Suki knocked at my room on the second floor and I let her in. Outside it was dark and cold. It felt good to be inside, beside a pot full of hot green tea, sitting by Suki on the green Tatami mat.
“Your auntie is cute.” I said.
“Not so cute. Don’t let her age fool you. She used to be a hostess. Retired early off the profits. Nowadays it’s all plum wine making and visiting the Onsen. She does more than alright. Hard to imagine now, ne? She doesn’t like to talk about it much, but once or twice she’s told me stories you wouldn’t believe. She plays the sweet old lady well now, but just so you know, her past is how she reads people so well. Oh my god, I’m so glad you came to Japan.”
“Me too. It’s really good to see you.”
She smiles, almost bashful, then pours tea into the little cups.
“Tea? And are you going to put the futons down or what?”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” I said, poking the tatami with a finger. “The tatami just fascinates me. It reminds me of dojo mats.”
“You learned martial arts? Me too… Hey… “ Suki looked at me with that devilish expression I’d seen at the convention. Part playful, part wicked. “We should wrestle. See who wins. Mistress versus Mistress. Hee hee.”
I laughed, but she was serious. Of course she was. She could be incredibly playful in the right mood – that’s probably why I liked her so much when we met. So we knelt down facing each other, giggling as we counted:
Ichi… ni… SAN!
I made the mistake of underestimating her. Being less diminutive than her, I hesitated for a second too long and she pushed me down and pinned my neck in her elbow with surprising ferocity. Shifting positions with surprising swiftness, she then lay herself across my stomach wrapping one of my legs with hers. I wriggled, but she only responded by tightening her grasp until gasping I was forced to tap out. She released her hold slowly but paused panting a little above me – her lips just a few inches from mine. I could smell her breath – sweet and warm – intermingling with my own. Her eyes were full of fire.
“What do you call that move?” I said.
“Winning.” She grinned.
“I want a rematch.”
She released my neck entirely then and helped me up, massaging my shoulders.
“You must be tired,” she purred. I leant into the gentle pressure of her cool fingers, letting her do as she would with me. After giving me a pleasant massage, she laid out two futons on the floor, along with bedding, and slipped into some black silk pyjamas.
“This is a little like a sleepover,” I said, with a surprisingly girlish giggle, “I haven’t had one of these in a while. How exciting. I almost feel like playing.”
“Yes. How exciting -” she winked, switching off the last light. “Perhaps we should play.”
Suki switched off the last light and slipped under the covers of the futon beside me. She was still for a minute, then suddenly moved in under my duvet, spooning me. I appreciated the exchange of heat between our two bodies as despite the tea, Mt. Fuji’s frigid atmosphere still managed to chill the room.
Then her hands slid round my chest and started to unbutton my shirt. I didn’t say anything, but let myself be carried by our mutual sense of play. She moved herself down, kissing my stomach, hips and thighs, before moving on to kiss my wet panties. I thrust myself at her mouth, longing for her to slide them off, which she gently did, but not before she teased me incredibly – placing her lips against the wet fabric hard, then soft, then almost not there at all, then back and pressing together. I moaned.
Not since my Mistress had I been pleasured like this by another woman. My submissives pleasure me often, but nothing like this. And it takes another woman to truly know how to pleasure another. I’ve had to teach too many men who view the clitorus as something to anchor their teeth to, as if it might get away, that the tongue is a versatile organ and can be engaged in more ways than are immediately obvious. Suki knew all of these and more, without me even having to tell her. Perhaps it was the intensity of the transitional time of year (the Fall had been the time I’d met Valleri), or perhaps it was just Sukii’s skills, but the energy between us was positively electric.
When she added two fingers to my slickness, I lost all restraint, anchoring her head between my thighs and shaking. For all my discipline I wasn’t able to last long under her nimble fingers and the strength of my own need. I allowed myself to cum with a gasp against her lips. She continued to lap at me, breathing heavily, but when I went to return the favor, she waved me away giggling, as she wiped her lips.
“I want a rematch. Both things. You’ll let me next time.”
“You’re just worried I’ll be better than you…”
Suki turned around and stuck her tongue out at me, super kawaii style, illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the window. The same tongue that had done those wonderful, terrible things to me earlier. We both laughed. She had such a nice giggle. I looked forward to meeting her when I was back in Tokyo in just over a week. There was a Shibari workshop she’d offered to take me too… and I had to make good on that agreement too.
“The Fool has not been on his journey long, when he comes across The Magician, card number 1 in the Major Arcana. The Magician, though he has to his traits some manipulative tendencies in his shadow side, is also, more importantly, a font of creation. The ability to take inspiration, and with the focus of his will, cast it forth into the physical. A catalyst of sorts. How one takes the Magician, is more of a reflection of one’s own inner state. If one chooses the mentality of victim-hood, that is surely what one will find. If one chooses instead to seek the gifts in cold riddles, and ever shifting foundations, then this is surely preferable and perhaps most wise, as he is neither good, nor bad.
He sees in The Fool, a little of himself, perhaps, when he was younger and more naive. This familiarity sparks a fondness, that bears no strings, no responsibility – simply a willingness to impart a little of the knowledge that he has acquired along the way. If it benefits The Magician, all the better, but that was never entirely his intent. And if one needs to be broken of one’s naivete, The Magician ponders, what better place than where there is, at least, a deal of goodwill, if not affection.”
“Every so often, I find myself asked. How did I get here? What made me who I am, who I became, when my childhood was so cloistered, and my upbringing so quintessentially upper middle class? Surely I could have done a number of things? Why this? Why choose a whip and strap-on, over a conventional desk job? Why chuckle at the cries of sissy boys and gurls being crushed under my shoe or bitten with the whip over a respectable marriage and children? Why not have earned my Mother’s approval rather than hiding my true occupation from her, and bearing always her constant snapping at my heels?
The truth is, this path was neither chosen, nor chosen for me. I choose not to believe in fate. That makes us lazy. Nor entirely free-will, for we can be compelled. Instead, I believe from time to time, we are called by forces greater than ourselves to experience a transition that we may either take or not, but either way we will have regrets. The path not taken, or the one that is safe? The opportunity is a double edged sword. We shall cut ourselves, one way or another, no matter how we wield it.”
To listen to more of Part one, click on the Soundcloud Link below
I burst from the capsule hotel in Narita, Tokyo as the sun rose.
Beside the atrium en route to the trains, small groups of Japanese men smoked silently in the corner of an immaculate courtyard, criss-crossed with gleaming brown tiles. Benches with dual hooded lights, anthropomorphically gazed out at passers-by through drooping eyes. Everything is disarmingly cute here, but to see it simply as this – which many do – would be a trap. Or, at best, a dismal oversight.
Suki had booked me a room at one of the Onsens (hot springs) around Mt. Fuji for the night. I headed out as soon as I could after breakfast.
I chuckled to myself at the conversation I’d had with Noah, an older Australian man, on the morning train to Shinjuku. He’d looked almost fatherly towards me until he asked me what I did for work. Then that paternal gaze shifted into something more familiar – a curious lust that he tried to conceal by meeting my gaze in a most artificial manner, making small talk about what drew me to that line of work.
Was it wrong I teased him a little? Let him knew the kinds of men I tended to work with were older – around his age? That I had a little bit of a soft spot for older, slightly broken things? They were easier to bend, after all, and their larger ears meant perhaps that they could listen better. He put his hand up to the lobe of his ear, caressing it with his fingertips. I could practically feel the ethereal erection rising in his pants. He gave me his number. If you get to Osaka… I’ve got a place. I could find you some room.
I was sure he could. But he needed to be careful with me. Give me an inch, and I’d give him six. To the rear. He seemed too nice. I felt I couldn’t possibly… then he wrote out his number and passed it to me as I stepped out onto the platform. The still drying ink of his proffered digits on the back of a business card sealing a sort of contract between us that I then felt obliged to fulfill. In some way. I told him I’d call, then headed to the bus rank.
The bus pootered it’s way to the Onsen resort by nightfall. The hotel reminded me of the one from the Shining. Outdated opulence from the seventies – grand white pillars and long empty hallways with clocks marking the passage of time in a place where time has stood still. I checked in and dropped off my bags before heading to the public bath.
I undressed and showered as is customary before entering an Onsen. How delicious it felt to wallow in the sybaritic kiss of the warm, fragrant suds melting down the soft contours of my body. From the shower, I opened the sliding door and stepped naked outside, where a brusque wind blew the leaves from the Acer palmatum down into the white zen pebbles below.
My skin pilled with goosebumps. Being naked outside is terrifying in a primal sense. Yet also strangely joyous, enlivening! The steaming waters I slipped myself into were skin-flayingly hot by contrast. They branded my flesh red, inch by inch, until I found my seat. An elder lady bathing near the jets smiled at me as I drew in a sharp breath to acclimatize. I introduced myself.
“Konnichiwa. Watashi wa Katia des… Hajimimashite.”
She laughed then started to chatter to me quickly in Japanese. I understood some, but not all, of what she was saying. After my sixteenth “hai” (“yes”). Her eyes wrinkled into a smile and she pointed up at the mountain – her great tanned breasts bobbing up and down on the jets like mighty islands.
“Fuji-san.” she breathed, pointing to the famous peak that towered above us to the south.
Fuji’s pale peak shone brightly in the crisp late-afternoon sky and we sat in silence for a while. I moved one leg out of the water, watching the steam rise from my smooth, bare skin. The blood was once again circulating my body. The heat between my legs alive again and seeking its excitement. The pure, fresh chill of Fuji air sharpening the calculatedness of my mind. The old lady continued to gaze at me, laughing. She was ancient, but had some strange, quiet strength. Like some mythic chrone speaking in riddles, the meaning of which were lost in the roar of the Onsen bubbles.
I met Suki at 6pm in the queue to the banquet hall. We embraced, then filed into the hall that was already half filled with octagenarions.
Suki waved at someone across the room. It was the naked Onsen lady from earlier. So this lady was Suki’s aunt!
Suki sped across the room to talk with her so I filled my tray with food, then joined them at the table. Suki introduced me to Yama, her aunt, formally.
“Yes, me met in the Onsen earlier.”
Yama started cackling and excitedly profferring more high speed Japanese I struggled to catch. Seeing me ailing, Suki translated.
“She says you look like trouble,” Suki said, “In a good way. She likes you.”
Yama was still talking. She was laughing so much at this point she had the beginnings of tears in her eyes. I heard her use the word Gaijin, which I know is not a term of endearment generally. Suki tutted and gave Yama a stare but Yama just laughed more.
“She said she’s not fooled by that innocent smile and bowing. It’s very respectful though, for a Gaijin. I’m sorry Katia. She’s old, she likes you. She just… speaks her mind.”
I smiled at the old lady, smiling at me. Age before beauty, as my grandmother once told me. I could respect her. The Mother must always bow to the Chrone, after all.
We continued our meal then retired to our rooms. Suki offered to stop by mine once she’d seen Yama to hers. I could hardly wait.
As I’ve intimated to some of you in my newsletter, I recently went to Japan. Over the next little while, I am going to share some of my stories from there with you – I hope you will enjoy them. For those of you contemplating joining my Covenant Program, there’s no better time to join. You might play it coy, but you and I both know what you really want. To lay yourself at the feet of your Mistress, to submit completely to her commands and designs for you.
I’ll be live to chat to this week: to tempt you with the submission you and I both know you desire, and to answer any questions you might have about the program. In the meantime, if you haven’t signed up for my free newsletter, do so now. It’s time to get off the sidelines. I need a commitment from you. Do you wish to become useful to the superior sex, to gain a more intimate relationship with me or to simply continue fantasizing and wallowing in your bestial nature? Knowing you’ll never be able to truly satisfy a woman? Continuing in mediocrity, when through the heat and pressure of my tasks, you know you could be forged into something far more useful? A tool for Superior Women to use, to experience pleasure from (though not in the way you used to think).
I think you know the answer already. Come online. Talk with me. I’ll be waiting for you.
Japan, the land of the rising sun, had called to me for a long time. I am a person who enjoys a good paradox, being – perhaps – rather one myself. Known for its cuteness and order; Japan also has to its creations bukkake, subway perverts and tentacle porn.
Did you know, before bukkake became some sort of pleasant sexual deviance, it was actually used as a punishment in Feudal Japan for women accused of adultery? Look it up.
I had heard some interesting observations on Japanese culture. Of polite smiles that veiled irritation, of robots that – while wonderfully entertaining to look at – also served to offset the loneliness of a demanding work culture. Most interestingly – the sex dolls – so eerily lifelike in feel and appearance, that one might mistake them as real. In documentaries I had seen men who treated their dolls with more reverence than most men at home I knew treated their wives or girlfriends with; dressing them up between “uses”, and even setting a place at the table for them.
The most compelling mystery that lay in Japan though was Suki. She was, after all, the reason that prompted me to book the ticket in the first place. A short, slight Japanese girl who I met at a fetish night last summer. Also a Mistress. We struck it off instantly. At home, she told me, she was “Mistress Sakura” – kimono, jute rope and all. Playing on the delicate Asian lotus stereotype when she was clearly anything but. A lot of men are pretty simple creatures, and from what I understood she did well with that title. Who she was underneath the persona, beyond the playful flirtation she offered that night – I wasn’t sure. But she had contacted me, a few weeks back, and in that teasing way of hers, suggested I should come to Japan while she was there, visiting her family.
“I worry I will be bored, Katia. I love my family, but I need fun! So of course I thought of you. Perhaps we could get to know each other… a little better? More intimately? I can show you things a guidebook couldn’t. Local knowledge, you know.”
She giggled as she said that, and I felt a long dormant electricity surging up through my core. I know to pay attention to this feeling, as it always leads somewhere compelling – and I am curious by nature. Whatever she had planned, it sounded playful. And you know how much I like games. Besides, my toy collection needed an upgrade, and where better than Japan to find the technology and ideas for new torture that I needed? I messaged my clients to let them know I’d be out of town for the next few weeks and booked the ticket.
I have an affection for the music of Gilbert and Sullivan. I listen to their works in the morning as I ready my instruments for their purpose. Or in the evening, when I bathe in floral oils, among my candles, sliding fragrant fingertips to my sex as I reminisce about some of the delicious humiliations inflicted that day. And was there ever a better song to test out the delicatesse of a newly made gurl than “Three Little Maids from School are We”?
My favourite song from the Mikado is called: “This is what I’d never do”. It amuses me, because so many times, I’ve heard similar sentiments from men when presented with a cock cage.
I’ve seen some pretty self-assured and arrogant men blanch when presented with this innocuous little metal device. And suddenly “I’d do anything” becomes “but I wont do that”.
To which I say, “Oh really?”
It doesn’t take much. Just my disappointed look, the sliding of a hand down the inside of the thigh or a pinch of their nipple. I tease and goad them. Comfort and torment them. If this fails, I will offer to let them hold the keys. Let them pretend they’re in control for a while…
But how much power these pathetic creatures put in their cocks! You’d think they were carrying Excalibur the way they parade them about. I serve as a reality check. They wield no “Excalibur”, not even a Hobbit sized “Sting”. More’s the pity! It particularly amuses me when one protests the cage might be too small for them (please). I laugh, but then insist they stop stalling. I’ve never seen a cage that is too small. Never. Only a cock with ideas above its station. This can be quickly remedied.
They put it on gingerly. Their eyes silently inquiring if this might be some kind of trick. That the keys may not be the right keys. That maybe I might take them away when they are so vulnerable. They cannot do anything other than trust me, but they also know my penchant for jokes, and generally at their expense. I watch them bite their lip, watching in horror as the lock clicks shut.
At this point, I may snatch the keys and run with them to the window, opening it, teasing them that if they come a step further, they may fall from my hand to the street below. Or, I may pin them down and make as if to force them to eat them. But if they really don’t want it, If they really choose to put their selfish needs before my own, I’ll let them have the keys back. If they beg. And a “please” wont do. They need to have a pretty silver tongue for me to hear them. Or an occupied one.
When unlocked, they think they’re free. But what they don’t know is that the seed has been planted in their weak minds. Soon they are wondering why they keep thinking about the “injustice” done to their manhood. It irritates and upsets them, but also arouses them.
Soon, in horror, they realize they miss their cage as much as fear it. That their cock longs for captivity. Longs for the prison of cool metal annulling any possibility of gratification.
A sort of “Cockholm Syndrome”, if you will. 🙂
Eventually they beg me for it back, and I am only too happy to oblige. I even may act surprised, from time to time. But I am not. I know very well what I am doing. It is best for them – and you – never to forget that.
Let me know how you’re getting on with your cages, those of you in Chastity. And those of you who are not – why not? I am intrigued to hear your excuses, pathetic as they will almost certainly be.
How many of you have broken your resolutions already? Or as Morgana, the spirited little daughter of one of my submissives calls them – “revolutions”. I didn’t make any. What’s to improve, really? But I did write some for Paulo, Marcus and some other of my regulars. I’ll share some of them with you at some point. Some were for their benefit, and others were simply to amuse me. Marcus almost doesn’t want to speak to me after the Christmas present I hand delivered to his house (the cast of Paulo’s cock). Talk about ungrateful! Still, with the tools I’ve acquired over Christmas, I now have new ways of making him talk. Namely, next Thursday, when I see him again.
I spent a lot of time over the holidays working with my tarot cards – drawing inspiration from the archetypal images of the hero’s journey of the Major Arcana, which when you come to think about it is perhaps not unlike your own journey. You come to me a fool (I don’t judge you for it too much) and leave on the precipice of a new world. I’m almost excited for you, but then I remember the tasks ahead… hoho.
One of my followers the other day asked why I worked with the tarot. Obviously those of you who’ve read my tasks understand they are more than just a divination tool for me – they inspire me to write new and better tasks each month. In addition, I spent time going over what worked and didn’t last year, and conjuring some new torments for you to enjoy. Or not. You will do them all the same of course, because that is your role in this little game of ours. I wind you up and you perform, like a little wind-up monkey. And if you don’t perform well – then even a wind up monkey can be spanked. The only pity is many of you enjoy it far too much.
I also took time to go through my wardrobe. Some things fit, others have lost their luster – as with certain behaviors and working relationships. Perhaps it’s growing up in England – that sense of thrift and a desire not to be wasteful. I don’t like endings – if bridges burn, the matches generally are not in my hands.
So if things come to a close, I like to make it a point to remember the best of them, rather than the worst. I encourage those I work with to do the same. Sometimes our contract ends – I have to let a submissive go, or they (after petitioning and placating me) are permitted to leave of their own accord. It’s sad – perhaps more tragic for them than I – but what can one do? We grow, we change. What worked yesterday may not work today.
Personally, I don’t like the idea of New Year’s resolutions as being prohibitive – this always tends to tip the see-saw in the wrong direction eventually. Unless you are resolved to be more obedient and pleasing to Mistress – then, I approve. In all other matters – I believe that a little of what you fancy does you good – though under my heel, you’ll need permission first, which I may or may not give. Either way, you’ll be content with the structure and boundaries I give you because I am saving you from the very worst aspects of yourself. In return, you give yourself to me, utterly. It’s hardly a fair exchange, as you have little of satisfaction to give – except amusement.
I really am too good to you, aren’t I?
My best friend relaxed into my hands as I guided the red rope past the softness of her breasts and under the knot of her biceps. Ember had agreed to help me practice Shibari a while back. She knelt in front of me now on the couch. Usually, she was such a formidable woman, but it seemed that even she was susceptible to being disarmed by the sensation of jute rope being coiled tightly around her body.
Time and again, I tied the knots and untied them. Trying each time to get a tighter, smoother and more aesthetic form. With each time, my best friend got a little more relaxed. She fell limply from one side to the other as I wove the rope around her, falling about heavily in my arms like an old Victorian Doll. I steadied her by the lace of her corset, running my hand up her back to sweep her hair up from behind her neck and brush it to one side.
“One more time, maybe. Doesn’t seem tight enough, still. Doing alright, Ember?”
My best friend’s eyes were rolling back into her head.
“Yeah… I feel… I feel…. yeah…”
I chuckled to myself that Ember, knowledgeable High Priestess and writer, was having so much trouble formulating words. She was sliding off into reverie, which I took as the unspoken compliment it was. I still had an issue with the knots however. They looked lumpy. Exciteable. I undid them and did them again, until I was satisfied.
However, for all the imperfection in the binds, Ember certainly looked as though she was enjoying herself. I sat behind her, curling my legs around her thighs for support, allowing her to fall back against my shoulder.
It’s funny what we notice when we are close and tuned in with another. Without any intimate parts being touched, the sensation of rope alone, of being held and confined in another’s power – or wielding that power in every knot and tug of the rope – is electric. The world becomes smaller, sounds louder, scents sharper. While the one I tie is enjoying their own escape from the burden of their autonomy, I am savoring the taste of minuscule delights, bought into sharper focus. The smell of their breath, the way their rib cage, on inhale and exhale, pushes them closer to, then away from my own. The smell of their hair, the intricate matte of lines around the eyes and a wonder to what stories bought each of them to being.
It’s the little things…
I do so love the Magician tarot card – the power of creativity, channeled by the will, to manifest into the physical the concepts of the mind. A card of great creativity, inspiring vision and focus into stagnant situations. Also sometimes signifying sleight of hand and deceit. Not always such a bad thing. Just what Jennifer needed – in fact – given her dour expression on walking in. Pulling this card, I explained to her, meant that we were going to have a little magic wand time with Hitachi mark 2. She smiled when I said that, silly little thing.
Jennifer started with me last month. Initially, she came to me to widen her horizons sexually after a particularly acrimonious divorce. I think she picked me for my tough love – her friends had consoled her for months, but it wasn’t working. You know me, I’m hardly a shoulder to cry on (unless I have my finger on the button of the mechanical dildo and it’s your first rodeo). What I do have, however, is some experience in offsetting emotional turmoil with the skilled application of some pleasant sexual torment.
Even though Hitachi one died last year, I still like to use it. When a submissive is blindfolded, they can’t tell which Hitachi I’m using until it is switched on. I had secured the dead one to Jennifer with red rope. Making her beg for its application. Her thighs shaking excitedly around the wand that would give her no magic; her pelvis undulating in apprehension of the sound of the redundant switch.