The Entirety of Sold as a Slave-Girl

I saw a new client last night for a switch session. For the most part, he would be dominant. At the end, the tables would be turned. You never know what to expect with first-timers, and there is only so much you can gather from them on the phone. He seemed nice enough. He said he had no desire to leave marks, and that it would be much more of a "tie and tease" affair.

I opened the door to a fairly small, fairly quiet, very nervous man. We sat on the bed in the room above the dungeon to discuss the session, and get better acquainted. There was nothing objectionable, nor out of the ordinary about him, but he was not the sort of man I would fantasise about. He quickly informed me that he envisaged a scenario whereby I had been bought as a slave-girl, and that he would train me for about forty minutes, at the end of which, I would be released for good behaviour. At this moment, I would trick him, restrain him, and give him a taste of his own medicine.

Despite the fact I do not fancy most of the clients I see, there are some elements of some sessions that hold appeal. Unfortunately, because there is no fancying involved, I do not get off (no matter how much I may look like it), but the theory of the thing remains with me. Tweak a bit here, substitute man there, and voila! Me, my hand, and I.

This session was a similar experience. There were elements of comedy and boredom, punctuated with a bit of wank fodder.

We went downstairs. I was ordered to strip, he sidled up alongside me and tried to disguise his nerves with special-authoritive-voice.

"I have to inform you that you have been bought as a slave girl..."

Tweak: A tall, refined man with a voice like velvet approaches behind me. He gently lifts my hair, and places a small, leather collar around my neck. He speaks in a gentle whisper, but his words are filled with menace. "You wear this because you are mine, do you understand?" He moves around to face me. His fingers brush across my lips, "These are mine," they reach down, and I feel nails graze across my nipples, "these are mine," they fall further still, inviting themselves into the cleft between my legs, "and this is mine."

But remember, you can't have it all, so back to reality.

My client has a love of shackles and chains. Real slave-girl harem stuff. Again, much potential there. Once we had found the keys (important), he locked my wrists and ankles into the metal cuffs. The ankles were attached to each other by a short chain, as were the wrists. Get the idea here. I looked at myself in the mirrored wall opposite, and noted that I should suggest them to Alistair. I looked hot.

He had me do several laps of the room, shuffling as I went.

Then he had me do several laps on tip-toes.

Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

Mercifully, I was then released, and my wrists were winched up to the ceiling. Special lotion was applied to my nipples, or as I like to call it, bottle-of-lube-from-shelf. He then told me he could see how sensitive my nipples were becoming, and how frustrated I must be. Funny, I thought, I hadn't noticed...

After being lowered, I was then ordered to kneel across the whipping bench. I heard him disappear, presumably looking for a new toy. I found my thoughts drifting off towards the devilishly handsome man who was about to prise my buttocks apart, and thrust his cock roughly into my arse.

And then my client walked in.

Back to reality.

I felt him tie rope around my ankles, and raise them on the winch slightly. This caused my legs to be held further apart. It was another one of those moments, filled with potential, but ultimately dashed because I don't really fancy my clients. But wait, what was that? Special lotion on the vibrating device? Well, what can I say, I am not getting enough sex at the moment, and I have a good imagination. Those two of those combined, and I almost came. Sadly, the vibrator was removed from between my legs, and I had to fake it later.

Eventually, I was released for my good behaviour. Master has a penchant for massage, so I immediately set about oiling his back and rubbing away. Being the diligent slave-girl that I am, I asked him if he had seen the special massage device that targets all the pressure points on the body. Yes, I know those look like leather straps that are going to hold you prisoner and render you useless, but don't be deceived. Pressure points. Honest. What's that you say, Master? You'd like to experience this very specialised kind of massage? Well let me show you.

Hahahahahahahaaa, I am evil slave-girl, and you are now at my mercy, but there will be no mercy, hahahahahaaaaa.

I squeezed a healthy dollop of special lotion onto my finger, and my client actually said "Oh, no, not the sensitivity lotion!"

Hahahahahaaaaa, yes the sensitivity lotion, for I am bad, bad, bad slave-girl, High Priestess of the Harem of Horrid. I probably didn't say all of that.

The man did well, after all, he had to endure so much. I had no choice but to test my large purple vibrator on him. I held it against his cock, and I feel I must comment on the bucket of cum that landed at my feet. It was inhuman. A lesser woman would have needed waders.

The Champagne Incident

Before Alistair and I toddled off to Cyprus, he asked the ex if she wanted to house-sit. (Oh, yes, regardless of what may or may not have happened, she is still around). She agreed, and said she would mind the kinky B&B too. I usually do this job. It's pretty straight forward... you do everything you would if you were preparing a regular hotel room. Make it clean and beautiful before the guests arrive, and then in the morning, go deal with the carnage. Although, I have to say the guests are usually very clean, and very tidy.

The ex did not show up to mind the house. In fact, it seems that the only times she was there was to prepare the B&B, and for the dinner party she threw in our absence, (we'll come to this later).

The guests arrived on the Friday evening. Alistair got a call on Saturday afternoon. I am not sure whether it was from the guests, or from the brand new Mistress who has never rented our dungeon-space, but was due to on the Saturday afternoon. In any case, Alistair had misunderstood the amount of time the guests wanted. They wanted the whole weekend. Alistair had only booked them in for Friday night, and the new Mistress had booked a session in with a client on Saturday. Of course, all of this could have been discovered before any real damage was done. Had the ex been there, instead of fucking off to a party, she would have gone down in the morning to discover the guests still there. She could then have offered for them to relax upstairs whilst the new Mistress had her session, and then they could have returned back to a nice, clean, ready to go B&B. (The guests would not have minded this, because they are regulars and friends). Instead, what happened was the Mistress walked in on the guests, and was understandably angry. She cancelled her appointments, and Alistair lost the money from them. The guests did not return for the full weekend, and Alistair lost substantial money there, too.

Still, bless the ex, she can't do much wrong in Alistair's eyes. If only she had received the text message he sent her in time, she could have rushed wastedly back to the house from the party across London. All would have been well.

The ex had also agreed to pick us up from the airport. We were due to land at 2.30am. During the course of our last day in Cyprus, we get a little message informing us that there had been a big party in Brighton, which had gone on for ages, and she might not be in any condition to drive, and due to highness, no sleep had been possible. I knew instantly we were going to be stranded at the airport. It was of no surprise when we then received a message telling us that no one would be coming to fetch us. I blinked in disbelief when Alistair tried to blame the situation on the fact that there was a party in Brighton. Indeed. How dare our mutual friends throw a party, and tempt the ex away from fulfilling her promise of a lift from the airport. Frankly I wouldn't have minded half as much, if it was during the day. We could have caught a train. Instead we had to arrange for an expensive cab.

But, bless her, it's not her fault.

When arrived home, I scanned the kitched. Imagine my delight as I discovered that I would have the privilege of clearing up yet another of her dinner parties. In fact, I do believe that I have cleared up at least the previous five parties she has had, even the ones I did not attend.

And lo, I would get to feel even more special, for what is that brown substance all over the bath? It is professional wax from the professional waxing kit, and it has set, and it may only be removed with solvent. A real treat.

Lucky, lucky me.

And lucky, lucky her. Use Alistair's house to host a party whilst we are away, and not actually bother to give anything back at all. Even if it means stranding us at the airport at 2.30am.

Yesterday, I set about clearing the kitchen. As I looked at the line of bottles by the bin, I saw an empty bottle of Tattinger Champagne. My eyes narrowed in suspicion. I had bought one of those for Alstair on his birthday... we were saving it to drink together. Before I even opened the refrigerator, I already knew it had been drunk. I got a bit shouty.

This is rare for me.

However, rather than see my (I think rather fair) point of view that all this was just a bit too fucking out of order, Alistair thought I was grossly over-reacting, and was only upset because I have a chip on my shoulder about the ex. Hmmmm. Well, he could be right, but let's just re-cap this page of events, just in case. I'll let you all decide for yourselves, shall I?

So angry.

You get him on a good day, and it has to be very, very, very good, and Alistair will admit that he defends the ex when often he really shouldn't. Mostly, just like now, he smiles a little smile, and says she's been a bit naughty.

He did mention the Champagne to her on the phone, and the state of the kitchen. After the conversation, I asked if she had at least apologised. He said no. This did not seem to bother him. Moreover, she had blamed the birthday Champagne on mutual friends who had raided the fridge. So her guests at her party had drunk my birthday present to Alistair. This seemed to make it a bit more ok for my absolutely bumfuck-crazy beloved. Apparently the ex has said she'll replace it. Watch this space, but please, oh please, don't hold your breaths.

Sex in a Recession

A few weeks ago, a well known professional switch passed on a couple to me. She is no longer able to see them, as she has recently entered into a new relationship, and marks on her body have become an issue.

Before my visit, she told me that the couple were about 70, looked younger, and saw her in order to spice up their sex lives. As it turned out, we really hit it off. He is a musician and author, and together, they sell antique jewellery and handbags on the Portobello Road. This immediately endeared them to me, as I love writing, and retro.

He wanted to play with me first, then fuck his wife in front of me. It turned out he liked to play hard, but was very respectful of my limits. It was really a process of exploration for us both, since this was a first meeting. It quickly became obvious that I was never going to be able to take the cane to the degree he would like. 100 strokes? You have got to be joking. And I bruise very easily. He went hard enough, but not as severe as it could have been, and my tender flesh was very definitely marked. This does not concern me at all. In any case, he was pleased with me, because I am quite a find for one particular reason. I like face-slapping, and whilst I can't take much of a caning on my backside, smack me silly round the face, and I am happy. And remember, it's not romantic unless you cry. Apparently, most girls don't do that kind of thing. So maybe I'm not a "nice" girl, after all.

I can't say that any of this thrilled me in an especially moist way, but my love of the bizarre ensured that this was time well-spent. So I simply bent over the cushions on the bed, marvelling at my life, and considered how it came to pass that I found myself on a strange bed, being caned by a man in his 70s with a strong New Yorker accent.

I was then sent out to fetch his wife. And I can confirm that old people do it in pretty much the same way young people do, so there is hope for us all.

When I returned home, I found an email from them, informing me how much they liked me, how perfect I was, and how I had a job for life...

Fast forward to this week.

I receive a call informing me that I am perfect, and they love me, but the dealer who buys the majority of their stuff has gone bankrupt, owing them a substantial amount of money... They will be living on their savings now, and can only afford to pay me £100. My fee is £200, and indeed usually higher than that, but I gave them a discount because a friend referred them to me, and that was what she charged.

I am oddly consumed with guilt that I am going to have to refuse them, but £100 for what I do just isn't going to cut it.

The Dance

My housemate, Saladin (see older posts), came home tonight. I hardly see him because he is dutifully looking after his ailing mother. He did not stay long.

We were in the kitchen, inspecting the damage that the leak from the flat above had caused. It flooded us a week ago, and things have been slowly drying out. There was banter, the usual kind, the kind where I feel as if I am disadvantaged because he unnerves me.

He informed me that I have got off lightly because he has not been around very much, but as soon as he is able to spend more time in the house, he will resume patrolling around, making sure everything is just so. He is the only person I know who is more OCD than even my mother. I am a tidy housemate, but no one is ever immaculate enough for Saladin.

I admitted to him that perhaps I am not the best there is at washing up. I squirmed as I found myself confessing that all the previous men in my life have complained about my appalling incompetance at the kitchen sink. It's not that I don't do it- I do- it's just that no matter how hard I try, I never seem to shift all of the dirt.

That won't do in Saladin's house, oh no.

He casually leant back against the counter-top, but stared at me intently.

"Have any of those men actually shown you the correct way to wash up?"

I answered in the negative, and then smiled slyly and told him it was all simply because they had not put an effective reward/punishment system in place. He agreed and began mentioning something about a cane, I became flustered... I am not quite sure what was said, but it ended in the description of his latex coated cane.

I protested. I would not entertain such a thing. Far, far too painful. And I was quick to point out that I am a purist, it's the biting kiss of bamboo for me. But Saladin never listens to my complaints, and left the room, returning seconds later with a fairly thick cane, thinly coated in black rubber.

He told me to hold my arm straight out to the side, so that my hand was level with my shoulder. I was about to decline, but he flashed me a look and repeated his order. I obeyed. He stroked the cane across my palm, and a battle of wills began, as he taunted me, repeatedly raising the stick as if he was about to strike. I refused to flinch, and looked away. He instructed me to look at my hand, and so I did, and still, I refused to flinch.

All the while he was speaking to me, calmly, matter of factly.

His words made my cheeks burn. Very few men make me blush.

He brought the cane down on my hand, but not unbearably hard, so I teased him.

He began speaking to me again.

He brought the cane down again, and I squealed in pain.

I began to complain, but he cut my words off with talk of scattering rice on the floor of the living room... I blushed harder than I have in a long time. I actually hid my face in my hands. I said,

"I am going to my room now,"

and I ran away.

Rice? Well, that's a story from some time ago. Back when I began this blog. One of my first entries related to what Saladin described to me around two years ago, when we went on a date.

We have been on three dates now over a period of two years, and then three weeks ago, I moved in as housemate. Over two years, we have kissed but once, and he has smacked my palm with a cane.

This is a long, slow dance...

An Officer and a Gentleman

I recently went to dinner with a man I have known of for about 2 years. Known of but never met. Over time, he had sent me an email or two on a fetish community site. I remember having received them, yet I cannot remember why I did not respond. The first may have been because I was with the then love of my life, (a love which was not to be), the second may have been because I was newly consumed with lust for the thorn in my heart that is Alistair.

I am still not yet inclined to discuss that boy's betrayal of me.

And then, out of the blue, there was another message from The Officer. It was on another fetish site, and seemed to be prompted simply by the fact that he had discovered a face he knew, at least online. And suddenly, I found myself responding. Partly because I should have done it a long time ago, and partly because I know that somewhere out there, there is a man who will love me passionately, treat me honourably, and protect me quietly. And I know that if he is out there, he probably won't come to me, I need to help things along. And so just like that, I asked this man to dinner, and just like that, he accepted.

In some respects, he is just my type. An Oxbridge educated intellectual, tall, funny, and a complete pervert. He is in fact a rare breed, a male pro-dom who women do indeed pay to see. And yet not my type at all. He is handsome, but very definitely masculine. Refined, but masculine. His hair is short and red, he has a small goatee... Frighteningly new terrain.

He lives only ten minutes drive from my home, in a famously vibrant part of London. Because of this, we agreed to meet there for a drink, with the intention of moving on to a restaurant for dinner. It was a blues bar that specialises in bourbon. I had never been there before.

I wore black stockings and suspenders, and a long tight black skirt, with a slit outlined in a flamenco ruffle, cut high up the back. Modest from the front, and provocative from behind. And I really wasn't all that nervous, until the bus closed in on my destination.

I walked in and immediately saw him seated at the bar. He had warned me he would be in his work suit. I adore good suits, and he wears good suits. He has a well paid job, and is very driven, a workaholic, really. Filled with ambition and a desire to be the best, and yet all in a quiet, almost understated way. He said hello, leant in and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I was already wondering whether I would be able to keep up with Mr. Oxbridge. He handled his intellect the same way as the other elements of himself, with an understated self-confidence. And it is instantly likeable. I find wealthy people who make a grand show of splashing their money everywhere extremely distasteful, and I find clever people who do the same with their mental capacity just as objectionable.

And he never once placed all of his cards on the table, but never once appeared guarded. This is a very pleasing quality in a man. He was very funny, and made me laugh. He was flirtatious without seeming to be already mentally occupying my knickers (something I am not used to, after spending so much time around Alistair... I don't judge, I am often the same). We spoke about many things, and I looked at him with disgust when I discovered he drank beer. Still, I suppose he is a Yorkshireman.

He laughed when I told him he was like a real life Sharpe. He was born into a working class family in Yorkshire, and educated at the local comprehensive... That alone makes it even harder to get into Oxbridge, but he did, and studied physics. Despite being the eternal artist, I am always ending up with science/IT bods. He then became an engineer in the army, and left as an officer with two tours of Iraq under his belt.

I eagerly listened to his stories.

I eagerly insisted he should drink cocktails with me, and picked a flouncy sounding one for him.

I kissed him, he kissed me... And suddenly all thought of moving on to a restaurant evaporated, and we propelled ourselves to the large, grand wooden doors of his apartment block. Along the way, I asked if he likes ladies who smoke, he replied that he prefers for them not to... And I am such a good girl.

He has a beautiful flat. Part home, part dungeon, all at once. There is both regular and dungeon furniture in the living room, and it all works very well together. And he has two darling cats, which is always a sure way to endear me to a man...

I can't recall at what point we went from speaking to him grabbing my neck and forcing me face-down into the couch. It all happened rather quickly. I do remember him whispering into my ear what a slut I was, coming back to a stranger's house on a first date, with that piece-of-northern-rough accent of his. I felt his hand between my legs, but barely, never enough to satisfy.

He told me to undress, and dragged me into another room. There, he put a soft leather hood on me. I often think hoods look unappealing, fun as they are, but this one was different. Tiny holes were punched across the leather that covered my eyes. By tilting my head and squinting, I could just about make out my reflection in the mirrors that covered the entire wall. He was behind me, pressed agaisnt me, his arm snaking around my throat. I looked and felt fragile against his wiry frame. It made me hot. And my black lingerie looked good with the hood.

There was so much more to come.

But if it counts for anything, and right now, nothing counts for much, I fell asleep in his arms.

Was it good for you?

Yesterday evening, at half past seven, I climbed the stairs up to Sir's beautiful London apartment. This would be my first time flying solo, and having previously been the one wielding the crop, this was my first time offering my services as a submissive. I was required for two hours, and my tribute was enough to put a smile on my face. Enough to help me control my nervousness.

And it was not the thought of submitting to strangers that made me anxious, not the removal of clothes, nor the vulnerability. It was simply that I was offering a service, and it needed to be good. I needed to be good. If either one of the couple had been smacked with the ugly stick, it would be harder to be good.

Sir had already mentioned to me that they were absolutely gorgeous... But my tastes are not everybodies'.

And yet, I was greeted at the door by the woman, the Mistress, and she was gloriously beautiful. But being straight as a line, her gorgeousness was wasted on me. She spoke very little English, and beckoned me inside. We went into the living room, which is also half of the dungeon (executed perfectly, not one piece of mundane, or kinky furniture looks out of place), her partner was seated on the sofa, looking apprehensive. I had already been told via email that he was not convinced by the idea of this session, but was doing it to please her.

I tried to act natural, like I had done this one hundred times before. The voice in my head was wondering what is considered polite in these circumstances... It's different when you are the dominant, you take that and run with it, but if you are the submissive, well... I wondered if I should say hello, have a little chat, possibly even tea and biscuits. In the email, she seemed to want me to just get down to business, and they didn't have much to say... I indicated that I needed to go into the bathroom to put on my long, latex gloves. Pulling them on seemed to take and age.

When I returned, the Mistress told me to take off my clothes. She left the room, and I found myself stripping in front of a strange, but handsome man, who looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. When I was down to only my stockings and gloves, I approached him and ran my gloved hand down his face. She had told me that he loves the smell of latex. His partner quickly returned, and she indicated that I should undress him, and so I obeyed. His body was as beautiful as his face, smooth olive skin and lightly muscled. She remained corsetted in leather, and she knew so few words of English, most of her communication with me was with a gesture of the hand, or a look in the eye. She showed me that she wanted me to tease her partner, to pleasure him, but only a little.

I should say that many who are involved in this kind of work do not offer sexual favours... I am not one of those people. I am a deeply sexual person, and for me, BDSM is a deeply sexual practice. And who wouldn't take a bite, when confronted with a man like that?

After I had begun to excite him just enough that he had relaxed into the correct headspace, she took him and bound him to the St Andrews cross, she had me suck his cock as she whispered something I could not understand into his ear. Then suddenly she took me, pushed me down onto the spanking bench, and tied me there. I felt her hand between my legs, and then she began spanking me, gently at first, but then harder. And I could feel his eyes burning into us, watching as he hung there...

Before the two hours were over, she forced me on him a few more times, and him on me. She tied him to the spanking bench, and asked me to fetch her a glass of water. She watched me struggle with the task, as she had left my hands still bound. Then, I was to stand in front of her partner, so that his head was pressed into my pussy. She indicated that I should hold the glass out towards her, across his back, so that she could drink from it when she chose. In Spanish, she told him to lick me, and she began to fuck him with her strap-on. The more I felt his tongue, the more difficult it became not to spill the water. The harder she fucked him, the harder it became not to spill the water...

When she was finished playing the girl who was playing rough with her dolls, she had me kneel on all fours in the centre of the living room, and had her partner fuck me there, as she reclined on the couch, and watched.

They asked me to see them again, 3 days later.

Bed, Breakfast, and dungeon.

It is hard to know where to begin. A lot of time has elapsed, a lot of things have happened. I have decided to ease myself in slowly, and introduce to the main project I have been working on.

As I have previously mentioned, the fetish B&B is now up and running, we had our first customer last weekend, and they absolutely loved it, and said that they'd book again.

Obviously, the idea is that guests receive luxurious, self-contained accomodation, including bathroom and kitchen, and the most important thing, a dungeon. Although in this case, they also get a medical room too. I am running the webmarketing side of things, and the general frou-frou maintenance of the place. i.e. I make things look beeee-yoooo-ti-ful, make beds, etc.

And to be honest, I have got to the point where I am not so concerned about hiding who I am anymore. Not that I am going to reveal myself in all my exciting glory to you right now. Simply that I want you guys to take a look at the establishment. My lovely friend and photographer did the pictures, and I dressed the rooms. Behold: London Fetish Studio.

Spanking School

Earlier on in the year, I helped a friend deliver a class on fellatio, hand-jobs, and good things to do with your partner's penis.

Freya is an internationally well-known figure in the world of kink and beyond. She is an author, performer, artist, and columnist. Based abroad, she visits the UK about twice a year to give classes for an exclusive boutique of erotica, and to perform at clubs. Tonight, I shall be assisting her with a spanking class, and I will be the spankee. Of course, I can't wait to tell you how it goes, but for now, I shall leave you with the details of the JoyStick class from earlier this year...


These classes are mostly frequented by bored middle-class people with quiet sex lives, and money to burn. I am probably being a bit unfair here. This particular class was held at a rather nice private members club on the Portabello Road. It was all women, mostly giggling, with not a single male partner in sight.


The way Freya does the class is to go in on her own initially to give a 15m intro. She then tells the class that she is about to call her boyfriend in. "GASP," say the women, "Does she really mean to insert a man's erect penis into her mouth in front of us? Here? An erect penis? Her mouth?" But ha-ha, the joke is on them, and the middle-aged woman in the front row who just died of a heart-attack pegged it for nothing...


"Boyfriend, oh Boyfriend..." calls Freya. There is an excruciating pause, during which time none of the women know what to do with themselves, then in I stride wearing trousers, blouse, and a strap-on. Oh, and bunches. We thought the contrast between strap-on and bunches was amusing.


I strode up to the platform, thrusting my hips, my artificial manhood leading the way. Some colour was beginning to come back into the women's cheeks. Yes it was relief all round.


During the class, Freya demonstrated how to approach your man in a sexy fashion and perform an inpromptu blow-job. She explained how people should be prepared to loosen up more, that mussed-up hair is sexy, that makeup running down the cheeks is just about the hottest thing ever. I agreed whole-heartedly, and told them that it was just the other night when my man pulled me in front of the mirror so I could see the streaks down my face, and told me how hot I looked. Of course, he also told me I was a filthy slut, and the reason I had running eyes was because he had slapped me round the face several times. I left that part out. These classes are meant to be "accessible". But I had to wonder how on earth any of this stuff was new to these women. There was one moment where Freya was discussing the use of pelvic floor muscles during sex, and the clenching thereof... You'd have been forgiven for thinking that she had just discovered a cure for cancer, clenching the vaginal musles during sex: a revelation indeed.

That said, I must admit that, despite walking into the class thinking: "What could I possibly have to learn?" I walked away with a couple of new strings to add to my bow. And I owe it all to Freya, and the courgettes hidden under everyone's chair, including mine.

Yes, this was the "How to put a condom on a penis using only your mouth" part of the class. I had never attempted this before, and was not familiar with the technique. Freya told us her special secret whilst handing out condoms, and then we began putting what we had learned into practice. I am proud to say that I did it effortlessly, like lightening, like it was instinct. I like to call it talent. And as I smugly brandished my sheathed courgette, I surveyed the class from atop my platform of sexual righteousness, and wondered how I came to be here. How had my life led me to fellating a corgette, seated on a platform before a room full of sexually repressed posh women, all slobbering frustratedly over vegetables? These thoughts evaporated as my smile grew wider. They were replaced with feelings of pleasure and contentment. For all the difficulties and sorrows, there are some parts of my existence that I adore. For I may be overly sarcastic, at times downright derogatory, but the truth is that helping a bunch of mainstream women break out of their shells and enjoy better sex is awesome. The weird and wonderful situations in which I find myself keep me going. And it is a joy to help out at Freya's classes because she is amazing at what she does.


I should say that at the end of her class, she handed out latex gloves to everyone, and offered to demonstrate the fellatio techniques she had taught to us on our fingers, so we could actually learn what it feels like. During the session I had watched and listened, I had played "stunt-cock", and I had thought that Freya had some interesting ideas. After she had finished with the women, she came over to my gloved hand. All I can say is, sweet Jesus, I wish I was as lesbian as she is. Her wife is a lucky woman. If that's what it feels like on the hand, I can only imagine what she can do to a real penis...