Sabotage Times, We can't Concentrate so Why Should You?Sabotage Times, We can't Concentrate so Why Should You?

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A Day In The Life Of A Dominatrix: The Unfortunate Ice Cream Incident

by Jacky Donovan
18 December 2013

If I hadn’t ended up as a Dominatrix, I may have retrained as a plumber. After all, both jobs are to do with bums and involve standing back and observing the fruits of one’s labour at the end of an hour’s work.

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Problem: broken toilet. Solution: fix toilet using a range of tools. Outcome of both jobs: one satisfied customer. As a Dominatrix, the process is similar too: I use a variety of tools to complete my work – whips, butt plugs, wallpaper scrapers – and some of my clients leave promising to tell their friends what a great job I’ve done. Word of mouth gag, the best form of promotion there is.

Not that I’m comparing my clients to toilets or saying they have problems either; but whether it’s plumbing or “bumming”, both are concerned with issues with waterworks that only specialists such as me can solve. And yes, I know what “bumming” normally refers to, I just couldn’t resist the ass-onance.

But I love patting my happy clients on their behinds and sending them on their way, with confirmation from them that they’ll be returning. Repeat business is great for me, probably not so much for a plumber; that might just mean they hadn’t got it right the first time round. Yet seeing clients more than once ensures I know just where to take them, how far they can go and helps me to push them even further if they wish.

I don’t get it right every single time though.

Take a regular client of mine – he always stayed at the same hotel, always went to see a show and always came round to see me afterwards. Polite, friendly, with a wife at home. In his forties but looked a little older, with a slightly worried, disappointed look on his face, as if he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere about ten years ago and couldn’t quite pull it back. Of course, there are thousands of men like that but just in case, I’m not going to give you his real name, let’s just call him Mr Whippy.

The end of a long session and Mr Whippy was hot and sweating. He’s one of a few clients who I occasionally let touch me as we’d established a great level of rapport and trust between us, the latter being the most important aspect between me and my slaves.

As I let him gently nibble at my nipples while he slowly came back to Planet Earth, I wondered if my clients lacked something at home or in their private lives generally? An urge that demanded to be met, just like how I sometimes ached for clients to ease my own yearnings. It’s not as if I didn’t sometimes get turned on by my work. I’m not sure if plumbers could say the same thing when they have their head stuck down a toilet bowl.

I noticed Mr Whippy was still panting. In fact, he seemed a little flaky. I figured he may benefit from some sustenance so I refastened my leather basque, trotted off into my tiny kitchen and returned with a tub of ice cream and two spoons.

I peeled off the lid from the ice cream and handed him the spoons. I didn’t mind a bit of nipple sucking here and there, but I wasn’t into sharing cutlery. I might catch germs.

“Now then. I want you to feed me ice cream with one of those spoons, and feed yourself with the other. Then you can leave.”

He looked at me fearfully, much more so than Cream of Cornish should ordinarily cause.

“Do I have to, Mistress?” he trembled.

“Of course you have to. You’ve had your main course, now it’s time for dessert.”

With quaking fingers he dug a spoon into the delicious, yellow ice cream and lifted the little curl up to my mouth. I leaned forward, lifted it onto my tongue and let it slide down my throat. Yum.

“Feed me again,” I half demanded, half sighed.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Another lovely spoonful. Then another. I was almost tempted to grab the carton from off the bed and shovel it all down myself. Of course I didn’t though, that would have looked both extremely gluttonous and totally unprofessional, plus I could tell I’d put a bit of weight on over Christmas.

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I composed myself.

“That will do, slave. Enough. You’ve satisfied Mistress. Now it’s your turn.”

Mr Whippy slowly picked up the other spoon.

“Can’t I just pretend?” he whimpered.

“Of course you can’t pretend. What do you think this is, some kind of game?”

With extreme trepidation, Mr Whippy scooped up a tiny little spoonful then threw it into the back of his mouth, clamped his teeth shut and quickly swallowed.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” I glared at him. Half in annoyance really. Turning his nose up at two litres of Cornwall’s finest, the cheek of it.

He shook his head.

“Do it again,” I instructed.

Two, three tiny more spoonfuls followed.

Mr Whippy’s time was nearly up – he’d paid for ninety minutes and we’d already gone past ninety-nine.  I noticed he’d gone extremely pale – like vanilla. He clutched his throat.

“Oh God,” he groaned.

“What’s wrong with you?” I demanded.

“I really shouldn’t have done that,” and Mr Whippy heaved as if he were about to throw up.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m allergic to ice cream,” and he retched again.

I almost scoffed. Who on earth is allergic to ice cream? That’s like being scared of air. But, as he got up off the bed and staggered over to where his clothes were lying in a heap, groaning and retching again, I could tell he wasn’t fibbing.

“Why didn’t you use our safe word?” I reminded him.

“I forgot about it,” he said meekly. “And I could feel my tongue swelling up.”

I helped him to get quickly dressed.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“I think so,” Mr Whippy half spluttered. “My hotel isn’t far away. Is there an all-night chemist round here?”

“Sure, just around the corner. Three minutes away.” My occasional need for extra condoms or KY meant I knew just how far it was. “D’you want me to order you a cab?” This was now above and beyond the requirements of a Dominatrix, but I really didn’t want a client of mine to fall victim in my lair due to a rogue pudding, a real-life Death By Chocolate. Vanilla sex might be regarded as safe and boring, but Cream of Cornish was clearly dangerous.

“No, I’ll be OK. I just need some… air.”

I escorted him quickly to the door. I enjoyed seeing my clients in pain, but not like this. I almost told him I’d wafer his fee next time. Almost.

I watched him walk away before closing the door and going back in to make a nice, safe, warm cup of tea. I either would or wouldn’t be seeing Mr Whippy again. Oh dear. What was it I’d said about the relationship between clients and trust?

Instant Whips and Dream Toppings: A true-life dom rom com is available from Amazon

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