drinking tea chapter 3 bad girl bad girl such a dirty bad girl beep beep


Chapter 3

Bad girl, bad girl such a dirty bad girl beep beep

I wasn’t going to go into this at all.  Wasn’t going to mention being a whore at all because it really doesn’t have anything to do with what happened.  No more than being a waitress has anything to do with getting run over by a drunk driver.  But in the end I decided that I couldn’t just tell part of the whole, and after all I’m insane, so what am I afraid of? That people will think badly of me?  That’s the great thing about being insane; you no longer have to even try to live up to other people’s expectations.

And besides every story needs a little sex, right?

About six months after I started my new career I attended a street fair.  Great place San Francisco, you turn a corner and there you are in the middle of a party.  Music dancing, food, and standing at a table of counter culture books and Che’ Chevra t shirts a real live communist.  She was bone thin and rather grubby looking, as one who had given up both eating and bathing as a show of solidarity with the great starving unwashed proletariat.

I had to get a closer look. A real live commy, in this day and age, it was like spotting an endangered species.  Casually I slid over to the Che’ t shirts.  Now there was a man who looked the part of a revolutionary.  As I was fingering a tee shirt and debating the purchase a woman shouldered me aside to buy a book.  She was, bulky dressed all in black and her hair, long greasy strands of black hair.

“So what do you do?” the skinny communist asked her new customer.

“I’m a dominatrix.” She said with pride.

“Oh good for you.”  The commy smiled at her.  “It’s great to see a woman empowering herself”

I stepped forward, holding the blood red tee shirt with its brooding revolutionary.

“And what do you do?” She asked me.

“I’m a whore.” I said with a bright cheerful smile.  The more pc term I suppose is escort but really back when I was a house wife I didn’t go around calling myself a domestic engineer.

“Ohh ,” Her voice suddenly dripping pity.  “How does it feel to be exploited by men?”

Huu?  My brain skitters to a stop, my lips disappear inside my scrunched up face of complete annoyance.

I put down the tee shirt and leaned over and whispered into her grubby ear.

“You do know you’ll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.”

I turned and stalked off.  Commys!  no wonder they don’t get invited to parties any more.

Strange world isn’t it when whipping someone for money is perfectly ok but fucking for pay is so very very naughty?  I personally think most of the laws regarding sex to be,,,odd..  This is supposed to be a capitalist society so why in only the area of sex does the amateur have more respect than the professional?  You would think that ladies of my sort would be doing endorsements for condoms, but nooo.  The law is, I can be as big of a slut as I like, giving it away to just anyone, but if I get paid, for my,,, indulgence, suddenly I’m a criminal.  As a woman I can sell my hair my eggs rent my womb there is even a market for breast milk.  My fertility very much a free market item but the part of my body that fucks?  Ohh noo we cant have that.  I fail to understand the logic.

As to exploitation, well I guess I would rather be exploited for two hundred an hour then for ten.

Alrighty then hopping off the soap box on with the story.

A couple of months after I took out my little add I got a call from a gentleman who wanted the dominatrix thing.  I told him that I had never done that sort of thing before but being an agreeable sort I said I’dd give it a go.  I made sure he knew that I had no equipment for that sort of thing.  I mean lord a good corset alone will run six hundred or more and then the boots and the cuffs and whips and gages.  I tell you there are more props involved then a Hollywood b movie.  I just dont have enough closet space for that much wardrobe.

He arrived.  I, triying to be all stern and growly snapped  “On Your Knees.”

Which he did, with amazing speed.  Ploop.

And.  My.  Mind.  Went Completely. Blank.

(Fuck, now what do I do with him?  Shit I really have to read more dirty books.)

I had a beagle when I was a kid and had done a few dog shows with him, so.. I put him through the paces.  Sit Beg Roll over,

( A Dominatrix must not giggle)

Heel.  It was a very small apartment so heel took about ten seconds, and there we were back where we started.


“No you may not lick my shoes!  These are my favorite shoes you think I want your spit all over them?”

Finally I had him sit in a corner and masturbate.  Me with the heel of my shoes firmly planted in his thigh.  I hit him over the head with a rolled up newspaper whenever he tried to lick my shoes.  He seemed quite happy about it.

He called back wanting to be my house boy, do the dishes wash my laundry.  As much as I hate doing laundry I just didn’t want to think of him pawing my panties,

(Jezz just let my customers know about my real life granny panties and there goes the biz)

so I politely declined and told him he really needed to find a lady with more experience in this sort of thing.

Not long after that I got a call from a man who wanted me to spank him.  Well ok I thought I could do that with little trouble.  Unfortunately, he had a ginormaouse ass.  Took four whacks just to half cover one ass cheek, and he wanted it hard hard harder.  My poor hand was swollen for two days

.(note to self there is a reason dominatrixes use paddles)

His requests for further appointments I had to politely decline.

Other than my difficulties pulling off the whole dom thing, I was, according to my reviews, actually pretty good at my new career.  Nothing new under the sun but the form it takes.  One day I open my door to my new mystery date, he looks at me suprised and says.

“Ohh my your better looking then your reviews lead me to belive.”

“My reviews? and wait, you made an apointment to see the ugly whore?  I shouldnt have dressed up.”

So of course I had to check it out.  www.redbook.com, a cyber version of the mens room wall. My reviews were effusive in their praise of my skills, especially my oral skills.  I thought that too funny because the whole oral thing was just me trying to find ways to avoid stupid conversations.   They were far less effusive in their praise of my looks.   The angularity of my construction was not something men expected in a lady of my profession.  This I thought of as no bad thing, don’t know about you, but I would far rather be noted for my skills then my looks any day.  Several of my reviews noted how much they enjoyed my conversation.  I ask you, how many whores get rave reviews about their conversational skills?

The thing that surprised me the most about being a whore was that most of the sex was pretty good.  Actually it was unusual for the sex to be bad, my customers went way out of their way to insure I enjoyed myself.    A few weeks after beginning my career I found myself pondering the matter.

(What the heck was going on here?  When I was trying to give it away, men were all one trick pony with the attention span of a four year old on cotton candy.  Now  that they are paying for my attention and time,now they want me to enjoy myself, now they want to talk?  And good lord now they want to cuddle?  Seriously cuddling?  Are men deliberately trying to be perverse?)

I came to the conclusion that for men, sex, is all about competing with other men.  It’s one of two games, either football or pinball.  You see in football it’s about reaching the goal as quickly as possible and in keeping other men from scoring on your goal.  In pinball they know another guy is going to come play his quarter, in pinball they want to be the top scorer.


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