A lion in chains

When I opened the door, Jürgen greeted me with a big, honest smile. A small suitcase hung from his hand; he had squeezed our appointment in between work trips. “I can only make an appointment at 15:30,” he had told me when we first got in touch.

He was handsome and tall, with a mischievous spark dancing behind his eyes. We joked on the way to our room, and before we had even reached the door, I already knew it was going to be a good session.

At the negotiation table, he was refreshingly direct. There wasn't much to discuss. As a natural switch, he knew exactly what he wanted to experience with me: eroticism, seduction, authentic sadism, and the altered state that comes from impact play. A touch of CNC, if possible. And he wanted to watch me in the mirror. So that afternoon, I had brought my performance St Andrew’s cross to the studio specifically for him. I wanted to look into his eyes while he suffered instead of staring at his back.

I couldn't wait to have him trapped in my seductive magic and watch him sink deeper with every moment he chose to surrender for me.

The torture began with the music.

Being a semi-professional classical musician, Jürgen possessed the kind of ears that suffer from simplicity. So I put on Moondog.

I was right. His suffering began.

Slowly, I undressed him and took away his sight with a blindfold. I could feel his breathing becoming heavier by the second. His soft, deep pink-coloured lips began to dry. I started playing with his nipples, which he didn't particularly enjoy.

Little did I care.

My fingers wandered across his chest and shoulders while my nails left thin red traces on his skin. As I was enjoying myself, a colleague opened the door to check on us. She seemed pleased with what she saw.

So was Jürgen.

The moment I removed the blindfold, I caught him searching her face for approval, stealing little moments away from our connection. Instead of looking at me, he was looking for satisfaction in her eyes.

I found it adorable.

I reached for my rubber finger flogger and began working it across his back. He offered his suffering to my colleague with every glance. Soon his moans started filling the room, weaving themselves between Liszt's wild piano études.

Then I led him to the cross positioned in front of the mirror. I tied his wrists. His ankles. Thoroughly enough to make sure there was no chance of escape.

I had barely begun flogging him when a second colleague entered the room to admire his suffering. At some point, Jürgen referred to my hairy flogger as “not so mean.”

I took that personally. So I showed him exactly how wrong he was.

His moans deepened. He looked at my sexy colleague for approval of his suffering, while I made sure my colleague was entertained. After all, I am vain too.

I gave Jürgen a thorough spanking while he looked directly into her eyes. She must have liked what she saw, because she eventually leaned close to his neck and whispered: “I am so proud of you that you can take so much.”

The compliment seemed to land exactly where she intended. He softened a little, proud of himself.

When she left the room, it was finally just the two of us and my arsenal of floggers and whips. The atmosphere changed immediately. Without an audience, the room felt smaller. More intimate. The mirror reflected only the two of us now.

I brought out my finest toys one after another and continued working on him. Little did I care which sensations he enjoyed most. What fascinated me was something else entirely. The more I hurt him, the more he desired me. He wanted to be close to me. Touch me. Smell me. Taste me. Again and again, his body tried to lean toward me. Again and again, I remained standing exactly at the edge of what his restraints would allow. Close enough to tempt him. Far enough to frustrate him.

It was delicious.

I could tell he would have given almost anything for a kiss.

But I had other plans. I wanted to take my 150cm singletail out for a walk on his soft skin.

Then I noticed we had forgotten to remove the nipple clamps. So I took them off. Carefully. One by one. It hurt. Naturally, I took that as a sign that he wanted them back.

He resisted. I moved. He did not say “orange,” as we had agreed, so I calmly continued despite his attempts to protest. Holding his upper body against my chest, his cheek pressed against mine, I carefully returned the clamps to their place.

I could feel the trembling running through him. I enjoyed every second of it. There was something wonderfully intimate about holding somebody so closely while being the source of their suffering.

Then it was finally time for my whip.

Most strikes landed exactly where I wanted them. The marks appeared almost immediately. His back arched. The beautiful lines of his muscles became more pronounced beneath his deeply tanned skin. Every movement made him look stronger and more vulnerable at the same time. So I hit more. I wanted to see more of that struggle. I wanted to watch the conflict between desire and suffering play itself out across his body.

As he struggled to catch his breath, I lowered myself into the large armchair opposite him and spread my legs like a dirty farmer with a beer after a successful harvest. The world was mine. His attention was mine. For a brief and glorious moment, I was the queen of motherfucking everything.

Then I wanted his smell. So I stood up and stepped closer to him, my lion in chains. I breathed him in. His sweat smelled sweet and exhausted. It carried the scent of effort, surrender, and a nervous system pushed right to its limits. There was something about it that cried out for softness.

To my surprise, it made me intensely aroused. I could feel my own desire rising. I could feel my own wetness on my underwear.

Our time was slowly coming to an end, and with it the intensity that had filled the room all afternoon.

So we softened. Holding him close, I could feel warmth, exhaustion, relief, gratitude and contentment all mixed together. The tension had drained from his body. His smile had changed too. He looked like a man who had just returned from a two-week holiday somewhere very far away from himself.

Dressed up, he reached for his suitcase again.

The traveller returned. The ordinary world slowly reclaimed him.

A little while later he stepped back onto the corridor and disappeared into the rest of his life.

He'll come back.

I know.