I Love Sissy Men and Slaves

manheel

In the past, I’ve had submissive men as customers before.  They often want to be beaten or smacked multiple times.  They want to be told they aren’t man enough for this pussy.  They want to be called bitches and sissies and Suzie and Jessica.  They want the heel of a woman jammed into their crotch.  They want to beg and be punished, humiliated, degraded.

This has always been hard for me when I have come across it because I don’t enjoy hurting people.  But I have certainly enjoyed dressing men up in my pretty things and calling them lady names or describing how I’d whip them so if they didn’t lick the scum off the inside of my bath tub perfectly clean.

I recently bought a pair of thigh high boots online that lace up the front.  I didn’t expect them to have little metal studs all up to the top where the laces go.  I put them on and felt as though I were trapped inside two lace up rubber bags.  But they did look hot.

I decided not to send them back in hopes that I might find myself a new sissy who wants to be kicked in the nuts.  I didn’t meet anyone new that night and I was greatly disappointed.  As much as being mean to someone is going against the grain for me, I was in a very nasty, deviant mood.

I did meet someone eventually.  I had known him before but he had never shared his kinky fantasies with me before.  He told me stories about things he’d done to himself and with women.  He showed me real video clips of these things too.

Just the other night I was in the couch room with a customer who wanted the normal sexy dry grind that constitutes a couch dance.  We had just started our song when we heard an awful smacking sound.  It sounded as though a large horse was being beaten to death.

I looked over to see my friend and coworker, Penelope, standing by the back dance booth with a man on his hands and knees on the floor.  The man appeared to be in his fifties or early sixties.  He had grey hair and ruddy, red cheeks that were flushed to the max.  He was on all fours crawling around while she repeatedly whipped him with a thick, black, leather belt.  He was sweating bullets.

I am a stripper.  I do it for money.  But I also do it for fun.  I am not a brainless piece of meat on platform heels.  I am plagued by a constant hunger to learn more and discover more.  Why do these men like to be whipped and called names?  I don’t think there’s anything wrong with these desires, I just long to understand them.

My sister was a dominatrix for Halloween one year.  She kindly gave me her costume when she was finished with it.  I thought it would be tight pleather or at least tight vinyl.  But it wasn’t so at all.  It was made out of this black stretchy stuff.  Very possibly vinyl but definitely not tight fitting.

It would make a great slave outfit, I decided.  I texted my submissive friend and asked if he might like to wear it for me.  I figured it would fit him but I’d have to cut the legs off since it was tighter in the legs.  I told him, “Shorts are sluttier”.  I took it out of my box of treasures and snapped a cell phone picture of it.  He asked me if I could cut holes for the naughty parts.

My significant other happened to catch me with the dominatrix/slave outfit spread across the floor as I shot the picture.  This had not been a blunder on my part so much as it had been an intentional and complete disregard of censorship.  We had been fighting over the fact that I have chosen to do this for a living for so long.  He got so irritated with me that he just left.  It’s really difficult to keep a boyfriend when you do what I do for living and you like it.

I met a young man with an Irish accent one Friday night.  He told me that he had just moved to the United States from Ireland for a job offer.  He would be making almost twice as much as he would back home.  I asked him what the clubs were like in Ireland.  He told me that strip clubs are much more conservative there.  The dancers can touch the patron but the patron cannot touch the dancer.  They aren’t as open or lewd about everything as they are here either.  (Since I have never been to Ireland I cannot support his claim nor can I deny it.)

The young man and I settled into our booth in the champagne room.  We made small talk and began our dance.  Suddenly we heard the sound of Penelope’s whip cracking.  She was standing outside of our champagne room with her “slave” on his hands and knees again.  She was hitting him so hard that my new customer’s eyes widened in disbelief and confusion.  “Don’t worry”, I said, “He likes it that way.  I promise.”

“Oh ok then”, he replied.  His nervous expression seemed to relax a little but he still seemed slightly unnerved.  I rubbed up against him then pulled back away while cocking my head and smiling a sexy grin.

“Sorry dear.  Things are just a little bit different on this side of the Atlantic!”

 

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