[F4A] Defiling the Dominatrix: dominate, humiliate and torture a pro-domme

Suturing punctured lungs or digging tumours out of brains is probably worse, but being a dominatrix is stressful.

Hearing that always surprises people. I make a living – a good living – by tying men up with their balls hanging through a hole in a chair and kicking those dangling gonads till the guys are sobbing, by sitting my stacked ass down on pretty girls' faces and letting them tongue-fuck my pussy and asshole while I mock them in ways they’d never get to experience in regular life, by locking people in chastity and…well, that’s pretty much it actually, I lock them up and they keep paying me to not interact with them very much. It's not exactly bomb defusal.

What do I have to be stressed about? Well, the then-and-there physical acts aren't the job, any more than being a therapist is getting paid to sit and chat to people all day. It’s all psychological.

That man whose balls I’m pulverising with my feet? He only enjoys it when I’m wearing red heels. He can cum just from the agony of having his family jewels treated like a football, but only if my hair is braided and pinned up in the same way his mother does hers. Not to mention the fact that he’s a high-ranking government official, and the agreement I signed when I first took him as a client means I’ll spend the rest of my life working in fast food and having my wages garnished to pay him restitution if I ever disclose the nature – or even existence - of our relationship.

That girl who I smother regularly? She loves when I denigrate her appearance, but absolutely hates any comparisons to animals or the use of the word ‘dirty’. Due to trauma, she’ll have a severe panic attack if I so much as mention anything involving penetration. I can’t exactly judge her verbal reactions to my ministrations when her head is imprisoned between my asscheeks, so I’m stuck with non-verbal cues. Oh, and part of why she comes to me is my impeccable hourglass figure; my flat stomach which keeps me counting calories along with the skinniest models and my gigantic, firm derriere and thighs, which take as much work as Dwayne Johnson’s biceps.

The dozen keys I have hanging on a necklace, bouncing in my cleavage? The corresponding men and women all need to be denied and ignored in specific, individual ways. One likes to get a picture of my pretty, freshly manicured toes once a week and then to get ignored no matter how much money he sends me. Another needs me to ‘accidentally’ send him texts I meant for ‘guys who actually get to fuck me’ every now and then. Another wants her belt unlocked about once a month if she learns a sufficient amount of French vocab and dresses up like a schoolgirl.

The money is definitely appropriate for the amount of work that goes into all of it, but it doesn’t necessarily help with the stress. A stable support network would do that, but…that’s complicated as well.

My parents think I’m an accountant, I can hardly vent to them about the time Brandon Schwartz’ wife found out about me. Friends never stick around long – they either get jealous of me around their partners, start asking probing questions about how much my services cost, or a weird combination of the two. And forget about dating.

I remember in an episode of Scrubs, JD talks about how, as a Doctor, he struggles not to think about how everyone he meets will die. Now imagine if, instead of mortality, you were constantly exposed to a stream of abnormal sexuality.

A man tells me he’d like to have quite a few kids some day, and something about the way he says it makes me immediately realise he’d like nothing more than to get strapped down to a table with a pump milking his cock. A woman confesses she’s always been insecure about her face but loves her body, and I’m too busy sizing her up for a gimp mask to realise she’s begging for some first date flattery. That’s all before we get to the difficulty of telling them about my job. You’d think people would be less particular since none of my clients actually get to fuck me, but that doesn’t seem to assuage anyone’s feelings of jealousy.

Finally, finally, I’m about ready to get out of the game. I’ve saved up a good amount of money, invested it wisely with the help of my actual accountant. I can retire. A few more months of work to wrap up my contracts and bring certain arcs to their natural conclusions – much like a therapist, I can’t just drop clients in the middle of things, I have standards – and I’ll never have to piss on another man wearing a dog mask.

I can travel. I can relax. I can date. It’s going to be lovely.

That’s when you come onto the scene. We both know, from the moment we meet. here’s something between us. It’s kind of like love at first sight, but horrible. You don’t melt before my bombshell form, Madonna features and entitled boss bitch attitude like everyone else. I feel twin detonations in my brain and cunt. Animalistic fear, crushing arousal and electric excitement well inside me in equal measure. I know you’re special, I know you’re terrifying, but I don’t quite understand how. Not yet.

You’re not going to give the woman who’s spent her entire sex life being called Mistress, Goddess and Queen a gentle introduction to submission. You’re not interested in the psychological side of why I’m suddenly feeling compelled to submit. You’re don’t care enough to carefully feel out my limits together, to treat me with the respect and consideration befitting such a big, emotionally fraught step in my sexual journey.

You just want to fucking ruin me. To punish me for all the men I’ve spat on and beaten and thought I was better than. To show me that I’m no different from the girls I’ve paraded round on leashes and edged and tortured. To prove that, in your hands, I’m just as much of a slab of breakable fuckmeat as the most pathetic, depraved submissive I’ve ever tormented.

There’s something you understand that I don’t, yet. For over a decade, I thought I was the apex predator, all because my clients weren’t just the minority of people who wanted to pay for me to mistreat them, they were the minority who got to - everyone I met wanted to. I was wrong. I might have been capable of reducing 99.99% of the human population into mutts barking eagerly for scraps of my attention, but I’ve finally met a bigger fish.

That’s why my breath hitches when you look at me that way. That’s why I’m going to make my entire arsenal of paraphernalia available to you, for you to destroy me with. Why I’ll give you access to all my bank accounts and diverse portfolio of assets and then spend the day knelt between your legs with my head buried in your crotch and my mouth soaking your chair in drool while you look over it all. Why I’ll crawl into my own dungeon at your heels, the ass that’s smothered more faces than the average person will kiss in their lifetime raised high, proudly displaying crimson handprints and purple bruises, a cruel hook stretching out my asshole and connecting via a long leather leash to the other hook that’s turning my beautiful, regal face into a pig grimace.

I’m not going to spend my retirement sipping wine in the French riviera. I’m not going to settle down with some soft-hearted romantic who can make me forget all the disgusting things I’ve seen and done. I’m not going to finally start working on those mystery novels I’ve always thought about.

I’m going to scream for you. Cum for you. Beg for you. Cry for you. Spend every waking moment serving you. I’m going to be the canvas you’re going to use to paint a masterpiece that makes my lifetime of professional domination look like the crayon scrawlings of a madwoman.

Because I’ve always been a pretender, and you’re what I’ve pretended to be.

---

Hey DPP!

This is going to be consensual. I want to hate the things I do for you, feel crushing shame at the fact that I’m letting you treat me like this, sob at my inability to tell you that simple two letter word that would make it all stop, but through it all I want that overriding instinct of submission to a better to keep me from actually saying ‘no’.

Also, as overblown and superlative-laden as the scenario is, I don't need your character to be Chad McBigCock or Stacy Supermodel. That spark I feel from you isn't necessarily an attraction, but an awareness that you're better at my own game than me. The only thing I require of your character is for them to have an even sharper natural, animal cunning than my character for humbling and humiliating their victims.

Aside from that, go wild. The key theme here is the humiliation of having the dominance that was the cornerstone of my career, of my personality, shattered and inverted. Do interesting things with that, please, don’t just say how you’d fuck me.

Please keep a level of verisimilitude in your writing. Fucking me in front of my friends, parading me around in public on a leash, or randomly being a bigot in day-to-day life would get you in trouble. I'm looking to play this in the real world, not some consequence-free porn playground fantasy land. Thanks.

Kinks: Humiliation, degradation, cuckqueaning, competition, dub-con, punishment, financial domination, torture, sloppy oral (giving), servitude, outfit control, implicit (read: undiscussed) submission, torture, tease and denial, embarrassment, feet, originality, creativity, specificity, depravity.

Limits: Underaged, scat, excessive piss focus.