem today and think we are all bad.”

“I am sorry.  Honestly I am sorry for what happened today.”

“No problem.  Now you must make me forget that bad experience.”

Contessa smiled and took a sip of champagne.

He pointed towards the view.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” 

She nodded.

“Just like you, my dear,” he added and sat next to her.

Contessa blushed and for the second time today she thought that this man was not half bad looking.  He was now wearing stone-coloured trousers and a baby blue Polo shirt, which accented his shiny hair and eyes.

“I like it when you get red in the face.  It is so nice for a woman, like a small girl.  You are gamilla. That means beautiful in my language.”

He placed his hand on her knee and she felt a sudden jolt of electricity.  She got up and picked up the room service menu from the table.

“So what are we eating?” she asked.

“You choose.”

She studied the menu for a while and selected a couple of dishes that would not offend a good Moslem.

While they waited for room service, she found out a little more about him.  His name was Abdu (not really) and he was in his early forties.  He was one of the youngest MPs of the NDP and the great-grandson of a distinguished general that had been killed by his French mistress’s jealous husband.  It seemed that scandal and intrigue had always plagued his family as proven by the number of little anecdotes he had to recount.

“But no one had a fat woman sit on his chest, did they!” the Contessa commented with tears of laughter in her eyes.

“No, you are unique!”

Dinner arrived and they remained silent while the waiter served them.  Then between starter and desert he found out about the woman behind the façade. 

“Tania, do you like me?” he asked her unexpectedly.

“You are OK” she replied not looking into his eyes.

“Do you like me enough to go to bed with me?”

She took a deep breath and stared at him.

“No, but if this is what it takes to avoid being sued, I will do it.”

“I am not a bad man…”

“I know.”

“I like it when a woman gives herself to me freely.”

“I can’t do that.  I don’t love you.  I can’t make love to a man I don’t love.  With us it would be just sex.”

He threw his towel on his plate and got up and walked away from the table.

“I like you Tania.  I don’t know why, but I like you.  When you attack me in the plane I lost my mind.  First I was angry, very angry.  Then I like you.  You have something.  I never see a woman be like a man before.  So strong, so clever, so brave.  And you are also very beautiful.  I want you, Tania, but you are telling me I can’t have you.  I hate this day!”

“I am sorry Abdu, I don’t know what to say.  I am flattered of course, but I can’t be your girlfriend.  It is just not me.  I am used to being in control in life, does that make sense?”

He stared at her, his bottom lip quivering but no words came out of his lips.

She got up and went up to him.  She placed her hand on his shoulder and he turned and faced her.  She took him in her arms and stroked his silky hair.

“It is not you, Abdu.  It is me.  It is me who can’t get involved with any man.  I told you about my past relationship and how it ended.  I just can’t go through this again.  And anyway, you hardly ever know me.”

“But I do.  I was waiting for you all my life!” he protested.

She smiled.  “You don’t know me!” she repeated.

“I will do anything for you, Tania, just ask me anything you like.  I will give you anything for a night with you!”

“And where would that leave me?”

He placed his arms around her waist.  “I love you Tania, ask me for anything, I will do it for you.”

“Anything?  Anything at all?  Now be careful before you answer me!  You have no idea what I may want from you.  And I must warn you: I am voracious.  I will take and keep taking from you until you have nothing left, neither emotionally, nor financially.  Are you sure you can you handle that?”

He grabbed her hand and placed it upon his crotch.  “Feel this Tania, feel how I am burning for you!”

“Enough!” she cried.  “Get down on your knees and show some reverence!”

He obeyed instantly.

“Follow me into the room!  On all fours.”

When they were inside, she closed the balcony doors and drew the curtains for some privacy.

“I want you to understand something.  I am your Mistress, that is Mistress with a capital M.  You don’t own me, I own you.  You will do everything I tell you to do and will never ever say no to me.  If you disobey me, you will be instantly dismissed.  If you are good and obedient, you will always have a friend and mentor in me as well as a sweet Tormentress.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, it is.”

She slapped his face.  “Yes, Mistress, is the correct response!”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said trembling with the effect the face slapping had on him.

“May I kiss you, Mistress?”

“You may kiss my shoes.”

He began kissing her white sandals and painted toenails.  She kicked him away and told him off for daring put his lips on her flesh.  He apologised.  She ordered him to strip.  Then followed a couple of hours of him squirming under her weight as she sat on him and trampled him both with his arms and legs tied and free.  She spanked his skinny ass till he cried out that he was a nasty little tart that craved punishment as she had asked him to.  It was not easy as he was very assertive and did not want to submit fully.  She got the feeling that he was pretending to submit, hoping to get closer to her.  But she would have none of that.  By the end of the two hours he was spent, both physically and emotionally.  She held him in her arms and stroked his hair.  “You have done well, my pet,” she whispered soothingly to him.  He fell asleep.  The Contessa rose and rearranged her hair and makeup.  Then as an afterthought, she pressed her painted lips onto a clean tissue and left it by his pillow.

Epilogue

While riding in a cab to her hotel, she texted Gian-Carlo the following message: Safe + sound, no sex. Got new slave. C u soon.  She then phoned her pet back home and woke him up.  He was pleased to hear her voice.  Gian-Carlo had contacted him earlier to give him the news.  Contessa gave her pet her new flight details before turning in for the night.  She only had five hours to sleep and needed all her strength to give her pet his birthday surprise!

¨¨¨

That J!

Just got home to find a J mail in my postbox. It was a birthday card in a shiny hand made envelope with a drawn stamp on it. How cute is that! :)

Forgot to tell you that J. came to see us Sunday afternoon and stayed for lunch. He also brought a pie with him. I think he is learning - don't you?

He's also getting better at giving foot massage.

Bitch Goddess

It had to happen. I didn't plan for it to happen this way and I admit I got a little bit carried away, but please  tell me what you would have done in my shoes.

He came to see me because of my birthday. In the past he had never managed to be here on the day, same as he had never managed to be here for any other significant date, e.g. Christmas or Easter.

We had fun the first night. Allowed him to wash my body and help me get ready for the big birthday dinner with my friends and even invited him to join us instead of leaving him at home with a microwave meal for company. When we got back, he gave me a long massage starting from the tip of my toes and ending with the nape of my neck. We talked till 1 am, mostly about my reconnection with my Domina persona and the people that I had been in recent contact with.

The following day he hanged a couple of paintings for me. He asked me to take a look and I noticed that one painting was at the wrong height. He argued of course that he had visually marked the spot I had told him... (yes, visually... on a blank wall...) but said that if I wanted, he could redo it. 'Yes, I want you to redo it and hang it higher,' I replied, in response to which he threw his tools down in a strop. 'Look if you don't want to do it or cannot do it, just say so, but please don't go throwing things,' I told him. He redid the job, this time to my satisfaction.

I wanted to take a shower so I asked him to mind the soup I was cooking and to also empty the dishwasher. He seemed reluctant and more interested in his computer than in minding the time. I put the timer next to him. 'When that rings, you turn the fire off. Also that dishwasher is not going to empty itself.'
'Alright! I get it! I'll do it!' came the answer, but it sounded like a teenager talking to his mother rather than a man 20 years my senior.

Had my shower, then went to my room to dress. Asked him to come dry my hair. He was not doing it right, so I asked him to mind the angle of the hair dryer as I did not wish to end up with frizzy hair. He threw the hairbrush on the bed in a frustrated gesture. 'What is the matter now?' I asked. 'Nothing, just joking,' he replied. 'Look, I am very sensitive to your moods and I can tell you are in a mood right now, so you'd better stop it because I am finding it very upsetting.'

The last straw came when I laid my body bare on the bed and asked him to dry me. He used the hair dryer like a paint stripper, burning my pubic hair. 'Are you mad?!!' I yelled. At which point he began talking about his feelings reawakening and that I was toying with him and he didn't know how to interpret what was going on and how he came with no expectations but he was bored and did not expect to be put to work and he might as well have stayed home and blah-de-blah. All the while I was thinking 'Mister, you are blowing your chances off word by word.' I had planned to tie him down at night as a surprise thank-you gesture. 'Slaves are meant to be seen, not heard,' I reminded him sternly. But there was no stopping his tirade.

'Right, get the ball gag!' I ordered him.  He looked at me with surprise mixed with hope. 'Hurry up, I have to pick up our child in ten minutes!' I urged him.  He handed me the ball gag.  'Open up!' He seemed reluctant. 'What's the matter?'
'It's too big, love. I am scared.'
I chuckled with contempt. 'That's never stopped you before... And don't you dare call me love again. You have no right! I am your Bitch Goddess and you are nothing but a puny slave. Now bend your head so I can buckle this nice and tight.' He obeyed and I pulled hard on the leather strap eliciting a protesting whine. 'Quiet, slave! Now get your pants and shorts off.'

I got him to hand me a length of rope. It was black with red piping. 'Put your arms behind your back and hold your elbows,' I instructed him. I then proceeded to tie him up in an uncomfortable position that I knew he enjoyed and could take. Then I pulled out a silk scarf and tied it around his mouth making him feel scared for the first time as I had never done this before. 'What's the matter?' I asked ironically, 'did you think I was going to let you slobber all over my nice cream carpet?' Then I bent him down and used the tawse on his bare behind. He still had his socks and shirt on.

I hit him hard and as I hit him I felt I had to explain the reason behind his punishment.

This one's because you talk too much and don't know when to stop... 

This one's because you have a large cock and you enticed your Mistress with it when she was too vulnerable to resist...

This one is for all the lies you told your Mistress to keep her yours, to keep her under your control so that you could get your way...

By now it had dawned on him that I was being serious and this was not a scene. He began squealing in protest trying to avoid the punishment, but I anchored his head on the carpet with my naked foot, pressing it down hard so he couldn't escape. It was really a no brainer that, once I had started listing all the things that I had been bottling up for so many years, I would not be able to stop till I was done saying my piece. So the slaps continued raining on his bony buttocks, harder and harder.

Many painful accusations were uttered and he protested as loudly as the ball gag and scarf would permit him to.  Finally, I was done.  He was crying but it was a strange, almost fake, way of crying. He undid his bonds (he could have undone them at any time as I am rusty and he is an expert in escaping). He removed the scarf and ball gag and moved away from me as he began lamenting about his life and how useless he is and what was the point of it all.

I got worried.  Yes, I had gone over the top, but the blows were hardly damaging, there weren't even any marks!  As for the things I had said, they were 100% true. There comes a time in any woman's life when enough is enough and she is done protecting and pleasing the boy-man. My slave would either have to step up or step out. Simple as.

On the way to school I became paranoid. What if he did kill himself? What if he trashed my house in my absence? What if he poisoned my soup? I tried ringing him a few times and felt relieved when he eventually picked up. He sounded fine. All was well. I offered to buy some takeaway on my way home.

And just like that it was over.

Turkish Delight

Someone reminded me of a forum I used to be a regular of and I logged back on after many years and retrieved my literary contributions. I don't know what you'll make of the following story as it has no BDSM elements in it, but hopefully you'll enjoy it.

Let me know what you thought of it. You can always enter comments anonymously just as long as you use a nickname in the body text so I can address you.

When I was young and carefree, I travelled the world with a backpack on my back and hope in my pockets. I went to many places but one that has particularly stuck in my memory is Kusadasi, in Turkey. I had a wild time there and though I never told anyone before, the time has come to tell my secrets.

I was just 22 years old when I first set foot onto Turkish soil. Kusadasi port had a big banner welcoming tourists and immigration was swift and painless. No sooner had I cleared immigration than the hustlers circled me, everyone trying to push the others away, all of them talking at the top of their voices to attract my attention. ‘My hotel has swimming pool, bar, all facilities!’  ‘My hotel has air-conditioning!’  ‘My hotel has happy hour,’ they kept shouting. I selected a cheap hotel in the outskirts of town. Of course I did not know then how far it was from the centre as the man kept telling me it was only 5 minutes walk and told me that at least 8 times!

The room was adequate, but I had been cheated on the air-conditioning deal; it was just a fan on a pedestal! But at £5 a night including breakfast I should be pleased with myself. Plus the owners told me I could use the swimming pool of a nearby hotel, so not at all a bad deal altogether.

Kusadasi is a lovely seaside town. It has a beautiful market selling all sorts of spices and flavoured teas, jewellery, furniture, carpets, leather goods and antiques. There are plenty of restaurants, cafes and bars. The nights were filled with music, colourful lights from signs and an endless parade of people walking up and down the streets.

I fondly remember the dondurma guy (ice cream seller) at the corner selling the best mastic gum ice cream I have ever tasted! He had a trick that attracted customers. He’d serve your ice cream in a cone but as it was very cold, it stuck to the blade of the palette knife and as you reached for your cone he’d pull the ice cream back up and laugh at your disbelief. No matter how many times a night he performed this trick, there would always be a crowd of people enjoying his performance.

My first night there I discovered a little restaurant with just two large tables on the deck outside. The manager was very friendly and, as I could not make up my mind, he offered to make me a platter of this and that and threw in a huge pot of lovely yoghurt in the deal. I was so happy with their service that I never ate anywhere else.

After a satisfying dinner, I thought to check out the nightlife. I walked the streets looking into the different bars then someone from a carpet shop invited me to have some tea with them. Of course he tried the hard sell on me but all he got was genuine admiration for his wares but, unfortunately, I could never afford one of his handmade carpets. ‘Not even a small kilim?’ ‘No sorry!’

The guy shrugged his shoulders and offered to buy me a beer at the bar next door after he closed his shop. So we went and had a beer and a fun chat and then he walked me to my hotel as it was late at night and he was a gentleman. We started kissing in the garden and ended up in my room. I remember him offering to give me a back rub and me lying on the bed hugging my pillow moaning lightly as he pulled up my top and undid my bra. Then somehow I was half naked and he was kissing my back sending shivers down my spine. His 5 o’clock shadow had grown into respectable stubble, and I begged him to scratch my back with his face. The more he scratched, the more I screeched with pleasure! He got his cock out and began rubbing it on my back and neck, making an excellent contrast between the hardness of his stubble and the softness of his circumcised cock. I recall being so highly turned on that I had an orgasm without any direct stimulation of either my breasts or clit. He ejaculated on my back and rubbed it on my skin. Then he got up and left, leaving me with the memory of his black curly hair and sparkling eyes.

The next day the receptionist casually mentioned that visitors were not allowed in the guest rooms. I asked him how I could get to the beach and he told me I could hop on a dolmus (a shared taxi) and ask for Ladies Beach. And so I did. Ladies Beach is just outside Kusadasi; a narrow stretch of sand lying some feet below the road. It was mostly frequented by Turkish families, but I did not let that bother me. I found a good spot with my newly found friends, two guys from Austria, got undressed and began sunbathing topless. The guys wanted to play racket ball, so I played with both of them taking turns, my big breasts jiggling in the sun as I dived to save the ball. I knew there were a lot of eyes on me, but I did not care. Finally I felt tired and had to go sit down. A Turkish man approached me and offered to rub suntan oil on me. I accepted. When he was done with my back (eliciting quiet moans from me) I cheekily turned on my back and asked him to oil my front. The look on his face was priceless and he hurried to complete the task spilling half of the oil in the sand in his excitement. The Austrian boys were rather amused with the scene. ‘Oh we could have done that!’ they complained. But I sent them to get some drinks and food and they returned with a man that had fresh oysters in a basket. I had never had oysters before and was a bit afraid in case they were poisonous, but the guys reassured me that if the mollusc moved when you dripped some lemon on it, it was OK to eat.

So that afternoon I feasted on oysters that the seller kept opening up for me on the beach. The Austrian guys had to leave and said goodbye to me. Maybe they simply run out of money and were afraid of my insatiable desire for oysters, who knows! I swam a bit, sunbathed a bit more and, as the sun was coming down, I went to the road to catch myself a dolmus. But there were no taxis around and I was tired of waiting so I put out my thumb to hitch a ride. A big American car drew up and some men began waving to me and inviting me to join them. I happily got in the already crammed car feeling safe in the company of so many men (it is my theory that rapists act alone, not in groups). The car dropped its passengers off at different points and then the driver, a man in his mid forties with salt and pepper hair and a matching moustache, told me he owned a big shop on the promenade. I was very impressed as it was by far the biggest and poshest shop I had seen in Kusadasi. He offered to drive me to my hotel and asked if I had already been to Ephesus. As I had not been anywhere yet, he offered to take me there the following day.

That evening I dined at my favourite restaurant and met a couple of German university students who spoke mediocre English. The guys looked rather dark to be German and I always had the suspicion they were really Turks pretending to be foreign but did it really matter? They were fun and we went to the disco on Pigeon Island together. Then they escorted me to my hotel and we French-kissed goodnight. I would have happily invited them back to my room but a) they were too self-conscious of each other and b) they heard the receptionist say something in Turkish and decided it was safer for them to leave. Oh what a pity! It could have been nice to have had two men at the same time. Never mind!

Daybreak found me nice and fresh after a good night’s sleep. I knew I had a date to go to Ephesus later in the afternoon, so I decided the best way to spend my morning was to check out the swimming pool at the neighbouring hotel. It was a nice swimming pool and full of British tourists with their kids and their inflatable toys. I met a girl – let’s call her Cathy for the purposes of this story, as it would be inappropriate to reveal her identity even after all these years. She was a veteran holidaymaker in Turkey and had been to most resorts. She was travelling alone having recently split up from her boyfriend. She was a few years older than me, slim, about 5’8’’ tall, with lovely long brown hair and blue eyes. She spoke Turkish to the waiters and that impressed me no end, as I had always thought Turkish to be a difficult language. So we spent part of our time by the pool under the shade of the palm trees with her teaching me elementary Turkish. She was of the opinion that wherever you travelled, you had to pick up some of the language and thus honour the locals. I never forgot that and in my later travels, I made sure I could at least say good morning, please and thank you in people’s native tongue.

Cathy was fun to be with so we arranged to meet the following day and go to the beach. I returned to my hotel and had a quick shower and tidy up. My new Turkish friend arrived on time and drove me to Ephesus. Ephesus is an amazing archaeological site and he seemed very knowledgeable which made the experience so much better. Also he had been clever to choose taking me there in the afternoon when the sun was not so hot and the tourist crowds had already been and left. Walking amongst the ruins was very pleasant under these conditions.

We returned to my hotel and he tried to get me a better room but the receptionist said all the rooms were taken. He had a brief discussion and some money changed hands, then he came down to my room with me. He started kissing me passionately, his moustache tickling my face and making me laugh. ‘I want to have you,’ he said whilst fumbling with the buttons of my blouse to get to my breasts. I asked him if he had a condom but he did not and I said I could not have sex without a condom as I was not on the pill. He told me not to worry and spent a lot of time kissing every part of my body. He turned me to face the bed and bend me over the bed. He made me spread my legs and knelt on the floor to kiss my calves and thighs and buttocks. He was clearly a very experienced lover and I was shaking with desire as his fingers and tongue explored every inch of me. Then I felt something hard against my anus and realised what he was about to do. I had a brief moment of panic and I tried to struggle away but his arms pinned me down and his lips covered the back of my neck in kisses. ‘Don’t worry, you will like it,’ he promised.

And boy, did I like it! I remember kneeling over the edge of the bed, my breasts hanging low, my knees apart with him ramming his cock into my arsehole in a steady rhythm. I was frantically playing with my clit and had a loud orgasm before he came inside me. He warned me to clench my muscles and go use the toilet. As I sat in the bathroom emptying my bowels after this impromptu semen enema (which I must say had surprised me immensely as I had never expected to feel something enter me so deeply and cause such spasms of agony and joy), he cleaned himself up, gave me a kiss and left quietly saying he would ring me. Of course he never rang and I tried to ring him at his shop the following morning only to get his fiancé on the line. Arggh men! Why do they need to play around when they have a perfectly good wife/ fiancé /girlfriend at home?

That evening I went dancing with the waiter from the restaurant and promptly regretted it. He thought of himself as another John Travolta and totally embarrassed me in public by his displays of awkward dancing. I told him I needed to go to the bathroom and escaped through the back. When he next saw me and complained about me leaving him, I lied through my teeth and told him that I had gone back and could not see him so I had assumed he got bored and left, hence why I had left the disco. Well what would you have done in my shoes?!!

The following day I spent with Cathy. I told her about my two Turkish lovers and she was tickled pink with the details. Like any decent woman would have done, she joined me into bitching about the guy who fucked my ass and left me, saying things like ‘all men are pigs if you give them half a chance’ etc. I took Cathy to my favourite restaurant where we enjoyed a good meal and a cold beer on the deck. She drew my attention to two Scandinavian girls being treated by the owner of the bar next door. ‘See?’ she pointed out, ‘all they have to do is flash their wares and smile sweetly and they get things for free.’ The Finnish girls had their free drink and left. Then the man turned and looked at me as I had not taken my eyes off him whilst trying to analyse what my friend had said. Do I have the power to seduce him? I wondered. I smiled at him and he nodded his head in silent greeting. Then, after we were done with our dinner, he invited us over to his bar. Cathy was unsure about this, but I told her to relax and enjoy herself. I was quite sure I had understood the ‘smile and flash your wares’ maxim. We had a drink and a light chat with lots of jokes and laughter, then some guys inside asked why didn’t we join them to play a game. We went inside and the owner closed the bar and locked the door. He excused his action by saying it was illegal to play cards and stuff and did not want the police revoking his licence. He pointed to the key left at the keyhole and said we were free to leave at any time.

So we sat at the long table. Me on the edge with Cathy across me. Four men on our sides. They got a glass, a napkin and an elastic band. ‘This game is very simple,’ explained the owner. ‘We just cover the glass with a napkin, secure it with an elastic band, and rest a coin on top. Then we all try to burn the paper without dropping the coin. Before each turn you must drink alcohol, OK? Anyone drop the coin, must take one item of clothing off. Clear?’ We nodded and giggled. The glasses were filled with alcohol, a cigarette was lit and the game began. The first to lose an item of clothing was one of the men. He laughed and took off his shirt revealing his hairy torso. Then came the turn of another man. He also removed his T-shirt. His chest was not as hairy as the other guy’s. Third round and Cathy lost the coin. She wanted to take off her shoes but was told it was not clothes. She was only wearing a skirt, a blouse and underwear so she decided to go for the safest option. She reached inside her blouse and carefully removed her bra trying not to flash her bare flesh. However, this covert bra taking off action had a strange effect on me. I felt butterflies in my stomach and realised I was turned on. Suddenly I wanted to see her lose more clothes, I wanted to see her naked amongst us. I began taking risks with burning the napkin making the holes bigger and bigger, leaving her little chance to avoid dropping the coin as she came next after me. But the little minx managed to burn tiny holes and avoided taking any more clothes off. Instead the men began losing more and more of their clothes. Then my confidence betrayed me and I lost. Off came my skirt. Sitting on the bench with my knickers felt strangely erotic. Cathy was very careful still. The following round saw another man lose. By now they were all down to their underwear but as they wore socks they still had more chances than us. I lost again and I had to take my bra off. There I sat just with my cotton blouse delineating my erect nipples and my knickers. I was so horny I could have screamed! I wanted Cathy to lose her clothes; I so wanted that! It seemed to increase my excitement, the thought that her and I and all these men would be naked in a room together. I could envisage all sorts of scenarios. The drinks kept coming and the smoke (I am a non smoker) was adding to the dreamy atmosphere. My head was floating and I could barely focus my eyes beyond the cloud of smoke. I even began taking pleasure in the thought that the same cigarette that had been in everyone else’s mouth was in mine! Then Cathy lost. Cathy lost! ‘Off with your clothes! Off with your clothes!’ the men chanted and I joined in, my heart pounding with anticipation. But Cathy got up and instead of removing her clothes picked her bra up and called it a night. We were all very disappointed and she seemed very distressed. The owner gave her a cuddle and told her it was all right, it was just a bit of fun, nothing more. She did not have to go through with it. Cathy’s reaction sobered us up. There was little point continuing the game. We were invited to go to the disco. Cathy wanted to go to her hotel, so one of the guys offered to escort her. I got on the car with the other 3 and went dancing. But most of the time the guys were talking about Cathy, analysing her reaction. I got bored and asked them to take me home.

I never saw Cathy again. I called at her hotel but was told she had joined a group on a multi-day trip to Pammukale. There was no message for me.

My holiday was drawing to its end and I roamed the shops looking for souvenirs to take home. At one jewellery shop my eye got caught by a beautiful silver bracelet decorated with lapis lazuli stones. The work on the silver itself was worth paying a lot of money for. The shop assistant saw my interest and invited me in. He placed the bracelet on my wrist and complimented me on how well it suited my skin tone and how it made me look ten times more beautiful than I already was. But when he told me the price I realised I could never afford it. He dropped the price several times but it was still too expensive. I tried to explain to him that I was at the end of my holidays with very little money left and if I bought that, I would not have enough to buy my boat fare. ‘You are short of money?’ he asked and I nodded. Then he pulled me outside the shop and talked to me in a conspiratorial voice. He said I was a pretty girl and it saddened him to see such a pretty girl want something and not be able to get it. So he was prepared to give me some money. What was I prepared to give him in return? I did not quite catch his drift so eventually he told me he was willing to pay me for an hour of sex with him. I looked at him, then looked at the bracelet in the shop window. He was not bad looking. He seemed clean. But still... ‘I will give you 60 dollars,’ he offered. ‘100!’ I demanded. ‘No way, 60 dollars is fair price. Take it or leave it.’ ‘Will you use a condom?’ ‘Yes, of course, I am not stupid!’ I pondered for a while. Sixty dollars was not much - certainly not enough to buy my bracelet. I would have to dig in my pocket and supplement. Yet, there was a young man willing to pay me for sex. I felt intrigued. Surely he did not need to pay for sex, he was handsome enough and he had a good job, the girls must be all over him. Maybe he does not want complications, I thought. Maybe he prefers paying for sex and calling it a day rather than having to romance a girl for days on end to get to the same result. Sex for money. Well I had had sex in Kusadasi and the guys were only interested in a one-night stand. At least if I accepted his proposal, I would be the winner for once, I rationalised. I had never thought of myself as a bad girl and the idea of being paid for sex was highly titillating. So the deal was struck.

We walked to his apartment, which we reached, via an enclosed courtyard. Bathroom, small kitchen and a bed-sitting room. He asked me to undress and lie on the bed. The bed was unmade and I wondered how clean the sheets were. He began undressing himself in frenzy and jumped into the bed with me. No sooner had he began kissing me and telling me how much he desired me that we heard a screech and the door burst open. I never knew what hit me and it took me a while to realise what was happening. A very angry Turkish woman was bashing him on the head with her open hands and tearing his chest with her fingernails. ‘You bastard!’ she kept screaming at the top of her lungs. ‘You whore! I kill you both!’ she said turning to me. I pulled the bed sheets over me to cover my nakedness and ran to the bathroom. I locked the door, totally scared out of my wits. He kept trying to reason with her, but she screeched in broken English that he is unfaithful, that he always does this to her and she was engaged to him and this was her home but luckily his colleagues - may Allah bless them - alerted her to his shenanigans.

I don’t know how long I stood naked in that bathroom before the screaming ceased. I heard the bang of the front door and then a soft knock on the bathroom door. ‘I got your clothes,’ he said, ‘it is safe to come out now.’ I opened the door just enough to grab my clothes. I got dressed in a hurry and followed him back to the market. All along the streets I felt as if every pair of eyes was on me, accusing me of adultery and prostitution. We stopped walking short of the jewellery shop. ‘I am sorry,’ he said keeping his eyes down. ‘What about my money?’ I asked timidly. ‘Sorry hun, you should have asked for the money up front. First rule of prostitution!’ he sniggered. I felt so humiliated, so degraded and so angry with him, that I could have happily finished the job she had started by tearing his eyes out. But as it was, I learned a valuable lesson. No, it was not to ask for money up front - trust you to think of that, you perverts! The lesson I learned was that no matter how sweet Turkish delight might initially be, it always got in your teeth and left you with a sticky, dirty feeling. The only way to have it was with a glass of cold cleansing water.

Men are just like Turkish delight. One must have them with lots of water (love) to avoid the sticky, dirty feeling afterwards.

 
PS: I had to edit the story slightly as my English has improved.