Home > Blogs > Guss66 > Mature, Experience... Dominant! > Blog Post

the complexity of submission....

4:13 pm Thursday, 13th February, 2014

On Friday Ms T lost her first case in more than seven months. When she knocked on my door on the Saturday afternoon she looked so tired and brittle I barely recognised her. Perhaps it was nothing more than a trick of light, or a slight of posture, but for the first time since we had met she looked almost frail. Under normal circumstances Ms T is quite a formidable - some might even say intimidating – presence. This is a quality that she is not afraid to exploit in the courtroom – though it has often proved something of a handicap in terms of her relationships. In her experience, the vast majority of men were far too timid to approach her – even indirectly. There had been a few brave souls of course, but none of them had ever dared treat her less than respectfully – even in the bedroom. Which had proved a serious source of frustration to her over the years.

She told me once that, in order to function at such a high level in a man’s world, certain sacrifices had to be made:

“To have a hope of winning I have to be their equal. But men, especially in my profession, are so… precious of their status that, they can’t begin to even imagine me as their equal – until they’ve ceased to think of me as a woman at all.”

It was a conundrum that she pondered often.

“They think of me as… impenetrable - literally. They are men… so naturally - deep down - they do want to fuck me. Of course they do. But… they also know that a woman, such as myself, would take a whole lot of… fucking. It’s not so much that they don’t see me as enough of a woman… it’s more that they worry that they might prove to be enough of a man…! I could make it easier for them of course. I could treat them like boys… so many women do… and I could mother them, and suckle them. But, frankly, I don’t need a boy… I need a man. A real man! I don’t want to have to pretend that I’m a helpless fluttering little thing in their big strong hands. I want be genuinely helpless. I want a man who is genuinely strong enough to make me feel weak… and… vulnerable… and like a real woman. Is that so much to ask for?”

There was no mistaking her vulnerability as she stood, slight and crumpled, in my doorway that Saturday afternoon. I could see instantly that she was in no condition to abandon herself to the trials of the ‘quiet room’. Our sessions have always been about pulling her down, and allowing her to explore the humiliating, and debauched pleasures of a world in which she is completely helpless.

“I spend all day, every day, breaking balls,” as she put it once.

“Christ! Sometimes I just need to be… broken. It’s the only thing that can save me.”

Like many submissives Ms T chooses to submit only because it empowers her to do so. It is her catharsis to be ‘used’, and demeaned, and to play the whore, and the cum-slut, and the mere object of some others pleasure - and to know that, for once, she has no responsibility over what will be done to her. As a general rule: the more powerful Ms T feels in the world outside of the quiet room, the greater the acts of humiliation she demands within it.

On Saturday, however, Ms T was clearly not her usual self. This was not a woman who was used to losing. In some ways she was already on her knees before I even opened the door. This alone rendered the ‘quiet room’ somewhat redundant.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Even her voice sounded broken.

“Shouldn’t have come really… but…! Sorry….”

There are things I know about Ms T – mostly because I have to know them in order to perform at my best in the ‘quiet room’. For example: I know that while she revels in being disciplined – she has described the sting of a leather strap as a sort of ecstasy – this is not her favourite part of the exercise. Rather it is the act of display afterwards – being forced to bend over in the corner, and to spread herself, and expose the welts on her arse and inner thighs - that she finds more arousing than anything else. She finds these moments of humiliating exposure so delicious that she often deliberately misbehaves just to stay in the corner a little longer. I also know that she gets no particular erotic charge from pissing in her knickers, and yet can almost achieve orgasm just thinking about how she will be punished afterwards for being so ‘dirty’. There is almost nothing I don’t know about Ms T’s cunt; all the various scents and flavours of it, and all its textures – outside and in. I can just about read her thoughts in the swells and wet folds of her labia. As for her proud little clit – there are no secrets between us these days. By all these things I know Ms T, and I pride myself that I know that side of her pretty well.

But there are many ordinary things that remain a mystery to me. Ours is the most intimate of relationships and yet, in some ways, she is a stranger to me. I don’t know what her favourite meal is, or where she goes on holiday, or what side of the bed she sleeps on at night. I don’t know these things because I don’t need to know them – and, most of the time I can’t say I’m particularly curious. Ours is a necessarily limited, and rather formal arrangement. Perhaps, given the profound intimacy of our arrangement it is necessary to maintain a certain distance. (There is a very good reason why most women would be appalled to discover their gynaecologist sitting and sharing drinks with their friends.) I’m not quite Ms T’s gynaecologist of course, though there are times when it might appear that way. There is, however, something of a doctor/patient element to our… relationship. Sometimes I suspect that she only visits me to save the expense of a good psychiatrist. There is certainly no doubt that, over time, she has come to think of me, at the very least, as a sort of sex therapist. (And there is no denying that the ‘services’ I offer do have some real therapeutic value… and they do, necessarily, involve quite a lot of sex.)

Anyone looking in on our activities in the ‘quiet room’ – seeing her throat-held, and arse-fucked, and called a ‘whore-cunt’, and a ‘cum-slut’ for not putting up more of a fight - might not think of it as a particularly healthy sort of therapy. But that’s because few things look perfect - or make perfect sense - when you look at them from the outside. I’m happy to argue that I offer not only good therapy, but that my methods are a whole lot healthier than the alternative.

When I met Ms T she had formed a risky, if only intermittent, habit of picking up strangers in motorway service stations. She was well aware of the dangers – and she did try to satisfy her urges by whatever other means she could. For a while she collected sex toys like other women collect handbags – and her tastes could be just as expensive. With these exotic instruments she regularly fucked herself long into the night, and, often into the morning too. In her own expert hands she taught herself to orgasm in multiples of ten… and more, and yet never quite often enough to sate her appetites. Relentlessly, almost desperately at times, she would fill herself up with these expensive objects and when she could fit no more inside her, she would frig herself until she was almost numb. Some days she could barely walk she ached so much. But for all the spillages and all the orgasms she still felt empty - hollowed-out almost - and it was never too long before she was certain that it was cock, and only cock, that could ever truly satisfy her needs. Inevitably, every month or so, she would re-rationalise the risks, and convince herself that the rewards would more than balance out the dangers.

She fondly imagined that on her knees, in the toilets of some anonymous Service Station, and sucking on some strangers cock, she might find some momentary sense of fulfilment. With her face pressed hard against the back wall of a cubicle, her quivering thighs clutching at the cold edges of a toilet bowl, and a hot cock slipping deep inside her, she did, occasionally, find a sort of inner peace. (Even the smell of piss and bleach was almost soothing at times.)

To begin with she had found it surprisingly difficult to convince the strangers to fuck her. Road-weary, and wary of strangers, most men would look straight through the smartly dressed woman in the sensible shoes – even as she hovered in the doorway of the Gents. Later she learned that if she dressed like a whore they were more likely to see her as a whore, and (more importantly) treat her like one. She bought a red chanel dress, one size too small, and had the hem raised so that the lace tops of her stockings were permanently exposed. It is not an easy thing to make a dress like that look cheap, but she did her best. The heels played their part too.

Sometimes, because it amused her, she would charge for her services – she would leave the money in the collection box on the counter of the all night café. She had prosecuted enough ‘working girls’ in her time as a plaignant (Junior Barrister) to know all the relevant terms:

“A-levels are… extra… and I don’t do bareback.... come in mouth with… or without… my discretion…”

Not all the men were as rough with her as she would have liked - some were even gentle, which only confused her. Some could be cajoled into a bit of hair tugging, or to slap her arse as she forced herself down on their fat cocks, but rather she resented having to make the effort. Once she misjudged the situation entirely and paid for it in bruises and even a little blood – much too rough even for her tastes. The young man in question said that she reminded him of a lawyer: ‘what done for him, and got him sent down’. He beat her so badly that she was barely conscious for the fucking.

“Good times… and bad times…!” as she put it, when we first met.

But good or bad it had never quite matched those images that crammed her head as she writhed around, alone in her cum-soaked, sweat-soaked, bed, fucking herself with her fingers – or whatever else she could find. Images of hard-bodied men, effortlessly strong, and bending her to their desires washed through her then. And they were so certain of themselves - these imagined men - and of what they wanted. One would have her suck on his nipples while he gathered up pre-cum from the perfect and shining tip of his cock, and he would paint her mouth with his musk, as he laid the length of his shaft along the creamed groove of her cunt – and just the weight of it on her tender clit would make her almost scream out loud. Another would tease at the tight rim of her arse with his wetted bulb as he tugged on her long nipples, and forced her to beg to be allowed take him all the way inside her. Often, in her mind, it was all about the… anticipation – and what’s more exquisite than that? At other times, understanding her hunger, they would fill her up, all those dreamy cocks at once – in her mouth, her cunt… her arse… and all at once; and with the same pulse, they would meet, deep in the deepening heat of her, and plunge, as one, deeper, and deeper still, until – at last - they spilled, as one, into her… and over her. But even as she gushed she understood that her Service Station adventures were unlikely ever to match her imaginings of them. Other than the two - and perfectly synchronised - brothers that she had once encountered (just off the M5) there had been too few moments of genuine delight – much less of wild debauchery.

Most fucked her hard and fast, which was fine - as far at it went, but it almost never went far enough. Their urgency, she came to realise, owed less to the overwhelming nature of their desire, than it did to the fear of discovery. Deep down she knew that she expected too much of these strangers. Most would have been barely competent lovers in the bedroom. In the unforgiving light of a public toilet few were likely to shine. In the worst cases she was barely wet before they were done, and it was only on the very rare occasion that there would be another cock waiting on the other side of the cubicle door to fill her up, and take her hard, and fast, enough again to make her cum. Ironically it was often only when she was home - and alone again - with her toys, that she we was able to trigger the sort of orgasms she had taken so many risks to achieve.

I like to think that it was fate, rather than irony, that led to our meeting in that remote little motorway service station. I had driven half the night, and there was still half a night of driving ahead of me, when I stumbled through those yawning doors. What little light there was inside that glass cavern was jaundiced and unwelcoming. Not that was in any condition to care, and it was probably more bearable than that veneer of joyless bon homie that normally saturates these places during daylight hours.

It had been miles since I had even seen another vehicle, so it came as little surprise that the Service Station was almost deserted. There was the usual grey little woman wearily swabbing at dull tiles with her out-sized mop. When she saw me she took up her station by the cappuccino machine, and did her best to look a little less cheerless than she obviously felt.

“Medium flat white, with an extra shot please.”

It didn’t occur to me to look around much before sitting myself down. With the road still rushing at the back of my eyes, and the caffeine some way from kicking in, I barely noticed Ms T at the next table. She, on the other hand, very much noticed my not noticing her. It had not been a particularly productive evening for her. Aside from the hand-job she had reluctantly administered to an over-weight lorry driver in the back of his foul smelling cab, she had suffered the indignity two flat refusals - and the one proper fuck she had managed to solicit had been so profoundly disappointing that she had finished him off in her mouth just to get it over with. She rarely visited the same service station twice, and had already made a mental note never to return to this one again. My apparent indifference simply confirmed the wisdom of that decision.

“You’re not really my type anyway,” she said, after a while of just watching.

When I did turn to look at her I found it pretty remarkable myself that I not noticed her sooner. She cut an almost extraordinary figure – managing the unlikely feat of looking both under-dressed, and over-dressed at one and the same time. There was a lot more of her outside of that red dress, than could ever have fit inside it. But what a dress! I’m no fashionista, but I know a couture dress when I see one, just like I know the difference between high street fetish-wear, and a hand-made patent leather heels. What sort of woman was this, I wondered? Who wears a thousand pound dress, and yet makes no effort to cover up the cum stains on her stockings? Then there was her accent – so refined that you could have cut diamonds with it, never mind glass. But perhaps the most striking thing about her was her eyes – resigned to defeat and yet somehow defiant at the same time. This, I thought, was a very challenging sort of woman. I liked her instantly.

“You know my mother warned me that that would happen. She always said that I’d find one day that I wasn’t going to be to every woman’s taste…. Of course I didn’t believe her… until now…!”

“That was quite… quick!” she said, careful not to sound too impressed.

“I’m smarter than I look,” I assured her. (Though I’ve always had my own doubts on that score.)

She did not look away, but narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips to indicate that she had not quite made up her mind about me. For my part I could see that it was going to take some time to put together all the parts of this puzzling woman.

“I don’t suppose you want to fuck?” she said.

When I quietly explained to her that my ‘fucking in public toilets’ days were firmly behind me, she relaxed a little. I ordered us more coffee and she joined me at my table. We talked for a while about all the small things that strangers talk about when they meet in motorway service stations. It is possibly the longest conversation I have ever had with Ms T. At some point she told me that she was a Barrister. She seemed relieved not to have to hide it from me any longer. I, in turn, told her quite a bit about the ‘quiet room’. As I rose to leave I suggested that she pay me a visit some time.

“I might just do that,” she said.

That was seven months ago. During that time she has been a regular visitor, and always welcome. Saturday was the first time she has ever slept over. I still have no idea what side of the bed she sleeps on. On Sunday she rose early, and was gone before I came downstairs. It was not the weekend that I had planned, but I am confident that Ms T will be back soon enough. In her entire career she has lost only three cases - and never two in a row. She has much too much fight in her to accept defeat for long. And who would know that better than me?

She may have a submissive side… but Ms T is no push over.

 10 people like this



Comments
5:06 pm Thursday, 13th February, 2014

i liked that contains an lot of what we talked about before get a feeling of de javu.

Especially the chanel dress very nice.......has to be red

you are very insightful and inciteful liked this blog a lot :)

 3 people like this

10:12 pm Thursday, 13th February, 2014

not sure if that one counts as a blog... or a fucking novel...! but glad you liked...x

 3 people like this

10:19 pm Thursday, 13th February, 2014

ill read the novel ;)

 2 people like this

2:14 pm Thursday, 20th February, 2014

Super. Brilliant. Mrs T is ma kind of woman

 1 people like this

11:16 pm Thursday, 20th February, 2014

well thank you admin...

Blog Introduction

Mature, Experience... Dominant!


Get full access to all site features
Register Now