The Scarlett Letters

by Jenny Nordbak

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  For my match

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a true story, though some names and details have been changed.

  1. MARK

  I was having a typical Monday. My foot worship client had been late, which meant I was now running a few minutes behind for an appointment with a new client. Sometimes new clients gave the desk Mistress an idea of what kind of session they’re looking for, but with this one I was walking in blind. He could want me to be anything from an Amazonian warrior to a schoolteacher. I should probably have been more stressed rushing to the dressing room to touch up before meeting him, but it’s just so hard to work up an appropriate level of stress after getting paid to have a foot massage while being treated like a goddess for an hour. Every woman should have a foot slave.

  When I got to the dressing room, I checked my makeup and dug through a pile of costumes in my work bag to find my vibrating phone. My roommate, Amelia, was calling, but I didn’t have time to answer her before this session. Without any clues about his particular fetish, I played it safe and changed into my go-to power suit—sky-high platform heels, a black leather dress, and a corset that cinched my waist into an impossibly tiny twenty-one inches. This was the outfit that made me feel most in my element. In it, I became a bitch with whom you do not fuck, ready for war.

  I tucked my cell phone into the bottom of my corset, took a moment to mentally switch back from Jenny to Mistress Scarlett, and strode confidently down the hallway into the waiting room.

  “You must be Mark,” I said to the uncomfortable-looking man sitting in a chair in the corner.

  Mark was a young, good-looking guy. He had the lean build of a cyclist, beautiful gray eyes, and delicate hands, which were nervously fiddling with a magazine.

  I sensed that instead of pulling the imperious ice queen routine with this one, I needed to reassure him. Smiling warmly, I looked him in the eye and extended my hand.

  “I’m Scarlett. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  We sat down across from each other in the interview room adjacent to the lobby. It was in this room that scenes were negotiated and long-buried fantasies were finally laid on the table. It was a complex social situation. I had to be confessor, therapist, and temptress while in the space of a few minutes negotiating a business transaction, anticipating what boundaries needed to be established ahead of time, and reading the subtext of a client’s fetishes. A client may say that he wants a scene in which a nun punishes him, but does he want an angry nun, a playful nun, a naughty nun, a scary nun, or an aloof nun? Is she attracted to him, repulsed by him, or indifferent (as nuns of course should be)? Is she humiliating, teasing, or pleasing him? Should there be verbal interaction? Is there a plot or background to the scene or is it just the sensory experience that is alluring? This is before even establishing what implements he wants to be punished with. How hard? Stingy or thuddy pain? Does he have any relevant medical conditions that should limit us? Guessing incorrectly at any one of these and a number of other answers could result in a completely wrong scene and an unhappy client.

  I once ended up with a sobbing puppy-play client because I failed to ascertain that he was supposed to always be a well-behaved dog and I, a happy dog trainer. He had envisioned a scene in which he pranced around and made me a proud owner after winning the dog show championships. It was extremely important to him that he please me and be seen as a good dog. I misunderstood in the interview and flagged the word trainer as an indicator that he was still being trained, and thus would need to be corrected for the occasional imagined error. The instant “Bad dog!” left my lips, I knew I had made some kind of horrible mistake. He reacted the same way a frightened puppy would—he peed his pants and dissolved into a shivering, whimpering heap. It’s all about nuances.

  But of course, it would be terribly unattractive and intimidating to simply rattle off this list of questions that in many cases the client has never answered openly before, so all of the information must be gathered under the guise of an intriguing and arousing conversation.

  Mark was incredibly nervous during his interview. I had to carefully coax information out of him while reassuring him.

  He immediately admitted, “Sorry, I’ve never done this before. I’m not really sure what to do.”

  “No need to apologize. That’s what I’m here for. Why don’t you start by giving me an idea of what you’re into and then I’m sure we can come up with a session that will work for both of us?”

  His was one of the less bizarre, easier to understand fetishes, yet he was deeply insecure about it. He described to me that as a child he was beaten up by a girl on the playground who squeezed his head between her thighs, and then ignored his muffled pleas for help and humiliated tears. I smiled, remembering doing similar things, though not quite as extreme, to boys on the playground. I wondered how many fetishes I had unwittingly sparked along the way. Is Rick Taylor out there somewhere begging his every sex partner to sit on his chest so he can’t move his arms while pouring sand on his head?

  Mark was evidently held between that girl’s thighs for so long that he genuinely thought he was going to die. His fetish bolsters a theory of mine that, quite often, these strange sexual fixations are triggered at a young age by an intense emotional experience. Before sex enters our minds, those experiences are the most pronounced and thrilling that we have encountered. Suddenly, we hit puberty and experience a new kind of emotional intensity. It seems that some people who have felt something as powerful as what Mark did fuse the two together so that they view the first intense experience as a sexual experience. The specificity of most of these fetishes speaks to how deeply embedded the memories become. For almost all of them, there are particular phrases, actions, or visual elements that are required to fulfill the fantasy. For some people, this is the only way they can achieve sexual release.

  There were two scenarios that Mark wanted to experiment with, splitting our hour session in half. Both had the same result with a slightly different beginning. He wanted to end with his usual playground role-play that had aroused him since childhood. Before we did that, though, he wanted to try a more adult scenario to see whether it could still play out the same way. I guess it was kind of like me trying to masturbate with my left hand. It should work in theory, but it’s just a little off, which might be enough to prevent it from happening.

  Instead of starting with us both role-playing as children, he wanted us to pretend to be adult neighbors. In this fantasy, I had been obnoxiously playing my music too loud, night after night. Even though deep down he was a pansy, on this night he had decided to sac up and say something. He was going to march over to my house like a man and make me turn it down. And I was going to summarily destroy his manhood. I was to verbally abuse him, throw him around, trap him between my thighs, and pretend to call one of my girlfriends to chat. I would nonchalantly chatter away on the phone, ignoring his terror and suffer
ing, while acting as though I had all the time in the world to talk. Sounded like a good time to me!

  Having established the narrative of the scene along with boundaries, rules, and expectations, we were ready to head upstairs to a room and get things started.

  I left Mark with Lady Caterina at the front desk to take care of payment while I ran back to the dressing room to quickly change from six-inch stilettos into more practical four-inch thigh-high boots. In my ass-whoopin’ boots, I was much less likely to cut the session short as a result of spraining an ankle while trying to overpower my victim. Knowing I would have my thighs wrapped around his head, I pulled on an extra pair of boy short underwear to offer an additional layer of coverage.

  Once we got into the room, I didn’t give Mark any more time to get nervous or overthink things. I called down to Caterina on the intercom to let her know we were starting the session, and we assumed our respective positions in the room.

  Mark walked over to my “house” and knocked on the wall forcefully. I immediately answered the door.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  He was taken aback by my abruptness.

  “Well, I’m not sure that kind of language is necessary. I was coming over here to let you know that your music is just a tad loud. I’m sure you didn’t know or you wouldn’t be doing it, so I just thought I would tell you and see if maybe you could, uh, turn it down just a smidge?”

  “No. I like it this loud. If that’s it, I’m gonna go back in now.”

  “Look, I’m trying to be polite here, but if you don’t turn it down I’ll just have to … have to … umm, call the cops!”

  “Just try calling the cops, you pathetic little rodent. Tell them how much of a pussy you are and see if they want to do anything about it. Maybe if you weren’t such a fucking sissy, people would respect you more. I bet you’re such a wimp that I could beat you up.”

  I slapped him in the side of the head and shoved him backward by both shoulders.

  “Now hang on here just a second! I just don’t think that violence is really necessary.”

  “Of course you don’t, you worthless little shit.”

  My hand shot out and snatched his balls in a punishing grip. I could actually see all coherent thought flee his mind in that instant. I spun him around in a circle, leading him by the balls, and slammed him into the wall again.

  Fantasy wrestling could be hard because it had to be forceful enough to be believable, but in most cases the clients didn’t want to leave with stitches. I found that I was a small enough girl compared to most men that using almost full force worked just fine. I went for it, and if it was too much, they were pretty quick to let me know.

  I took the opportunity that presented itself when he was off-balance and knocked him to the ground. I threw a few stray kicks at his chest and stomach for good measure, rolled him from his side to his back, and sat down heavily on his chest.

  “What are you gonna do now, pussy boy? Call the cops? Tell them you got your ass kicked by a girl?”

  “No, no! I won’t call anyone! Just let me go home!”

  “But I’m not finished with you yet,” I pouted.

  I slid up and to the side, and pushed one thigh under his head and wrapped the other up and over his throat, bringing my knees together to meet. We had agreed in the interview that if the pressure got to be too much, he would tap me twice and I would loosen my grip a bit. I decided it was best to get an idea of what level of player he was, so I pressed my left foot under my right calf and used the leverage to squeeze down on his throat and face. He thrashed and made desperate noises. I squeezed harder until he tapped me twice. Now I knew my range pretty accurately.

  I shifted around without releasing any tension between my thighs to get comfortable. I was going to be here for a while. I picked up my cell phone, pretended to dial a number, and waited while the phone “rang.” I pretended my roommate, Amelia, had answered and animatedly asked how her day was going and what her plans for the week were. Since I had missed her call earlier, it was easy to imagine what I would say when I called her back. After several minutes of chatting away, Mark tried to pry my legs apart, writhing and moaning between them. He was whimpering barely audible pleas for help and mercy.

  “Please … I can’t breathe!” he hissed with difficulty.

  “Shhh!” I slapped him in the face and turned away pointedly, going back to my conversation and ignoring him.

  “No, no … I’m not doing anything important at all,” I said. “I’ve got all the time in the world to talk. Tell me all about it!”

  Mark started to cry, wetting my thighs with his effeminate tears. Between the intensity of the moment and the tears rolling across my thighs, I was incredibly aroused. The power was a rush, but not just the physical power of having him at my mercy. It was that he was surrendering himself to me, allowing me to push him and take him to this crazy place. Trust is such a turn-on. So are tears.

  “Please!” he sobbed desperately.

  I laughed loudly at something fake Amelia had said.

  “No way! Tell me more! I want all the details … really, take your time!”

  I released some pressure to reposition my thighs, giving Mark a brief moment of respite to catch his breath and let the blood flow freely. When I leveraged my right foot under my left this time and squeezed, I could feel that now I had just the right angle. If I wanted to, I could knock him unconscious in a matter of seconds. His eyes would roll back and his body would go limp, but that wasn’t my intention today. The first time I knocked a play partner out, I panicked thinking I had killed him. By the time I played with Mark, though, I could read the nuanced signs of breath play and knew precisely how to control the situation.

  I continued to giggle and prattle on about nothing for a while. Mark eventually double-tapped me twice, indicating that we could stop and switch scenarios.

  I let him sit up and catch his breath. I handed him a bottle of water, and he smiled.

  “This is perfect,” he said. “Just like that again. You’re awesome.”

  We didn’t want to break the moment too much, so we sat quietly for a few minutes to let him reset physically without detaching too much mentally.

  In a stroke of genius, I text messaged the real Amelia to let her know that I was in a session, but I was going to call her. I told her we just needed to chat for a while. I could easily have called one of the girls in the dressing room and had just as much fun with it, but something about calling a vanilla friend who would be slightly confused by the whole thing seemed much more amusing.

  Mark stood up, indicating that he was ready to go for round two. We repeated almost the exact same scenario, but this time I acted more childishly, calling him names and poking him once I had him on the ground. Instead of calling the cops, he was going to tell the teacher.

  “What are you going to tell her, Mark? Are you going to tell her that you’re a big baby? She’s going to tell everyone that you got beat up by a girl!”

  We had a good amount of time left, and I didn’t want to leave him in the head scissors for too long, so I improvised and tried a more classic face-sitting move first. I squatted over his face, pressed my thighs together, and sat down, effectively cutting off his air supply and smashing his face with my cloth-covered lady bits. For most guys who are into smothering, this is a major part of the appeal. It isn’t so much that they are being smothered as it is the fact that they are being smothered by the ass, pussy, and thighs of a woman they are attracted to. A pillow generally doesn’t have the same effect.

  He squirmed under me, but a boner check implied that he was rather enjoying this new addition to his fantasy. I lifted up occasionally to let him catch snatches of air, but took the opportunity to call Amelia.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, girl, how’s it goin’? We haven’t talked in ages, so I thought we could catch up. I want to hear all about the new boy in your class and your new soccer team!”

  “This is so we
ird. You’re totally crazy.”

  “I just knew he would be cute! Why do you always get the cute ones in your class, and I get the lame ones?” I punctuated the last few words by bouncing on Mark’s face.

  “Are you really in a session with some dude right now?”

  “Yep.”

  I lifted off his face, sat on the ground, and wrapped my thighs back around his neck. I let him pant for a minute or so before squeezing again. I pressed hard without warning, forcing him to expel a groan with his air supply.

  “Oh, my God, was that him? Did you punch him in the balls or something?”

  “No, I’m not in a hurry at all. We have another hour of recess today and then I get to go home, so I can talk for as long as you want. I’m not doing anything important.”

  Something about my total lack of concern while Mark thought he was going to die pushed him to the next level in his head. The tears flowed freely again, but he was palming his erection under his pants. I desperately wanted to make him use his tears as lube, but that wasn’t for this scene.

  “Please! I’m going to die. Please let me go!” he managed to hiss in a barely audible whisper.

  When I kept chatting away to Amelia without missing a beat, he sobbed in earnest, but his stroking motions were getting frantic under his sweatpants. I squeezed just a bit harder, to match his heightened intensity, but had to be careful not to knock him out without meaning to in the heat of the moment. As I heard him alternately pant and hold his breath, I knew he was getting close. He groaned and came, shuddering in waves beneath me.

  “All right, love, I gotta go. I’ll see you at home in a bit.”

  “You are so fucking crazy. I’ll see you soon.”

  I got Mark a towel and his water and handed him both as he sat up.

  “That was seriously perfect. I loved the part when you sat on my face. I’ve never tried that before.”

  “Great. I’m really glad!”