Why we do this

We are sitting in his truck, parked outside an industrial estate in a small West Country market town. It is a sunny Sunday afternoon- I am sitting with my feet propped on the dashboard, and the plastic is warm beneath my soles. I am painting my toenails whore- scarlet, ready to lace my feet into a newly purchased pair of leopardskin five- inch heels. You know, proper cumslut shoes, he said when he described the shoes he wanted me to buy, and these were the closest I could find. I sort of hate them, but my liking them isn’t the point. He wants me to work the edges of my comfort zone emotionally and physically- he wants me discomforted, embarrassed and tottering.

I wriggle out of my bra. I am wearing the slutty housedress, which doesn’t go with the shoes at all. I hate how little it matches the shoes. I am showing too much tit for a Sunday afternoon in a small market town, and I’m wearing cumslut shoes, and this is all a lot; it’s a LOT.

Can I wear my jumper until we get inside, I ask.

Absolutely not, don’t be ridiculous, he says. He smiles, and shakes his head.

I sigh, and take a deep breath, and have a word with myself. I open the truck door, and swing my feet out into the open air, lace up my ridiculous cumslut shoes. He jumps out of the truck, slams the door shut, and walks round to the passenger side. I lean on him as I totter, baby giraffe- like, towards the iron staircase that leads up to the club.


I am being given a tour. I see the bathrooms, and the vac- bed room, and the dungeon, where a Domme in a corset is whipping the broad pale back of a yowling man. I see the orgy room, with its rubber- sheeted bed, glittery curtains and clearly labelled fire exits. I am shown the Dark Room, and the lockers, and the tea urn and buffet table. There are punnets of cherry tomatoes, and sausage rolls, and homemade pizza in labelled Tupperware. We bought oatcakes, some bananas, and a bag of pre- packed salad. There are four tubes of Pringles.

The owner of my club holds my hand throughout the tour. I am obviously wobbly on my slut shoes.


We are sitting on the sofa, about five of us, chatting over the noise of a whip slicing through the air. Someone walks into the room and asks if anyone has a spare flogger he could borrow. Everyone laughs: As if he was asking if anyone has a spare lighter, says the girl next to me. A flogger is found, and conversation is resumed.

He passes me a cushion and tells me to sit on the floor. With his help I move myself onto the floor at his feet. I say I am thirsty, and he fashions a bowl from a plastic box that previously held mini- brownies, and pours some water into it.

I pull myself onto all fours and bend over to slurp some water from the improvised bowl. My tit falls out of my dress. I scoop it back into my bodice, and look around. No one notices. I fetch him some food, and a drink, and when he has eaten I fill a washing bowl with warm water and undo his shoes, remove his socks.

I have been here for two hours. I am washing his feet, rubbing between his toes, massaging his ankles with the flannel. He tells me to check with my tongue if I have rinsed all the soap off, and I kiss his toes, the soles of his feet, his Achilles heel, his instep. I replace his socks and re- tie his boots, kissing the knot of each lace as gently as I might kiss the space between his arsehole and his balls.

Two hours.


I am eating my dinner from a paper plate on the floor. I am trying to manoeuvre a piece of vegetable quiche into my mouth but it won’t go, so I prod it with my tongue to the edge of the plate until I can flip it onto its side. There are bits of salad in my hair, and I have peanut butter in my nostril.

I am distracted by the sight of a woman in her 60s inserting a tail buttplug in between the naked cheeks of her male sub, a small tanned man of similar age. He must be a naturist; only naturists have buttocks that brown, I think, as his tail swishes slightly against the backs of his knees.

I realise I may be staring, and turn back to my quiche. It is not the best quiche I have ever eaten, but it was one of very few vegetarian options.


I am standing in the dungeon. I am wearing a gag, and he has pulled my tits out of my dress and is whipping them. I stand with my legs spread wide and pretend no one is watching as the whip hits me underneath and then squarely on the nipple. I flinch and step backwards, and my balance shifts on my heels, and I wobble towards the St. Andrew’s Cross.

No flinching, he says. We don’t want you to fall off your shoes. I laugh around the metal arms of the gag. Spit is beginning to run down my chin, and my tits are stinging gorgeously. He pulls me to him and kisses me across the gag, like we were kissing through prison bars. He goes to get another implement from his bag, telling me to slap myself in the tits until he returns. I raise my eyebrows but do so automatically, marvelling at the sound of palm hitting breast in a steady four/ four rhythm.


Take your knickers off, he tells me. I step out of them, and carefully bend over to pick them up. He takes the knickers and stuffs them in my mouth through the narrow metal aperture. I taste myself on the damp cotton.

The young girl has changed into a bunny costume. He leads me out of the dungeon by the hand, and as we pass she smiles and asks if I had to take my knickers off because they were wet. I nod and mumble a muffled assent. She laughs. You’re gorgeous, she says to me. I say thankyou as clearly as I can with a mouthful of underwear.

He leads me to a private room, bends me over the bed, and fucks my arse. He pulls me upright, his cock still inside me, his mouth at my ear and on my neck, and I stand with my arms braced against the wall, steadier on my heels than I could have imagined. I know I can be heard by the people outside, just as I could hear the people in this room as I sat on the sofa. The thought makes me moan louder. He tells me he doesn’t want to come inside me yet, asks me to suck him clean, and zips up. We go back outside and I make him a cup of tea.

Are you having fun? The man who gave me the tour asks as I pour hot water into the mug.

Of course she is, says the man next to him, grinning. Look at her breasts.


I am lying on my back on the orgy bed, the doors to the locker room open so anybody getting changed can see. My legs are spread, skirt is pulled up to my waist and my cunt is on show. He is whipping my right thigh and only my right thigh.

It’s right thigh day, he says. Nothing for the left thigh on right thigh day. It’s like Sesame Street. The theme of the day is the right thigh.

I laugh. Nothing about this is anything like Sesame Street, I say.

A man walks in to the room and looks down at me. He laughs. See her face? He says to those standing around. That’s why we do this. Look at that face.

I open my legs and gasp with laughter as leather hits my clit.


I am sitting on a stool, my breasts roped, taut like a drum and bared, my hands tied behind my back. One man is gently whipping my front with a thin tailed leather whip. Compared to the Adorable Sadist’s work it is a gentle tickle, but they are so sore that it’s enough.

He is behind me, having at my shoulders with a flogger. In minutes I am gasping and screaming and laughing hysterically, flying, flinching away, moving towards, reaching for him, pushing my tits towards the whip, arching my back, the rope so sweetly tight on my wrists, my hair in my face, his lips on the nape of my neck, I am flying, I am flying.


We stand opposite each other, inches apart.

Look at me, he says. Look at me.

I look him dead in the eye, grinning, my mouth open.

Do you know why I do this, he asks.

I shake my head. Why?

He laughs. Because I absolutely fucking love it. Why do you do it?

I smile at him, and raise my chin. Because I absolutely fucking love it, I say.

Really? He asks.

Because I absolutely fucking love it.

He kisses me. I kiss him back. There is no one else in the room.

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