“Oh, God, no more,” cried the naked, bound brunette as she squirmed beneath me on the bed. “Miss Bella, you’ve got to stop. I can’t take this anymore.”
“No way, bitch,” I snarled as I grabbed a lock of her luscious black hair and wedged the powerful buzzing gadget against her crotch once again. I had to hold her down as she writhed in a perfect blend of sexual agony and ecstasy. “You’ll take it, and you’ll like it.”
“No, please,” my victim pleaded. “Dammit, that’s enough. Time to stop now.”
I did not; this was a fantasy BDSM session in a place where the policy was to push the “clients” here past their previous limits.
“Isabelle,” she barked through clenched teeth, using my real name. “For fuck's sake, as much as I’m enjoying this, I do have other appointments this afternoon. Relax, child, you have the job.”
I switched off the power and carefully backed the deviant device out from her two pleasure holes with a wet “plop-plop.” The brunette took a couple of well-earned deep breaths before continuing.
“Actually, you had it two or three orgasms ago.” My prospective employer—now my boss, I guess—chuckled. The sweaty, busty vixen forced herself to calm down as I unfastened the bindings that held her to the bed.
“I’ve got to say, Isabelle, you’re a little unpolished, a little hesitant in parts, but you have all the right instincts to be a first-class FemTherapist here. You certainly have the enthusiasm for it. And the basic skill set. Woof!”
Sybil had “suffered” through several climaxes during the past hour, triggered first with my mouth and hands, and then with a standard magic wand vibrator.
But here at the finish, I employed a device labeled the “Orgasmic Invader” that I had found in her sex toy closet. It was unfamiliar to me—I think it was custom-made for this lusty wench—but its usage and functions were clear. A slim box with a handle on one side, it featured a squirming electric double dildo set on the other side that penetrated deep into her vagina and anus simultaneously, while a powerful vibrating nub pummeled her clitoris.
(Lord, this woman had a great collection of exotic sex toys. I was looking forward to exploring it—and her—in the future.)
------------------------
Let’s back up a bit.
My name is Isabelle. At twenty-three, I'm blessed with platinum blonde hair and a banging body. I work as an “independent purveyor of inter-personal, full-body therapy services.”
Which is to say, I give massages. Erotic massages. Also known as Body Rubs, Rub N’ Tugs, Happy Endings, and Chick Flicks. You know what I mean.
To stand out from the others in my profession, I offer light domination in the form of bondage and role-play. That’s where I tie my client down to the massage table in my studio and “force” them into having an orgasm after a period of tease and torment.
(Occasionally—very occasionally—I will allow a trusted customer to tie me down and do the same to me. I also dabble in a bit of bondage in my personal life, which is not extensive; few decent guys are willing to be the long-term boyfriend of a woman who jerks off other men for a living.)
But it was getting harder to make a decent living as an independent sex contractor. The police force in my city was cracking down, and sometimes clients would stiff me or get violent. Or smell bad.
One of my former, wealthier clients recommended that I apply at a place he now frequented called DommeMassage. It’s named after the owner, Sybil Domme, a former big-time porn star/high-class escort, who saved up her money to build her dream business up in the Hollywood Hills.
I did some checking. DommeMassage offered protection from law enforcement, secure working conditions, and steady gigs with quality clients who tipped well. The company even offered health insurance with dental coverage—certainly not a benefit to sneeze at these days.
So, an hour and a half before I pulled that “Orgasmic Invader” from the quivering brunette, I entered the owner’s luxurious office. Mz. Sybil, as she liked to be called, was sitting behind a glass desk that could not obscure her gorgeous figure and long legs. Neither could her skin-tight outfit; an expensive tank top and a miniskirt. Her personal dress code seemed to be not "business casual," but "business slutty." She motioned for me to do a slow turn while she looked me over carefully, from head to toe. I think she liked what she saw.
I was wearing a jacket and skirt, as befitting a job interview. However, since I knew what kind of job I was applying for, the shirt was unbuttoned almost to my navel to display my bountiful cleavage. My short skirt was designed to show off my bare, toned legs. I was tan all over, thanks to days in the warm California sun.
(My bra and panties? I had worn them during the drive over, and into the building, but in the lobby bathroom, I decided to remove them and stash them in my purse.)
I sat down in a chair opposite her desk while Sybil reviewed my resume, picture portfolio, and client recommendations. While she did so, I studied her carefully; for a woman approaching forty who had already lived a full and exciting life, who had fucked her way to the top, she looked damned good.
I also spotted a bed chamber through an open door in her palatial office suite. Well, well, I thought. It probably had been a good idea to ditch the underwear. Mz. Sybil finally spoke to me, in serious tones.
“We offer only the finest quality experiences here at DommeMassage,” she told me. “Our clients pay a premium for that. So, we hire only the best. We can provide the training and equipment, but our FemTherapists need to have…a certain spark. A certain instinct.”
Sybil explained that her large establishment offered standard massages on the ground floor, with the masseuses in standard, conservative uniforms. This was for public consumption; no funny business on this level. Once the staff got to know a client, and did a little light screening, he or she could move up a floor on the next visit.
The second level was set aside for erotic massages, with the masseuses exhibiting much less clothing and a lot fewer inhibitions. Sexual relief on this floor was a given, though generally limited to hand jobs and condom-covered blowjobs. For good customers who tipped well, the menu could be expanded a bit. And for those who liked light domination, simple restraints on the massage table were available upon request.
As an independent masseuse, I performed similar services in my own studio. It was the underground facility here that I was shooting for, a set of mini-dungeons and role-play rooms where serious bondage fantasies took place for wealthy and kinky clients. That’s where the big money was. And the most fun.
“You see, Isabelle,” said Mz. Sybil, “Once a client is installed in a room in the Underground, we generally do with him or her as we please. The client agrees beforehand that during each session, we will continually explore the boundaries of his sexuality and endurance. We will push him past his previous thresholds of discomfort, be it in terms of pain, or of forced depraved behavior, or of subservience.”
“If the paying customer is forced past his normal limits,” I asked her, “doesn’t he object and call an end to the session?”
“Of course, he may whine or push back,” Mz. Sybil replied with a chuckle. “We expect that. We may degrade or cause pain to our clients, but they know we will never truly injure them. If they really want to cut the session short, they have a “full-stop” safe word. But…” She paused for dramatic effect.
“But if they use it, the session ends immediately, they lose their fee for the day plus forfeit their substantial deposit we keep in reserve. They are made to leave and are forbidden to ever come back, not even to the first floor. They understand this going in.”
Sybil rose and came around her desk. She pulled up a chair and sat next to me, our naked knees touching. That simple contact made my heart skip a beat. Damn, she was one sexy MILF.
“You must understand, Isabelle, these clients are generally very rich and powerful people, with tremendous responsibilities in the world of media, politics, finance, military, and industry. Giving up that control and fulfilling their wildest fantasies, if even for a few hours, in a safe and confidential environment, is stress-relieving therapy for them of the highest order. We perform a valuable public service.”
“They can never come back?” I asked the brunette bombshell as she placed a hand upon my knee. My heart skipped another beat.
“Oh, Isabelle,” she laughed. “Of course, we take them back. But only after a heartfelt apology, a signed promise to take whatever we dish out, and an even larger deposit. And most do come back. Our service is so customized, so tailored to their inner nature, that what we make them do down there, or what we do to them, is what he or she secretly longs for.”
Sybil’s hand moved up higher on my thigh as she leaned in closer, and in doing so, she spread her legs. Like me, her crotch was naked. She could feel the wetness leaking out onto my upper thigh, and I detected the scent of hers.
“I have a talent for knowing exactly what a man or woman desires,” the brunette whispered. “What they need. I think you do, too.”
With that, our lips met. First lightly, tentatively; an exploration of intentions. Then with a grin, Mz. Sybil grabbed the sides of my head and moved in for the kill.
People, I tell you I’ve had full-fledged nights of sexual abandon that were less arousing than that brief, mostly clothed make-out session. Her kisses were dynamite, and her finger on my clit was magic. I hopefully gave as good as I got, with my own mouth and hands. Soon, we were each fully aroused and panting with passion.
Of course, at this point, the job interview moved into the bedroom part of Sybil’s suite. Once there, she opened cabinets lined with a large variety of fetish clothing, bondage gear, and toys.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she instructed. “I’ll give you one hour to show me what you’ve got. After that, we’ll talk. You take charge, starting now.” Sybil had an amazing body and sex drive for an older, more experienced woman. It was going to be difficult to impress her, but I was already in the mood to try.
I pushed her down on the bed and started some semi-rough sex play: hard kissing, spanking, squeezing her breasts and nipples. I pinned her down under me for some “forced” 69 play.
(We had one orgasm each in that intimate embrace; she was good at it. Well, so am I.)
But after a few minutes, I got the sense that this former porn star was expecting more than a standard lesbian romp in the sheets. I had proven myself as an able sex partner; time to step it up a notch.
I grabbed a pair of handcuffs that were within easy reach on the nightstand. Slapping them onto Sybil’s wrists, I attached them to a clasp on the headboard. There was also a blindfold nearby; that went over her eyes. Her breathing intensified and her nipples got hard; good, I was on the right track.
Sybil started to struggle and kick and demand to be released as she got into character as an unwilling captive in our little scene. Role-play was a big part of the very lucrative BDSM activities in the levels below us. I needed to respond in kind.
Looking around for something at hand to immobilize her lower body, I noticed for the first time that the headboards and footboards were equipped with little cubbyholes that contained pre-positioned leather cuffs with attached straps.
(Damn, this room was built for impulsive and fast-moving bondage play. Kudos to her interior designer, who I later found out was a former client of hers who became a partner in constructing and running this kinky whorehouse.)
I held Sybil’s left leg down, pulled a cuff from the base, and attached it to that ankle as she lay face up. I found that the end of the strap was already secured to the foot-board; all I had to do was tighten the ratchet there, then do the same on Sybil’s right side, and voila, my victim was stretched tight on the bed, ripe for the taking.
I took a breath. Look, I’ve had some bondage experiences in my life, but I may have exaggerated the extent of my actual BDSM expertise to my potential employer. Time to improvise.
I stuck some wadded-up panties I found in a laundry hamper into Sybil’s mouth to buy some time as I rummaged through her bondage closet for inspiration. I came back to the bed with a few items and kicked off the fantasy I had decided on.
Still blindfolded, Sybil was not expecting it when my flogger smacked into her taut belly. She jerked as much as she could with her bondage. I hit her again and again, landing my strikes at random, some hard, some soft, all up and down her torso and thighs.
“My name is Bella,” I growled between blows. “Mistress Bella, to you. I have paid a pretty penny for you, slave. Now I am going to break you in and get my money’s worth.”
I examined a pair of unusual nipple clamps I had found in her treasure chest; each a ring of metal about two inches in diameter, with two screw-in spike bars on the inside of the circle designed to dig into the flesh of the victim. Applying them to her excited nubs, she jerked and whimpered but held it together.
(I had reviewed her porn flicks; although she had mostly assumed the dominant role in the ones with BDSM, this wasn’t her first rodeo as a submissive. In her big hit film, Lady Screams the Blues, she took an impressive amount of punishment.)
“I don’t care if you’ve been a peasant or a lady or a queen in your past life,” I snarled in a low voice that I hoped was intimidating. “That’s dead. Over. You belong to me now.”
With each of the following commands, I smacked her belly with the flogger to punctuate my demands.
“You will obey me. (Smack) You will lick my pussy anytime I want. (Smack) You will suck my husband’s cock when I get tired of doing it. (Smack) You will offer every hole in your worthless body to my guests for their enjoyment.” (Smack)
Sybil moaned “uh-uh” into her panty-gag and shook her head with a defiant “no.” Good, she was still into the scene.
“Bitch, that’s NOT a request,” I screamed into her face. A bit of my spittle landed on her cheek. I didn’t intend to do that, but the way she reacted, well, it wasn’t in total disgust.
I took a swig from a bottle of water on the nightstand and swished it around in my mouth. Pulling the panties from between her teeth, I waited until she opened wide to stretch her jaw muscles and then I spit the fluid onto her face. Hard. Some of it went into her mouth.
Still blindfolded, she sputtered and gasped at the unexpected humiliation. At this point, I figured I had either gone too far and failed the interview, or I was good as gold. I kept going.
“Now that your tongue and face are as wet as your pussy, you miserable strumpet, you will lick me until I get tired of you. And I do not tire easily.”
I put a wedge-shaped pillow under her head and climbed onto her chest in a sixty-nine position like we had done before. Only this time, she was restrained and helpless to resist. Plus, my body pressing down on the clamps that were digging into her nipples must have hurt like the devil.
Sticking my cunt in her face, I commanded, “Now service me, slave, and do a good job.” Down at the other end, I pulled her labia lips apart, gave her clit a lick, and told her, “For every three orgasms you give me, I will consider giving you one. Just to see what kind of whore you are.”
With the wedge under her head, her mouth was pressed onto my pussy and her nose was touching my asshole. When Sybil started licking me with a maniacal intensity she had not shown before, I knew that I was on the right track. This woman was the kinkiest person I had ever met.
Of course, since she was “the client” in this audition, I focused on giving her numerous orgasms over the course of our tryst: manually, orally, and mechanically. Eventually, as I described before, after the application of the Orgasmic Invader, she called a halt to the session, and I became the newest FemTherapist at DommeMassage.
After we showered together—that was soapy fun—we donned fresh bras and panties. Sybil suggested we take a tour of the facility, dropping in on sessions already in progress on the Underground level. She had said the job was mine, but I had a feeling this "tour" would still be part of my job interview. She had not seen me interact with a man yet.
“Is it alright to just walk in during the sessions?” I asked.
“Oh, Isabelle, you’re used to working alone,” she replied. “The clients here have no expectation of privacy in our studios and dungeons. Our FemTherapists often rotate in to observe or to assist, especially if one lady has a specialty that’s needed for a particular scenario. Sometimes, we’ll even bring in a bound client from another room to contribute to the fantasy, to spice things up. It adds to the sense of the forbidden, the unexpected.”
As I stood there in a little pink bra and panty set, I asked Sybil if I should put my clothes back on for the tour.
Mz. Sybil, in stunning black underwear, stockings, and heels, laughed. “No, child, we’ll take the back hallway and pop in like this. The sight of us this way will add value to our clients’ experiences. We could even join in if the mood suits us.” My new employer gave me a smile and a big kiss.
“And Lord knows, I’m still in the mood.”
Author's Personal Note: I do know a masseuse who ties me to her table after the flip, torments and teases me, and then…well, you know. I've also engaged in many role-play sessions over the years with a wonderful woman who owns a very well-equipped dungeon. The establishment called "DommeMassage" is a combination of those two settings. Perhaps it exists somewhere out there.