Every six months, I put on my glammest face, black leather trousers, and shiny leather boots, and get into the Uber he’s booked me to his central London penthouse. Texting as I ride, he asks about my latest sessions with other clients in the dungeon — our foreplay. I tell him about the client who wanted my stiletto heel to pierce his body, and another who wanted me to spit in his mouth. We text for 40 minutes until, with a jolt, I realise I’ve arrived. I thank the driver and enter the building, silently passing the concierge to take the lift to the 13th floor. This is one of his many homes, and it appears unlived in; reserved for his kinky indiscretions.
I’m meeting the man I call ‘sexy cornflakes’ — a nickname he’s acquired from opening the door one too many times while eating his cereal. He isn’t like my other clients, mostly because he’s extremely sexy, but also because our relationship is naughtier than the usual transaction I have with my submissives. As a Dominatrix hired to debase high-powered men, the predetermined power play — and formality that comes with it — can become lacklustre, mechanical even. With him, it’s more nuanced: a play on power akin to a hazy afternoon with a lover — one who just happens to love leather, weed, and being edged for hours.
On this particular visit, it’s Bonfire Night, and erratically-timed bangs fill the silence as I enter his home; we never speak unless it’s a kinky instruction. As he perches himself on his large sofa, his cornflakes still in hand, I move slowly towards him, hovering over his lap so he can caress my leather trousers. I lean my weight into him, arse cheeks meeting his crotch. There’s no pleasantries in this house.
He reaches from behind me for his weed vaporiser pen (rich people never smoke the tar-producing way) and places it between my lips. I take a few slow drags until I feel a mellow high. As he moves his hands onto my body, I invite his fingers to trace the curvature of my arse. His breathing in my ear gets deeper, more primal. I instruct him to lie down and I stand over his face, teasing him before eventually lowering myself down so he can inhale my leather-clad pussy. I ride his face a little, warming myself up, and see him harden beneath his grey tracksuit bottoms. Demanding he reveal his erection, I crawl down his body until my thighs become tight around his cock.
As his aching thrusts breathe into me, I stand to continue the tease, sliding my trousers down to reveal my flesh. Looking down at his gaze of desperation, I begin stroking my pussy outside of my thong. “I want a toy,” I demand, and he disappears into his dark bedroom. When he returns, he’s clutching a wand vibrator. My body relaxes into a still anticipation, remembering the last time I played with this toy and how much I liked it. When the wand meets my pussy, I amp things up, telling him everything I did with my clients last week. Looking into his eyes, I command him to move closer to kiss my neck. He abides, whispering questions about my revelations: “How hard did you step on him?”; “Was he begging for your mercy?”; “Did he choke on your spit?”
Breathlessly retelling my Dominant encounters makes me hornier and hornier. I can tell it’s working for him too — but he won’t get his release any time soon. On the edge of my climax, I tell him to pull my hair, and soon I’m coming hard, enjoying the pain in his eyes from the restraint and torment imposed on his own orgasm.
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Feeling blissed out from my orgasm and the weed, I watch him as he opens the window, revealing an elaborate display of neighbouring fireworks. Still wet with no knickers on, I move my face to the breeze and watch peacefully. We lie together, our limbs seeking an intimate form of aftercare, despite his still-present erection — and that’s the point. I want him to feel that this edging may never stop; for his yearning desire to become incessant, intolerable. We talk about quotidian things — what we do in the gym, where I buy my leather boots from — anything other than his release.
Just when he thinks I’ve forgotten about his pleasure, I turn my ass to face him and tell him to fuck me. He crawls over, feral from waiting, pushes his face in my neck, and then, with a grateful moan, enters me from behind. I can feel how hard he is, how the waiting has built up inside him, how primitively his body needs mine. Gripping my hips, he thrusts for less than a minute before making a sound I know only too well — he cannot restrain any longer.
When he asks if he can come, I smirk. I’ve told him ‘no’ so many times today. Four hours in, and it’s time. “You may,” I say, turning my head to face him. As I do, his body begins to convulse and he tilts his head back, guttural groans escaping from his throat until his thrusts slow and he collapses below me. “Did you come hard?”, I ask, with a flirtatious sarcasm that continues the tease. He looks up at me with wide eyes; he knows he’s got another half a year of edging before I see him again, standing shirtless in the doorway with his bowl of cornflakes.
