We invited "Dog" over for some fun out of boredom and to see just how far we could go. He was a fucking goon. 6ft 7in tall, wearing that terrible dildo mask. It had to go.
He was wearing a long raincoat which we violentley yanked off of his body the second the door slammed shut. Go figure. He was wearing the ugliest brown spandex catsuit you had ever seen with a hole cut out for his abused cock to dangle through.
This guy LOVED pain. And I'm not talking about the pain that comes from cheesy scenarios manifested by a dopey-dominatrix beating some closeted-homo executives fat, smelly ass with a riding crop before she ever-so gently fucks him with a strap on.
He liked the pain that came from violence.
He would shiver in extacy and fear while we inflicted numerous acts of horrific savegrey upon him. Strangley enough, he always left with a look of triumph and superiority. It's as if getting off were a test of sheer will, rather than a sexual act.
This is why we liked him so much.
His favorite thing to do was bring along one of those "paid-for-professional dominatrixes" to join in the fun. After about 5 minutes almost all of them would chicken out. They could never find a structure that fit into thier narrow little conpartmentalized vision for what was taking place right before their very eyes. They were unable to digest it, on top of being completley horrified. One supirior gal suggested that we use "safe-words" . Even "Dog" laughed at this ridiculous suggestion.
This isin't about safety, in fact, It's quite the opposite.
When the blood began to flow and the screams could be heard three blocks away, thats when some of them demanded to leave the "session". Some of them threatened to turn us in. We reminded them who was the prostitute here, and that usually shut them up. I always thought "dominatrixes" were nothing but hookers living in a fantasy world.
All the commotion seemed to arouse "Dog" even more. Watching him get off was almost like wathcing a man getting stabbed to death.
Only funnier.