As I write this it is almost 3:30am early Monday morning and in just a few short hours the gym manager – or the cross fit manager , whomever opens the gym first is going to happen upon an uncleaned stain of blood on the boxing ring mat which is going to go unexplained … unless they happen upon this blog entry somehow. While it might be happenstance that I was present at the hour it occurred, I must admit that I am the guilty party who caused said stain and the pent up guilt amassed from Sunday afternoon is now unconscionable.
Umm, the guilt being how good it felt to extract a pound of his blood. There is, as of yet , no remorse for my actions. Sad really, meaning me – i’m a sad lot, sitting here for the last few hours with two fingers buried up my pussy masturbating my ass off to how good yesterday afternoon was for me sexually.
Have you ever had a dream that lasts the duration of the night , one where you are somehow aware of not only the length of your fantasy but as your mind unveils the astonishing twists and turns you acknowledge from a far the bizarre nature of each unexpected story plot revelation? That’s the best way I can describe the set of events that brought about my first ever session that was not at all a session, but a dare with a stranger who took the dare at face value and followed through by showing up … thus calling my bluff , and what happened thereafter unfolded like one of those all night dreams, getting stranger by the moment.
This all began a week ago when I hit the boiling point on my vacation that started out with my closest girlfriends, ‘the fab 5’ as I have named us on my Line group , which is really just four now as the one stricken with Leukemia can no longer travel along with us. She was who we visited at the hospital hours before we all got on the bus and headed north for our vacation together and the effects of seeing her like that left the four us in absolute silence for the first few hours of the bus ride as we each sat self reflecting inside our own minds , not a one of us caring to share our thoughts to the others, it was quite surreal and a very damp beginning to our upcoming three weeks together.
I would never have consented to this trip had my August sessions been of the normal Tease & Denial sort , but they were anything but.
The fact is that this life as a mistress, no matter how hard one tries to rebuke it, creates a Jekyll and Hyde conundrum where I am challenged to be vastly different in moral character from one situation to the next. The Jekyll of me is the seductress, the sweet erotic girl that tantalizes her subjects with this hot body of mine but derives vast amounts of pleasure in depriving these horned up men from getting but a drop of the pudding they desire.
But then I get session requests like this that stir the Hyde within:
The two words that kill that session request are “i need” , do you know why? I pride myself on being able to bypass all the shallow fantasy requests, using their verbiage only to extract the very thing that they truly need and then secretly delivering that need within the course of the session. At the very least that kind of session when successfully executed is therapeutic, while at the most – they are life altering. Admittedly, I’ve only managed to hit the latter a number of times that I can still count with fingers, but it’s fun as hell to shoot for the stars because men don’t mind it when I miss.
When somebody simply comes out and says they need torture, it’s all too easy to give them what they want, collect the 10 g’s , and go shopping two hours later. There’s no transference, and for this job to be fulfilling there has to be transference of some sort. August, or in particular the last two weeks of that month were riddled with blatant torture requests, all of which I accepted because I knew I wouldn’t be working for the greater part of September so I accepted the cash grab. If you’ve read my prior work, you know already how much I deplore cash grab sessions. Now I could have sat down and written a synopsis of each session but it would amount to nothing more than shock porn , abuse without reason. If there’s no reason behind one’s actions, you get stuff like this:
Why is he there? How did he get in her bed in the first place? Who is he? What’s his motive?
There’s no answer for any of the above because it is what it is , a 20 year old film student’s shallow shock horror mind at work. For the most part last month that’s all I was doing, engaging the Hyde side of my character without exploring the depths of that side of me. After a while that shit becomes like a white cop beating up on a black dude for no reason, it’s shit and it’s wrong. Thus, I was happy to get away from it all even if it meant spending three weeks fighting with my other figurative demon : tolerating Thai people.
I can’t. For the life of me, I can’t tolerate Thai people. Particularly, Thai girls that I grew up with in the village for their minds are a twisting nether of emptiness and I cannot tolerate conversations that don’t extend beyond what’s good to eat, what was eaten last night, and what was eaten the week before. While it’s true that I crave company, my albatross is the absence of intellectual company available in this country. I’d rather spend my nights alone reading a book or watching a movie than engaging in meaningless conversation. The email I covet the most are the ones asking for a dinner session, I love nothing more in life than to sit and talk to you guys for two short hours, not wanting to ever leave the restaurant for the stimulation of exciting conversation to me is timeless.
So two short weeks into our getaway I made an excuse that I needed to leave our party to visit Jaa for a few days since we were at that moment in the same city. In truth, I can never bring myself to drop in on somebody unannounced so while I did talk to former Mistress Jaa, I told her I’d be passing by in a few days and asked if she’d like to see me. That left me three days alone in Chiang Mai to find something to do and I got this crazy idea to drop in on an MMA camp to practice my Muay Thai with someone other than my private trainer who I’ve been exclusively with for the past year.
Walking into an MMA camp is a crass move na! It either takes balls of which I am lacking or a generous helping of not giving a fuck what men think because I can tell you that the looks I got as I strode into their Muay Thai area was similar to how Caesar was treated when first introduced to his monkey counterparts in Rise of the Planet of the Apes.
I know the difference between “look, pussy to bang” which is what I feel when I walk into a dance club, and “hey, intruder” – which was the looks on the guys faces as I sat down at ring side and waited for one of the three teachers in the ring to finish holding pads and come talk to me. A situation made all the more uncomfortable that same evening when nobody wanted to roll with me at the end of jiu jitsu class. In fact, during the instructional part of the class I had no partner to square off with until a smallish asian dude walked in thirty minutes late and shrugged his shoulders at the lone girl sitting and watching the others practicing the building the house technique that nobody wanted to do with me.
You’d think there would be a line up of buff dudes waiting to jump on my back and ride me , but fighters are a strange lot , either they’re all gay or they have no interest in anything potentially sexy while training. Fact is, they’re all alpha-male aggressive types and I think because I’ve been dominating the submissive subset so much in the past 3 years they can sense that I’m not a proper match for them.
Except for this asian dude that had to team up with me. I could tell right off the bat he wasn’t of the same ilk as the others. Perhaps it was his long styled jet black hair which hung like that of a magazine model or his Batman logo’d rash guard t-shirt , he just didn’t seem like a guy who would step into a cage and fight to the death with another warrior. As well, he was the only one who was really dialed into me, the way he ate up everything I said, and how he was ever leaning forward – body language for a girl is everything.
Even when we fought, he was noticeably gentle with me , taking care not to do anything that would bruise me and it felt very much like any one of the wrestling sessions I’ve had with the submissive guys who come to see me at my condo back in Bangkok.
That night, after everyone had showered and the other fighters had retreated to their rooms or to their tents we sat by the food table under the stars talking deep into the night. It was then that he told me he had an upcoming fight at a university campus in Bangkok the following week and that even though he wanted to back out of it, he had committed himself to going.
“Well why go if you don’t actually want to fight?” I asked him.
“I have to, I want to show these guys I belong” he answered with a dejected tone to his voice, barely making eye contact with me as he spoke.
“So you just want to get your face marked up is that it?”
“I guess” he laughed.
The opportunity to open the door of possibility appeared before my eyes and all I did was let him entertain the thought of where this could go by saying, “you don’t have to fight you know, if you just appear like you’ve been in a fight, that would be enough.”
“Ya I saw that Jim Carrey movie too, I’d like to think I’m above beating the shit out of myself.”
“What you need is someone to beat you up for fun.” I said with a smile.
“Like who, you?” he answered back with a laugh.
“Ya like me … exactly like me.”
“Excuse me but you couldn’t hurt a fly, sorry for saying.”
Well fuck you for dissing me like that I thought , memories of the last three sessions shot through my mind , I could see the similarly small Italian guy writhing in pain , his face swimming in his own vomit as he wormed his way across my living room floor with his hands bound behind him unable to grasp his painfully swollen balls. I casually looked up towards the stars and saw instead the image of the fifty year old Indian dude who wrote that email above, passed out and slumped over hanging by his bound hands on my bathroom door. The third bloke, a fat as fuck English dude in his early thirties cried out his safe word a mere two minutes into his session. None of the three had any resemblance to that of a fly.
I took one of the pens laying on the table and wrote on the front of a two of diamonds playing card , handing it to him when I was finished.
“You show up at this address , at 4pm next Sunday , and I guarantee you’ll have the hottest ass whooping of your life” and as I said that I flicked his nose with my forefinger.
“Did you just flick me?” he said rubbing his nose.
“Ya, I always flick flies” and with that I picked up my backpack of sweaty Muay Thai clothes and walked back to the room I rented for the weekend.
For the next two days though we saw each other frequently, we hardly spoke as one by one the other fighters came and introduced themselves to me once they saw I was showing up to all three sessions during the day and evening. I caught the early morning Monday bus back home, leaving without saying farewell to anyone. The looks I got at the bus terminal were priceless. I was the topic of whispers from everyone as they stole glances over their shoulder at my deeply bruised shins, my slightly swollen right eye which had the bruise to go with it, and the red rash I was sporting around my neck from being choked out so often. To them I was grabbing the early bus to escape while my abusive husband still slept in his bed. To me I was bathing in the painful aftermath of being a fighter for a weekend, and enjoying every inch of hurt muscle.
The following week I was too busy to meet up with my trainer as I had a myriad of appointments to attend to. As much as I love my fitness, if it comes down to a choice of getting my pussy hair laser removed or hitting pads – I’ll opt for the hair removal every single time. Envision that you horny freaks !
My next private Muay Thai session I had set up at my coaches gym instead of my condo. One reason is that there is now a lot of movement incorporated into my sessions and the narrow gym at my condo doesn’t accommodate such freedom of movement. A second reason is that the gym is more like an abandoned airplane hangar , and it’s hotter than hell there especially when training in the mid afternoon , it can get over 40C which facilitates an awfully sweaty workout. Even if it’s just water coming off, it’s nice to step on the scale thereafter and grab a reading that’s dangerously close to 40 kilos.
The only time I ever consent to working out at the gym however is on Sunday afternoon because the place is dead and I can’t stand anyone else staring at me when I’m sweaty. It closes down at 3pm so normally I schedule my training session for 2pm , thankfully it’s the rainy season now and the pouring rain we get in the mid afternoon makes the temperature a bit more bearable as I do my punching and kicking routine.
He worked me so hard this time that when the eighth and final round of 3 minutes ended I collapsed in the middle of the ring and I lay there motionless as my Thai trainer shuffled off to the the shower laughing in a Mr. Miyagi kind of way. When he reemerged from the shower room 20 minutes later I was still passed out on the boxing ring mat, i was sincerely that tired.
I saw him glance at his watch, Thai’s are too kind to say what’s on their mind , and I could see he was thinking it’d be a while yet before I was showered and ready to go. In Thai I told him to lock the front door and that I’d crawl under the steel bay door which locks as it closes. My coach walked over to where the enormous bay door of which there are seven lay ajar three feet off the ground to see if it would lock and when it did he reopened it and waved goodbye to me as he slipped underneath.
Moments later I sat up and rolled over to the edge of the ring where I began taking off my blue hand wraps that were soaked in sweat. I had worn them for so long that my knuckles had the “old woman with wrinkly skin” look , the kind you get when you go swimming for too long. The echo of my shin pad straps reverberated around the hangar sized gym when i ripped them open and kicked my pads to the jiu jitsu mat down below.
I was swigging a gulp of my awful tasting water and orange flavored electrolyte mixture when I saw a pair of legs over where the hangar bay door was opened only to knee height. Then when the body bent over and a head popped underneath I laughed when i saw it was my asian friend from Chiang Mai gazing in with his eyes wide open when he saw me sitting across the way.
“Is anyone here?” he said, and then he froze in his footsteps just after he crawled in adding “can I come in?”
“Upto you” i replied, “it’s your ass whooping party, you can either invite yourself or uninvite yourself.” quite aware of how coy I had made that sound as I uttered it.
Now the word ‘fighter’ carries a connotation with it that invokes images of finely chiseled muscular men , so let’s set the record straight here , my asian boy looked a heck of a lot like Glen from The Walking Dead , except he had Harry Potter type hair. While most men tower above me my little Glen Potter and I almost saw eye to eye , let’s call it eye to nose , and if we had a flex-off competition it’d be a dead heat.
I hadn’t given a moment of thought to what I might do to him or how I would set it up but as I looked around the cavernous gym every machine to me looked like a great torture device. I swallowed a silent curse at not bringing my ankle or wrist restraints because it’s been my dream to suspend a naked man in mid air and the racks at the gym were a mistress’s dream come true for such a thing. On the free weight side of the gym dangled 4 sets of Olympic gymnastic rings perfectly spaced for dangling a man horizontally with the floor but I’d never get him down in time if someone walked in on us.
“What if someone comes” he said eerily stealing the same thought right from my mind.
“Then we need to work quickly” I surmised and snatched his foot from the floor laying it to rest on the first rung of the rope that encloses the boxing ring. It was a flawed idea , but a great one in my mind as I had intended to suspend him by his hands and legs from the ring ropes using all the hand wraps laying around except the space between limbs and rope as he dangled made it too easy for him to slip a limb out so out the window went ten minutes of set up time.
Instead, I walked him over to the MMA ring which stood beside the gate which was ajar and settled for tying him spread eagle like using the same hand wraps. When I was done he was crucified , leaning forward about 30 degrees from the taunt ring ropes , with a huge bulge in his pants which needed to be taken care of promptly.
“Can’t have any of that” I said while giving it a feel through his silky white Muay Thai boxing shorts.
“This is hot, you’re a bit unreal, have you done something like this before?”
“Many many times” I said while hunting around for a pair of MMA gloves that actually fit me. I found a pristine unused pair of the tiniest fighting mitts I’ve ever seen with the word Venom written across the knuckles.
“This is so twisted, it’s like 50 shades of grey , but you’re … you’re him , kind of, I guess.”
My foot caught him unaware as I had raised my knee and flicked out a front snap kick that landed flush with the underside of his nuts causing him to buckle and test the knots of my straps which yielded slightly but held him suspended in place.
“Fuck” he squeaked and looked up , first annoyed , and then a moment of shock as his eyes met my jab followed by my right straight that landed with a surprising thud , surprising from my point of view because the sound wasn’t anything like the umpteen times I’ve hit my trainers pads. It didn’t sound like the movies either that trains one to think a punch sounds like a Thwack! from the old 70’s Batman TV show.
I’ve only ever worn boxing gloves when I train , a pair of black ones that I bought from the FBT sports store here in Bangkok , the weight of which has always slowed my punches down. These MMA gloves were pretty much weightless and I surprised myself with the crispness of my right straight which had landed with a dull thud on his left eye.
“Ow, wait, fuck, what the fuck, my balls, fuck.” he moaned while waving his index finger on both tied up hands at me to stop.
I was so excited at the purity of the situation that I couldn’t stop dancing on my toes in front of him. This was so perfectly impromptu , and perfectly unexpected by him that the moment had a pristine purity that made it hellacious fun for me. I decided to try out the roundhouse Muay Thai kick , the one that had given my shins a permanent set of bruises over the past year. I was sensitive that a kick would hurt ten times more so than a punch so I let one fly at half speed but when it made contact with the side of his face I yelped at the pain equally as much as he did.
A second later I was writhing on the mat in pain clutching at my shin , totally aware suddenly that bone on bone hurts far more than bone on foam. When the pain subsided and I looked up my eyes popped open at the river of blood pouring out from his nose.
“I did that?”
“Fucking what do you think? Fucking untie me, fuck.”
I thought for a second and squatted down in front of him, taking a long moment before I simply said “no, not yet.”
“Cunt, fuck, untie me, now, right fucking now.”
Instead I grabbed a feel for his dick through his shorts and found a feeble small object where but a few moments before stood a raging boner.
“What happened to your hard cock?”
“Look at the mat , fuck my cock, fuck you. look”
I glanced at the pool of blood accumulating on the mat and after admiring my work let loose another roundhouse that caught him square across his abs.
“You survive one round with me , and I’ll take care of your cock for you after, deal?”
Now that’s a real life Merchant of Venice type of offer right there , I’m basically offering him enjoyment for his dick in exchange for a pound of his blood instead of a pound of his flesh as was the agreed upon deal in the book. To encourage him to say yes I picked up the tiny black remote , pointed it at the timer clock and hit the combination ‘set … 3 … begin’ which my trainer does when he begins a 3 minute round with me.
The clock emitted the three countdown beeps it does as it prepares for the round, and then emitted the long beep accompanied by the countdown from 3 minutes.
“Yes?” I asked. Blood from his nose leaked onto my forearm as I held his chin up to look me in the eye.
He paused a moment looking at the timer countdown through 2:52, 2:51 … then whispered to me “don’t hurt me too much more ok?”
That submission is what’s known as Carte Blanche , permission to do anything in any way I choose. I felt like Negan from The Walking Dead , with two minutes and 40 seconds of the absolute power to beat the holy hell out of this kid. The best part of it was that it was unscripted , I had simply coerced this situation out of a guy who I sensed could be manipulated in such a way and my suspicions were precisely correct.
I didn’t hit him, not even once.
Sorry to put a shrieking eel moment into this but if I didn’t, it’d be a story and not a proper recount of events.
I guess i had a limp dick moment , you know , the moment where you’ve gotten the go-ahead to get to home plate with a girl and for whatever reason your dick decides to not co-operate with you. Perhaps it’s because the reality is far less exciting than the expectation, or maybe it’s due to over thinking things , I don’t know what goes in a guys head at that moment, but for me it was definitely this : I had a stark realization that I was play acting this moment up so that I could have something great to write for in this blog.
I had a “fuck, who does shit like this?” moment in my mind while looking at this guy who willingly let me tie him to the ropes and was consenting to letting me beat him up a bit – all because for sure it turned him on and who knows , maybe he thought he’d bang me right there in the gym if things went well for him. I stood before him just thinking of what could I do to enhance the plot line of what was happening , it was like a fourth wall break in a movie and it ruined the whole moment. I decided to just come clean with him right there and then by saying “you know, I’m a mistress, in my bdsm world , this is what I do , stuff like this, just sayin’ ”
“No shit” he replied in such an unclear way that I don’t know whether he meant it as an interrogative statement as in “no shit?, really?” or whether it was a statement in the order of “no shit sherlock.”
“Ya” i simply said as I unbound his left arm and then walked over to his right arm to do the same.
“Like, what do you do in a situation like that?” he asked and I caught a note of dissatisfaction from being untied.
“Ballbusting, tickling, teasing , wax torture, nipple torture, or basically you name anything that comes across your imagination and I’ve done it, guaranteed.”
I sat down in the ring in front of him thinking mostly about how this is so similar to a conversation a dude conjures up when his dick won’t work so that he can buy time to think. This “bdsm moment” was so far off the rails now it had degenerated into a static moment devoid of emotion on my part. I didn’t feel like a mistress because he wasn’t a customer , I just felt like a girl with a twisted perversion that she failed to follow through on. In fact, as I just wrote that sentence, it makes sense now , I was sort of looking at myself in the third person at that moment. Sort of like “let’s look in on what this mistress like character chooses to do in this situation.” Bizarre.
Then I started thinking about how muted my blog has been the past few months as I look to post only the most dramatic recount of events and because I choose to treat my blog like that , there is this pressure to seek out sessions or moments that are extreme and uncommon.
“What would you do to me?” he asked suddenly, interrupting my introspective thought process.
“I’d spank you.” I replied frankly.
“Why spanking?”
“I don’t know, cuz , your ass is cute so it’s spankable, perhaps it’s that” and I blew upwards at my hair to remove it from dabbling in my right eye.
“Cool.”
“I’m not gonna spank you though, I get paid well for doing shit like that and you’re broke as fuck.”
Then he said “damn” and it was the way he said it that immediately interested me, that one small word was so full of dejection and whereas everything that I had done to that moment was trite, his single word was genuine.
The stagnant afternoon air seeped in heat was causing us to sweat profusely and the “tit … tat … tat” sound of our drops of sweat dripping onto the mat where the blood had seeped into the canvas was the only sound at that particular moment. I walked over to one of the two water coolers by the blue corner of the ring and it just happened to be that laying on the black padded floor was a thin red plastic skipping rope.
I bent over to pick it up and caught him stealing a look down my sweat covered cleavage which had turned the front of my grey low cut t-shirt soaking wet. Tossing the skipping rope onto the canvas at his feet I said “turn around and spread your legs” pausing for a moment, and finished the sentence with “if … this is truly what you want.”
So he did just that , he turned around and put his hands on the top rope of the ring while spreading his legs.
“Pull down the back of your shorts just enough so your ass is exposed, leave your dick covered because this has nothing to do with your cock.”
“Holy shit is this going to hurt?” he asked.
“If you talk again, even once, I’ll leave.”
With his two thumbs he pulled his white Muay Thai shorts down under his ass cheek so that the gold trimmed tight elastic waist pushed his ass cheeks both together and upwards so that it looked unbearably cute from my point of view.
I folded the red skipping rope in half, grabbing it by the two black handles and spun it in a circle so that the “whoop whoop whoop” sound of the air filled the cavernous gym. He moaned a bit at the sound.
Usually when I whip a guy I break him in easy starting softly so that the first few multiple strikes serve only to redden the ass and heighten the sensitivity of the area. However, I chose my first crack at his ass to be a full-on baseball like swing that made me lose my footing and as I teetered off to the left the crack of the plastic on his ass echoed – a bit too loudly – off the metal walls of the place.
He gasped breathing in , also uncommon as most guys shout with an expiration of breath. The muffled scream getting lost in his throat.
“That one … was for my blog.” I said knowing he’d have no idea what I meant. It’s just that, even as I hit him, I was keenly aware that I’d be writing about it and as much as I wanted to strike him while in the first person , I couldn’t shake myself out of this third person view of what I was doing.
“This one … is for me” and with cruelty i looped my swing down and up catching him with a crack right in the middle of his balls.
This time he shrieked and slumped to his knees, his arms remaining outstretched above him. He crossed his legs and pretzled his body twisting it first toward me and the completely around in a circle causing his arms to criss cross while being held firmly in the blue straps from above.
“Enough, I can’t , no more, please” he begged.
What he had done, by twisting on the floor like that, is he had covered himself in that blood stain and his once white ass was streaked in red right down to where his shorts dangled from his knees.
That in turn had spread the once icky but neatly placed stain into a smear across the corner of the ring and I then felt like a kid who had spilled and shattered the cookie jar , knowing there would be hell to pay for the mess.
Anyone who’s read The Cat in the Hat knows that at the pinnacle of a disaster is when the mother comes home , or in this case, when the gym manager stops by. I expected somebody to walk in that hot Sunday afternoon right at that moment and see an Asian dude hanging from the top ring rope by his bound hands as his blood soaked body writhed in the blood making himself more bloody by the moment as he whined out with sobs of agony … as I stood there with a skipping rope for a whip in my hand.
I’ve never stuck a G.I Joe up my ass or my pussy for that matter, but that blood soaked moment was as close to “a big brown shark” scenario as is possible.
It took Asia boy a good two minutes to recover from the ball shot I had delivered unto him. An eternity of time for me, his sobs to me seeming ever increasingly loud. There were no towels or rags laying around to soak up the mess, only a few Jiu Jitsu gi’s hanging on the MMA cage with a black and brown belt laying on top – so that was definitely a no-no. Worse is that the kid looked less like a person and more like the baby from John Carpenter’s The Brood …
The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often askew, And leave us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy! — Robert Burns —
With no way to clean up the mess and time running afoul the best course of action was to cut bait and split the scene. Except brood boy wanted to wallow in pain in melodramatic fashion by hopping and cooing first in the ring and then wanting to start outside before I kicked him for real.
“Stop it, your leaving bloody footprints everywhere” I said while tossing him his black flip flops. “Wear that, go shower and let’s get the fuck out of here, I want to be gone in two minutes.”
Off he went without a word and I was left to survey the damage and ponder how to cover up such a scene of wanton violence.
Then I thought, “fuck it”. For as with most stuff that I write , even though it’s all true – every story – I realize it’s neigh unbelievable – and that’s for folks like you – my submissive readers who are clued in to what femdom is all about.
Imagine the collective brain fart a group of alpha male fighters will produce when trying to ascertain this scene of the crime I thought. The two blue hand wraps – now bloodied – dangling from the top ring on opposite sides of the corner post.
The smeared pool of blood on the canvas floor of the ring.
With no candlestick, rope, knife, or poison as the weapon of choice. The unassuming weapon instead being – the red skipping rope left in front of the stain of blood.
The perfect red-herring being the bloodied footsteps of an Asian male in and around the ring.
No it was not Col.Mustard in the Study, with the Revolver.
Instead it was the Mistress, in the Ring, with the rope. And she got away with it too – just so she could write it in her blog.
xx