The Raven Tattoo

"Yes. Release. Fill me."

I lick my lips as the older man's hands press on my shoulders. Watching the face contort, I push my calves onto his and pull in his load. It rushes in floods, a deep flowing stream of milky seed. Lovely. Warm and truly comforting.

I take him into my arms and kiss his forehead. "Happy birthday," I whisper to him.

"Wow!" is all he can say in reply. A brief giggle, a smile like he's reached heaven. I grin at him, kiss his cheek, and say: "you've a talent."

"Really? Did I make you--"

"You did."

He laughs again. "Worth every cent."

We kiss, then I bring him onto my shoulder and rub his back with my arms. "Happy birthday," I repeat.

It's this man's 45th birthday. Next month ago I have my 21st. As he relaxes on me I check his forearms.

"I've been clean," he says. There are needle marks up his arms, I check them and none seem recent. Satisfied, I say "well done," kiss his hair, then pull him ever closer onto me as he drifts.

A brief snore tells me he's asleep. I pull myself slightly up, allowing him to rest for the night on the top of my left breast as I lie back on my memory pillow.

This man, Jonathan, is one of my regulars. Three years ago his wife passed away and devastated, he turned to heroin. I met him last year, when he was drunk in a Boston bar and seeking to buy fentanyl. A year later, after months of worry, I can trust he's on the mend.

I've always been like this, worrying about others and unable to sleep until I know they're alright. When I was 6 my best friend's dog, Sloopy, was run over. I begged my stepdad to donate my allowance, including an early birthday allowance, to their vet fees.

Growing up I loved playing doctor with my stethoscope on and taking care of the other kids. Then in junior high the school counselor suggested I become a therapist. I trained in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and was doing the practical hours required to get my license, but I found it, well, cold. Listening to people, suggesting how they can change their thoughts. It's helpful, but distant, impersonal. I wanted to hug them, embrace them, bring them into my arms and join their hearts to the overflowing love that's within mine.

So I started to meet people - mostly men, but some women - in bars, on reddit and online forums - offering them closeness. Right now I wrap my right leg around Jonathan's left, give his hair a final kiss, and sleep.

The sunlight shines through the blinds of Jonathan's bedroom. I get up, put on a dressing gown, and head to the kitchen. I like to share breakfast with my clients. On the kitchen table is an envelope. $1000 inside, my usual fee. Yes I charge a lot, and I make a lot doing this. But I'm not the type to bend over, grit my teeth, and think of the laundry! I'm not a sex worker so much as a heart worker. My job is to give to others everything I am, the physical part is only a small fraction of the compassionate love I long to share with whomever needs me.

I crack eight eggs, whisk them, melt butter in a pan and pour the egg mixture in. Sausages and bacon go on the grill, French brioche is toasted and two coffees made in the machine with extra double cream. White and red grapes for dessert. I bring all this up to Jonathan, seeing his smile I set down the trays of food and smooch his lips.

We munch speedily, chatting with full mouths. I have the gym later, where I mostly bench and leg press. I keep my muscles strong but eat enough to be in a slight calorie surplus. I like my breasts full, my ass squeezable, and I maintain a layer of belly fat. When I sit up there's a small stomach roll, perfect for guys to lie on after I've had them.

"Better food than on the plane," Jonathan says with a smile. He started as a truck driver, but got into the wine connoisseur business. He's due to fly to Argentina to try a new kind of Malbec, and advise his company on whether they should import it to the States.

"One glass a day, remember?"

"Keeps me from the worse stuff."

I put a red grape in his mouth. "Come back safe," I tell him, then I play with his arms. He still has some good biceps from his years driving and carrying barrels of beer into bars.

So I ask him: "Ever deadlifted a hooker?"

He shakes his head.

"Carry me to the bathroom."

He puts the trays of food away, gets up, lifts me and fireman carries me to the shower. We wash each other in the steamy, soapy waters. Then I notice he looks down, sad. I move his chin up.

"Samantha liked us like this," he says.

Cuddling him, I lift my arms up to shampoo his hair and rinse it out. I bite into his neck and suck a trace of blood. Just a tiny amount, and I press my fingers in to stop any bleeding. Then I invite Jonathan to suck and bite into mine.

"You have me now," I whisper into his ear. "Stay safe. You're never alone."

We kiss in a soft, dreamy way underneath the flowing water. After what seems like many hours I turn the water off, get out, and dry him. And I let him dry me. Carefully he dries underneath my breasts, dries my armpits, finally dries my hair. I direct him to cream me with an iris and sweet peony scented cocoa butter. Putting on my gym kit, taking the envelope, I give Jonathan a final kiss goodbye.

Arriving at the gym, I workout with my best female friend and unofficial PT, Lorna. I'll never match her musculature. She can squat heavier than most of the guys here, outrun half of them, would win a sprint if she wasn't weighed down by biceps bulging more than any woman I've ever seen. Admittedly it is a stereotype but she realized she was a lesbian in elementary. We've never done anything together - I like girls, but she's a fun platonic friend. Except when she gets onto the topic of my career.

"What grinds my gears," she says in the changing room as she injects some testosterone-filled PEDs, "is the word empowering. I'm running for President to ban that stupid word, fuck the First Amendment."

"Honey I'm not in danger. The guys I meet, they're really sweet actually."

"But it's not an empowering choice as idiot fake feminists online call it. It's just not. Do you see Bill Gates or Jeff Bezos dancing around naked on OnlyFans? Does Trump empower himself doing gay porn?"

"It's different but still, I'm--"

"I'm pissed at you. You were a wonderful therapist I'm sure. Take those people skills and run for office. Mayor, Congress."

"It makes me happy, I don't ask you to understand but--"

"But can we at least stop with this patronizing empowerment bullshit?" Lorna's face shows genuine rage. A few other women look at us, interested in our discussion. "Women need to stop kidding ourselves that prancing around like circus monkeys for horny guys has anything to do with power. Power is to lead: be a CEO, be President, like men are but as we found out yet again, women get denied power when it counts."

"Alright sister," I say as I finish putting a coconut oil treatment into my hair. "I hear you, really. I'm a traitor to real feminism. You're right. But, same time next week?"

Lorna nods, we briefly hug and I leave the gym. She's not wrong. I know she's not happy with her life - she hasn't found love herself - but she is right that if I got elected, I could do more to empower women globally. Pleasing men for money, no maybe it's not the most feminist choice.

But still, I head back to my apartment, cook a large dish of mac and cheese, then when I've digested get ready for the night - high black boots, a raven-black latex dress and gloves, my hair tied high.

I'm seeing a regular, but he's different from the others. I take an Uber, getting out by his apartment. I knock, I see activity through the peep hole, and the door opens. I walk through, close it, and hang up my coat. I feel the sharp press of lips on my boots.

This client, Jacob, is unique. Naked, he stays at my boots, kissing them. I tap his forehead and he gets up. All he is wearing is a cage around his balls - I take a key from my coat and unlock it.

He's 34, and was a successful Olympic silver medallist in judo. After retiring he started his own martial arts business, which keeps him busy most days and evenings. When he contacted me, he told me that the competitive, macho environment hid his real nature - which is to dream of matriarchy, of domination by a woman and a life of service and worship to her.

I walk into the lounge, sit back, cross my legs and direct him to my feet again. "Very nice," I tell him, "you may bring me my phone."

He gets up, takes my phone from my bag and hands it to me. Then he puts an apron on and heads to the kitchen. When I met him I told him: "I have many men who please me sexually. I don't need another. But I don't yet have a man who is a pure slave within his heart - devoted only to me. Our relationship will be our own, and unique. I will love you in my heart of hearts but you must belong to me completely."

And he agreed. So the first aspect of submission is financial. I dominate his money. He does the accounts for his business and pays his own salary into an account that only I control. I login to the banking app and transfer the monthly salary - minus my fee - to an account he can access. Therefore he knows that to eat, to house himself, he must first obey me. I deduct enough for two sessions, this month and one in two weeks time.

He brings back two bowls of potato madras curry. I taste it, it's good, so I tell him "you may eat" and, sitting at my feet, he eats with me. He's made it well, creamy and the right level of spice. Last time I wasn't satisfied with his cooking, so it was straight back in the cage and a night apart. But tonight the curry is good, so I nod and he beams. He knows I am pleased, and I can feel the satisfaction bubbling in his heart. When we finish he takes the bowls to the kitchen, and comes back without his apron.

"I did as you requested Mistress, what do you think?"

Jacob shows me a tattoo he's recently got on his lower left side. A red bird, shaped like a raven, wings outstretched. I asked him to get this - the red is to match my bright copper hair and the bird to symbolize how I fly from one home to the next. I rub my finger on it.

"Well done," I whisper in his ear. "My brave little boy."

Jacob shivers at this. He's told me of his life and it's a good one - happy childhood, parents still together, popular in school. There's no trauma in him that I know of. Submission and adoration is just his nature. He needs a real Goddess to sacrifice everything for and I am here, fleshy and commanding.

"You've earned it" I whisper as I lead him through to the bedroom. He has the implements laid out: handcuffs which I put on him, rope to tie his feet together. I lay him face down over the bed, tie his feet, and take a single tailed whip. I strike his left ass cheek. He winces.

"No noise," I tell him, my voice getting harder. I strike both cheeks till they are red. There's a small cry.

"No noise," I repeat, slapping his face. I dig my right boot into his ass cheek and whip. His back starts to bleed from the strokes. I remove my boot to concentrate on whipping the muscular, gluteal martial artist. I can feel each muscle fighting back against the strokes. So I go harder. Tomorrow he'll be bruised, tomorrow I'll see the evidence of the multiple trickles of blood. But he's quiet.

So next phase. I drop the whip and take another implement - a black strap-on that I tie round my waist. On a little chest of drawers is the lube we use. It's called Ghost Chilli - burning hot, maximum pain, I squirt some right into his ass and apply more to the dildo.

Entering him, squeezing his shoulders with my gloves, I thrust. He cries out at this and that he is allowed. Noone could not. Just a drop of Ghost Chilli scalds. But the sensation is at my clit and this is how I take pleasure from Jacob. I thrust more, I keep thrusting, until my own buildup of bliss is enough and I can release.

Letting out a cry of joy, I undo the strap-on. I pull Jacob up, wrap my arms around him, and start kissing his cheek. Then I hold his cock with my right hand and hit the bottom of his balls with my left palm. It takes mere seconds - the devotion of tonight, the searingly intense pain, the roughness of the latex gloves - it overwhelms him and he releases onto the bed.

That's enough for now. I kiss his forehead and point to the pillows. We get in. First I take off my gloves, my boots, my black stocking and latex dress. I have a comfortable chemise underneath. Taking a jar of coconut oil from a nearby bedside table, I apply aftercare. Massaging everything I whipped, healing and nurturing the places I bruised and made bleed.

Jacob is silent, till I ask him: "two weeks time?"

"Thank you Mistress."

"That's enough?"

"Of course Mistress. You are enough for me."

I ask him this each night we meet. Establishing that our relationship is always voluntary. I know I ask a lot of him - no sex, I do not plan to let him lick me or enter me. Our relationship has that boundary, and from his side it's exclusive. There is nobody else in the two weeks or more when I am not there.

But he's satisfied with it. And it may seem strange but he finds the routine works for him. He's busy most nights training, teaching, and running an expanding chain of martial arts centers. Perhaps a more conventional girlfriend would get in the way. And while I hurt Jacob I also understand him. He needs that intense, absolute submission and the knowledge that someone will always be there. That is my word that he trusts in - that I shall never abandon him but always return to free him from the stress and worry of the day.

As I massage, I hear a brief snore. I put the coconut oil back, turn off the lamp, rest his head on my right arm and briefly play with his nipples. This wakes him slightly so I whisper: "sleep well my darling, Mistress adores you." I sit up in bed, wrapping a nearby blanket around me for warmth. I move Jacob's head onto my lap. This is his reward, and a little bit of an uncomfortable position for me but one he loves. He's out again, peaceful on my black chemise. Again my heart beats with loving satisfaction. Seeing him there, his very being given and surrendered to me, I gently rub and kiss his hair until I too fall asleep.

In the morning I wake, and he wakes. I kiss his forehead, then tell him: "mine first this time please." He nods and leaves for the kitchen. After a little while he brings back my breakfast: creamy coffee, orange juice, bacon and camembert filled croissants, fried eggs, and a raspberry yogurt. It's perfect, I will go for a late afternoon gym but this morning I look down at my chemise and think of how happy Jacob was to lie there. He has given everything to me, so to him I give a strong muscular frame to dominate him and a little extra layer to cuddle and rest on.

When I'm nearly finished eating I say: "the bath please." He goes to the bathroom, prepares a bubblegum scented bath, and when I'm finished I follow him there. He's kneeling on the bath mat, with his head up and his mouth open. I know how to aim. Straddling, I let out what to him is the Goddess' nectar. He's never failed to drink it all. Leaving not a drop of piss on his body or on the floor, he closes his mouth and looks down as I get in the bath. The foam hides my body somewhat. It's a boundary: he cannot see me or touch me when I'm naked. Part of devotion is mystery - my body must keep its mystique to him. Other Dommes like to be licked but for me, that's for my regular clients. Jacob is a Knight honoring always his Queen.

After maybe an hour of relaxing, I get out of the bath. "Promise you won't look," I tease him. I take a towel, dry myself and Jacob knows what's next. He goes to the bedroom to set out my clothes - I always leave enough here for him to wash and get ready for when I come. He's gone by the time I've finished drying myself so I dress in private.

When I'm finished I go to the door to leave. Jacob is standing there, hands over his balls. I take the cage, his chastity device. He can urinate normally with it, but it prevents masturbation. It creates a slightly uncomfortable tension always. That's what I want, for him to always remember me. He may be showing judo throws, he may be filing his tax returns. But the pressure of the cage is always there reminding him that right now he's without me. That's how our relationship is: when I am not here he shall think of me, long for me, and yearn for the time to pass so he can again bow in reverent service to me.

So I attach it, and bid him goodbye. "Wait," he says and heads back into the kitchen before bringing me back a wonderful bouquet of flowers: red, pink, and yellow roses, hyacinths, violets, a ring of daisies around a dozen yellow daffodils. A beautifully thoughtful gift - I don't prompt for gifts from any of my clients. But taking it, for the first time I briefly kiss Jacob's lips.

He blushes and shivers again like a teenage boy newly lost in his first romance. "Goodbye Jacob, I'll miss you" I say as I open the door and leave.

Getting back to my place, I relax in front of the TV for a while and think. Jacob is one of about a dozen regular clients, but I miss the thrill of meeting more. At the thought of someone new, I feel a sharp tingling down there. A fresh man to enjoy, embrace, cherish and love. I think again of Lorna from the gym. She tells the truth but still, still - this is the best job of all.

When evening comes, I put on a lilac floral dress and curl my wavy copper hair. Settling eventually on beige stockings and red heels, I take a cab to the city. Dropped off outside the Hilton, I enter the hotel bar. The place is quiet, mostly suited businessmen discussing what's up and what's down on the S&P 500, which AAA country will be the first to default, and a heated debate in the corner on whether we were better off on the gold standard.

I notice by the bar a man in a smart grey suit with apparently his third glass of Bailey's cream. He looks Indian, fairly dark-skinned, maybe from the same region as a friend I knew who came from a Tamil Brahmin family. Two empty whisky glasses, the brownish white at the bottom giving away that they're the remains of the liqueur, are in front of him.

He looks at the bottles of Caribbean rum behind the counter. I sit on a barstool and take a look at him. He's probably early thirties; I sense he's smart yet deeply upset.

The bartender comes up to me and asks: "can I help?"

"Bailey's please. On the rocks."

"We've got original, vanilla mint, and velvet cupcake."

"Ooooh gotta be the cupcake." I wink at him, then wink again at the suited man, who seems to notice me. I smile, taking off my turquoise silk scarf to show a little cleavage.

He looks down at his Bailey's, back at me, then again down at his drink. The bartender returns with mine.

"That's $8.95."

"Inflation," I smile and furrow through my handbag. "Now where is it. Sure I had my Amex."

Out of the corner of my eye I see the man get up from his drink, tap his card, and sit back down.

"Aaah thanks." I call after him. Then I take my velvet cupcake Bailey's and sit next to him, crossing my legs.

"I'm a ditz. No card."

"Apple Pay?" He looks back at me, his accent clearly Indian, seeming to suppress a smile.

"Oh I can't really use this," I reply, waving my phone then putting it back in my bag. "Last time it did its updates the alarm didn't go off and I missed my flight to Aruba."

"Hello, I'm, I'm Rajinder," he says with a nervous stutter.

"I'm Bronwen. You a banker?"

At this he freezes, then looks down at his now empty third glass of Bailey's.

Clenching his fists, he turns his head to the front of the bar. There's a large man standing at the entrance with a white carrier bag.

"Excuse me," he says, and heads out. I watch him leave with the other man. After a minute I head out to see where they go. They walk round the back of the hotel. They look around, I hide behind the corner, then I peek to see Rajinder pass the man a wad of dollar bills and take the carrier bag. The other man leaves down the alleyway, Rajinder walks back.