A Yorkshire Masochist's Tale

This is the story of a single encounter from my life as a UK punter. I am middle-aged, male who, simply by staying with my firm for long enough, is over-promoted and overpaid for what I do. Mostly, I tell other people what to do and then get them to write a report on it. I then have meetings with other middle-aged men who do the same as me, we compare the reports and decide it's not quite good enough. We then issue 'targets'. This, in brief is British management in action. The point of telling you this is to explain how I have enough spare time and cash to fuel my lifestyle. I have no relationships outside the sex industry. I have a lot of sex (if that's what you could call it) and I like it that way.

Boom and bust effects the fortunes of the North disproportionately to those of the South. Today's millionaire can quickly subside into tomorrow's foreclosed bankrupt up here. Sometimes, these temporarily rich entrepreneurs have time to leave a legacy in the landscape; a spread with a quad garage, fifty rooms and, of course, a pool. One such place is the setting for the incident I am going to narrate.

The original, rambling structure is now cheaply subdivided and re-branded as 'Valentina's Spa Retreat'; a brothel in all but name. It sits just outside a drab, Yorkshire town you may well never have heard of, but where I happen to live. Among its myriad rooms is one named 'The Aqua Suite'; in fact, a wet room from the time when Valentina's was private mansion. It had been part of the spa arrangements adjoining the inevitable swimming pool. The pool has been filled in to create extra parking, but all that plumbing is still being put to good use.

The pretty young woman who conducted me from Reception downstairs looked like a school leaver to me -- hell of a first job - I remember thinking as we went down the dim corridor decorated with art-porn and smelling of air freshener. I followed to the very end door. She produced keys that were chained somewhere beneath her smart, little jacket and pushed it open. After the scant illumination of the stairs and landing, the brightness within was startling.

"Go in, please" she nodded pleasantly "and just mind the step-over for me. That's lovely."

I picked my feet over the raised lip she had pointed out and took in the scene of the drama to come.

The walls were tiled in the expensive good taste of a couple of decades ago. The ceiling was clustered with overpowered inset spots. They glittered on taps, showerheads and fittings and lent a sort of clinical mercilessness to the space, at odds with the warm, blousy, tattiness of the rest of establishment. The only other thing in the room was a tall, chrome and plastic bar stool set over the central floor drain.

I had never been in this particular room before. One or other of the many bedrooms had been the setting for my earlier ceremonies in this establishment and conducted with other girls. My hostess for today was also new to me; Mistress Amanda.

"You can put your things in the cage on the back of the door" continued the school leaver, still standing on the carpeted side of the door. "Your lady will be with you in five minutes, okay? Lovely."

It was only after door had closed leaving me looking at the wire basket meant for my clothes and possessions that I began to quail a little.

What the hell was I doing? Putting myself through this? This, of all things! And paying how much for it? Again!'

Just the usual self-doubting, self-tormenting litany, in fact.

My cooler, kinkier head replied.

Stop torturing yourself - someone else is about to take care of that for you. Too late now, anyway. Let it come. Welcome. Enjoy. You know how.

As I went through this calming mantra in my mind, shirt, trousers, underwear, watch were shed until I found myself naked almost by surprise.

How long? Maybe three minutes. Oh my God, any moment it begins.

With a low-level panic, I realised that I had not thought how she should find me.

Standing? No. Kneeling. But where? In front of the bar stool throne, head bowed.

As I moved to this position, I heard voices coming into range down the hallway.

"...every single time, I swear! And God, he was so grateful about it! Right, I'm in with another client now. Speak to you about that thing tomorrow, ok?" The voice was richly female, humorous, confident; flat, local vowels but with an urban easiness.

The floor was hard under my knees and toes.

Oh, fuck, it's now!

The door opened and the only barrier was gone.

Instantly, I knew there were two of them. I really hoped it wasn't the school leaver again. My buttocks tightened and I coloured in hot shame.

Three seconds crawled into by in complete silence as they weighed me up; my fingers sought my brow in an automatic gesture of embarrassment.

"Put your hands down" came her instruction; unhurried, mature, authority. My hand fell like a puppet. I pictured how I must look to them, a pale figure with thinning hair and thickening waistline, indecently nude in a cube of hard, white light, neck reddening.

Punter.

Meat.

Money.

A single set of steps padded off back down the corridor and the Aqua Suite door closed once more. Just She and me. The familiar, dirty alchemy of base shame transmuted into hot, conflicted, pleasure began to bubble somewhere dark inside me.

"Down"

I fumbled with her single syllable, not knowing quite...

"Get down on the floor, I want to climb into my seat. Your back, my step - okay?" she explained with mock patience, a teacher with an awkward adolescent.

The clop of a high heel on tile and then a careful knife in the back, a jerk and twist of overpowering load with bitter pain arriving like a leering accomplice a half heartbeat behind. I thought she would simply use me like the tread of a stair and pass on but instead she settled her stance, two feet planted, hands (I assumed) on the stubby arms of the stool.

To take the uncompromising weight of a woman in high heels on naked flesh is the stuff of my waking dreams, but the reality never fails to shock with an overload of raw sensation. It is like being clamped in a vice with teeth - or fangs, perhaps. The urge to writhe away from cause of the hurt is primal but the sense of privilege at actual contact with the adored thing overcomes everything. Absurdly, you want to impress her with your endurance; serve her well as a good, solid step - her plinth. At the same time you are so aware of how any woman, even a prostitute, must despise a man who has a letch to put himself in that position.

"Good boy" she rewarded me after a few moments, "Does that hurt?"

Not expecting an answer she followed with,

"Are you married? I hope not because the way I'm going to mark you up won't be easy to explain."

And with that she very slowly drew the steel tip of her heel across the skin of my naked shoulder. She mirrored the action with her other heel, furrowing rib to hip and then again back to the first, with a slightly different path across my flesh. And on, and on, punctuating the lazy, agonizing choreography with little stamps and grindings of her stilettoed feet.

I was in ecstasy. At moments of humiliating lust as pure as this, I honestly think I would allow myself to be killed if it pleased my lady. I wanted her to annihilate me then, carelessly, beneath the scrawping and stabbing of her feminine, whorish, magnificent shoes.

And all at once, it was over. She swung into the stool and left me sobbing with emotion and pain an inch below her crossed legs, utterly unable to speak. I think she would have continued the torture until I was reduced to that state no matter what, so it was probably as well for my ripped-up body that I broke so soon.

"My shoes aren't clean" she stated, leaving me to infer her wishes. I crawled from my hunched position and began to lick at the soles of her stilettos which I found tilted upwards on her flexed foot and to be slightly sticky with the fluids from my wounds. I licked earnestly, genuinely wanting to make things perfect for her.

"Get the heels too. Suck them like a good little faggot. Show them how grateful you are for what they've done to you."

I discovered that she was wearing five or six inch, classic, patent pumps as I slid each slim dagger into my mouth in turn, with the crossing and re-crossing of her naked legs.

"All the way, in and out like a fairy" she sing-songed in her lush, Yorkshire contralto. I pushed the motion to the limit, knowing that she would probably not be satisfied until I gagged, which I promptly did.

"Lovely, keep going. Choke yourself over and over. I like a little bit of self-sacrifice from my bitch boys. Don't mind the mess; you'll be cleaning all that up shortly."

She actually chuckled at my hacking, drooling antics at her feet. I was in heaven once more and she let me have my fill.

"All right, enough of that. Let's have a proper look at you."

So saying she withdrew her shoe and used the pointed, polished toe to lift my chin a fraction. I took her in at the same time; Mistress Amanda. I had seen her picture in the loose-leaf file kept under the desk in the foyer. I had picked her out for this appointment two days ago and paid in advance ('a private arrangement between the lady and yourself' of course).

Very much in the flesh, she looked a little older and perhaps a bit heavier - neither of which I minded at all, as a thick, mature hooker is my dream mistress - but still breathtaking in her voluptuous superiority. Perhaps forty or a shade under her great bone structure meant she was still foxy despite the beginnings of a few wrinkles at her soft neck.

She exuded pampering; perfect hair, nails and the rest. Expensive. Her bio in the folder had listed her 'interests' - they were all of the Pro-Dom variety: CP, humiliation, WS (giving), foot worship, trampling, CEI etc. all underscored with the legend:

I DO NOT HAVE SEX WITH MY CLIENTS. DO NOT WASTE BOTH OUR TIME BY ASKING.

"I've had you before, haven't I?" she demanded with one perfect eyebrow raised.

I wanted to say 'No, Mistress' but as I had been gagging myself on sharp objects for the last several minutes what came out was just an inarticulate rasp. She seemed to understand anyway and continued with,

"Have you served ladies before? - you seem quite experienced."

This time I just nodded, drinking in more details in the brief respite she was allowing me. She was perched on her stool as if waiting for her cocktail to be brought in some upmarket club, ass like a ripe pair, little black dress showing off acres of softly curvaceous, tanned flesh. Her highlighted dark hair was drawn back from her cosmetic-counter face in flattering severity and laid artfully over one shoulder in a big, loose, black-ribboned plait. Jeweled fingers were clasped around the raised knee and she was idly swinging one delicious foot presented in that wicked little shoe with glimpses of arch and toe cleavage. She was the fleshy, beautiful Milf of my most self-indulgent masturbation dreams.

And she was looking at me - pudgy, pallid, naked, dribbling, covered in welts and on my hurting knees. With lacerating shame I realised that my cock had risen for her too.

She dropped her eyes with calculated slowness and without any change of expression looked me in the eye and said,

"Well, as an experienced slave you must know that something like that must have consequences. I think that I might have to give you something else to think about."

She shifted her ass fluidly on the bar stool and smiled with practiced nastiness.

"Let's see, you've been my footstool, my pincushion and my shoe cleaner. I think it's time you were my toilet too. Get under me and open your mouth."

I obeyed without reluctance and was rewarded with the sight of her pulling her tiny panties aside as she braced herself on the barstool and, after a moment, projected a guttering stream of piss towards my face. The sour, stale stream went everywhere, stinging the rents upon my back with exquisite piquancy. I struggled to catch as much of the hot flow in my mouth as possible but her waste went everywhere and drenched the whole front of my body as well as the floor.

"Oh, that's good" she sighed "I've been holding that in since lunch."

Temporarily blinded, I tried to stutter my thanks but she interrupted me with,

"Clean up, you little piss mop and I want to hear you slurp!"

The floor drain had taken away much of the pee but there were plenty of little puddles and other traces for me to serve her with. I lapped around and underneath her stool, sucking up the fluids with genuine gratitude. I was no stranger to the bodily waste of women, having served several mistresses with this preference for rewarding their slaves. Mistress Amanda tasted as bad as any of them but that only increased my pleasure. To take down the taste of their most intimate flavors was everything to me. To experience a woman in ways not available to even to a lover or a husband was a unique reward. A couple of tissues landed on the tiles one after another like falling blossom.

"And don't forget those." she added sweetly.

I snuffled them and chewed beneath her as her piggy, whipped and grateful for anything more she cared to feed me.

She let me work on the cold floor for a few minutes during which she snapped open a little clutch bag that had been cuddled against her ample hip and fiddled around with lipstick, phone etc. making a show of ignoring me. My mind was full of the glimpse I had got of a pulp, mature vagina with prominent, dark lips splayed by manicured fingers to piss in my face. I pictured those fingers now as I listened to the adorable little taps and jingles a nicely bangled woman makes when sorting through her little bag of all-important things.

Fuck, I adore women! I know I am the most pathetically twisted son of a bitch alive and crazy as a bag of rats, but that obsessive fact is my rock. I worshiped Mistress Amanda then as I swallowed her pee-soaked tissues like some possessed mystic in the presence of his God. And, yes, of course I knew that I had just paid over two hundred quid to have some small-town hooker, near her use-by date, hurt me quite badly and endanger my health, but that was no more real than the soul cleansing humiliation of actually worshiping her.

"That floor might be clean but you're not" she chided "and I don't just mean all that blood, piss and spit your covered in. That dirty, little dicky is still hard, isn't it?"

By now I was beyond caring. I was reveling in her disgust for me.

"Well, if you must, you must" she sighed with mock resignation. "Let's get it over with. Wank your little thing off."

I began, kneeling right in front of her, eyes cast down.

"You can look if you want, you know. I'm not that much of a bitch" she said, softening her tone to something like intimacy.

I actually found it harder to get there, looking up at her so close, than not. I had not really expected to be allowed to cum - girls often don't when playing the cruel dominatrix and Amanda's profile description had emphasized no sex. She picked up on my difficulties, I think, because she watched for a minute then said, gently,

"Take your time; you've been a good slave today. I enjoyed it."

Her sudden kindness was somehow heartbreaking. It also did the trick. The orgasmic feeling began to build, I asked permission and she said I could cum in my hand. As the crisis came I realised how badly I wanted to do it before her naked foot but simply lacked the courage to ask her to remove her shoe. I came hard and overshot my cupped palm with the first spurt which made her laugh.

"Oh, my God! You poor guy, having to go through all this just to cum."

So, I orgasmed to the derisive laughter of a woman - and not for the first or last time.

To conclude, she instructed me to eat my own cum from my hand, lick it from the floor and, after she had left, to take a shower. She got down from the stool without my help, smoothed her dress and asked to see my back.

"Not as bad as it looks; I've done worse" we're her last words to me.

As I left I think I heard her distinctive voice discussing something with another of the girls in an adjoining room. If so, that was the last I ever knew of her. I asked for her on two other occasions but was told she was unavailable - and so I submitted myself to the skills and whims of the girls who happened to be there on the day.

When I asked again I was told she had moved on and might not be doing business anymore, maybe even married. So, I probably never will find out if I have the courage to ask her to take off her shoe.