Flight after Fantasy
Good morning, this is your 9 o’clock morning call. I sit at a desk in front of a large mess of papers. I dial. Typical, I wonder what the change is this time? At last I connect on the phone, -the appointment is 10.45am, not what I thought I had agreed – indeed I would take money on it that 9.45am was what we had discussed. No doubt, once again, my fears, my timidity at the effrontery of even making a call had contributed to my own lack of concentration on such an elementary matter.
Oh well, looks like another downstairs wait and another period of the tension in the front reception room. I say tension because my fears and fantasy have always been augmented by the sound of vibration its glass chandelier makes in sympathy with a click, click, click from the room above. The noise, caused by high heel shoes striding across a stone tiled floor served to remind me of the location of the main dungeon. On occasions, such clicks would be interrupted by a sharp thwack of leather, a strident voice or the sound of chains indicating a session was in progress.
However, I digress, for today I leave Australia and have my last chance to partake in that fantasy of fantasies, a somewhat cacophonous demonstration of the art of domination and humiliation. Booked for the occasion is Justine, a fabulous, feminine, Aussie feline whose heels I had expected to click at oh-nine-forty-five. Anyhow following a further phone call, I am due on parade at ten-hundred. I thus leave my room in a state of some anxiety.
The lift from the 23rd floor seems to take an age as I desperately do not want to meet anyone I know on my way out of the hotel. I escape to the safety of the street and distance myself as quickly as possible from any acquaintance who my casually ask “Hi, Kris, where are you off to?” A breakfast is hurriedly ordered at MacDonalds at Circular Quay but I have little appetite for the event. I hail a cab, even the driver is female, “Surrey Hills, corner of Elizabeth Street and Cleveland Street” This journey will take around ten minutes. I try to relax. I only half succeed.
From the outside, number 310 Cleveland Street is an innocuous enough building. Typical of many Sydney houses in the area, this terrace building has the upstairs veranda architecturally noteworthy of the period when it was built. A more careful observer, however, would notice that the upstairs windows are completely obscured. Downstairs the bluish grey paint of the front door is largely obscured by an enormous potted plant such that callers standing adjacent are somewhat hidden from the busy street on which the building is situated.
I am greeted by Amanda Dwyer, owner and entrepreneur of Salon Kitty’s. This very attractive lady has long dark hair but is particularly noteworthy for her enchanting smile. She is wearing a very feminine patterned summer dress of blue and orange which has a nautical effect with entwined cables. “Good morning Kris, come on in.” I am ushered into the front reception room. “Would you like a drink, coffee tea or something?” I sit myself down on the a couch and what’s that,? – a vibrating chandelier?, is session already progress? Did I discern a thwack? The noise of traffic prevents me hearing properly. Certainly the chandelier was vibrating. I nervously deign to ask Amanda who replies. “The cleaners!” I try to stay calm.
Hardly have I had chance to sit down when, with supreme confidence, Justine waltzes in. Today she has let her hair down and is wearing a smart grey jacket. In contrast, the lower half of her body reveals a pair of black knickers, black suspenders and black fishnet stockings. At the protrusion of her shapely legs sit a pair of shiny, black, stiletto shoes, the high heels of which are shortly to be obeyed.
“Hi Kris, are you ready for this mornings session?” she says with an air of complete nonchalance. “is there anything you want to discuss?” although I think we pretty well covered all the role play in yesterday’s session and you can proceed upstairs straightaway.” My affirmative answer has only one caveat as I request a slight change of appearance to the more military look she had used on our first and only other encounter. Could she please wear her silver jacket and black leather peaked cap and put her hair back up into a more formal affair? That agreed, we are ready for the off. To give me the required urge I gaze longingly down for a last time at her dominating heels before she smiles as she says good by. When we next meet, that smile will completely absent from her face.
Amanda returns and escorts me to the upstairs room. She gives it a brief check as I turn up the centre light to maximum intensity for, if nothing else, I am a total exhibitionist. Amanda nods farewell with the rather bizarre words “Oh well, enjoy your session Kris”.I undress, lay out my chosen leather implement and lie down on a black leather rack immediately adjacent to the open door. On the wall, adjacent to the rack is a mirror where, by suitable adjustment of my body, I am able to view my limp penis. I will now have some five minutes or so to prepare myself mentally for the ensuing show. As I begin running my hands along its shaft, my eyes cast round the room at the various discipline and bondage paraphanalia which bedecks the whole chamber. Mirrors abound, on the ceiling on the walls. Opposite my rack its a pair of stocks, behind me is a throne like chair on a podium. Adjacent to it is a winch with a pulley arrangement mounted on the ceiling. Another ceiling device is hanging by chains with a leather seat arrangement beneath a ceiling mounted mirror. The walls are painted a dull red, the floor consists of grey tiles and stood on it are shelves with quantities of various accoutrements. Everywhere around there are rails displaying whips, canes, tawses, straps, masks. This is world of fantasy into which I have entered, totally divorced from all the norms of the street, indeed the world, outside. Above all is the all pervasive sweet smell of incense which lulls me into a false sense of security. I say this because….
Suddenly, at the doorway a stern, assertive voice cracks out as a scowling Justine steps into the chamber leaving the door open wide and picking up the leather strap which I had deliberately placed for her easy access. Wearing the same stockings and suspenders, her hair was now held neatly back under a leather peaked cap and her upper body had changed into a short-sleeved, silver-tinsled, zip up anorak. The look on her face was one of intense disapproval.
“Get down on the floor”
“So slave you have been wanking without my permission have you?” ” Yes Mistress, ” I utter nervously, as I stand down on to the tiled floor with my penis semi inflated. “And what do wankers deserve?”
“The strap Mistress.”
With military precision Justine confidently strides up and down the room the ensuing silence being broken only by her clicking heels. Suddenly with a single movement, she rises the strap over her right shoulder and thrashes it down on the rack causing a single crack to ring out as if a ringmaster in a circus.
“THAT – is what wankers deserve isn’t it?!” she bellows as the sound dies away.
“Yes” I meekly reply
“Yes What!!?”
“Yes Mistress”
“Exactly, discipline is what wankers deserve and you are now going to find out precisely what that means. Get over here and get that hand out, nice and straight!”
I move to the centre stage and stand to attention with my hand outstretched. Thwack! Thwack! comes the sight and the sound of Action Woman as she starts her work. As the noise reverberates I am aware that, through the open door, the crisp ringing clamour of leather can be heard in other parts of the building as it impacts on my tingling palms.
“Count you wanker!” bawls Justine “One” I reply, Thwack “Louder!!” “One,” I bellow though the open door. Thwack, “Two,” Thwack, “Three,” Thwack “Four,” Thwack “Five” Thwack “Six.” “It just tickles” I suddenly, foolishly find myself saying trying to goad her into a worse mood. “Oh I see, well we are going to be changing that! Get your other hand out to be disciplined”. Thwack, “One” Thwack “Two” Thwack “Three” Thwack “Four” Thwack “Five” Thwack “Six” On completion of the second six I start to move away from the central position in the room, running my hand up and down along the shaft of my penis until it is stood firmly and defiantly to attention. The strident voice “Go on, run around, let me see that cock dance up and down. Get those knees up! let me see that cock bounce.”Get back over here. Now!! “Yes Mistress”
Thwack “One” Thwack “Two” The sight of that vicious bitch is just wonderful to behold. Thwack “Three”, I bellow my response deliberately attempting to ensure that the whole sordid affair can be heard all over the building. I reflect that, if someone is downstairs, that chandelier will be ringing to the vibration of my feet and it will be possible to hear the sound of the session mingled with the click, click, click of Justine’s dominating heels marching across the tiled floor. Thwack “Four” wow that really was not funny as I dance with pain “Just tickled did it? I’ll show you tickling!” Thwack “Five” Thwack “Six” ” Still tickling now is it? – Is it!?” yells Justine as, terrified, I fail to reply “Get that hand out for another six!””Get back over here now!” “Get that hand OUT! or I might decide to strap your cock instead” Thwack “One” I dance around the room towards the open door on to the landing. “Shout down stairs! I am a wanker” Go on shout! “By the open door I bellow the response “I am a wanker” just as the receptionist is passing down the stairwell beneath me. In response to my voice she looks up with a slight smile and shakes her head in ridicule as I pull my cock for her to see. My humiliation has hardly begun when “Get back over here” comes from within the dungeon.” Thwack “One” “It should be your cock I should be strapping not your hands!”
I begin to feel desperate for a break that I go down on my knees in an attempt to delay the proceedings. Momentarily I find myself facing those heels at close quarters although not for long as the piercing voice comes from above for delay forms no part of Justine’s agenda. “Get up! Get up!” “No please let me masturbate Mistress!” I whimper. “Please give me some lubricant.” “Beg me for it?” responds the dominating voice “Please can I have some lubricant” “Be more sincere!!!”, yells the voice “Please can I have some lubricant” With no further word, Justine marches across the room, reaches to a shelf, returns and places her left leg over my shoulder. We face a mirror adjacent to the open door as she squirts a quantity of oil across my erected tool. “Let me see you come on the floor!” she speaks assertively “Come on, show me how well you can do it!. You seem to be doing it quite often, so you should be able to do it rather well.” With increasing rapidity my hand moves piston like along my swollen cock. “Come on! shoot on the floor. Pull that penis, you wanker shoot! Show me those hot, red stinging hands. Come on! shoot, you good for nothing, masturbating wanker. Pull that penis before I give it the strap as well.” Suddenly, an uncontrolled “Ahhhhhh! Ahhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhh!” sounds throughout the whole house as hot semen spurts from the tip of my cock.
Still drawing breath, I remain on my knees cherishing the ephemeral moment witnessed by the liquid on both the tiles and mirror in front. Justine removes her leg and lowers her face adjacent to mine as we look at each other in the mirror. Transformed from the Sergent Major into a delicate female, she places her face closely to mine comforting for a job well done. “There wasn’t that wonderful.” Now if you would like to get dressed I will come and join you for coffee. I adjourn to the bathroom, satisfied with my performance. Take a quick shower and descend to the lounge below.
Enter stage right dominatrix, Mistress Justine, transformed totally into black, shining, plastic gear with red elbow length, plastic gloves. “Yes I have had to get changed for the next customer” she confirms “he is just getting ready for a session which will start in a few minutes.” We chat, she gives me her autograph, I tell her I will come back to see her if ever I am in Sydney again. I say goodbye and give her a little kiss on the cheek as she disappears into some other part of the building to begin the next round.
Escorting me to leave, Amanda smiles as she opens the front door. I deign to ask if she were able to hear the session from downstairs. With that lovely smile she confirms that it was loud enough to be heard all over the house, “in the back office and even over the phone.” As I walk along Cleveland Street, I look at my watch. My flight after fantasy leaves in a few hours.
Note Salon Kitty closed in 2013.