The Big Apple

The Big Apple

She came to me like most have before.

An enticing e-mail – a follow-up phone conversation filled with sensuality – which hinted at an air of seriousness for a potential session.

But that’s where the similarities ended.

You see, I don’t work a desk job. Or punch a time clock.

I don’t work for a courier service, hauling packages up and down flights of stairs for $17 per hour. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you.)

I am a disciplinarian, pure and simple.

I spank women for a living. I’ve spanked them – given thousands of behavior modification and correctional spankings to women of every denomination, age and background: Rich, poor, middle-class (if there is such a thing anymore). Black. White. Asian. You name it. I’ve dealt with just about every kind of personality a woman can throw at me. (The biggest reason given for cancellations? Surgery.) I’ve been doing this since December, 1985 and professionally since ’97.

You might think that in that amount of time I would have placed quite a few of them in bondage, by fulfilling their fantasies. Making them need me more, so to speak.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

In fact, my job is to release women from bondage.

I know that sounds strange, but, please, trudge the happy road of BDSM with me if you will for a moment. …

Oh, sure, I’ve shackled my share of submissives, collared my share of slaves – but I’m not talking about that kind of bondage.

The kind of bondage I’m talking about is where I take women’s fantasies and release them from what holds them captive in the inner recesses of their minds. Cerebral bondage I like to call it. Human bondage. Social mores bondage – where fantasies often go to seek orgasmic release – or die a painful, agonizing death. Or to be pushed so far back into the subconscious mind they grow to such intensity (not unlike a sober alcoholic’s disease doing push-ups in the next room just waiting for him to say, “one more time, baby. Let’s give it one more shot.”).

Nearly all the women who come to see me are already embroiled in some sort of bondage – whether they know it or not. Bondage from their husbands – bondage from their jobs; their kids; their dogs; their lives.

This is the great fact for them and me.

This is why I decided back in ’85 to specialize in just one aspect of the lifestyle – spanking. And as a professional disciplinarian, I can tell you there is no shortage of miscreant female bottoms in need of some stern, corporal punishment to set them straight. I have clients ranging in age from eighteen to sixty.

And yet it still it amazes me when one actually walks through my front door.

And you know why? Because it takes something extra inside to actually book a session, unless, of course, you’re in heat – which happens all too often.

“Why didn’t you do something about this years ago?” is always the first question I ask in regard to their utter sense of urgency that they had to see me “right away.”

And their usual response?

“I don’t know what happened; why I had to see you all of a sudden – but I just
did!”

Does this mean it’s too late for some?

No. I am a firm believer it is never too late to nurture one’s fantasies – that is unless you are farting dust in some cemetery. But seriously, it’s never too late to be released from this type of bondage. True, it can be more painful the longer one waits, but generally, once the dam bursts there’s only one route to go: A dominant. One who knows what he or she is doing. And yesterday. In the physical sense, bondage can be – and often is – played out as a healthy fantasy under controlled circumstances with a sane and consensually minded Dominant. This is the type of play I endorse.

So why do most women wait till the bitter end to fulfill their fantasies?

I suppose it’s like going to the dentist. I really don’t know – if I did I’d be a billionaire. But here is one woman’s account, which might shed some light on the subject:

·

I am sitting in a plush suite at the Marriott Marquis on Broadway in midtown Manhattan – just a few short days before all hell’s going break loose in Times Square ringing in the New Year.

My client, Sandi (not her real name), is a 50-year-old brunette – with deep-set brown eyes and the well toned body of a lady fifteen years her junior. She sits next to me sipping coffee and hiding behind the constant stream of smoke she sensually sends my way through her full, pert, red lips.

Like I said, I’ve seen this before.

Too many times.

The waiting. The putting it off.

And I’m right there! In the room with her!

And it can be a bit aggravating.

Earlier in the evening I had been whisked from the baggage claim section at Newark airport in New Jersey by limousine to the hotel. My client had a beautiful, black winter coat and matching black gloves for me – along with a nice scarf. The conversation was nearly all one-sided in the quiet confines of the low-lit stretch limousine. My new client was busy pounding double Absolut martinis and smoking like a chimney, hiding behind her thick, dark glasses. I don’t think we got in more than a few sentences during the ride into the city.

And there was another problem: The conversation in the comfy confines of the suite – once we got to the hotel – wasn’t getting much better. More martinis. Followed by more coffee. Another pack of cigarettes. Another call down to room service for God knew what. Housekeeping. I think I saw five different room service waiters during this exchange and an odd number of other employees turning down the bed and putting out those little chocolates and doing this, or that.

I was becoming bored. Terribly bored.

“Why can’t these women just tell me what’s on their mind and get it over with!”

She wraps the terry cloth robe with the “New York Marriott Marquis” emblem on it a bit tighter. She looks down at her perfectly pedicured toes – then back up at Me as if expecting some Divine stream of eloquence to come flowing out of My mouth to solve her problem – which really shouldn’t be a problem.

“This isn’t rocket science. You pay me. I spank you. You have a certain fantasy? Great! Let’s get something going here! After all, we’re on your dime – not mine.”

“So …” is my response, finally (drawn out for emphasis, of course). She dawdles and fidgets with her cancer sticks and coffee some more. If memory serves me, they’ve all changed places at least a couple of times on the small coffee table between us. More casual glimpses at one another. More sipping of beverages. (I’m about to make my fourth or fifth trip to the bathroom at this point.)

Finally, I blurt out: “… Look, you’ve paid Me an astronomical amount of money to fly me coast to coast, to put me up in one of the finest hotels in the city and, yet, we’re sitting here sipping coffee and chatting over the state of the NASDAQ. Now I don’t know about you, but this isn’t exactly what I came here for. …”

“Well …” she says, sparking up another coffin nail.

At this point it is nearly two-thirty in the morning and I am spent. Completely spent. Spent from the long flight (which was made longer by the inclement weather and air traffic controllers at Newark) and spent because my patience had been completely and thoroughly tried over a period of hours with a client who was so gung-ho from the start, but who now is finishing 30-lengths behind Secretariat at the1973 Kentucky Derby.

So I do what I always do when situations like this merit drastic measures: I get right down to business. And for me this means a good, old-fashioned spanking! I take the coffin nail out of her mouth and put it out in her piping-hot, fresh cup of coffee (which she has just poured, by the way). This elicits a curious, furrowed brow and a gaze of inquisitiveness from my lovely brown-eyed girl. We both stare at the cup: It’s stained terribly, nearly to the full circumference of the rim, with deep crimson lipstick. I take this as a sign she and I have been whispering sweet nothings about, well, nothing for far too long. Another ironic metaphoric twist strikes my fancy over the lipstick stained cup: Its red coloring is just about the shade her lovely heart-shaped bum is going to be in about twenty minutes. I guide her gently to the bed where the first spanking of her life is about to commence.

Finally.

?

I’m not saying I cure women from their afflictions of self-induced bondage. I do not possess this power. What I am saying is I can be a link for them to undo the bad programming that has curtailed – and often held them back – for some, or most of their lives. Psychologists call these shame-based attitudes.

Shame ruins lives. In my opinion, there is no room for shame in this world; life is far too short. If you have a spanking or bondage fantasy, take the time to be introspective about it and discover whence it came. Then if it’s something you want to further explore, seek out a competent dominant to help you further (and nurture) this fantasy.

?

It is almost Super Bowl time and I have just spent an hour on the phone with Sandi. She tells me she needs to see me again and asks if I can clear my schedule to take a red-eye from Los Angeles to New York.

“I want to feel that space again, ” she says, seductively.

“The subspace,” I countered – correcting her terminology.

“Yes, it was fantastic, the best experience of my life! Can we do it again?”

I ruffle the pages of my day timer and, even though I have sessions already penciled in for the time she wants, I will make time for this client.

“I feel so different, I can’t explain it,” Sandi continues. “I want to go further!”

I pause. I hear her breath growing heavier, as if she were right next to me again in that hotel suite sipping coffee and firing up Marlboros left and right.

“Kind of like there’s a monkey off your back?” I say, a wry twist in my voice.

“Yes, exactly!”

I hear the sound of a fresh cigarette being ignited and enjoyed immensely with the first, long, fulfilling drag. There is an air of silence, but this time it is a good silence. The utter relief coming from her this time is as clear to me as my own name as she exhales into the phone. All traces of nervousness and apprehension appear to dissipate with the sidestream.

I guess the mirror really does have two faces – at least when it comes to bondage.

Bondage of the mind versus physical bondage.

Both very potent. Both very real. Both very volatile. And both very, very different actually – in their own realities. Each to be respected on their own merits.

It makes me feel good that I can do this kind of work.

I guess it’s time to pack and have my slave drive me to the airport for what I hope is not going to turn into Leonard-Hearns II.

Just kidding.

I grin to myself.

Now who’s really in bondage here, I ask?

Coming next week: Don’t miss Mark E. DeSade’s next story ‘Thoroughly Masochistic Millie ‘