The Importance Of Empathy

This week I had Rick come to visit. Rick is a father of two young children with another on the way. His wife is from England and is a very motherly sort. She is the personification of The Queen of Pentacles in the tarot deck for me. The kind of mother that has a salve for every wound, a snack for every occasion and the positivity to support those around her in whatever challenge they may be facing at the time.

 

Unfortunately, she is married to Rick – a perpetual challenge. I have faith that we’ll make process, but right now I am trying to lash the selfishness out of him. We just started working together last month, and this week when I asked him how he was doing I think he misheard – because he took it as an invitation to moan and gripe about his wife, Debra. In his ankle and wrist restraints he told me the woeful tale of his wife continuing to breastfeed Celia at age two. Apparently she would let him nowhere near her breasts during this time, and he was feeling unloved and aggrieved about it.

 

“She wont even let me near them, even when Celia’s not feeding… I feel like she cares more about the child than me, her husband…”

“Mmm…”

At this moment, I was rubbing his thighs down with oil. Teasing him between the legs with my deft fingers and nodding, as if sympathetically. The truth was, I felt no pity for him. His understanding of pain, this early in our work, was that of a five year old. “I want this – if you don’t give me this, I will sulk about it”. Some men like Rick know nothing of pain, real pain, the way a woman knows it. They play at war, or fight, or fuck, or chase – just to get a small taste of the intensity of feeling that comes at all times so naturally for a woman. We are, after all, the ones who tend the children, who nurse the sick spouse, who soothe the minds of aging parents and have empathy for a world largely broken by stupid men. Despite all this, we are able to continue nurturing, guiding, teaching and keep a smile (though at times, it may be filled with daggers) on our “delicate” faces.

 

Rick began to moan and writhe within the restraints. Denial of orgasm until I say so is a given, and he had been two weeks (his wife being otherwise occupied). I knelt down before him, playing with the tip of his erection on my nose. Teasing it with my lips. Then looking up and grinning at him.

 

“You feel very hard done by, I can tell.”

 

“Mmm… Mistress…”

 

“Everyone else is getting breasts – why not you? Mmm? Where’s your breast, man baby?”

 

Rick looked at me questioningly, but continued to writhe, his tip poking my lips.

 

“What are you, Rick, say it – say ‘I am a Man Baby’…”

 

“I am a Man Baby, Mistress.”

 

“Very good. I bet you want someone to suck on your nipples like Celia enjoys your wife’s, hmm?”

 

“Yes, Mistress… yes…. please, suck on my nipples… like that…”

 

Silly fool didn’t know what he was asking. How could he? Of course, he hadn’t been paying attention to his wife’s breastfeeding, else he would have known what a painful experience it can be. I remember a few summer’s ago, in Ember’s appartment, watching her feed Lilith as we talked about the Gulabi Gang – a group of brave women in India who set upon sexual attackers with sticks and protect the women in their community. Mid-conversation, a fire truck had pulled up outside, its sirens blaring. Lilith, who was one and a half and pretty mobile, had turned her head to the sound, but not released Ember’s nipple. Without a sheet to cover her (we have seen most of each other, in and out) I could only marvel at how far it stretched. Ember, for her part, dealt with it bravely, mouthing curses but not disturbing her child in any way.

 

I was going to teach Rick the empathy he lacked in the best way I knew. I pulled myself teasingly up his naked body as he shuddered, licked his right nipple a little, then clamped down with some force on it with my teeth.

 

“Arghh!”

 

But I was not done. I turned my head a little to the right and to the left, taking his pilled nub of elastic skin with me.

 

“Yeowch, Mistress, what are you doing?”

 

He was gasping in pain. I released my grip on that nipple and traced my tongue over to the other, as his shallow breaths increased in pace.

 

“Please don’t… YEOOWCH! OWW! Ginger! Ginger!”

Ginger was the safe word. I released my grip reluctantly, but the rules were the rules.

“Your problem is not with your wife, but your own selfishness, you tiny pricked jackass. Have you heard yourself? Truly heard yourself? You are utterly pathetic, man baby. Your wife is doing the job of nurturing the child you made – your contribution was three minutes of fun – let her do her job. Make yourself useful. Fetch her drinks, watch shows with her, wash her feet and wait on her hand and foot like the goddess she is and the worthless wretch you are.”

 

“Yes Mistress.”

 

“And if I hear a word of complaint about this in future, I’m going to bite off one of your nipples, spit it out and feed it to you, understood?”

“Yes, Mistress! Absolutely.”

Rick looked absolutely terrified. Good. I do beleive he understood though, for the rest of that session I heard no complaint, and I even let him jerk himself off. Of course, I did make him sing a song as he did. As he’s a man baby and man babies cry, I pulled up the lyrics to Roy Orbison’s “Crying” on his phone, and made him hold it and sing, wavering, until he came.

And we’re keeping the name, Man Baby as well. It suits him.

Your Misttress,

Katia Thornwood

The things children do!

Babysitting is not my forte. I generally make it a rule to avoid little undisciplined creatures as much as I can. But I have a tender streak for certain children, one of which is the daughter of one of my submissives, David. His wife is a cool lady, a photographer who works in the city. Sometimes I help out with little Morgana because I’m at a loose end too, and I enjoy her feisty little spirit. Sometimes she worries me though.

This afternoon Morgana had her dolls out. Ken was naked on the wooden table and a Monster high doll with black heels and greeny black hair was brought down hard on his plastic chest by Morgana’s meaty little hand.

“Bad! Bad boy! Ken is a bad boy!”

Morgana is four, and there is no way she knows what goes on between her daddy and I, as she’s never been to the dungeon and we make it a rule never to do anything at his home. But sometimes I wonder if she has a psychic streak, because lately her games have been a little bit close to the truth.

Morgana picked up Ken and threw him down at the floor.

“Ken is stupid! Stupid dumb dumb Ken!”

She cackled wildly. I raised my eyebrow. She looked at me with those giant green eyes that seemed to bore into my soul.

I picked Ken up from his prone position on the floor. Morgana eyed me wondering what I’d do next. I like her little cackle, and knew throwing him back onto the floor would amuse her, so I did.

Morgana then jumped down from her seat and waddled her way purposefully up the stairs, returning with a handful of Barbie clothes.

“We dress Ken up!”

“What a good idea, Morgana. What do you think he’d like to wear?”

Morgana found a pink princess dress with lace trim and then ran off to get her felt tip pens. I knew what she was doing, she’d done it a few times before. Ken was about to get a makeover. I chuckled to myself as she pulled the dress on Ken and helped her get the top off the red pen.

I don’t think Morgana’s cut out to be a make up artist. She’s got passion but very little attention when it comes to colouring within the lines. Maybe it’ll come. In any case, by the time she was finished with Ken, he looked like Stephen King’s IT after a spell in a monsoon. I picked him up and made a big deal of her handiwork.

“He looks… very pretty!”

Morgana smiled and picked up her other doll again.

“Very pretty. Now dollie smash!”

Princess Ken was then repeatedly trodden under the heels of her dollie.

“Katia… you help me?”

“What do you need, darling?”

Morgana dropped the doll and went into the kitchen. I have to watch her because she’s good at finding things she shouldn’t find – mainly scissors and sharp kitchen implements. I opened the drawer she was standing in front of, then looked to where she was pointing. A reel of string, used for the Sunday roast, I presumed. It seemed harmless enough. I gave it to her. She ran off excitedly with it, and then – to my amusement, started wrapping Ken in it.

Like I said, sometimes I wonder what this child knows.

Babysitting is not my forte!

Babysitting is not my forte. I generally make it a rule to avoid little undisciplined creatures as much as I can. But I have a tender streak for certain children, one of which is the daughter of one of my submissives, David. His wife is a cool lady, a photographer who works in the city. Sometimes I help out with little Morgana because I’m at a loose end too, and I enjoy her feisty little spirit. Sometimes she worries me though.

This afternoon Morgana had her dolls out. Ken was naked on the wooden table and a Monster high doll with black heels and greeny black hair was brought down hard on his plastic chest by Morgana’s meaty little hand.

“Bad! Bad boy! Ken is a bad boy!”

Morgana is four, and there is no way she knows what goes on between her daddy and I, as she’s never been to the dungeon and we make it a rule never to do anything at his home. But sometimes I wonder if she has a psychic streak, because lately her games have been a little bit close to the truth.

Morgana picked up Ken and threw him down at the floor.

“Ken is stupid! Stupid dumb dumb Ken!”

She cackled wildly. I raised my eyebrow. She looked at me with those giant green eyes that seemed to bore into my soul.

I picked Ken up from his prone position on the floor. Morgana eyed me wondering what I’d do next. I like her little cackle, and knew throwing him back onto the floor would amuse her, so I did.

Morgana then jumped down from her seat and waddled her way purposefully up the stairs, returning with a handful of Barbie clothes.

“We dress Ken up!”

“What a good idea, Morgana. What do you think he’d like to wear?”

Morgana found a pink princess dress with lace trim and then ran off to get her felt tip pens. I knew what she was doing, she’d done it a few times before. Ken was about to get a makeover. I chuckled to myself as she pulled the dress on Ken and helped her get the top off the red pen.

I don’t think Morgana’s cut out to be a make up artist. She’s got passion but very little attention when it comes to colouring within the lines. Maybe it’ll come. In any case, by the time she was finished with Ken, he looked like Stephen King’s IT after a spell in a monsoon. I picked him up and made a big deal of her handiwork.

“He looks… very pretty!”

Morgana smiled and picked up her other doll again.

“Very pretty. Now dollie smash!”

Princess Ken was then repeatedly trodden under the heels of her dollie.

“Katia… you help me?”

“What do you need, darling?”

Morgana dropped the doll and went into the kitchen. I have to watch her because she’s good at finding things she shouldn’t find – mainly scissors and sharp kitchen implements. I opened the drawer she was standing in front of, then looked to where she was pointing. A reel of string, used for the Sunday roast, I presumed. It seemed harmless enough. I gave it to her. She ran off excitedly with it, and then – to my amusement, started wrapping Ken in it.

Like I said, sometimes I wonder what this child knows.

Your Misttress,

Katia Thornwood

The Travelogue of Katia Thornwood – Part 4

The next morning, I wasn’t sure if – with time to think about the sensations of the night before – Ben would have left early for Bangkok. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he ran. Plenty do. And I’d put him on a bit of a fast track, given the timeline. Given the anonymity of a foreign country, and the lack of contact details, there would be nothing I could do about it.

At the breakfast table, the talk turned to the exploits of the group the night before. Everyone looked a little worse for wear, especially Bruno, who was pushing scrambled eggs around the plate with his fork. Apparently, Bruno had become a bit of an extrovert last night, after a few rounds of bucket drinks, talking about his recent divorce. The groups evening culminated in him attempting to dance on the speaker of the club. The others had had to wrestle him into a tuk tuk, offering drunken apologies to the frantic manager. He had started crying on the way home. The piece de resistance? He had thrown up on Penelope.

“You OK, mate?” Aussie said, passing Bruno a bottle of water. “You should drink something… you really went for it last night!”

“Ugh.”

Bruno groaned, letting his head fall forward onto his arms. A familiar figure appeared in the doorway, looking a bit self conscious.

“Ben!” Penelope cried.

“Hey mate! Where were you last night? Katia said you got sunstroke or something. You alright? Bruno didn’t do much better, poor bugger – look at him!”

Ben looked at Bruno, looked at me. I smiled.

“You were a little tied up, weren’t you Ben?”

Ben’s face began to flush. Aussie looked at me with a grin.

“I mean, Ben leaves today, so I imagine between the heat and the packing for his flight this evening, he was too busy, weren’t you Ben?”

“Something like that. Yeah.”

Ben took a pastry and sat down slowly with the group. He wolfed down his food, periodically glancing up at me. I pulled my hair brush out of my bag, catching Ben’s eye as I ran a manicured finger down the bristles and banged it a few times in my hand. He coughed and shuffled awkwardly in his seat, wincing a little.

“Ben, you don’t look well,” Kim said, “maybe you should get some rest? Your face looks really red.”

I started brushing my hair, placing my tongue between my teeth as I grinned wickedly at him. Ben’s eyes widened.

“I think I may go and lie down. Catch you later, guys.”

Ben got up, almost taking the table with him, and hurried out, day bag placed strategically over the front of his shorts. I chuckled.

*

When I got back to my room, I found a piece of paper slipped under the door: Ben’s address in Bangkok. His cellphone number. He’d be staying in Silom, nearest skytrain station, Sala Daeng. I slipped the paper into my wallet. He was going to continue the game. Good.

Signed, “I wont cum until you do, Mistress. Ben.”

*

I wiled away the last few days at the resort, taking time to relax, to ride a bike down the red dirt roads, past fruit and vegetable markets, with their spoiling cuts of meat and little Khmer children playing in the doorways of stores and homes. In the afternoons, I sunned myself by the pool, watching in amusement as an unlikely holiday romance bloomed between Penelope and Bruno. The boring and the naïve in perfect harmony. It was very cute.

Kim went onto Bali the day before I left, no doubt with an expanded mind. Sunshine and relaxation were good, but by the time I caught my flight to Bangkok, I was keen to get back to work.

Bangkok was hot, but not so oppressively as Cambodia. Compared to Cambodia’s sleepy vibe, the multisensory assault of Thai music thudding over loudspeakers from bars and restaurants, the endless stream of traffic, city lights and the smell of food carts were an adjustment.

I took a taxi to the hotel I had booked before the flight, deliberately close to Ben’s, in Silom. The City of Life is a place that never sleeps. If things went well in the few days, neither would Ben.

I didn’t bother to contact Ben the first night. He could wait. Instead I bought a Chang beer at the Skybar just around the corner and searched for Bangkok Mistresses. Call it window shopping. I was curious how they did things around here. Maybe I could learn a few things. There is a surprisingly large bdsm community in Bangkok and among a sea of PVC wrapped Mistresses was a wide range of ages and sexes. Petite women with scowls on their doll-like faces, to the more playful aggression of the ladyboy dominatrixes. There were a few much older women too that looked like they had spanked more than their share of bottoms in their lifetimes. All power to them.

My eyes settled on a Thai Mistress who looked in her forties. Her age showed in the soft lines around her eyes, but her eyes sparkled with a brightness of someone much younger, or etherically older. In her PVC leggings, t-shirt and stilettos, she could have easily passed for just another Thai woman dressed in black in the street, during this year’s duration of mourning for the King who passed just a few months before. Except for the riding crop, of course. That’s the fascinating thing about the bdsm community. By day its members are teachers, or mothers, or grandfathers or pastors – by night, they are master or servant. Two worlds, two lives. Mundane and mythical.

This mistress, crop in hand and reclining in the red velvet chair of the local Dungeon club in Patpong, reminded me of my own Mistress – the one who introduced me to the scene two years ago. The smile curled up to one side, like hers, giving the impression that she had two faces in one. Both filthy and tender. I’d met my Mistress through a friend at a work party, and while I consider myself hetero in preference, her, provocative language, razor sharp wit and exaggerated sensuality fascinated me immediately. Before I knew it, I was helplessly in love with her, which I now realize was foolish, because to her I was only ever a plaything to be dangled.

But what do you know? Turns out, I actually enjoyed being dangled, then whipped… then violated. By her. I would honestly have done anything for her if she had asked me to. And this relinquishing of my power to her gave me freedom and new strength to tackle other challenges in my life. Before meeting her, I was submissive and miserable about it. I would draw boundaries with others, but when I read the disappointment on their faces, I’d remove the boundary and feel utterly disgusted with myself. Mistress pushed me to remove my boundaries too, but it was different, because I had agreed to it and because she was pushing me to become something better. With every lash, every teasing word, every moment of her terrible silent treatment, I was excited, terrified and deeply aroused. When I couldn’t take it anymore, when I thought I hated her and wanted to give up, she would coax me back in with those words of hers and I’d lie before her again. Her’s totally. When it was time for us to go our separate ways, I was deeply sad, but also inspired. I started Mistressing shortly after, one sub at a time, opening the door for my subs to walk through, as she had opened it for me. I don’t think I could be submissive for anyone ever again. Except perhaps her.

Anyway, enough introspection. I drink up the rest of the Chang, take a few panoramic photos of the neon circuit board city below me and pull Ben’s number out of my purse. A ring tone.

*

“Katia!”

Ben greeted me in the doorway of the hotel, attempting to hug me. My eyes looked dourly into his.

“Mistress..” he whispered, dropping his arms.

“Eyes.”

Ben looked down. I passed him my bag.

“Your room?”

Ben walked ahead of me past the reception, where a Thai desk clerk was chatting animatedly in broken English to a couple, whose child was laying screaming on the floor. Nine o’ clock. I’d stopped by a stall on the way, seeing a black leather collar with a ring on the front, that might have been a fashion accessory for a teenager, but was large enough – I thought – for Ben’s neck.

We took the elevator to the 11th floor. The bay windows showed the electric buzz of Bangkok’s night scene. Ben’s room was around the corner. It was of a modest size and had a leaking faucet. How appropriate.

I kicked off my stilettos at the door, my feet throbbing from the heat and the recent travel. Ben had placed my bag next to the chaise lounge.

“Strip!”

“Yes Mistress.”

He dropped his pants immediately and hastily unbuttoned his shirt. I sat down on the silken chaise lounge.

“Crouch. All fours. Sideways, under my feet.”

Ben hurried over and crouched, the petechiae on his ass had begun to blossom into a map of purple and blue constellations. He’d shaved fully, exactly as I’d instructed, his cock far more vulnerable now it had no hair to hide in. It hung there vulnerably like a shrivelled up worm that even a broken beaked crow wouldn’t touch.

“Like this Mistress?”

I slapped him hard on his mangled ass.

“Did I instruct you to speak?”

“No Mistress.”

Slap!

“And say thank you, Mistress. I am spending my valuable time teaching you.”

“Thank you Mistress.”

His ass clenched. He didn’t say another word. I took the remote and turned on the television. A Thai lady in a pink suit was teaching Thai phrases. Ben’s head lifts to see what was on the screen.

Slap!

“Eyes down!”

“Ow! Thank you, Mistress!”

He looked down. I spanked him again and again until he was exactly how I wanted him to be: submissive and silent. Thai was an interesting language, I listened to the lady for a while – though throughout the tutorial there was no instruction on how to say, “yes mistress”. I pulled out my phone to Google it.

“Chi phu pen thirak”. That could be useful later.

I turned off the television, spreading my legs and running each along Ben’s back until one was placed behind his bottom, pushing him forward, and one below his downturned face, teasing his lips with my big toe, which he obligingly began to suck.

“Kneel.”

He released by toe with a satisfying smack of his lips and knelt before me, eyes down. I reached into my bag for the leather collar, unfastened it and placing it around his neck. I wondered if it would take a choke chain, whether it was real leather. Bangkok vendors have a saying: “same same” (but different). You ask if something is real leather and they say “same same” with a naughty grin that suggests it may or may not be, but who’s worried?

Buckle fastened, I pulled Ben’s head up by the hair and fixed him with my gaze.

“Who are you?”

Ben looked confused.

“Ben, Mistress.”

“No. Not Ben. Ben is that cocksure no-nothing that existed before you met me. Now you’re mine – my faithful lapdog, that would do anything for me.”

“Yes Mistress.”

“My slave.”

“Absolutely Mistress.”

I reached down, grabbed his semi-erect cock and yanked it forward until I saw tears form in his eyes.

“And whose is this?”

“Y… yours Mistress…”

I released my grip, then mercilessly thrust my hand between his sweaty thighs to grasp his balls. He yelped as I squeezed.

“And this?”

“Y… ow… yours Mistress… please…”

“Good.”

I released my grip and withdrew my hand. Ben sighed, beginning to slump down but caught my gaze and straightened up. I leaned for the toy bag to retrieve the cock cage and keys.

“Stand. Quickly now.”

With Ben’s erections going up faster than new apartments in the city, I knew I had to work fast. I unlocked the fastenings, applied lube roughly to his cock and slid on the cage.

“What is that, Mistress?”

Click. The padlock snapped shut.

“It’s a cock cage, Ben. It means that your balls and cock are mine. I own not only your mind, but your pleasure too. And as both of your heads lack self-control, my metal friend here is going to help me with your lower one, while I turn the screws on your mind. That sounds good, doesn’t it Ben?”

Ben looked hesitant.

“Oh, what is it now, dog?”

“Uh, what if I need to pee, Mistress?”

“Then pee. I’m not stopping you. You might want to sit down though – I imagine it might get a little messy otherwise.”

“From now on, Mistress? How… uh… how long?”

“How long will you be in Bangkok?”

“Eight more days.”

“Perfect. I am here for another ten. So in eight more days you will get your toy back to play with, but for now its mine, understand? Day and night, under lock and key. And you might want to stay on my good side,” I say, jangling the keys on my finger, “because the Chao Phraya River is very deep and dark, and if these were to accidentally fall into it… well who knows how complicated it would be to get out of that.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Ben looked up at me in horror. I cackled and stood up, fetching the strap-on from my bag. I fitted it over my black faux-leather pants. Ben crawled on all fours, without thinking, hungrily watching as I fastened the buckle and bounced it theatrically around for him.

“You look like a very excited dog right now.”

“I am Mistress!”

“I wonder what you’re thinking about right now…”

Ben licked his lips then tried to look away, suddenly shy.

“Let me help you articulate, then, Ben.”

I walked behind him with the strap-on, towering over him as he wiggled his ass hungrily, growing more aroused with every moment of anticipation.

“I imagine you are thinking what it would be like if I lubed you up as I did the other night, teased your balls with this giant cock of mine, rolling it softly up and down the inside of your thighs as you release any resistance to the idea of what I am going to do to you.”

Ben let out a low groan as his breathing quickened.

“And then perhaps that I might tease the tip of it back up your thigh, past your balls and over that tender skin up to your ass, pushing it against that pink little rose until you ask – you beg, you cry – for me to drive it deep into you.

“Yes… yes Mistress…”

I smiled as Ben’s hips took on a life of their own. He might have been a dog, except that without a tail he showed his excitement in the rapid jerks of his eager cheeks, licking his dry lips, mouth breathing.

“And then maybe you’d imagine me taking you by the hips, digging my fingernails into the sides of them, that soft flesh, and using them to ram myself in and out – in and out – until you scream with pain and terror and pleasure. Imagine the sounds you’d hear, between the slickness of that lube and the resistance of your ass giving in to the pressure of me using and debasing you for my pleasure.”

“Urghh…”

Ben looked beside himself in arousal, body writhing close to the ground as he panted. I gave him a sharp slap to the side of the face.

“Mistress?”

“Did I tell you to be on all fours?”

“Mistress! Sorry Mistress!”

Ben got up to his knees, straight backed and staring apologetically at me. The cock cage looked a little more snug now, red flesh bulging out of the sides of the metal, giving his cock the look of hung salami.

“As always you are thinking of yourself first. But as I told you before – women come first, always. I understand. You’re hungry, aren’t you Ben?”

“Oh yes, Mistress!”

“I’m going to give you something that should satisfy that need, because I am very good to you – aren’t I, Ben?”

“Oh yes, Mistress. Thank you Mistress!”

I walked around to face him, positioning myself so the tip of the phallus teased his lips.

“Mouth open!”

Ben opened his mouth, looking a little unconvinced.

“Oh don’t pout like that. What’s wrong now?”

“It’s just that… I’ve never…”

“Is that it? Really Ben, you sucked my toe earlier, and I know you can work a banana like a pro. This is the same – just think of it as a… a bigger banana.”

(Same same – but different)

“Mistress…”

“Open!”

Ben opened his mouth. I prized it open a little more with my hands, then slid half of the cock into his receptive wetness, rocking gently backwards and forwards as he got to grips with taking it. At first his attempt was meagre, but he soon got into the spirit of things.

“That’s it! Oh you’re a good little cock sucker aren’t you? Maybe you could make a career out of this. Oh… so hungry. Would you like me to give you more?”

Ben gave a muffled moan of what I took for approval between slurps, and I clutched two handfuls of hair and started to drive further into his mouth, exploring the back of his tongue, his throat. He gagged. I stopped for a moment, then resumed my thrusting.

Gluk gluk gluk!

His mouth began to foam with saliva, his nostrils working furiously to maintain the oxygen level as I increased the pace and depth. He really was quite exceptional at the task. The amount of devotion to a task that a few days ago, I couldn’t imagine he’d ever have contemplated doing in his life.

Gluk gluk gluk!

“Atta boy!”

After ten minutes of this I had quite tired myself out. I drove the cock a final time as far into his mouth until he started to gag, held it there for a few moments, watching his toes wiggle and stretch as he struggled to hang on. When I drew back, a foam of drool splashed to the floor, Ben’s tongue still undulating against his teeth, mouth agog.

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight, Ben. I will see you tomorrow. We have more work to do. Perhaps lunchtime – your treat of course.”