The Pleasure's All Mine: Memoir of a Professional Submissive (16 page)

    “I don’t know if it’s something I want or not, because I don’t know if I’ll like how it feels yet.”

    “Well, would you like to try it and see? If you find that you hate it, you always have your safe word,” he said, still holding my hands between us.

    “Incidentally, what
is
my safe word, sir?”

    “Let’s use
mercy,
for simplicity’s sake.”

    “Thank you,” I said, and lowered myself over the bowl when he nodded toward it.

    It didn’t feel as odd or as ridiculous as I had expected it to. Maybe peeing in a bowl in front of someone who wants to see it just isn’t such a big, dramatic deal after all. I started to feel the space around me dissolve as my concentration whittled down to the man sitting in front of me, the feel of his hands on mine, and the muscles that needed to unclench in order for me to pull this off. And then it was just coming out of me, a stream of liquid making a soft hiss that echoed inside the bowl, almost clear because of all the water I had drunk before the session. Marcus and I smiled at each other for several seconds, and then I looked away and laughed. We were both so pleased with me you’d have thought I’d just graduated from college or something.

    After I finished, Marcus helped me stand back up, and took the towel off the nearby bondage bed. Slowly, he patted the insides of my thighs, then pressed the still-folded towel between my legs, holding it firm as I put my hands on his shoulders and leaned into him. We stayed that way for a couple of minutes, my hips rocking slightly to make the pressure between my legs vary between
nice
and
very nice.

    “I better start getting dressed,” I finally whispered into his neck, and he put a hand around my waist to keep me from going anywhere for another few seconds, then let me go.

    

    

    
“MA’AM? IS YOUR
name on the list?” A man not much taller than I am but with considerably more hair on his chest, was staring at me, pen in one hand and stapled sheets of rumpled paper in the other. It was the second time he’d asked the question. I had been so distracted in trying to focus my gaze on anything except his naked balls that I hadn’t answered the first time.

    “Sorry — I should be on there, yes. Marnie. I just started renting from Catherine last week.”

    In the days that followed my first session with Marcus, I had gotten several e-mails but no real prospects for more work. A few people had written to say they would be in Los Angeles some time in the future; two had specified needing to come on my face at the end of the session; and one had wanted to know whether he could come over and do my dishes in exchange for getting a spanking from
me
afterwards. Of all the useless correspondence that week, his had irritated me the most. From what I could see online and in the one print magazine where kinky professionals advertised, there had to be more than a hundred dominatrixes in L.A., and yet this wannabe houseboy had managed to direct his
services offered
email to the one and only professional submissive. How could someone that inattentive be good at housework?

    Also annoying was my financial situation. I wasn’t quite out of money yet, but found the pace of two hundred dollars a week take-home worrisome. I had called Catherine to ask for advice about how else to reach a good client base. She had told me about a play party she was having this evening, where most of the attendees would be submissive men, but where a potential dominant client did occasionally show up. I’d never been to a play party and was curious. It had to beat the hell out of sitting in my apartment waiting for another e-mail or phone call.

    “Ah, here,” the naked man nodded, and drew a line through some faint type on the list he was holding. “I think Catherine’s in one of the back rooms if you want to go say hello. All the ladies are welcome to change and store their street clothes in the front bathroom around the corner.”

    “Thank you,” I said, and moved past him into the hallway.

    I passed two more nude guys and then nearly bumped into a third as he came around the corner of the open bathroom when I was about to step into it.

    “Oh!” I said.

    “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said sheepishly, and moved in the same direction I did when I attempted to let him pass.

    We moved back in the opposite direction together immediately, and it was all I could do not to hold my purse out in front of me at the exact height of his private parts. He had come within inches of nailing me in the stomach with his wild thatch of pubic hair. I’m all for new experiences, but a woman has her limits.

    “I’m just gonna stand here for a second,” I said politely, and was grateful when he carefully stepped the other way so each of us could move forward.

    The sight of pairs and small groups of naked men chatting casually throughout the length of the hall was causing a bit of a sensory overload. I saw women in fetish garb joining in some of the conversations, and heard the distinct sound of asses being whacked outside of view, but, in general, this party seemed to me, so far, to be little more than an old-fashioned social for naked, middle-aged men.

    I closed the bathroom door behind me and set my purse and bag of sex clothes on a shelf of towels. I had brought a new outfit with me — a lacy black push up bra that made me look a full cup size larger, and matching see-through lace short shorts, with a middle seam that just barely covered my own parts in front. After pulling on the requisite black thigh-highs and four-inch heels, I stashed my purse and street clothes in the larger bag and stuffed it all in a corner behind a wicker laundry basket.

    “Oops!” A beautiful black-haired woman opened the bathroom door. “Need something out of my bag,” she said, smiling.

    “That’s okay, I’m pretty much done in here.”

    The bathroom was big enough for three or four people to stand around in comfortably, and, as the stranger moved to the far end to search through what looked like a doctor’s bag, I took in the rest of her. She was wearing what had to be seven-inch heels, so I guessed she was actually closer to my height than she’d first seemed. She had a petite frame, but her outfit made her look taller — thigh-high stockings, high-cut leather thong, full leather corset that pulled her into an exaggerated hourglass shape and fit snugly under her leather push up bra. Her straight hair fell to the middle of her back, covering much of her smooth, light almond skin.

    “I’m Mistress K.”

    She held out a slender hand with long red nails, facing me again after fishing a large purple flogger from her bag.

    “I’m Marnie.” I shook her hand. “I do sub sessions. Nice to meet you.”

    K cocked her head and grinned at me. “It’s a pleasure.” She held onto me a few seconds longer. “I haven’t met a lot of pro subs. How long have you been working?”

    “I started at the Dominion a couple of months ago but just went out on my own as of last week, really. I’m renting space here for my sessions. Do you work out of here as well?”

    K turned abruptly at the sound of people coming toward us. A man wearing a collar and leash was being led noisily down the hall by a tall blonde woman in a bright red catsuit and platform boots.

    “I’m going to piss all over you, slave boy! Now get in that tub and be a good toilet!” the woman barked. “’Scuse us, ladies,” she nodded toward K and pulled her captive into the restroom.

    K and I stepped quickly out into the hall. I looked at the flogger dangling from K’s hand and suddenly felt self-conscious about having started a conversation.

    “You’re probably in the middle of something. I don’t mean to keep you,” I offered politely.

    “I wasn’t actually,” she smiled, “but I am now. Let’s go find a quieter place to talk.”

    She waved me toward her with a quick motion of her hand, and I followed her to the back of the loft.

    “Perfect. Let’s go in here,” she said a few seconds later, having found the room I’d played in with Marcus empty.

    She closed the door behind us and used the pad of her thumb and the side of her index finger to turn the lock on the doorknob. I wondered how long it took a person to learn to do things without the easy use of her fingertips from all those nails. K sat in the large, throne-like chair against the wall and motioned for me to make myself comfortable on the bondage bed.

    “In answer to your question, I just started renting from Catherine myself.”

    “She’s really cool. I meant to go say hi to her, but I’m relieved that I got sidetracked. I’m not sure I know how to successfully navigate all those bobbing male parts in the crowd just yet,” I said.

    K laughed. “Yeah, you get used to it after a while. I guess your clients don’t get naked as often as ours do. Anyway, I don’t think Catherine will miss you for a while. Last I saw her, she was knee-deep in a heavy caning and piercing scene across the hall.”

    I nodded, and we were both quiet for a few seconds.

    “Have you been doing this a long time, or is that too personal to ask?” I finally blurted.

    K waved the notion off. “Nothing’s too personal. I’ve been doing this for a few years professionally, and a couple of years before that in my personal life.”

    She stood up and, eyeing the implements hanging on the nearest wall, approached the shelves and hooks and began fingering various items on each.

    “So tell me about you,” she said, inspecting a set of leather wrist cuffs.

    “Hm. I don’t know,” I said, uncrossing my legs. Pushing the straps of my heels off with my toes, I pulled my feet up onto the bondage bed and sat Indian style, my hands folded in my lap. “I guess I feel a little weird still. I mean I don’t know if I’m used to all of this yet.”

    K turned to look at me, eyebrows raised.

    “The work, you mean, or…?”

    “I guess I thought that because I’m seriously into the scene, I’d get bombarded with grateful clients right off the bat, you know? But things have been kind of slow so far. Even the clients who seem to like me a lot don’t book me as often as I’d thought people would.”

    K came to sit on another corner of the bondage bed.

    “The uncertainty of sessions and income does take some getting used to. Someone might really love playing with you, but only be able to afford to see you once a month, or even less. Some of them will see you once a week for months, and then suddenly disappear. And some of
those
guys will resurface again years later.”

    “Damn!” I said. “It’s so hard not to get my hopes up, especially when I really like a client. How long does it take to build up enough of these rotating, sometimes disappearing clients so that you don’t end up bankrupt?”

    K laughed. “You’re not gonna go bankrupt. Of course I don’t know you, but if you’re as into it as you seem, you’re certainly attractive enough, and subs are certainly in demand enough, that you should be fine. And after you’ve played with enough great clients, you’ll get more confidence around the idea that more are always on the way. You won’t feel so attached to every single one who makes you quiver.”

    “God, I hope that happens soon,” I sighed. I’d been obsessively checking my in-box for an e-mail from Marcus ever since the night we’d met.

    “And one thing you can do in the meantime is to play as much as you want to outside of sessions as well. Are you seeing anyone in your personal life?”

    “No,” I said simply, fighting the urge to add
not right now
so that it wouldn’t sound so absolute.

    K nodded thoughtfully. “That doesn’t mean you’re out of options.” She got up and stood in front of me. “For instance, you could play with selective partners at parties like this. I, for one, would love to play with a sub like you.”

    Her invitation didn’t exactly startle me, as I’d felt some kind of
something
going on between us since we’d first locked eyes in the bathroom. I looked at her beautiful face — blood-red lips, the same olive skin as on her bare arms and back, and wide-set, almond-shaped eyes framed with velvety, thick lashes — and knew I wanted to accept. Still, I had some nervousness about playing with her. What if I got attached to
her
just like I’d gotten attached to Marcus and others? I knew she’d be great at it — she made a living convincing men to shell out thousands of dollars a year to suffer at her hands.

    “You look a little hesitant. Perhaps it’s too sudden for you,” she began apologetically.

    “No, no, it’s not that,” I interrupted. “I would… very much like to play with you. I’m just afraid it’ll make me feel attracted to you,” I said quickly, staring at my hands, “and I don’t want that to end up being a weird thing.”

    K brushed a strand of hair from my face. “I’m not worried about it.” She went to the door and spoke to me as she opened it. “I’m going to grab a couple of other toys from my bag, and I’d like you to prepare yourself for me while I’m gone. You may keep your shoes off, and I’d like you to remove your bra as well. I’ll leave it up to you whether to completely undress or not.”

    As soon as she left, I unhooked my bra and slid the heavy cups off my now slightly vibrating frame. I could tell instantly that K was right. I
did
feel better now that I was about to get to play with someone again. I guess, before then, I’d just thought that it was either wait around for sessions, which sucked when business was slow, or try to drum up some kinky one-night stands at clubs or online, to tide me over until I met someone I wanted to date. I’d figured one-night stands would leave me lonely if they were good, and would be a waste of time if they were bad. Catherine had these parties once a month. Maybe I could come every time and play with K — and who knew what might happen?

    I wasn’t sure what exactly she had meant by telling me to prepare myself, so I got back on the bondage table and simply knelt down, waiting. When I heard the door open, I put my hands behind my back, thrust out my chest, and sucked in my stomach. Whatever the hell was going on, I at least wanted to look good for it.