Dear Shoeblossom:
Cymbeline really knows how to give a blowjob. I don't understand it, because she's such a committed feminist out in the real world, she's a lawyer for abused women, but when we're home, she's constantly between my legs, her dark head pumping away on my hard cock, as I reach down and twist and flick her nipples.
"So tell me about equal pay for equal work." I say, as I take my long, thin Malacca cane and whack her back as Cymbeline services me. "Tell me about how men don't deserve child visitation, I love that one!" Again I slam the cane down, but Cymbeline hardly moves a muscle, except of course for her jaw muscles.
No, when I come to see Cymbeline, she looks at me, kinda sadly. Her full breasts are generally poking out of whatever tart blouse she's wearing—she's not one of those ugly feminist types, thank God.
I nod and Cymbeline pulls her top off and takes one wrist in the other behind her back and I generally take my Lochgelly Tawse, an evil little whip, and land a few on her sensitive nipples, until I see those glorious tears.
Cymbeline is always silent—she knows not to annoy me. She makes few noises and lets me have at it against her breasts...I'm making up for the girls who wouldn't give it up to me in high school, probably.
Then I unzip my cock, as she's weeping and holding her welted bosom. I shake it at her, and she comes forward, excited about getting to service me...but I generally bat her away. "Why should I let you suck my dick, you filthy pig?" This is my favorite part of the whole deal. The "filthy pig" thing always makes me smile.
"P-please, Drayton..."Cymbeline begs, tears coursing down her cheeks. She's forgotten about the damage to her breasts from my Tawse. Perhaps I didn't hit her hard enough? I take up the Tawse again, my dick flopping around on the outside of my pants.
"Hands behind your back, NOW." I order, and Cymbeline grasps her wrists again, looking downcast. SLASH! The Tawse is a nasty leather thing, and it really does a number on Cymbeline's breasts. Now she has long red weals across those perfect areolas. My dick is getting quite excited as I stare at her.
Often then, I'll put it back in my pants, to Cymbeline's distress. I'll pick up another implement in my bag of tricks, a plastic curtain rod. Seemingly benign, the curtain rod can really cause pain without doing serious damage. I don't want to wind up in jail; you know...I've been there before!
Stepping closer, I nod and again poor Cymbeline clasps one wrist in the other, behind her back and I reach out and whack her across her left breast with the plastic curtain rod.
I am actually trying to find some steel ones on the Internet, they might be more fun, however, the plastics do make Cymbeline howl, just a bit...just a little pleasure for good old Master Drayton.
I reach out and whack both boobs at the same time with the plastic curtain rod. Cymbeline bites her lip and looks at the floor, trying not to make any sort of sound that might anger me. Because, of course then I'd leave and go home, and she wouldn't have been allowed to suck my magnificent black cock.
I swing the curtain rod again, this time hitting one of her hard nipples. "Did I give you permission for that nipple to become erect?" I pound the plastic rod on Cymbeline's nipple for a good thirty seconds until her breast is flat, as it should be...that's the way I like it!
I met Cymbeline at the Needle Point, Good Hope Road Township's sadistic pick-up meat market...where I happen to bartend, though I have an unusually good employee benefits package, because I am married to the owner! People often ask me if Ginger resents my amorous wanderings, and I always reply...that the day she's allowed to talk back, I might find out!
Ginger threw her considerable inheritance into BDSM bars and clubs right after she graduated from Smith College—she has four of them in the state, and it's made her quite a rich woman. Perhaps all the money, compiled with her good looks and high IQ makes Ginger feel guilty that she's got such a good package, and that's why she needs me to keep her humble? I'm not a psychiatrist.
Of course Ginger got into the BDSM thing long before she bought the bars—maybe she got sick of guys drooling over her curves and tumbled blond locks, guys richer than she was begged her to marry them from the time she was eighteen.
But apparently she was even bored by guys in the bondage scene, because she began writing me while I was across the country doing seven years for mail fraud—I'd been pretending to be a woman, and a dominatrix, and somehow getting men to send me all the family dough, and although that might not be illegal, the Man got me anyway.
As I have few other resources, I began writing stories for various spanking and bondage monthlies from my cell, making fifty to a hundred bucks a month, not much—and I was quite honest in my byline, using my name "Drayton Binks is a prisoner at Leavenworth...he'd love correspondence!"
I got a lot of interesting letters, in addition to my remuneration from the fans. But Ginger had some power, that girl did. We had a great exchange, and she helped me get a WAY early parole, and I came to work at her bar, and eventually we got married.
It is a jarring experience having a woman who's just sprung you from the joint requests "punishment" the first night out. I'd never really done the hands on, real time stuff. But I picked up the slack fast.
It was jarring, though. We were still just buddies—Ginger had picked me up at the prison and we were driving across country, Leavenworth's in Kansas, lots of roads—and we stopped in a motel.
Ginger got us a room with twin beds, but when I came back from using the commode she was kneeling on the bedroom floor, naked, and there was a long, evil looking whip on the bed. Ginger, unlike Cymbeline has small breasts and looks like she's about thirteen, but I went at it, and apparently I passed the test.
Then I met Amadeus, after the first few weeks making Long Island Iced Teas at the Needle Point. Amadeus is our beer supplier, and is quite a foppish guy, well dressed, Lexus, all that happy horseshit. "You have beautiful muscles, Dray." Amadeus told me in a startlingly sycophantic tone." I'd love to lick and kiss them—for a tribute, of course."
A tribute! Well, now. Five hundred bucks to visit Amadeus's house for an hour or two. I lay on his bed and he licked me and kissed me all over. Usually in the joint you really have to terrorize a new little white boy to get this sort of treatment, but I don't mind getting it in exchange for cash. I was a bit nauseated when he said I reminded him of Mike Tyson...there was a virtual shrine to Tyson all over the walls.
"I fantasize about Master Mike Tyson flexing his muscles and tying me down and whipping and sodomizing me." Amadeus told me with a dreamy look in his eyes. "I imagine his huge dick splitting my mouth, my very cheeks open as he skull-fucks me...Drayton?"
I reached down and grabbed Amadeus's ponytail (all these liberal white faggots have one) and shook his little head until his teeth rattled. "You ever sucked any big black dick, white boy...I gonna give you some a dis." My mother, a Classics scholar at Spellman College would have been horrified at my new attempt on the King's English...but money, you know.
I stood up and flexed my muscles at Amadeus, who looked at me as if I were the Wrath of God. I was still wearing my pants, and I pulled my belt off, and grabbed Amadeus, tossing him on the bed. WHACK! SMACK! THWACK! CRACK! Aah, it's good to get some exercise. Amadeus began sobbing copiously as the belt fell again and again.
I grabbed Amadeus's shoulders and shook him. "You're a sick little weird ass faggot. Suck my dick you honkey motha." Again, no black people I've ever met use the word "honky" but he wouldn't understand "ofay" and I had to terrorize him on his own grounds.
Amadeus weighs about one hundred fifty pounds soaking wet, and I am six foot seven, and tip the scales at three hundred, most of it muscle. He went at my dick like he was eating a burrito, and I shot my semen so hard it almost blew out the back of his head. The following week, he was dressed in pink and blue shortie pajamas with a drop seat in the back, and it was a truly sickening experience, but again I got paid.
Priscilla, one of the Needle Point's quieter patrons had very red hair and limpid eyes, and she approached me one day as I was about to go off my shift. "Say, Dray, I understand you do domination sessions for money."
I looked at her in surprise. Pris is the Science Editor for the Good Hope Daily Monocle and seemed more sensible, but no... Under my penetrating gaze Priscilla quickly looked at her shoes. "I-I'd like one, I think. Amadeus tells me you're really good."
I protested that I could wouldn't charge for such a pleasant young lady, but she insisted. "I know you're worth it, and I want to give you a tribute." I was beginning to really enjoy that word. I'd begun to notice that the difference between a crack addict and a crack connoisseur was how much money and what effort you had to go through to get it.
I was getting quite a stipend from Amadeus, and now Priscilla wanted to help out, too. Who am I to be insulted by their filthy lucre? In Priscilla's back yard, she had a small building that she called her Woodshed. She asked me to meet her there the next day at three o'clock.
Priscilla is in her late twenties, but she likes to look young!
