1: One person’s kink is another person’s survival
They are somehow all called John. Or Stewart. Gerry, Dan or Arnold. Something along those lines. The one I currently have bend over my desk while I tease his asshole with his favorite buttplug while he whimper-moans is Ben… Or Benny, I can never remember his real name, so I use both. Along with “good boy” or “bad boy”, whatever the situation requires. He loves that, it makes him jizz in no time.
“Such a bad boy for enjoing your punishment, aren’t you, Benny boy?”
He downright moans when I force the tip into him and his tied body tightens further. The plug is bigger than what I would assume was comfortable, and Benny never wants me to use lube, but I’ve been paid to use him as my play thing for almost a year and a half, and he likes pain with his pleasure; it hightens it, I assume. I don’t get that. I never liked pain, even though I never came as hard as when he… I shake my head at myself. I don’t like thinking about him and I don’t want to; not now, not ever, but especially not when I’m working. Being with him never did me any good, so thinking about him definitely wont either.
I reach around Benny Boy and grab his throbbing, but rather small dick. It’s hard and thin, like a well used pencil.
“I am going to fuck you with this plug now, Benny. Don’t you dare come before I give you permission, got it?”
He groans a affirmative noise. His mouth is as full of the gag as his ass is going to be in a second, but I know him by now. That one means yes… I mean, they always do.
I breach his asshole and the plug goes all the way in. I don’t even have time to start jerking him off, before his cum hits my desk… And my hands. I grimace behind panting Benny’s back. That is why I always wear black latex gloves. They go with my outfit and ensures I dont get strangers juices on me.
“You bad bad boy, Benny,” I scold with my hoarse work voice.
“Elsie, darling, your next appointment has been moved forward,” Lydia calls from behind her desk. My name is Emilia, but for the three years I’ve been here, I’ve been Elsie. Lydia believes that to be my name because that is how I introduced myself when I almost fell through the doors of her brothel. I was hurt, both body and soul, and it was the first one to pop into my head. Elsie was my beloved grandmothers name, so it was easy to remember, but working as a dominatrix under her name wasn’t ideal for me, so I’m Elsie to Lydia and the girls here, and Mistress Ruby Night to my clients. I only wear red and black, and even dyed my long hair black, so I think it suits me. The latter wasn’t as much a choice though, as much as a way to disguise myself.
“Oh, I was sort of hoping to grab something to eat and maybe a shower before the next one,” I say and she shrugs. “I know your drill, Babe, but the buddy asked because they are sort of in a hurry, apparently,” she says. “The buddy?” Oh, what was the deal with this guy again? He isn’t a regular, that much I’m sure of, but right now I can’t remember what this was, because… Well, I dont really care.
“Yeah, it’s the ‘important’ businessman. The friend arranged this because it’s the mand’s birthday today. The friend even drugged him before driving him here.” Lydia straight up cackles, she loves a good story and this place offers plenty. “He is already in your studio. That’s why you need to go in there before he wakes up. The friend promised great tips for you to, and I quote: ‘Whip him good’” she says, air quoting. My stomach turns. It’s the 21. of november today. His birthday. I’ve known this day was coming, thinking about it for weeks, and trying not to for just as long. He is not in my life anymore but for years he was all there was since I’ve never known my father, my mother is a selfish bitch and my beloved grandmother died. I cut all ties with my mother after she stole everything but some random stuff my nan left me. It was the very last straw. Now I have nothing. The whole notion makes me indignated and annoyed as hell, which is a perfect mood for my line of work, really.
“Okay, I’ll just grab a granola bar and redo my hair,” I say, gesturing to my sleeked back hairdo as I walk down the hallway towards my apartment; if you can even call it that. Besides the bathroom, it’s just one, rather small room. I didn’t have anything on me when I showed up here, so it fits my needs perfectly. I only need a bed to pretend to sleep on, a small kitchenette with a little refrigerator, a microwave oven and a couple of coils, storage for my everyday- and work clothes, of which I have most of the latter, and the tiny bathroom. I pay Lydia a small amount each week for the place and in addition she takes a small cut from my work. It has worked well for me for years. So well in fact that I now have a small saving and can almost pretend I’m not somewhat stuck here hiding from the demons of my past. I chump down a chocolate chip granola bar, my favorite, before I replace all the bobby pins and empty almost half a bottle of hair spray onto my bun. I also put on more of my favorite parfume. I bougth it again when I got my first paycheck here. It’s the only thing I brought with me into this life from my old one. I flatten my black latex skirt which has a tendency to crawl up over my ass, and readjust my top. Although “top” is a generous description for the corset made entirely of straps, I constantly have to move around, so my nipples aren’t exposed. I send myself a disapproving glance in the mirror, more for my questionable lifechoices leading up to this point than my looks. Then I take a deep breath and exit my apartment.
My workroom is just next door. I’m not exaggerating. When Lydia opened this place she thought it was a good idea to keep the rooms people rent close together, so I’m only in the hallway for a brief moment before I enter my work area. It’s gotic so it matches me when I am in “uniform” with it’s gloomy, dim light, heavy, bordeaux curtains and a big black four posters bed to the side. It also has a black desk with carvings. It has never seen a piece of paper but heard lots of moans and been hit by cum, tears and other bodily fluids. Poor desk. In the corner is my large armoire, which Lydia calls my Pantry Of Pain because it contains all my… Let’s call them “tools,” since toys are for playing and that is definitely not what I do with them. I have whips, paddles, blindfolds, handcufs, ropes, nipple clamps, buttplugs, lube and most importantly: my gloves. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg of bondage wonders I have in there. In the back I made room for cleanings supplies, because I might not get all hot, bothered and messy when using this stuff, but the men I make cum for me (and my paycheck) definitely do.
I eye the muscular eye candy in front of me. Well, I can only guess what he looks like, but who cares what his face looks like with a big, toned body like that? He is tied halfnaked to my chair with a set of handcuffs behind his back, only wearing boxer briefs and a black hood over his head, exposing tanned skin and intricate tattoos on his muscular arms, thighs and chest. I go to my armoire and get one of my starter whips. The man’s chin is resting on his bare chest and his breathing is calm, but as I walk closer to him, he starts to stir. I circle him as I caress his skin with the whip.
