Fantasies of a Young Dominatrix

This is a sequel to

Nora Works as a Dominatrix

, and it takes place in the fall of 1976. For her previous career as a hooker in 1973-74, see

Freshman Hooker.

Nora Meara is twenty-one at this point. Gilda Wasserman, a student at New York University (a private school, not part of the City system) was the woman who had recruited her for the job.

#####

I probably should have quit being a dominatrix soon after I started. There were various reasons for that which I will discuss below. But I was anxious about telling Gilda that I wanted out, and I was also afraid of the unknown people -- gangsters? -- who controlled the operation and took their cut of the money.

So I took my share of the money, which was much more than I had ever earned before. With that, I rented my first apartment and I bought a second car, a 1974 BMW. That was in addition to my beloved 1970 Mustang that I had gotten two years earlier. I put that one into storage. Of course, I had to rent garage space in Manhattan for both of them.

Besides all that, I was also trying to study during my senior year at City College. I certainly had trouble concentrating closely.

My first few weeks as a dominatrix had some weird effects on my mind. When I was an amateur two years earlier, I had maybe three domination sessions per month, and those were mixed in with other kinds of tricks. When I was a semi-professional in 1976, I was pulling at least three or four such sessions per week.

After ten months in my previous rotation as a hooker, I was getting profoundly tired of the whole scene. Sexual variety didn't make a bit of difference as a hooker. As somebody once joked, if you've seen (or done) one blowjob, you've seen them all.

I did a lot of blowjobs because my policy was not to allow vaginal penetration for pay. That baffled some of my clients, but most of them were so desperate that they took whatever was available. And that certainly was plenty for most of them.

Thus I would get them off with any part of my body they would pay for, including my hands, my behind, and even my anus. They could masturbate while looking at me; they could masturbate

me

with finger-fucking. Although, they usually were quite inept at that and I'd have to finish myself off.

In addition, I refused to be submissive for pay; that was for my own lovers only. Some of the clients were quite disappointed because they saw me as a very bad girl deserving of a sound ass-beating. Too bad; I wouldn't agree to it for any price.

Of course, I would give

them

an enthusiastic ass-beating if they paid for it, and man, I usually enjoyed that quite a bit. It was especially fun to verbally chide them before and during a session, and tell them what bad boys they had been. Often they were concerned about their own masturbation, although I'm sure my actions only encouraged them to do more of it later on.

******

So my new domination job wasn't good for my mental state on this second go-round in The Life. For one thing, I had never lived alone before and I was lonely. My new one-bedroom apartment was on the West Side of Manhattan. That place even had a little balcony, although from the fourth floor, there wasn't much to see beyond the surrounding buildings.

It was mostly already furnished, so I didn't have to move a lot of heavy items from my uncle's house in Maspeth, Queens. But when I got home, there was nobody or nothing there for me. I was amazed to realize that I even missed my old "roomie," my uncle, who owned that house across the river.

The quiet would get to me, and I'd play music a lot. Either that, or I would go out and wander the streets by myself.

I had gone through three boyfriends in a little over two years, and by then I didn't have one at all. My first, Paul, was still on a college newspaper with me, but he was involved with his new paramour, Donna.

Also, I had lost most of my female friends. The women I had met on the paper in 1974 had mostly graduated or moved on. Frankly, the novelty of writing for that publication had worn off by then.

So what did I do when I wasn't at school or working one of the domme jobs Gilda had set up for me? Well, I was feeling extremely horny, that was for sure. And I had amassed an impressive collection of dildos over the years, although none of them were electric. I was quite adept at moving them around inside my pussy to satisfy myself, so I did not need a mechanical assist.

Thus I masturbated -- a lot. In the apartment, besides my bed, I'd do it on the couch, the living room floor, the kitchen counter, even on the balcony at night. I got back into my old habit of using a ladies' room stall at City College. I'd even pull over while driving and have my way with myself -- in the daytime!

Of course, I was trying to fill an emotional hole with physical pleasure, which I had long known didn't work. After a few orgasms, I would relax and then that old sense of loneliness often overcame me.

Anyway, I'll describe three of the fantasies that preoccupied me during that period. They defy all sense of logic and plausibility. But then, the best fantasies always do. And they were much more elaborate than any I had before.

Be warned. Although I made up all of this, some of the punishments described are quite intense.

*****

My First Fantasy -- Criminal Justice

In the early 1970's, a number of states adopted corporal punishment as a way to deal with rising crime rates. Somehow they got around any Constitutional constraints on such things. It also saved a lot of money on the costs of jailing people for lesser crimes. In a day or two the person was released, and that was it. New York was one such state.

New York handled prostitution cases very quickly and efficiently. Every working girl in the city was aware of the procedure and many of them went through it eventually.

The sentence for the first offense was to be tied down on a spanking bench and paddled with a very solid piece of wood. The number of strokes could vary, but it was usually six on the buttocks over the clothing, and ten more on her bare backside. Then she'd be set free to limp home as best she could.

By June of 1974, I had been hooking for nearly ten months and I had never been arrested. The private security firm hired by the city university had a low-paid, inept staff. The regular police only came on campus if called for something. I often worked via telephone calls and had clients come out to my house in Queens when my uncle was at work.

Thus I felt quite immune to law enforcement, or so I thought. In early June, my luck ran out.

It was a warm day, and I was wearing my faded old blue jeans, plus a cute little sleeveless top and sandals. (Believe me, jeans offer no protection against a hard paddling. One's behind will be seriously bruised right through the cloth.)

I was standing in front of Wagner Hall minding my own business when a Latino guy came up to me. He asked about my services, and I gave him prices for a handjob or blowjob, my bread-and-butter offerings. He chose the latter, and I decided to accept the job. It was easy money for thirty minutes or so of work

He didn't seem like a cop to me because, well, he wasn't one. He was actually one of those Wackenhut Guards (that was really the company name!) hired to patrol the campus. We had just started to walk to that little restroom at the back of Stieglitz Hall when he made some kind of hand signal. Within seconds two real plainclothes cops came up to us. It was a sting operation, and I was busted.

I knew I'd be released within a couple of days. I also feared the punishment I'd have to endure before that happened.

*****

The system went through the motions as it always does. First, I was taken in a squad car to the 26th Precinct on 126th Street near Amsterdam Avenue. Late in the afternoon, I was put in a Corrections Department van with a number of other luckless ladies and driven downtown to Central Booking on Centre Street. My fellow van riders had probably been picked up for various offenses, including drug charges.

Centre Street has been a hub for courts, jails, and other such activities since the 19th Century. Central Booking is where people were held until they could get upstairs to be arraigned before a judge. It is certainly a horrible place to be in.

I was in a holding cell with about twenty other women. There was no place to lie down except the floor, and I did not get any sleep that night. My two meals consisted of baloney sandwiches. The single toilet -- well, never mind!

By mid-morning six of us females were in a courtroom upstairs. We had all been charged with a first offense of soliciting for prostitution. I was the only white girl in that group.

I'm not sure I would call what happened there a "trial." Within thirty minutes all six of us were processed, convicted, and taken away for our punishments. That would be done in a room downstairs on the other side of the building,

I had been quite sleepy from my lack of rest the night before, but now I was wide awake and feeling a lot of anxiety about what would happen to me. I had been spanked before in my life, but I had never experienced a wood paddle applied to my tender little backside.

We waited in a hallway while the first two chicks got their beatings. I was impressed by the amount of yelling they did, and I could also hear the impact of the implement on their bodies. When they stumbled out, one had tears running down her face, and the other was openly sobbing.

I was called as the third. There was a spanking trestle in the middle of the small room, and four corrections officers, one male and three females. The man read a brief statement that was printed on a card. It listed my name, the offense, and the usual "six strokes of the paddle on the seat of your trousers and ten more on your exposed buttocks."

Hearing that sent me into a panic. There I was, nineteen years old, and I was about to get a solid thrashing on my pale, narrow behind. I started to breathe heavily, and I felt like I was on the verge of crying.

Nora, you've got to get a hold of yourself. It's only a quick little spanky.

Then one of the women revealed the wood paddle to me, and I lost my nerve even more. My legs felt weak, and I seemed to be on the verge of fainting.

She said, "Okay, sweetie, this is what we are going to use on your evil backside." The business end of the implement was long and thick with three rows of holes drilled through it.

I knew that this procedure was going to hurt a lot. It was not going to be a little spanky. The two other female C.O.s -- and they were quite burly, not delicate little things -- saw how unsteady I had become. They immediately grabbed my arms and put me over on the trestle. That piece of furniture pushed my behind up so it was the highest point on my body. It was going to be an excellent target.

There were two straps of leather that they used to restrain my hands. Also, there were two loops for my legs, but they didn't bother with those. I started to cry softly and say ridiculous things like, "Please don't do this to me, I'll be a good girl from now on."

The lady with the paddle said, "A good girl? Honey, you may say that but you are really just a piece of street trash."

She swished the paddle through the air so I could hear the noise it made and she said, "Okay, baby, are you ready to take your discipline?"

I protested, "No, please, don't hit me with that thing."

She went to another topic. "Take her glasses off so that they don't go flying from her head." I wondered if they were obligated to buy new ones if an existing pair broke.

After that, she tapped my bottom with the paddle and got it lined up for the first stroke. I glanced back at her, and I saw her move the paddle way back for a long swing onto my butt. There was going to be no warm-up, that was for sure.

I heard the impact as it dented both my jeans and my ass, but then the only sound seemed to be me yelling. I had tried to control my voice, but the pain radiated from the lower part of my backside.

The second stroke was right above the first one, and it felt even worse. Without thinking about it, I was trying to get up, but my arms were tied to the bench. My legs were free, however, and I swung those around wildly and banged my sandals against the trestle.

"Hey, watch those legs, girl, or I'll give you some whaps on them too. You've already hit me with your feet."

One of the other guards commented, "She's a loud one, for sure."

The third female C.O. said, "As well as being quite a bucking bronco. Should we restrain her legs too?"

The paddle lady said, "It's usually not necessary, but I can't aim properly if she's moving around so much." She spoke to the male guard. "Mike, do you mind getting down there and holding her feet in place? This is one of those times when we really need you to do that."

He must have done that duty before because he had one caveat. "Well, okay, but watch my head. Some of you ladies are a bit careless when swinging that thing around."

"You know how to do it. Just stay down low and hold her ankles." She then spoke to me. "For all this trouble you're giving us, baby, you're really going to get it hard now."

For the next four hits, all I could do was raise my head and cry out with each blow. When they stopped, I rested on the trestle and breathed heavily. Of course, I was sobbing too.

Mike had released my ankles, but I heard one of the women say, "You really have to hold her when she gets it on her bare behind." It was the lady with the awful paddle. She put it down and unbuckled my jeans, then she lowered the pants below my knees.

"My, what cute little panties." I remember that I had a pair of pink ones on that day. Then, when those were down, she commented on the state of my body. "Your pale little backside doesn't look so pale now. It's all red, but it will be purple when I'm finished with you."

She put a finger against my sore flesh and I gasped. "Jesus, that's tender, don't do that."

"You should shut up or I'll give you a bloody nose as well as a battered behind." I saw how strong her hands were and I didn't doubt the effect she could have on my face.

I still couldn't keep quiet. "Please, don't do it anymore." Of course, I was ignored.

The ten on my uncovered butt were agonizing. When I had dominated guys as an amateur hooker, my idea of a paddling was to use a hairbrush, not that huge jailhouse weapon. Everything narrowed down to that wood crashing into my ass and my own screaming.

Beyond that, my whole body was quivering. That was a sign I knew from previous experiences with my clients; the beating was really having an impact

After the last one, my backside felt blazing hot and swollen. I was openly weeping, which meant they had broken my will. The guard with the paddle said, "Let me give her a couple more because she's been so much trouble."

I took what she dished out, and then she put her tool on a nearby table. "All right, untie her." When that was done, she addressed me. "Now get the fuck up."

I slid backwards, but when I tried to stand up, I fell to my knees. Two of the women quickly grabbed me, pulled me up, and kept me steady.

There was no corner time, but the guards did comment on the damage they had inflicted on me. The head one said. "You're definitely purple now, honey. In this place, we get down deep into the backsides of bad girls like you."

Another said. "This is one girl who is going to be more careful when peddling what used to be her pale little bottom. And on a college campus, where she's a student no less! I've never heard of such a shameful thing."

The third one said, "It's amazing how young some of these little whores are."

"Yes, a student hooker. You should be attending to your studies, not selling blowjobs in the men's room."

At that point, I was struggling to get my clothes back together. When I was done, the head guard said, "You're free to go now. Keep in mind that the first three offenses don't go on, let's call it your permanent record. But we will still keep track of you, and the second and third arrests will result in the same punishment you just got. And, God help you, for the fourth one -- and we do get quite a few of those -- well, you don't want to know what that will be like."

She gave me a tube of lotion I could apply to my burning hindquarters in the ladies' room down the hall. On my way out of the room, I passed the next girl coming in for her discipline. She was a nervous- looking Latina, and when she saw the expression on my face and the copious tears I was shedding, she was doubly shocked.

It was impossible to apply the lotion. I was groaning merely trying to touch myself and rub it in. There was no mirror in there -- probably on purpose -- for me to examine the state of my bottom.

I was hobbling as I left the building and entered the street. There was a bench in the park across Centre Street, but I had to sit sidesaddle when I tried to use it.

Then I remembered to check my purse. It was amazing, but the Department of Corrections gave your possessions and money back to you when they were done. That week had been a profitable one. I had turned two successful tricks, and I still had more than fifty dollars on me. It was more than enough to pay for a cab to Maspeth in Queens.

That was a Godsend. Otherwise, I'd be standing on the subway and then the bus handing onto the bars whether there were any seats or not.

Of course, I had to sit sidesaddle in a taxi too, but the drivers had seen all sorts of weird behavior and that one didn't mention it at all. He must have known what had happened to me from the way I was dressed and from the location where he picked me up. What happened in the jails was not a secret. In fact, the city and state made sure to boast about it.

Now all I had to do was think of a plausible story to tell my uncle when he came home later that day. He was used to me being out all night without calling to say where I was. He would, however, have some pointed questions when he saw the manner in which I tried to sit down.

Fortunately, I got home quite a bit before he did, and I went upstairs to examine myself in the mirror. My behind was bruised purple in two circles in the middle of my butt cheeks. The flesh around those was bright red.

I took a shower, put on a nightgown, and went downstairs to get a drink. Then I lay face down on my bed. I'd be sleeping that way for some time to come.

Then I realized that my sham trial had some benefits. I had no idea what bail would have been set or if I could have paid it. For sure, with this system there was no need to spend time on Riker's Island or some such place. And apparently, my first conviction didn't really count against me.

Maybe it was worth the sore ass I had.

*****

Do you think that fantasy is more than a bit perverse? How do I come up with these tales? Maybe I should submit spanking stories to some sleazy magazine and get paid for it. There's the money angle again.

Yet it's surprising how well it works for me when I think about it during masturbation. The first time I tried it, I climaxed at the point when I went over the trestle for my paddling.

I had to put my trusty dildo down and rest up for a short while. Then I started where I left off and I climaxed again during the bare rear-end portion of the scenario. I've used it several times; it's one of my go-to plots when I need to bang myself.

You may think it's very strange for a young lady like me to have such thoughts. Well, maybe you don't know what really goes on in many if not most female minds. There are often some very intense feelings in us that may come out with the right stimuli.