The Pleasure's All Mine: Memoir of a Professional Submissive (20 page)

    Thinking about the session with John again, I still felt surprised at how well it had gone, all things considered. It had not felt as foreign or difficult as I’d always thought it would for me to be in the opposite role in a session. I didn’t necessarily crave more of it just then, but the experience had been more than just pleasant or easy money. Something about it leveled me in a way, too — cut through that part of me that thought it was a nearly unattainable thing to find a satisfying form of sexual dominance in another person. Hell, if I could locate a reasonable facsimile of it in myself, of all places, it couldn’t be that hard to find out in the rest of the world, even outside of sessions. If I could so easily be good like that for sleepy John, it seemed a given that someone out there could be good for me, too. Sometimes lately it had even seemed like maybe another woman might be my type. After that first trip to Manhattan, I really felt like the more my world continued to open up through this job, the closer I would come to finding what, and who, I wanted.

    

    

    
“CAN YOU TAKE
this?”

    Mistress D attached a pink plastic clothespin to my outer labia and was peering around my legs to see my response.

    I nodded, “Yes, Mistress. It’s okay.”

    She put another one on the same side about an inch lower, and then two more on the opposite side. She placed the fifth, and final, clothespin just above the hood of my clitoris. It was a particularly sensitive area, and she smiled when I gasped.

    “You’re going to take these for me for a little while, aren’t you, Marnie?”

    D turned so the video camera could capture both the commanding look on her face and my calm nod of agreement in the same shot.

    “Good girl.”

    She went back to fiddling with the clothespins, each of which had a small white string looped through its middle. She tied the ends to the larger ropes around my thighs, so that my lips were pulled open, red and swollen, with the splashes of hot pink looking like so many extended petals on a flower. I knew it looked beautiful because of the mirror straight in front of me.

    I had met Mistress D only a couple of hours before, when I came to her studio for this video shoot. I had known
of
her for some time. She was one of the most famous and successful independent dominatrixes in the country. Amazon tall, with long blond hair, a voluptuous body, and as genuinely pretty as any cheerleader I’d gone to school with, she had contacted me a couple of weeks earlier about being a sub in one of her fetish movies. I had been more than flattered, especially when she said she’d heard about me from Mistress K. Working with Mistress D was like receiving the kink equivalent of the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.

    “Tell me, how does this feel?” she asked, and began tapping the clothespins where they pulled on my tender skin.

    I moaned sharply. The pinching intensified when she touched them, but something about the slight movement made everything feel good at the same time.

    “It’s different, Mistress,” I finally answered.

    She laughed and stepped away from the table where I lay. “Have you ever felt a vibrator on clamps before, Marnie?” she asked with mock sweetness.

    “No, Mistress, I haven’t,” I said, my voice rising in anxiety.

    “Are you afraid it might hurt?” she grinned at me, pulling a large back massager with a phallic attachment on the end out of a nearby drawer.

    “Yes, I am,” I answered honestly. It wasn’t one of the things we had discussed explicitly about the plot. I knew there would be bondage, caning, the clothespins, and some breast flogging, but the vibrator idea was a surprise to me. I calmed down almost immediately, however. I knew she wouldn’t be doing anything truly extreme. It was part of our agreement, and she had a reputation for being one of the safest dommes in the scene. As she plugged the device in and brought it back to where she had left me — arms and legs extensively bound and tied together, then hooked onto a suspension cable that lifted my ass slightly off the table — the giant buzzing sound made it hard for me to hear her.

    “I asked if you were ready,” she said loudly, lightly slapping the back of my thigh.

    “I hope so, Mistress,” I laughed nervously, and then cried out when she touched the tip of the huge vibrator to the clothespin above my clitoris.

    Instead of a sharper pinch, it caused a deep and dull ache, and at the very same time, it provided the intense pleasure that a vibrator normally would when placed in the same spot without clamps. It was the weirdest combination, and I couldn’t tell whether I wanted her to turn it off and release me or never, ever stop.

    “God, Mistress — oh,
God, please, Mistress,”
I babbled, and pushed my hips toward her.

    It was all I could say for the next few minutes as she moved the head over each of the clothespins separately and then pressed it sideways so that it covered them all at the same time.
Please. God. Please, Mistress. Oh, Jesus!,
until I screamed finally, not from an orgasm but from the overload of sensation.

    “That’s probably enough for now,” D feigned mercy for the camera, but it was really time to move on to the next scene.

    “Gosh, thank you. That was really neat,” I said, after her assistant, Jim, yelled “Cut!” and went out to have a smoke between takes.

    “You’re welcome.” D gazed down at me, having come around to stroke my face after filming stopped. “Thank
you,
for that amazing responsiveness! I knew there was a reason I wanted to work with you,” she laughed.

    Even having just met her, and even in the context of having to engage in a bit of cheesy posturing for the camera —
Whatever would please you, Mistress; if it amuses you, I will, Mistress
— I still fell fast and hard for D. Lying there, waiting for Jim to come back with a digital camera so he could take promotional stills in this position, I felt like I would never get tired of staring into her wide, blue eyes. I didn’t even mind feeling her hand on my face. The clothespins were simply aching again now that the vibrator was gone, and I was relieved to see Jim come back with the digital camera. Or, relieved as I could be, considering how much I disliked being photographed in the first place.

    I hadn’t agreed to do the video
just
because of D’s professional reputation. I hoped to make a fair amount of money off of it as well. My payment was a master copy of the tape, plus an open-ended agreement for D’s production company, i.e., Jim, to provide me with as many copies I wanted at cost. I could sell them to clients and through my Web site at fifty dollars a pop plus postage. Thinking about this new source of possibly steady income made it a little easier to set aside my concerns about the spider veins on my left leg and the tendency of my face to look almost hard on film if I wasn’t smiling. The ever-quiet Jim finished up, and I concentrated on my breathing to help get me through the momentary escalation in pain as the clothespins came off. As D released the first one, I yelled in surprise. It was always more intense than I remembered.

    “Look at me. I don’t want you to lose eye contact with me for the rest of the time when these are coming off, understand?” D ordered, even though the cameras weren’t rolling.

    I did what she said, staring up at her as she slowly removed the remaining four clamps. Each time, it hurt as bad as the first one, but by the time the last two came off, I could only moan softly at the sharp stabs of pain. As she held my gaze, smiling at my reaction, I felt like I could have worn those things home and slept in them if she’d asked me to.

    
“Very
nice, Marnie.” D shook her shoulders like she was shaking off a shiver, and waved a manicured hand at her face. “I think I got as much from that as you did,” she laughed. “Whew.”

    As D went about preparing me for the next scene, we got to talking a little about our real lives.

    “Where are you from?” she asked, pulling a soft leather sleeve all the way up my arm and fastening its buckles around my wrist and elbow. The sleeve ended in a round mitt on my hand, and once the matching sleeve was on my other arm, I would basically be immobilized from the waist up.

    “I’m from here, from Torrance. My parents still live in the house I grew up in, actually.”

    “Wow. It’s not that often that I meet people who are native Angelenos,” she said. “So your parents are still married, or is one of them a stepparent?”

    “No, they’re both my real parents,” I shrugged, and slipped my other hand into the bondage sleeve. “You’re not from here, yourself?”

    “No. I’m from back east originally,” D grunted, pulling hard on one of the elbow buckles to get it closed tightly enough to fit me correctly.

    “Really? My dad’s from Massachusetts. I love the east coast,” I said, and it sounded dopey to me as soon as it came out. Like the east coast was similar to a coffee shop down the street or something, and maybe she and my dad’s side of the family had run into each other there.

    “Yeah, we’re from New Hampshire. You’ve obviously never lived back there,” she laughed dryly.

    “No, only visited. It’s just so green. The first boy I ever French-kissed was in the woods in Massachusetts.”

    “Turn around now,” D instructed, “and put your hands behind you. Lift your wrists up as high as you can.”

    I obeyed, pulling my wrists toward the middle of my back. She fastened the two sleeves together in four different places, and then walked to the nearby wall and turned a crank to let a suspension hook fall slowly behind me. She stopped when it was about level with my waist.

    “So do you still visit?” I asked when she came back over.

    She was quiet for a few seconds, and I wondered if I’d hit a sore spot.

    “Once in a while I do, Marnie. I’m not super close to my family. I mean I love them, and we certainly get along much better since I’ve been sober.”

    “Wow! You’re sober? Me too,” I smiled.

    “Good for you,” D smiled back. “You know, it’s my birthday this Saturday and I’m having some people over. You should come. My parents will even be there. You guys can bond over your love of the northeast,” she joked.

    Pushing my upper back gently so that I was tilted forward just a few inches more, she slipped the suspension hook through one of the rings at my now-conjoined elbows. She then went back to pull the hook up a little higher so that I would be firmly held in place, ass fully exposed for flogging for the scene we were about to shoot. It was a surprisingly comfortable position, and I relaxed into it, shutting my eyes so I could enjoy the fantasy of being introduced to her parents as her girlfriend some day, instead of merely a friend from work.

    

    

    “Aw, look at you, all dressed up!” D said, grabbing me in a quick hug and ushering me into the foyer of her two-story house on a quiet street in Hollywood.

    I had worn a skirt, with a soft cotton blouse that showed some cleavage but still managed to look almost conservative. I wasn’t sure what were the right clothes to wear to a dominatrix’s birthday party. D had said it wasn’t a play party, and of course her parents would be there. I’d tried to look attractive without putting on anything that might have drawn stares from her neighbors as I came up the front walk.

    “This is my friend, Lisa. Lisa, can you show Marnie where she can put her purse? And you already know Jim.”

    D nodded into a small room off to the left where Jim waved and went back to watching a video he was running on the large-screen television.

    “Nice to meet you,” I said, and shook Lisa’s hand.

    She was a petite brunette who looked to be in her late twenties. She motioned for me to follow her deeper into the house. Lisa was wearing a latex French maid’s outfit, and used the toy duster in her hand to playfully brush a couple of the people we passed as she led me to a back bedroom.

    “You can leave your stuff in here, and the bathroom’s back there if you’d be more comfortable changing in it—” She looked confused as she noticed all I had on me was my purse.

    “Um, I’m not actually — I didn’t bring anything to change into,” I said, blushing.

    Virtually all of the partygoers we’d passed were dressed in kinky gear. D herself had been wearing a full length, black catsuit with a tightly cinched black corset and thigh-high leather boots. But it hadn’t registered on me at first: after all, I was used to seeing her in full regalia.

    “Oh.” Lisa seemed at a loss for words. “Well — that’s okay. You look fine how you are, Marnie,” she recovered quickly.

    I had thought so, too, initially. Now I wanted to run into the bathroom, tear off the clear plastic shower curtain, and cut it into hot pants and a halter top.
D must have really liberal parents,
I thought as I set my purse on a dresser near the doorway before following Lisa back out to the party.

    

    

    “Marnie, this is my father, Joe, and this is my stepmother, Brenda.”

    D had found me hovering awkwardly near the small buffet table in the kitchen. I hadn’t seen anyone else I knew at the party, and I felt a little too self-conscious to approach the small groups of well-dressed perverts milling around. I’d been relieved when she’d asked me to come meet her folks. They were sitting stiffly at a small card table in the main living room toward the back of the house.

    “Hello,” I smiled politely as we all shook hands.

    Joe looked to be in his late sixties, a tall, slim man with a ring of short gray hair around a mostly bald head. Brenda looked about ten years younger, with light brown hair in a neat bob, and sparkling eyes under a thick pair of bifocals with a horn-rimmed frame. They were the only people I’d seen so far who looked as square and out-of-place as I felt.