Tuesday Morning Bizarre

It's Tuesday morning, I have just gotten out of the shower and been greeted by one Mistress Max, clad in black rubber catsuit and corset. She has informed me that she has finished with one of her slaves, so if I need him to perform any household tasks, he will be awaiting my word in the kitchen.

Upon arrival in the kitchen, I have discovered a rather petite man in a red and black rubber gimp hood. The outfit is completed by the fetching apron depicting a muscled male torso, sporting Union Jack pants, that gimp-boy is wearing.

Just another Tuesday morning.

*That* Session

Mistress Rouge had Trauma Man in the other night. So called because of the way in which I traumatised we him last time we sessioned. He is characterised by a need for every session to be ever sicker and more extreme. My friend sometimes runs out of ideas, so much has been done. But this time, she called in the big guns.

Jeanie is hairy, overweight, was possibly christened Barry, and is Rouge's maid. Jeanie also boasts the prestigious title of Miss Trannyshack 2010. This was awarded to her by Boy George, hopefully with tongue firmly in cheek. Cocksucker is Rouge's driver and slave, not to be confused with slave-driver, which is something entirely different, and quite inappropriate. He is skinny, with long greasy hair. Their purpose was to sit in the dungeon and keep their mouths shut.

Trauma Man is straight. During the session, he was kept bound over the spanking bench, with blindfold firmly in place, blissfully unaware that a bloke, and a hairy bloke in a maid's dress were witness to the rape of his arse. I visited the dungeon to sit and watch for a while.

Eventually boredom took us, and we quietly packed the beautiful assistants off into the next room. We then spent a while inserting more things into the Trauma Man, whilst informing him that we had been extra kind and arranged for a stripper. As she poked his backside, Rouge asked me to put some appropriate music on. I did the only thing I could. Madonna's Like a Virgin. As the opening bars sounded, we leapt up and screamed "And now to perform a strip-tease, Miss Trannyshack 2010," tore of Trauma Man's blindfold, and descended into crazed whooping. I think part of Trauma Man died that night.

As I sat on my throne and watched Jeanie gyrate and remove her clothing, I think a part of me died too. Especially as I felt compelled to suggest that she "rub her booty" into Trauma Man's face.

Meanwhile, in the corner, Cocksucker bopped along to the music, naked, penis erect. Rouge beckoned him over, grabbed our victim's head, and forced it onto his cock.

I can confirm that romance is not dead.