After shopping with Thomas and enjoying some time this weekend not spent on whatever strange client is next, I head back to my room and decide to relax some before my next client that managed to affect me in a way I never thought possible. I slip into a hotel bathrobe and start laying out the clothes I will wear tonight, the makeup I will put on and other assorted tasks in preparation.

I hear a knock on the door. I go to answer and find a hotel concierge holding out a box. "This is for you," he says. "It comes courtesy of a Mr. M."

I didn’t know Mr. M, was going to send me gifts and my heart flips twice and I eagerly rip open the packaging, lifting off the box's lid. Inside, I find an elegant black evening gown and a note. The note reads,

"Rose are red, violets are blue, get ready for an unforgettable evening because I can't wait to feast upon you."

I hold the note in my hands. "Sounds like an interesting guy," I say sarcastically. “Mr. M seemed much more suave on the phone,” I say to no one but myself. I can’t help but wonder if I’m underestimating the client. The truth is, I’m still thinking about David and what he did to my body. I don’t dislike my work, and I find I’m getting further and further away from a comfortable distance between my attraction to David and my pleasure in prostituting myself. That’s right, fucking men for money — or what I do right now, somewhere between fucking and not — and fucking my stepson have started to be at odds. I actually laugh out loud at the notion. How did my life get to this point? My problems aren’t money and a shitty husband anymore, though, so I can at least appreciate that.

That night, I slide into the black evening gown sent by the mysterious Mr. M, and I drive myself to the nightclub that Thomas instructed me to go to via text. I park, walk into the doors of the club and am immediately taken aback by the club’s decadent décor. Chandeliers hang from the ceilings, red plush chaise lounges are strategically placed across the room, votive candles light the tables, and the walls are painted a deep burgundy. A DJ plays an eclectic mix of music.

A man in a dark suit with a silver tie approaches me. "Ms., I am here to take you to the party," he says.

"Are you Mr. M?" I ask, seriously doubting that but I have to ask.

He chuckles "Me? Oh no, but you will meet him shortly."

Together, we walk out of the backdoor of the club and leave in a silver Mercedes that is waiting for us outside.

I realize that without Thomas, I would be nervous right about now. I am with a strange man, in a strange car, headed for a strange place, and I am blindly traveling without any answers. Isn't this what horror movies are made of?

But Thomas promised me that I would always be safe, and I believe him.

We travel for a few miles until the driver pulls up a gated driveway of a palatial home. This isn't an ordinary home—with its tall columns, circular driveway, tennis courts, water fountains, and Olympic-sized swimming pool, this is a mansion.

The man in the suit ushers me out of the car and walks me into the foyer of the home. "Enjoy your evening," he says, and turns to walk away.

"Wait," I say, calling after him.

"Where do I go from here?" I ask. "Where is Mr. M?"

But the man doesn't answer, and so I am left wondering where I should head next. Hearing music and lively chatter coming from an adjoining room, I decide to head in that direction.

In the next room, I find myself surrounded by men in expensive suits and beautiful women in elegant dresses, their hair and makeup and bodies perfectly accessorized. I quickly realize that these women are not wives, or girlfriends—they are all high-end escorts and this party must be for the benefit of a select group of wealthy men.

I take a seat at the bar and order my favorite drink, a cosmopolitan. As I sip the drink, I look around. It is then that I notice—the men were not only groping and playing with these women like expensive toys, but they are passing them around and sharing them with one another. The women smile, and laugh, and eagerly play their parts.

A shiver runs up and down my spine. Mr. M said I’d submit to him, that he’d blindfold me and he’d touch me. I hope that hasn’t changed. I am getting used to the new rules, the no-touching rule, and so soon I’m breaking it. I don’t want it to be for a party full of entitled, wealthy men. I want it to be for the mysterious Mr. M.

Just then, a tall man sits next to me. He is holding a blindfold, and before I can look up at him, he ties it over my eyes.

So this is the mystery man. He certainly exudes a dark charm. And he doesn't seem nearly as crude as his letter.

I tremble for a moment, getting used to the newfound blindness I have and knowing that it is in a room full of men and their escorts.

“May I have this dance?” Mr. M asks. “I won’t let you fall,” he says. I hear his voice through the music and it sounds different. I mean, it reminds me of David, but that’s crazy. All clients that intrigue me, or bore me, tend to make me think of David. I push aside the thought and nod.

I grab his hand and let him direct me to the floor. We dance, slow, fluid steps. I nestle into his broad chest, and he keeps one hand on the small of my back, and it slowly moves it toward my ass. There is no doubt as to why I am here; he made that known. He gets to touch me. I think to myself that not long ago, a man paying the right price could. Now, this is something that I reserve for Mr. M.

The ambience of the room, the inherent helplessness the mask imposes on me, and the intoxicating presence of my mysterious client all have me realizing that I have desire for him welling up within me.

"Do you like my house?" he asks.

"This is your house?" I reply, taken aback. "You own this entire place?"

"I do," he says. “And I’m going to take you my bedroom now.”

I shiver in anticipation, unsure of what to expect as we move to the bedroom, but finding the not knowing utterly exhilarating.

"Undress. I want to see your body, C," Mr. M says, his voice like velvet over my skin

I tremble, my fingers barely moving.

Mr. M's hand reaches out and captures my hand that has just gripped a zipper on my gown, and I'm frozen. Dropping my hand, his hand reaches for my zipper now. He tears down the dress. My breasts bounce out, my bra getting torn in the process of him yanking down the fabric. His strength consumes me, and any fear within me transforms into longing.

His mouth closes over one of my breasts, and his hand over the other. Neither touch is gentle or kind. No, Mr. M is devouring and fondling my flesh with the ferocity of a man having his first drink after being deserted for far too long. Knowing my body is quenching the dark desires within him thrills the deepest parts of me. Tremors of lust and need shoot through my veins. The moans flowing through my lips are so raw, so full of unbridled lust, that if I didn’t feel my lips shaking to release them, then I never would have thought that the urgent, desperate sounds were coming from me.

"Mr. M," I groan. He doesn't respond and I don't say anything else. His singular focus is on my breasts, and his intense touch pulls back its intensity every second, so that he's no longer roughly touching me but softly. Maddeningly. I want to scream out how much I need more. I don't know what I need, but less of him is definitely not it. I am panting, moaning, making a chorus of sounds and he is barely touching me. His tongue laps over a nipple, and then rolls down, flicking my sensitive skin. Pulling back, he blows warm air on the wet skin and the cool air around us wars for sensation. His fingers are playing with my other nipple, just barely stroking circles, lines, touches that are making me so eager for what he offered before that I'm building a frustration with my lust that makes me feel like I might burst. My body is desperate for me to vocalize pathetic attempts to get him to do more of something I can't quite verbalize.

Both of his hands press firmly into my stomach, then trail up to capture my breasts. He squeezes them, and then releases my abused breasts. They ache from how roughly he's touched me. I'm whirling with the thrill of the pleasure his touch brought, and the pain. I'm so confused, and I'm so needy.

"C, you want something more, you speak up," Mr. M says. His voice is gruff, thick and heavy, and it makes my head spin.

There's something about him saying my initial in that dark voice full of wicked promises that makes me want to moan. Instead, I bite my lip and wonder how I should answer him. I don't know what to say. I want to tell him that I don't know what I want, but all I am able to muster up the courage to say is, "Don't stop, please," in a whimpering, pathetic voice. Will he take pity on me? Will the promises in his voice be the answers to my pleas? I don’t know how I become this sopping mess of lust before him, but it just turns me on more.

"Get on your knees," Mr. M says.

Confused, I drop to my knees. It is a strange feeling to have my knees pressing into the floor.

"Palms flat on your thighs," he continues to command me. He's so unreadable right now and it's maddening. Am I in trouble? What is about to happen? I'm so exhilarated, but I can't stop this feeling like I'm trying to run upstream. I'm hopelessly lost in what I'm doing, but I need to obey him. It isn't as much fear as I would like it to be. Part of me that I just don't understand, that part of me inside which I've never met before but is brought out by Mr. M, makes me eager to please him, draws me to obey him. I hope that there is a reward...if this is not a punishment. I wish that I knew what was happening.

"Here are the rules, C," Mr. M says. My pussy soaks through my panties at the words.

I hear him inhale, a quick breath in his throat, like he knows.

Something has passed between us, though I'm not exactly sure what. I just know that whatever it unlocked between us, I want to walk through that door. I want him to press inside and show me every new thing that I know he can. I don't know what's in store for me but I want to feel it, explore it. I want to be whatever it is that he wants me to be. I’m not ashamed at how strong my feelings are, and for a man who I is renting me for the night, though the thought of Mr. M owning me thrills me. I don't even know what's going on here. I wonder how long he'll make me wait, breathing in and out with my palms pressing into my thighs almost painfully with my nerves, and I realize that he's doing this on purpose. It’s almost as if he can see that my mind is racing and he's trying to make sure that I suffer. It is evil, pure and simple, but there's something about his control exerted in every simple moment that is addicting. I want to know more of his control. I want to know that I've pleased him. More than anything I want to see some kind of struggle on his face, some kind of passion in his power. The way that he'd touched my breasts gave me a taste of his possessiveness and the way his raw power could turn into passionate sin, and that's all I ache for. I want it any way he can give it to me.

"You are to listen to what I say, and follow each of my commands." Mr. M cracks his knuckles.

I will comply. I feel a palpable loss in not being able to look at him because his stern voice and wicked commands have already lit my body afire. Mr. M is a captivating man and I want to desperately search his eyes for some truth I feel is being obscured from me. But now I don't have that chance. I almost want to look at him now as much I want him to touch me. But I listen intently, trying not to focus on my sweating palms betraying how nervous I am.

"If you obey, you will be rewarded."

I like the sound of this, but I know there will be a counterbalance to this.

"If you disobey, you will be punished."

There it is. So why does any attention from Mr. M make me want to jump up and down? I've got a frenetic joy at the thought of him exerting either reward or punishment against me. Like, I have been consumed by my need for him and any bit of whatever he has to offer is water to my thirsty soul.

"You do not have a say in any of this. You are not to speak unless I have asked you a direct question. If I ask you a question, you are not to lie. If you do, I will know, and you will be punished. Do you understand?"

I start to nod, and he slaps me right in the face.

I'm shocked, and I cry out, bringing my hand to touch where he slapped me. I look at him, tears welling in my eyes.

He grabs my hand, getting down to my level and into my face, and presses it back to my lap forcefully. "Do you understand? I don't like to repeat myself." I hear the power in his voice, but, undoubtedly, I hear that he's aroused. It hurt when he hit me, but my pussy is aching for him now, thrumming with need. I'm so confused, but I know I don't want him to move from out of my face. Still, I need to listen. I bring my eyes to the ground. "Yes, I understand."

"Mr. M," he continues, jerking my chin up to look at him. "You will call me Mr. M."

"Yes, Mr. M, I understand," I say, my words sounding as needy as I feel.

"Legs spread."

I obey and he tears off my panties. I try to keep myself in the position because I'm trying hard to be good. I want to know what being good feels like. My face stings, mostly because of the shock of being hit, but also because it was not a light hit. I'm shocked that he did such a thing. But I'm even more shocked that it didn't feel black and white. I wonder if Thomas knew that Mr. M would slap me, or if this is something that I need to tell him. I don’t feel alarmed by it, and that’s what has me so confused. I liked it.

I'm going to do my absolute best to do everything that Mr. M asks of me. I crave whatever he has to offer.

"Your pussy is so wet for me, C," Mr. M says.

My face heats intensely and my head feels a little dizzy. I want to cover myself. My legs are spread and I'm bared to him and I'm intensely nervous. I realize that I'm trembling. My fingers are digging into my thighs and shaking to cover myself. But I can't. That's not what Mr. M told me to do.

"Breathe for me, C. Don't want to lose you now when the fun hasn't even begun." Mr. M stands I can tell from the movement of his voice. I want to see him. I want to know what we've just begun. I want to know where it is going. My mind is racing and my cheeks are flushing, I can feel it. I need to know. The urge to control this, organize it, like I do everything else in my life is crushing me. I want to be able to know what comes next and plan for it. I want to do the right thing.

But that's it. Right now my obedience is required, and I've not been told to do anything but to maintain this position. So I will.

My pussy is wet. I can feel how slick my thighs have become, even through my clothes, before he removed those clothes. I'm pleased that he's pleased.

"You're so obedient thus far. I don't want that to change. But you're nervous, and I think you need punishment anyway. You need to feel the weight of what disobeying would mean. Maybe it can empower you to behave. I wouldn't want to spoil you with too much reward. I want you to earn that." I can almost feel his strong voice vibrating through my body. I'm trembling more than ever and trying hard not to move my hands to cover myself, or touch myself. I need some kind of relief and now I'm going to find out what punishment means, even though I've listened. It seems unfair and my first urge is to pout. I want to push the feeling down but something is rising within me, almost irrationally, and I want to act out, even though I'm already getting punishment. Perhaps because of it. Maybe the weight of everything that is happening is getting to me, in this moment, as I have no relief. He walks toward me, I can hear his shoes clacking towards me. "This will please me," he says, and those words are like a salve to my confused soul. I want that. I want to please Mr. M more than anything.

In my mind, something about how he walks toward me, brings me this promise, makes him more enticing. I know that beneath this power, there's a person. But right now, I want to be the putty in Mr. M's hands, and please him, because I believe that will please not only the man but Mr. M. I can't explain my thoughts any better than this but it seems right to me.

I try to breathe like he said. Mr. M gets down on the ground and brings his hands to between my thighs, rubbing his knuckles through my slit and making a wet sound that makes me blush furiously. Oh god, how will I ever endure this? Why did I think that I could? Panic is setting in and my heart is racing a million miles an hour. I want to be fucked, not naked and teased in front of a dangerous man who has my pussy so wet it makes a wet sound when he touches it. I'm trying to breathe but all I manage are shallow inhales and exhales. I suck in my lips and try to focus on just waiting for what he's going to do or tell me to do next. His hand has returned to him and left me, and I can feel a chill in the air where he's not touching me anymore. I'm burning for him. Aching for his touch, his command, his...punishment.

On cue, when I'm almost ready to explode, his hand is lying my body back, stroking up the curve of my stomach. Then, he picks me up and brings me to a bed with my back facing him. I'm already so frightened. He's not going to tell me what's happening or let me see him? How will I ever endure this? If I could look at him, would I be able to still take it? I can't determine if I'll be better when he starts to punish me because I know what's coming, or worse because I will have to endure it.

He walks away. What does Mr. M have planned for me?

Can I take it?

Will he be pleased if and when I do?

I take deeper breaths, attempting to control my quaking body as he straps a gag onto my face. I can breathe, still, the gag is just preventing me from talking, which I'm not supposed to do anyway. This is a kindness. By the feel of him strapping my wrists and ankles together with the cuffs, it is the last kindness that will be present in my punishment. I let my tongue cup around the odd ball of the gag, try to focus on my breathing. Every touch of his fingers makes me want to beg him to fuck me. I don't know what comes next but Mr. M has already made me come undone. I'm desperate, and I realize I'm moaning when I hear him laugh. He runs a finger along the center of one of the backs of my feet and it is a shocking sensation. I didn't know that touching my foot could feel erotic. But Mr. M is so enticing, I think he could make anything sensual.

Then, his teeth sink into one of my ass cheeks and I groan, hard. I'm grinding my pussy into the silky bed sheets, desperate for his touch. But the punishment is unlikely to involve an orgasm. Well, at least that's what I think. But every time he touches me, I'm so desperate for it that I think I just might be able to come if he touches me for more than a few seconds. We're testing that theory because his teeth release me, stinging my skin and making me pant harder against the gag, and then his hands are rubbing my ass cheeks. His large hands cover my whole ass. I have a bit of a round ass and I'm imagining what a sight I must be. There must be teeth prints on one cheek, and his hands are so much bigger than me that he's dwarfing my ass while it jiggles. It wouldn't have seemed sexy to me, but he's touching me, and that's the sexiest thing I can imagine. Oh God, I know now in this moment that no matter what he does to me, I want it desperately. Punish me, bite me again, I want to shout and beg and plead.

Then, both of his hands rise and fall in several quick successions, spanking my ass hard enough to make cracking sounds break through the air. Mr. M hits the exact same spot, again and again, and my ass is certainly red raw. I'm groaning, yelping, and aching deep in my pussy for him to stop, or keep going, or at least just keep touching me. I can think of nothing but complying. I am supposed to take my punishment, and I will. I start to breathe more evenly as the spankings keep going past thirty and I just can't count anymore. He's not being gentle. This is not playful. My skin is dancing fire and aching lust in what is certainly an angry looking red. My pussy is drenched, despite the fact that he's hitting me again. There's a pool of my arousal blooming around my pussy on the bed. I can feel it. I bet he can see it. I guess I should feel ashamed, but instead I feel something I never would've understood before. I feel proud. This hurts. I'm crying. I'm embarrassed and a little ashamed, I'm afraid, but I'm more alive than I've ever been. I'm yelping into my gag and desperate for him to stop. To never stop. He keeps going and I'm somewhere else. I feel everything he does, yet the rest of my body also lights up. I'm floating throughout the room all while I'm still weighted down by my restraints, feeling the pull at my wrists and ankles, the strain in my shoulders, the biting sting from where he slapped my cheek earlier, on the ass cheek where he bit me, my nipples that he bit and tugged at. I'm a symphony of pain and pleasure wound into a ball of being just being here. His words from before echo in my mind. This feels amazing, and I'm not sure it is punishment, even though it hurts. Then he stops. The pace of the spanking stops, and the momentum of pleasure/pain turns to pain. It stings horribly. He flips me over and I'm gasping against the gag. The cold wetness from my arousal is on the bed sheets.

"You liked that more than I thought you would, C, but we're not done yet." Mr. M's eyes drop to my pussy and his hands come down, hard. Right before my pussy, next to my thighs. Again, he's not hitting softly. This is a punishing pressure, and I'm so sensitive and needy that it makes me scream out against my gag. If I could talk, I would be begging him to stop. The he switches to one hand, and that hand? Smacks me right on the pussy, making me shout in sensation. It fucking hurts. It hurts so goddamn much but I'm...so wet. I'm terrified that he'll stop and I'll be left to burn where he's spanked me, my ass and pussy ablaze, and with no relief. That's the real torture here. He's worked me into a frenzy, but he's not letting me have any release. He keeps spanking my pussy and I'm yelping. Fat, hot tears run down my cheeks as I'm aching for him to make all this pain mean pleasure. I want more. I want it to stop. I want it to break free what's swelling up inside of me. There's a pulsing heartbeat in my clit desperate for him to keep going, to stop, to never stop touching me. I'm so confused. The heat map of my body is all I can think of. I'm not afraid or stressed; I'm consumed by the flames licking at my soul. His slaps stop and he presses four fingers into my pussy, I can see and feel it, and his thumb starts to circle my clit.

"Now, you will not come until I say you can. Be good for me. You're doing so well, C," Mr. M says practically purring his praise and that's enough to send a rush of arousal to shake me to my core. I'm trembling, squeezing his fingers claiming my pussy, pressing into me so good. I'm slick, dripping, and his fingers meet no friction. He's fucking into my pussy so fast that I couldn't keep up with the sensation or my breathing if I wanted to. Every inhale turns into another flutter and I feel an orgasm so close and pushing back those waves is literally painful. I need to come. It is all I can think about. I'm begging, which is only mumbling against the gag, but I hear him sternly say, "No."

I have to listen. I will. It matters to me more than anything in the world, I realize. I'm consumed with this need. A black spiral within me winds further and further down, and I keep sliding. Push back the waves of pleasure and force the orgasm to recede, stay on the precipice but not completely. Not until Mr. M says I can come. I stop begging and start breathing.

"Do not come," his voice is ragged, his breathing altered. I'm affecting him, and in return I'm not to come. This truly is punishment.

He jerks his fingers from my pussy. Mr. M no longer brushes my clit over with his thumb. Instead, his mouth is hovering over my pussy, I can feel his hot breathe against my skin.

"You are not to come," Mr. M commands me. I realize what he's going to do. His mouth sinks down on my pussy, tongue lapping over my clit and through my folds, and I'm alive with sensation. I'm crying harder, rolling my hips into his mouth with greed, and the waves are getting harder and harder to push back. He shakes his face around me, even nips his teeth at the swollen lips of my pussy so desperate for him to let me finish what he's started. But still, he keeps going. His hands reach up and undo my gag and I'm terrified. I can't stop with my long moans. His fingers wipe away my tears while he meets my rolling hips and presses my pussy against his mouth. He's kissing my pussy roughly, then fucking it with his tongue, and I'm so overwhelmed and trying not to talk so I squeeze my eyes shut.

“This is mine," Mr. M growls against my pussy.

The vibrations make me whimper, but I obey. I feel like any second now, I will come, and then I will be punished. I'm not allowed to come. He’s about to tear an orgasm from my body and punish me because it isn't allowed. My desperate need to please him is all that I cling to. In one final push back of my orgasm's tide, that's when he looks me in the eyes, visible over the top of my pussy. "Ask permission to come, and I might let you," and he sinks his mouth back on my clit and slides several of his fingers, I can't even tell how many, into my aching, needy pussy.

"Please, please, Mr. M, let me come for you," I beg, so horny that I’m desperate for release and I’d do any amount of begging to get to it.

"No," Mr. M says. He pulls his fingers out of my pussy and brings his mouth up from my clit, and he sucks every drop of my arousal from his fingers.

Then, while I tremble with need, he gets closer to me, his face close enough to mine that our noses are pressed together.

"Please, please let me come for you," I whimper.

He presses two of his fingers into my mouth and I taste my arousal, tangy yet sweet, on his fingers. I suck like they are the air I breathe.

"No," he says.

I'm so desperate to come. I don't know what to do. He is torturing me. Why won't he let me come?

When his fingers slide out of my mouth, I try to breathe. I want to ask him again, but something makes me wait.

"Now, come for me," he finally says.

I get shivers all over my entire body, as the waves finally roll over me and I give into everything my body aches for. I'm screaming, moaning, writhing in my bondage as I fall completely apart in the most shattering consummation of sensations that I have ever experienced. I'm never going to be able to go back from this, something in my mind whispers. The gushing arousal dripping down my thighs is sexy as hell to me. This mysterious man played my body like an instrument and I was full of some dark magic rushing through my veins. "Thank you, Mr. M," I say when I'm trembling in the aftershocks of my orgasms.

He reaches down behind my back and undoes the restraints, rubbing my wrists and ankles where I have little lines from being bound. "You did very well, C." His praise in this moment, after everything, is somehow just as good as an orgasm. And that orgasm was so incredible. He makes me feel in ways that I don't know how they are possible; he's certainly a sorcerer, the way he conjures demonic depths of pleasure that contort not just my face, but my soul. Mr. M, has twisted me up in a way I don't understand, but I'm not sure that I want or need to understand. He's too complex for me to fully grasp. Particularly when I don't understand his intentions, or the full extent of his desires. I'm exhausted and exhilarated.  

“Close your eyes,” Mr. M says.

I do so, and he removes the blindfold.

“Your car is waiting,” he says. “Gather yourself and the driver will direct you back to your vehicle, he’s just outside the room.

I look up after Mr. M finishes speaking, but he’s already gone.

When I drive off, I think about everything that had transpired recently. True to Thomas's word, I have made more money than I thought possible.

It feels good to have someone managing my clients, keeping the money flowing, and providing the muscle if needed, but Mr. M in particular left my head spinning. I don’t know what to think about tonight.

I do know this…I want to see him again. David’s face flashes in my mind again, and I’m conflicted. I don’t know how to feel. I still want David so much, but the mysterious Mr. M has challenged my mind on what I truly desire.