Mistress Alexandra's Memoirs


Getting the Kinks Out

I met S., of all places, in the Ramrod on the evening before New Year's Eve. He was young, just barely old enough to be in the back room, but I could tell he was eager to learn and needed to feel powerful hands on him. At first, he stood trying to imitate the characteristic slouch of other leathermen in the back room, but he failed—his need was too raw, too close to the surface for him to be able to carry off "jaded." Then, I apparently caught his eye in my regulation 1" heeled (so unfair!) knee-high boots, mid-thigh-length leather skirt, and fitted bar vest that *mostly* hid the lacy brassiere underneath while ideally framing my generous cleavage—all in unrelenting black, of course.

 

Abandoning his absurd posturing, he starting to bounce near me, talking just a little too loudly with his friends about topics he thought I would find interesting but about which he had very little knowledge; it was endearing, in a puppyish way. Ah, fresh meat, desperate to be devoured!

 

However, I was out with my friend A., the only femme I have ever known who can march into the back room at the Ramrod in thigh-high boots and a short, brown velvet spaghetti-strap dress . . . and woe betide any young doorman who would dare try to stop her! She had history in that place for sure—was known for hiking her skirts in the old days and adding her golden stream to the trough. The men loved her, and through her I felt accepted as well, although I was relatively new to the Boston leather scene.

 

A. likened S. to a gnat, the way he kept buzzing around us . . . We both assumed he was interested in her, since she had such a strong dominant personality and was well known as a skilled bondage top. She would glare; he would retreat, but not for long. Eventually, she stepped into the bootblack's chair, running her long, freshly sharpened nails over his gaunt bare back to remind him that extra care was required.

 

As soon as he saw me leaning against the bar alone, to my surprise, he began sidling closer. I caught his eye, raised an eyebrow; he looked away. I kept looking at him until, inevitably, his gaze slid back and was snared by mine. I nodded, tapped my empty can of Red Bull, and looked pointedly at the bartender. Without waiting to make sure he got the message, I turned my back.

 

A few minutes later, there was a tap on my shoulder. I slowly turned to find him holding an open can of Red Bull.

 

"Er, miss, ma'am, w-w—"

 

"Who gave you permission to invade my personal space?"

 

Offering the drink, he stammered, "Er, sorry, I just wanted to, to—"

 

"No one with any sense accepts an open drink from a stranger in a bar, no matter how cute that stranger *thinks* he is. So, enjoy. I hear it gives you wings." There was much snickering from behind the bar as I started to turn away again.

 

"Have some pity on the boy; he's new to all of this. I think he just needs a firm . . . hand." The bartender always thought he was a laugh riot. Someday, he would be on his knees servicing *my* cock—but that night I had other fish to fry, as it were.

 

"New beverage. On your knees. Might as well begin memorizing my boots now."

 

Seconds later, there he was, as specified. I bade him hold the drink higher and with both hands, as I kicked his knees apart. His arms started to shake after only a few moments, but fortunately for him, I was thirsty, so I decided to let that go, for now.

 

"Open it." I flicked him on the forehead between the eyes. "Who told you to raise your head? Keep your eyes on my boots, little man."

 

He struggled to turn the can so that he could grip the tab, and finally managed to open it. I took the opened beverage from his trembling hands; fortunately it hadn't gotten *too* warm.

 

"Hands clasped, behind your head."

 

As I took a long draught of the sweet drink (liquefied Smarties, anyone?), I lifted my boot and brought the toe down on his crotch and felt around a bit. As I suspected, hard but small. Fortunately, I had no use for his equipment, as I had dildos in many sizes on display at home, but it was good that he was erect.

 

My friend A. finished out her time in the bootblack's chair while S. and I stayed at the bar—me leaning comfortably against it, him on his knees with my foot in his groin, getting flicked on the forehead every time he moved his hands or leaned too far forward or back. As she walked toward us, her boots gleaming in the dim light of the bar, I gave the bartender a card with my name and e-mail address on it, told S. to stay right where he was, and left with A. It was close to closing, and we never like to stay for the sidewalk sale.

 

The next day, I received an e-mail asking me to meet him at the bar again that night. I replied that I, clearly unlike him, had plans to spend an intimate evening with friends on New Year's Eve and had no intention of being in a public place. Also, what took him so long to write??

 

After a few e-mails were exchanged and his references were thoroughly checked, I agreed to allow him to make dinner for me. He claimed to be an accomplished cook—I should have known something was up by his use of the word "cook" rather than "chef." The food was palatable, but not particularly well presented or interestingly prepared. ::SIGH:: There was much work ahead.

 

Fortunately, the disappointing meal meant that a satisfying punishment could follow. He said he liked thud but feared single tails (although he hadn't ever experienced one). Thus, after he had removed the dishes, I grabbed him by the back of the neck, thrust him face-first against the wall, and once he had been suitably warmed up by very deep and somewhat painful massage, I began whipping him with my favorite toy, a four-foot sled-dog whip. The initial crack (necessary to get the kinks out of the whip after it had been coiled in my toy bag) made him start and tremble deliciously. I bade him stand very still, not to move a muscle, that this was his punishment for disappointing me. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered.

 

Although I plied the whip for more than an hour, I never really went beyond the level of butterfly kisses much, and only left a few pink stripes on his back (it was his first time; I was never so generous again, and he became a total whip slut over the months).

 

Since he had pleased me by taking his punishment well, I permitted him to place a glove on my right hand and lube it nicely once I was comfortably settled on his bed with a protective cloth over my skirt. I then had him position himself ass up on my legs, with his head pointing toward my feet.

 

I fed three fingers of my right hand into his ass as his cock grew against my legs. Once my fingers were inside, we began the game—I spank each ass cheek with my left hand as he counts, and then I fuck his ass the same number of times . . . first 10 of each, then 20, then 30, et cetera, until he came on my lap. After he licked and sucked his cum from the cloth, he removed and disposed of the glove and kissed my feet.

 

An auspicious start, although he never really learned to prepare meals to my satisfaction—perhaps he enjoyed the punishment too much?

 

 



Cling-Wrap Tales

Saran-Wrap Fantasies . . .

 

1) Multicolor

I decided, one evening, that at the next club night I was going to turn my submissive Jim into a public dessert plate. I cleared my space requirements with the club and made my preparations. (The grocery is such fun! So much cling film, and in so many lovely colors! And don't get me started on the whipped creams, chocolate sauces, fruits, et cetera. Yum!)

 

On the appointed night, Jim and I arrived early enough that the bartenders and DJs were still setting up their stations. First thing, I had my friends start setting up the chocolate to melt for the fountain and slice the fruit while I turned my attention to Jim. I snugly wrapped his neck and torso with several layers of the cling film (in several pretty colors, of course!), followed by each individual arm and leg. Then, he was placed on the plastic-tablecloth-covered table . . . the soles of his feet wrapped together . . . his hands bound behind his neck . . .

 

For a few minutes before I started to decorate him, I took a bit of advantage of his helpless state: running my hands over his torso and watching as he struggled to move, pulling his hair, slipping a pinkie between his toes. I covered him with the cold whipped cream, using it as a sort of glue to hold the slices of strawberry, kiwi, and banana, the mounds of blueberries and raspberries, the fanned expanses of 'nilla wafers and shortbread cookies. Apparently, the whipped cream and fruits were chilly, even through the many layers of saran wrap—shocking! I merely chuckled at his discomfiture.

 

I let him know that he would be warming up soon enough, as it was nearly time for his unveiling. I had the chocolate fountain placed between his legs—close enough to his groin that when I eventually took pity on him and cut the saran wrap just enough to release his poor cock (which was already struggling to find room to get hard), his balls would rest against the base of the fountain and he would be able to feel its vibrations and warmth.

 

We opened the curtain that separated us from the rest of the club, and the patrons who had filled the space while we were working started to drift in our direction. My friend turned on the chocolate fountain, and it started to cascade the delicious molten chocolate down itself in gentle waves. Thrilled to be the first to sample his wares, I selected a slice of banana from its spot on Jim's belly just above the head of his cock and passed it through the sheet of warm chocolate before sliding it through the dollop of whipped cream on his right nipple. Delicious!

 

I announced to everyone that they were free to partake of the delectable offerings, and slowly folks started delicately picking at morsels on and around his body. Soon, however, the collective shyness wore off. The whipped cream started to melt with his body heat and puddle beneath his ass, at the base of his cock. It was still very cool, but I began to drizzle the warm chocolate on his cock and our friends would lick it off him with light little laps of the tongue. Complete strangers were caressing his nipples, belly, inner thighs, everywhere and anywhere they could reach through the wrap, licking off the whipped cream and reapplying it so that there would be a constant alteration of hot mouths and cold whipped cream over his entire body.

 

Eventually, the evening ended with my sitting upon his face in my tight black leather jeans, making him lick me fiercely if he wanted to breathe . . .

 

 

2) Purple

Our next outing was to the Ramrod, the local gay leather/denim bar. For the occasion, I was wearing my black tank top and leather vest, gray/white urban-camo-print Doc Martens, and black denim jeans—wallet in my right back pocket, red silk hanky peeking out of my left. In the back room, stage right of the raised platform, there was a lovely and sturdy sling attached to a frame of 4x4s, just waiting for my lovely little bondage slut.

 

I had had Jim wear his oldest T-shirt and denim shorts that evening so that I could have a bit of knife fun with him. I had Don and Raul help him into the sling while I got out my packages of pale purple cling film. Bad boys (or very good friends) that they are, they decided to make it into a game of "tease the straight boy," groping him shamelessly as they eased him up and into the sling, capturing his ankles between their thighs as they removed his boots.

 

Once he was settled, I attached Jim's wrist and ankle cuffs to the four chains of the sling, leaving him happily bound but still able to twist and wriggle out of my grasp if he so chose. He soon, however, realized the wisdom of staying completely still, the instant that he saw the introductory gleam of my knife as I let the back side of the blade trail up the inside of his right shin. Once I reached the bottom hem of his shorts, I stationed myself between his spread thighs. With a smile, I called his name until I knew he was looking directly into my eyes. When I had his complete attention, I began slicing upward through his shorts until the back of the knife rested on his ball sac. His eyes widened even further.

 

I repositioned the knife at his left knee and repeated the same gesture. Even in the relative gloom of the bar, I could see his pupils dilate—lovely, such a responsive bottom he is! I continued with my slices and slashes until his clothing was a puddle of scrap cloth at my feet and his hard cock was on display. Just for a bit of fun, I dipped my knife into my glass of ice water, left on the side of the stage closest to me, and then laid the whole side of the blade against his scrotum. Jim let his head fall back into the cradle of the sling, all tension flowing out of his limbs as his cock twitched once against his belly.

 

I picked up the purple cling film and proceeded to wind it around his body: first his torso so that it was snuggled tightly into the sling, then binding each individual limb to the cool chain against which it rested, shoulder to wrist and hip to ankle, and finally I fashioned something of a hammock for his head, once the lengths of chain causing his upper body to be raised had been lowered until his body was parallel to the floor (and conveniently, his head was level with the fly of my black denim jeans as I stood behind him).

 

I opened my jeans so that I could fish out the lovely purple strap-on dildo I was sporting for the evening. I let it rest on Jim's forehead and nose for a bit, knowing that he would be enjoying the scent of my sweaty thighs and musk on the implement.

 

I walked around to Jim's side; Don helped me up onto the sling and into position, seated astride Jim's chest, my urban-camo-print Doc Martens firmly planted on the rungs of the two barstools flanking us. Jim, knowing what was to come, opened his mouth wide as I slipped the head of my pretty purple cock over his tongue. Reaching behind me, I stroked his cock with the same rhythm I used on his mouth. As I felt him start to strain upward against his bonds, I stopped and took my cock from his mouth.

 

Sitting back a bit, I retrieved my pen knife from the carabiner on my belt loop and used it to gently perforate circles into the cling film covering Jim's nipples. I invited Don and Raul to bite and suck on the circles until they ripped away from Jim's body. Naughty boys that they are, I don't think they stopped quite when Jim's nipples were free; when they stepped away, those poor nipples were quite swollen, red, and wet, and I could feel Jim trying to squirm beneath me. Suspicious!

 

Not feeling I could leave those nipples free in the bar air, I slipped my clamps out of the inside pocket of my leather vest and quickly put them on him, tightening them down slightly with the screws. Again with Don's help, I dismounted from my perch across Jim's chest and moved to stand between his thighs once more and slipped on a handy nitrile glove (also purple!). Don handed me the sex grease from my bag on the floor, and I slicked two fingers before sliding them slowly into Jim. I began to swing him back and forth in the sling, using only my fingers buried deep inside of his hole, curled up near but not touching his prostate. Once the swing had set up a gentle rhythm, I kept it going with one hand pushing on the base of his cock while Don helped me slick up a third finger.

 

Jim began to moan and thrash his head as I started to stretch him with the three fingers. I judged it was now time to introduce my cock into the picture, slicking it, sliding it into him as my fingers were removed. Jim's moans grew louder as I started to fuck him with purpose, greater intensity. Fearing his moans might attract the attention of the club management, I reached forward with my non-gloved hand and thrust my fingers into his mouth. With my other hand, I gripped his cock, using it as a joystick to pull him onto and off of my strap-on. My friends crowded around behind us, to shield us from unappreciative eyes.

 

Such fun! I loved watching Jim as he lost control, as he gave himself up to the moment. For a brief time, nothing existed for him other than my cock and fingers inside of him, my clamps on his nipples, my gloved fist around his cock.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some of the guys around us pulling out their cocks, and wondered how long it had been since there was last a circle jerk in the back room of the Ramrod—the place used to be legendary in the '80s and early '90s (bathtub in the back room and everything) before changes in management. Now, occasionally, there is the odd furtive hand job in the corner or a bit of quick piss play at the side of the bar, but nothing as raw and sexual as this moment. Multiple throbbing cocks in the open air, being fiercely fisted—it was a moment I would remember for quite some time to come.

 

Far too soon, eight cocks were raining cum down on to Jim's cling-film-clad torso, and his own dripping down the side of my hand. I eased my cock from inside of him, wiping it and my hand against his thigh. It was a matter of a few seconds' work with safety shears to release Jim from the sling, the cling film going directly into one of the oil barrels acting as trash receptacles, his body curled up in my arms.

 

 

3) Black

Jim confessed he hadn't ever experienced pallet-wrap bondage. This could not continue!

 

As it happens, my friend Mike not only is a bondage bottom whose avidity rivals Jim's own but also works in a business where he is able to order rolls of pallet wrap at will. He was more than happy to give me a few, as long as I made time to wrap him at some point in the near future. Not a problem! But that is a tale for another day (although it does involve the most bizarre two-headed "back massager" I have ever seen, but again, I digress).

 

Back to Jim. On this evening, I had him strip as he came through the front entrance into the apartment, placing his neatly folded clothes on the chair next to the door. Naked, he followed me down the hall to the back bedroom I had converted into my private play space, with its lovely, hand-built leather-topped table.

 

I had Jim stand next to the table, feet together, arms relaxed at his sides. I picked up the black roll of pallet wrap and unrolled enough that I could hold the end to his chest, and left the roll lying on the tabletop. With a few well-placed pieces of duct tape, I stuck the end of the pallet wrap to his chest. Oops! I had meant to ask him to shave his chest before he came over. Ah well . . . he doesn't have a *terribly* hairy chest, at least.

 

But back to the story at hand. I picked up the roll and had Jim step far enough from the table that I could walk circles around him, unrolling as I went, until his entire torso, from the shoulders down to the tips of his fingers, was covered in several layers of the black, clingy plastic.

 

Jim was able to waddle backward the short distance necessary until his ass was resting against the edge of the table. With one hand atop the roll in the middle of his chest and the other behind his knees, I was able to help him up onto his back on the table and assist him as he caterpillar-wriggled his way into the middle of it.

 

Before I finished wrapping his legs, I decided to lube up a Silver Bullet vibrator and slide it into his ass, taping the controller to the sole of his left foot. Daniel Day Lewis was so very cute back in the '80s . . . but I digress . . .

 

I instructed Jim to lift his feet and hold them at least eighteen inches above the tabletop so I could finish wrapping his legs. I told him that every time he let his feet drop, it would mean a thirty-second period during which I would be sitting on his face, forcing him to lick me and not letting him breathe. If his feet touched the table, it would mean one minute of the punishment. I was surprised at how apparently weak his abs were, especially for a man with a six-pack . . .

 

But back to the story at hand. In fairly short order, he was thoroughly wrapped. I did have to improvise a bit of padding between the protruding bones of his ankles—luckily, my panties sufficed. He was unable to move anything but his head and his toes, and he was loving the feeling of enforced immobility.

 

I climbed onto the table with my trusty penknife and proceeded to cut holes around the important bits—namely, his cock and nipples. Then, I brought out my little plastic box of tiny plastic clips . . . but I had to hurry; if I waited much longer, his cock would harden too much for me to gather bits of loose skin just under the glans. Usually, I like to start with the nipples, so I obviously should have waited to cut out the cock. Ah well, hindsight is 20/20 and all of that . . . Again, I digress.

 

The Story at Hand: Clips! Cute, tiny, red clips surrounded the head of his cock, and he was unable to take his mind off the pain. Lovely. Slightly larger blue clips dotted his balls, and my favorite silver nipple clamps, linked now by a silver chain, adorned his nipples. Such a pretty picture! And speaking of silver, I hadn't forgotten the Silver Bullet in Jim's ass.

 

I untaped the controller, hiked up my short cotton skirt, and seated myself comfortably over his face to begin the first round of punishments. As I settled, I turned the vibrator on to its lowest setting. In spite of the clips, Jim's cock valiantly tried to fill and rise—amazingly resilient creatures, penes! But still, we couldn't have that during punishment, so each time I sat up to allow him some air, I tickled a few of the clips on his cock and balls. Instant deflation!

 

Well, actually, this worked only for a while; when I turned up the vibrator, Jim was able to hold his erection in spite of the pain from the clips. Time for them to come off, I supposed . . . but that could wait a bit—he had a very talented tongue, after all . . . but I digress . . .

 

 




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