Filthy Scenes from the Primier Inn

Prim looked up at me from her position lying on the floor next to where I was shackled. Her bobbed haircut, flushed apple cheeks and wide smile could have been the adoring gaze of a small child indulging her favourite Uncle. In this case it was a curious visual interrogation of my face, her subject, having just force fed me chocolate she had first inserted into my unlubricated arsehole.

Not that this was unusual or the most degrading thing she had done to me that evening, in the 20 minutes since she had arrived in her familiar lusty bluster and fur coat and stole. For a start, she had spent some time shackling me like a dog on the floor to the legs of a chair, my collar and leash pulled tight so I could not raise my head and look at her. This had the added benefit – for her- of presenting my backside in just the right position for her to sit on my back, pull open my cheeks, spit into my gaping arse and casually enquire "what does THAT feel like then?!" as she gently caned the slutty orifice.

The insane, almost innocent cruelty and childlike beauty of our greeting that evening drew me ever closer to her, and her to me. Many, many times this hotel chain had had to clean our room after I had lent her my body and my dignity- or more correctly, she demanded and got it from me - and found the room full of candle wax or art utensils, and the bedclothes luridly decorated by that night's body fluids of her choosing.

She now lay next to me, a huge grin on her face at the predicament she had inflicted upon me, a sweaty look of desperation on mine as I wondered how much longer I could maintain this position without my knees giving out. Correctly gauging as ever my personal stress level- this calibration borne of many eccentric and painful episodes such as this- she slid under me in a lithe movement that belayed her luscious curves, and put my cock in her mouth. Her usual antidote, and a technique that had distracted her men from whatever they were about to lay at her door since she was a young teenager. And as I knelt there, feeling her long tongue snake around my cockhead and under my foreskin, I knew why more than most.

Eventually she grew bored of sucking me- she could do this whenever she wanted after all and generally did- and untied me and laid me on the bed for 'a rest'. I gratefully complied, knowing that the interval was not really a rest but a break so that she could unfurl her growing collection of canes and crops and paddles- her 'hitty things' as she so quaintly termed them. We had negotiated- which is to say she had made up the rules and the punishments as we went along- 85 punishment strokes since we had last met a week ago. Generally my crime was to admire photos of other girls on the internet, or perhaps displease her by my tone in our email flurries. I hated the pain as much as I loved the structure and discipline of having to remember the score and offer her myself for the punishment without complaint.

For her, beating a naked man is a thing of great beauty on several different levels- the art of the symmetry, the creamy rhythmic physical exertion, the sadistic glee of watching him writhe and scream, the power over her subject that fed her Beast for a while. It had taken me some months to completely understand this, but now, naked and tied face down, I was simply happy to be the one making her happy.

She knew I was no masochist, and I knew she throttled back a little because of it. When the blows came, they were often in unpredictable places, on my arms or calves, almost never where I expected them, like on my back, and usually focussed on my buttocks and thighs where she could afford to hit me harder; she loved the traditional, organic nature of caning a man, the femme fatale iconic image it created in her brain. Mercifully she gave me the blows in quick clusters of 6; some were warm and giving, others sharp and clinical. The paddle deceptively burnt me seconds after the blows, unfair in its severity. She took a break to tie me in a hogtie on my side, us both marvelling at her dexterity and artistry. She revelled in my helplessness. I relished the fact that I was the object that made her smile.

All too quickly- for her, at least - the 85 punishment strokes, plus the sundry kicks, slaps, bites and punches that usually signified that she was having fun and approving of my submission- were over and she sounded a little forlorn- a child told to stop playing, come in and have her tea. I was almost at the edge, and reluctantly pleased it was over. Probably not as pleased as our hotel neighbours I admit- even gagged with a hotel towel, I had howled and screamed and cursed loudly at her hands. She preferred me to internalise it, but since she had started using canes on me, I found it harder than ever. She left me for a few minutes as I swam in the clear warm water of subspace.

Prim's unique brand of Female Domination had always involved a heavy sexual element; sex was what she did best, what she did the most, what she was borne to do. Any episode as intense and as intimate as the last couple of hours would naturally involve some kind of sex, if only because we were lovers, and would now both be aroused and need release; but it was also a thank you to me, for allowing her to vent her perversions upon me. It was an intoxicating mix of pain, power and pleasure that we were both addicted to.

Of course, it was never a simple fuck n'suck. She was far too creative, too deviant for that, and it was not why I loved her so. She sucked, bit and slapped my erection to a hardness that satisfied her; then tying my legs over my head, she inserted the red dildo into me and goaded me as I couldn't help but rock backwards and forwards, pleasuring myself for her as much as me. To think that until 9 months before I had had nothing inserted into this taboo hole- and now I craved it from her. She had completely re-modelled my sexuality with dark and surreptitious dexterity.

After making sure we had video evidence of my willing degradation, it was time for her pleasure. She untied me but kept the dildo in. She, still fully clothed, climbed on to me and inserted my cock into her unseen cunt. As usual it was hot and greedy and wet. She rode me in silence, my inane babbling about how her cunt and her dildo were splitting me in half filling the empty space. I watched her face, eyes closed tight in concentration, breathing heavy, fettered breasts swaying, and I had never loved her more.

I was never allowed to cum inside her, and so when she had decided I had been fucked enough she dismounted and lay beside me, her now latex gloved hands about to do their wonderful dirty work once again. She has a tremendous talent as a masturbaterix- unlike most women she has the perfect grip on a cock, a never ending desire to see it spurt at her behest, and an inexhaustible supply of energy that makes that a certainty. With the dildo still massaging my prostate, this would be over quickly. I closed my eyes, lay back and let the shattering orgasm overwhelm me- pulling energy from all points of my body, filling my head with an all permeating gas, forcing every nerve ending to crackle and pop as she ripped a huge reservoir of cum from me.

After the frenzy of her domination and subjugation of me, the final hours of our time together were always quiet and soothing, deliciously sensual and yes, romantic. The calm after the storm. We lay there joking and bantering, never forgetting that periodically Mistress needed her own release. I was always pleased when she came quickly, knowing I must have aroused her earlier. As I watched her use the small vibrating bullet on herself, and then brought her off again pumping my fingers into her as she squirted like a fountain over the hotel bedclothes, listening to her moan and beg, I was delighted that we could share the pleasure as well as the pain from our time together, that she would now be a broken husk like me. Her orgasm, sometimes hard won, was more important to me than my own.

Later in the restaurant, any onlookers would have seen a seemingly unremarkable woman and an older man laughing and gabbling and eating burgers like it was their last meal together. Soon it might be. But for now these are the best of times, my reason for being here, our antidote to the real world. And another wonderful liaison at our Primier Inn.