Having spend a few month preforming incredibly challenging and rewarding yet dreadfully respectable roles, I got to appreciate what a significant part of my self was suppressed by such total displacements.
As you might imagine, I was far from celibate, but there are special aspects of my experience of BDSM only found in a pro Dom and Switch context.
My temporary exile involved long train rides and flights. Gazing at wild and urban nature rushing past, or god’s -eye views of sea and land, I often longed for a terrible twin. A real time other who could be in the dungeon while my well behaved halve is attending to her tasks. That, or a just a plain old fashioned Sci-Fi Teleporter.
While consuming replica meals from a folding shelf, this naughty doppelgänger was having the kind of intensely intimate relationships instantly or gradually developed between people interacting solely on a power fantasy level.
When I was cursing the dodgy network on the trains, My doppelgänger was Working sex magic. Thriving on the thrill of walking into a room with full of ideas and notions, and then doing or experiencing something entirely unexpected prompted by a semi -telepathic connection.
How I hated that imposter bitch.
I returned on Thursday, and accepted a booking request the following afternoon.
The details of this meeting will remain between my self and the lucky lucky pervert.
What I feel like giving you now is a glimpse behind the scenes. Lucky lucky you.
In the morning, I go through our correspondence and translate it into plot and actions. Researching details and references. Reading between the lines of your desires and boundaries, reflecting on how I could take you places you never visited before and wondering if you will also show me something new.
Then I go to the gym. Running the narrative in my mind. Getting rather hot and bothered while working out hard, surrounded by heaving and granting muscle boys who have no idea what’s going on in my mind.
Then I take a long hot shower. lathering my arse, armpits, breasts, between my toes, running the razor blade up my legs and over my foamy cunt.
The tiles are chilly under my bare feet when I massage body lotion into my skin. Throwing on my velvet boxing robe, I step into the bedroom.
Time to choose my weapons. The dungeon is well equipped, but I always bring a selection of my personal tools: a bespoke torment instrument, the cock de jure, a surprise item for humiliation or interrogation.
The next step is laying out a few costumes on the bed, and deciding which one (or two or three) best compliments the scene, my mood and desired persona. Should I go for the PVC cheek hugging shorts and bra set with matching thigh high boots? The leather harness and fishnets? The garter belt, stockings, a cock and the little black dress? Uniforms? The shiny thong leotard? A steam punk corset? No wig, the flapper wig, the strict wig or the Bettie Page wig? Killer stilettos or big bad military boots?
When outfitted to my satisfaction, I remove all visibly incriminating evidence. Into my bag of tricks go the toys, hats, gloves, lub, and condoms.
I love commuting in disguise. Sitting in a cab, on the train or bus, with a kinky outfit tightly defining my primed for play body under casual street wear. Reading our pre-scene texts in plan sight of unsuspecting passengers, The spikes of heels and wheels raising oddly shaped lumps in my rucksack.
I always get off a few minutes walk from my destination. Walking in the fresh air inspires the most brilliant details for our session. And I get off on this too: the central London crown milling around me, without the faintest idea of where I’m headed. Sometimes a passer by is startled by my sudden wicked smile, mistaking themselves as it’s subject.
When I am ready, I turn the key in an unmarked door and step into the dungeon. Soon you will be here.