Review by slave P!
The occasional stolen underwear, videos watched in private,
bondage mags read and dumped before being caught red-handed, was
the closest this old bachelor came to fulfilling fantasies
ranging from being abducted by school girls to being Nora
Batty's husband. But he had to hide these fantasies, evolving
since boyhood, in the closet of his mind. He didn't trust the
ads he read in those magazines, or more recently on the
Internet. He never believed they were real, were anything
more than men using women using men to make an easy buck. He
never believed that women had fantasies reciprocal to his own.
At least the women he knew didn't, although he's still not sure
about that. He never asked them. Would you?
The time was right; Television programmes and the
Internet nervously convinced him that this kind of thing was
normal somewhere! This, combined with menopausal panic, urged
him to do something about 'coming out' and fulfilling his
life-denied desires before things started falling off
completely, e.g. hair, teeth, gums and guns. Eventually, after
trawling the Internet, he discovered Madam Dee's website!
The place was right; At first it did seem too good
to be true - somewhere in Spain far from the vanilla crowd,
where you could stay for two weeks if you liked, and at a price
within reason for a daily 'session' combined with a vacation!
The person was right; Reading about Madam Dee on
her website gave the feeling of a knowing, larger-than-life yet
down-to-earth woman, qualities more attractive than those of the
glossy money-honeys elsewhere - out for your pocket, not for
your mind. Beautiful she looked, and sexy. Having said that and
just in case any aspiring dominatrix is reading this: beauty is
in the eye of the beholder, and sex appeal in the whip of the
holder - you don't have to be a Madam Dee to be Goddess!
So, I took the plunge, booked a week, and spent a nerve-wracking
month prior to departure figuring out what I would tell my
friends and relatives. Smoking is good for something. It
was the excuse I had, the smoke screen for what they would
consider shocking if they only knew. They probably thought I was
daft anyway, heading off to Spain to quit my sixty a day habit!
It being my first time meeting like-minded people, I am still
mystified by how relaxed I felt when I finally met with Madam
Dee and her husband, and how normal! We concluded that what I
wanted was to be introduced to BDSM her way, to experience
whatever she had in mind, whether I liked it or not. She gave me
a safe word, just in case. I recall that she did conclude her
first email to me with the phrase 'looking forward to playing
with you.' That sounded so nice (and exciting!) and just about
wrapped up all my fantasies in one. I decided after that first
email not to further investigate her website until after my
visit; I wanted to be surprised!
What was I thinking!! This naive, innocent, un-worldly, virgin
to BDSM was subjected to a week of almost everything you may
have read about in the other reviews. I think it was on the
fifth day€¦ yes, it took me that long to realise that I am not
a masochist. So, I hear someone ask, why didn't I use the safe
word? Two reasons, firstly I didn't have to: Madam Dee seemed to
sense the safe word in my moans, screams and pleadings, and had
the expertise to know how far she could push me, and went just
that little bit beyond my little threshold. Secondly I didn't
want to: here was this beautiful, sexy woman enjoying me - Yes,
enjoying me, A wimp, an ordinary non-macho Joe soap, a specimen
unworthy of her. At least I thought she was enjoying me: the
tone of her voice hinted at more than job satisfaction. That is,
when I could hear her against the sound of my own gagged shrieks
and hooded heavy breathing anticipating the unknown pain to
come. It also helped that I got to know her a little bit during
'relaxation time' , as a result of which I just wanted so much
to please her, to be used and abused by her. I only wished I
were a stronger man, capable of taking the pain for the sole
purpose of her pleasure!
There was no pleasure for me while she wo-manipulated my tits
whenever she felt like it, at least nine times a day. When not
bound, you would know she was going for them; you would sense
the smirking look in her eyes, and her approaching fingers
massaging the air. I developed the habit by the second day of
pressing my hands as hard as I could against whatever solid
object was behind me before those fingers reached their twin
targets, in order to avoid an involuntary reaction to the pain
which might have culminated in her accidentally getting hurt. Or
so I thought. On one occasion while manacled to her St Andrew's
cross, my right leg reflexively rose and almost collided with
her, again so I thought; the leg chains on that occasion were
long enough to afford as much movement. I'm short sighted by the
way. After that incident I took to voluntarily standing on my
toes with my legs spread as she had ordered while she inflicted
her desires, in order to absorb any further reflexive reactions.
In hindsight, maybe I should have worn my glasses.
I had some idea of what CBT was, having read up about it once
and hurriedly on Wikipedia; this was before deciding that I
wanted to be surprised. I was looking forward to seeing how she
incorporated this psychotherapeutic approach into the session,
presumably for the purpose of managing my pain and thereby
increasing my threshold. I was disappointed. Her use of
Cognitive Behavioural Therapy was limited to diffusing the pain
on my what-knots by doing something again to my tits. What
was it with this woman and my tits! (Never mind, just so long as
she enjoyed them.)
As for my what-knots, I don't suppose any other male has softer
ones, from lack of use you may presume. Therefore I can't
understand how she managed to do whatever it was she did to them
without my getting that kick-in-the-you-know-whats pain we boys
know about. I was mostly hooded and couldn't see. She did on
occasion cruelly provide me with a running commentary on her
methods, e.g. when using them as weighing scales. During one
session she left me to get dressed, again chained to her St
Andrew's cross I was with a third weight dragging them down and
clothes pegs tormenting my tits (not clamps, she told me after).
Again my tits! I could feel the pressure increasing on both
areas and the panic rising inside me, begging through my ball
gag for her swift return. If I had had the presence of mind to
keep things in perspective, I should have repeated to myself
'this is not pain, this is not real pain; I'm not in labour.' On
another occasion she gave me my first ever lesson in Spanish on
that St Andrew's cross, counting from 'uno' to whatever number
of clothes pegs she was sadistically pulling from my poor
what-knots. She took her time getting me to eight, 'ocho' in
Spanish. I got stuck on eight. Any number after that was the
same in Spanish, an emphatic 'oucho'!
Of course there were other torments during the course of the
week, in between those tit elating experiences. To mention one:
that basque and the accompanying stockings she told me to wear
might have been exciting if it hadn't been for the torture of
spending frustrating aeons trying to get them to connect. The
basque did however provide some relief for one maid training
evening when I innocently decided to improve my appearance by
stuffing the cups with two thick woolly socks. Madam Dee was not
pleased â€" while my fingers were busy massaging her furniture,
her fingers were titillatingly redundant!
And there were funny moments: Madam Dee loves her soaps, and
that Lancashire accent has the habit of dropping the definite
article 'the'. For example, one might decide to 'wash car', 'put
water in kettle', or 'drive you to airport'. So by the time I
got used to this, I wondered at the perverted pleasure she got
when she told me one afternoon after finishing checking the
turnips in her vegetable patch that I would have to wait for my
next session. She was going to watch 'Neighbours'. Incidentally,
Madam Dee is not pleased with her excellent Spanish gardener; he
got rid of the nettles that she would normally have used as
torment!
I had only one problem with my stay at Madam Dee's. Even though
I felt so relaxed (when not in pain!), I was on my own. There
were no other visitors on that off-peak week. 'Lucky sod!' I
hear you say, and even Madam Dee reminded me, while grovelling
naked at her divine feet in too much anticipation of her riding
crop to feel humiliated, of how privileged I was to be getting
the executive treatment for the regular price. However, it being
my first time anywhere, and not having read up everything on her
website, I didn't realise that I was allowed to be aroused,
which might have occurred had the pain also been off-peak. I
misunderstood the meaning of 'no personal services' I
thought it meant 'no sex at all, we're British'. That's why I
needed company, at least one other experienced fellow rogue who
could show this novice the ropes. How to behave badly!
I'm looking forward to my next visit!
By slave P
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