Isolation...it’s something that does not bother me. Ever. I actually cherish and LOVE the time I have alone away from the constant babble of idiots. Isolation is a time-tested interrogation and punishment tactic, and each of us can remember as kids being sent to the corner and being isolated at one time or another. Well, where I work, they use this as a punishment. God, I love it, though. I mean, after an hour of pretending you love worshiping some douchebag’s nonexistent wiener and he might as well be an eunuch while he is dressed in a ratty wig and he tries to stick his tongue through his two remaining teeth and scrape the dry grit across your tit to try to give you pleasure, isolation is quite welcome.
You see, I work in a fetish dungeon, which most people automatically assume means that I am a dominatrix, but honestly, I can’t ever take that shit seriously. It just seems way too ridiculous to me. I know that there are some serious people that live their lives by being a dominant, but I really don’t give a fuck and I think it’s a sign of weakness and stupidity. Trust me, I will be the first to admit my weaknesses and the fact that I can be a brain-dead idiot. But that was done by choice. I knew what I was doing. Since I was about seven years old and saw Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I wasn’t quite sure what had happened to him. By watching my parent’s reactions, I guessed it was supposed to be sad, but since then I longed for that state that he was in—total loss of thought and brain activity. Even at the age of seven, believe it or not, I wanted to numb my mind. By ten, I was well aware of what a lobotomy was, and I started to ask my parents for one.
Since I was not allowed to get one, I basically gave myself one by shoving every kind of poison into my body that was humanly possible. I realized I could not deal with this world without doing it. I want no sympathy now. But childhood was hell. Kids are fucking mean. Especially girls... I notice that CJ has a largely male audience, but for the females that can shout out here, girls are fucking MEANER than boys. They are all little bitches that need to be scalped. Little girls are terrors. I was terrorized.
So here I am, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, working in a place run by females, with all females as coworkers, and it is happening again. Of course, as in every enterprise, there is a male at the head of it. “Lordmaster Sir,” they call him. And not in the first person, either. They will refer to him as Sir, as in, “Go see Sir before you leave.” He has a real name. I knew it when I was interviewed. Now he is only referred to as Sir. I would like to spare you a week of talking about my work, but I have written a vast list of some things that happen there that are a little bizarre to me. I shortened this list greatly for public view. These random things are all very funny, though, and now it is hard to actually picture where I work, but maybe this will give you a chance to see how literally fucking weird it is and help you get a better idea of what the fuck is going on, or at least in which context all of these crazy stories are happening. It makes each of these stories all the more bizarre. Here are the Top Ten weird bizarro things about the fetish dungeon I work at.
1. There is a complete shrine to Frank Sinatra in the lobby.
2. There is a man named Dodo who lives in this house. He is a nice guy, but no one explains why he is here. One day I found a secret photo book where there were about forty photos of him dressed up in different drag outfits, and then twenty or so others of him dressed as a baby. I am somewhat obsessed with him. He’s always there. He likes it when I watch pornos in his room on my off time. He’s a total perv, but I have heard rumors that he used to host a children’s show back in the day where he was a clown. For you that don’t know, I have a very serious clown fetish, and I long to ask this man about it, but I am afraid he might take me and keep me, and I need to call my mom a couple of times a week, so it just might not work out.
3. The fucking isolation. Since the very day I started, I have been told to sit in rooms and then left in there for hours at a time, and no one comes to get me out. I have thought it was some kind of psychological test, but then I found out that isolation is one of the things they use as punishment. So I don’t know if I’m being punished or they just forget where the fuck they put me. I have now worked there for close to two months, so certain new girls have sort of attached themselves to me because we are discouraged from talking to one another. We are not allowed to sit in the same room at the same time. I am now training these girls, and badly I’m sure, but they keep me with them. I still don’t know why.
4. Once an employee enters the place for their shift, they are not allowed to leave at all or even walk outside for a second. You come in, and you cannot leave until you are buzzed out. There have been people in the past who have traveled from other states to work there for like three days straight, and they don’t breathe fresh air until they leave. There are also no personal phone calls or communication of any kind with the outside world when you are there.
5. All of the ladies are extremely obedient and adhere to each of these roles without asking questions. I have stopped asking questions. I have turned into a robot. I guess I liken it a lot to a waitress job or a sales job, only I’m trying to sell fetishes. It’s not because I want to deny what I do because I am ashamed of it; not at all. But I’m definitely NOT good at sales, and that is the part I’m failing at. I can pee on someone or give them an enema or dress up a boy to look like Ice-T’s hottest ho, Coco, but I can’t sell anything worth two shits.
6. On various days, I have been told to literally RUN from floor to floor changing outfits as fast as I can and then change into something completely different only to return to my regular clothes without even having seen anyone or having a session. I believe this is another punishment.
7. I once had to fake crying for a guest, and I told someone I felt really bad about deceiving them, only because it was this trannie that I actually liked. Honestly, most of these men I wouldn’t even give a deer pellet about, but I was told never to ever, ever let a guest know that I feel sympathy for them. Like I said, it’s usually not a problem, because most of them could go out and get shot outside the building and I don’t think I’d stop painting my nails, but when they’re there, they’re the most important aspect of my life in every way. Except for like two trannies... I sort of view them as girlfriends, and I felt bad for one day, and I was told by one of the “veteran” girls NEVER to express sympathy for a guest. For example: “Oh, you’re going through financial troubles and it’s painfully obvious because you only have two teeth and one shoe and you are spending three hundred dollars an hour to borrow a bra and have me smash cupcakes in your face (which is fucking fun, no doubt), but I can understand.” NO, apparently, I can’t understand. And I’m certainly NOT allowed to.
8. All men are REQUIRED to strip naked when they get here and wait in a room on their hands and knees. They pay three hundred or more an hour to do this shit. I know of MANY Third World countries who require you to do the same thing, and it’s free. All you have to do is commit some crime.
9. We are never allowed to use the coffee shop across the street. We are only allowed to frequent Starbucks. I found this out after coming in with a cup of iced coffee that did not have the Starbucks logo on it, and one of the head mistresses quickly asked me, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT FROM?” She was in a panic. I said I got it from the place across the street. She looked at me as if I had ripped her living child out of her stomach and eaten it. She said, teeth clenched, “We do NOT GO to the place across the street. THEY TALK. If you need coffee, go to Starbucks.” I want to know what they talk about. Which then scares me. Do I talk? Maybe. But I don’t have a coffee business, so I don’t have to worry about getting boycotted by a bunch of fetish lesbos.
10. Finally: First floor is office attire. It looks like an office. I was told to wear office attire if someone such as, and they used this particular example, “the mailman” comes in. He wants to see it as a business. He can’t see someone in a latex cat suit running around like a crazy woman. Well, one day I had the wonderful opportunity of witnessing our mailman coming in to deliver the mail. I swear to God that man had a look on his face as if he had just seen Satan himself. Or herself. The man ringed the buzzer, got buzzed in, and RAN five feet to give the lady at the front desk the mail. She politely asked him if he wanted a coffee or a soda pop, and he yelled “NO!,” then RAN to the door. I had to go to the corner to laugh. I wonder what lovely things they have done to this poor mailman.
11. Here’s a bonus. I was very happy when I found this one out. I am sure they belong to “Tampon Dave,” but in the upstairs freezer, there are several pharmaceutical bottles filled with semen. So yeah, if any of you lovely ladies want to have a half-fat perverse old child, we got TONS of seed here JUST FER YOU.
I hope you degenerate fucking idiots like this post. I have ceased to read the comments. Actually I do sometimes as a guilty pleasure, like I read Cathy (the wonderful female comic-strip character who eats chocolate). I HATE hearing what most of you have to say. But I read it. And I will continue reading it. So keep posting suggestions, problems, and comments, but mostly problems. I’d say a good 85% of you deserve an arsenic enema, which I would deliver with great pleasure, but there are still some good ones out there. And don’t assume merely because I put a bad comment about you that I dislike you. It’s STUPID comments I dislike.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Injuries at Work
When I got this job, of course I did not know what to expect. I did say that I would be a slave for people, but as of yet, no one has come in and hurt me. I thought that I might sustain some kind of bruising from getting spanked or something. But this past week I have sustained two very outlandish injuries from working at this job. There is no insurance here, and of course no workman’s comp. I think I may have to change this because honestly, after this week I am starting to be scared. The worst aspect of all this is how the fuck do you explain to people how you got injured? Yes, I could say it was a job-related injury, and then of course whoever asks where I work, and I reply a fetish dungeon, I have no idea what they would think. And these two injuries that I sustained this week were not normal at all to the job. I think that some may have the idea (as I did when I first started working there) that there would be this constant in-and-out parade of perverts I would service nonstop and make shitloads of money. I have learned this is a fallacy. Most of my eight-hour day is spent isolating myself on one of the floors, opening a magazine in my lap so it looks like I’m reading, then passing out and drooling all over myself. NO ONE ever bothers me. They keep all the girls separated. Every two to three hours the telephone will ring or someone will knock at the door and I’ll wake up suddenly and get lipstick smeared across my face or get startled and act like I was doing something important like studying the ins and outs of bondage or practicing dressing up or how to whip people proficiently or how to aim my piss at a target or something. Who the fuck knows?
I should start lifting weights during my off time, because last week I literally threw my shoulder out spanking this “house slave.” Of course I had spanked people before, but this one was literal nonstop spanking for thirty fucking minutes. NON-FUCKING-STOP. I really don’t know how he/she took it. I thought it was great when it was going on, so I think I was ignoring the fact that I was getting massively injured at the time. I really was getting into it, and this little girl/boy took endless fucking slaps with this paddle. Her fucking ass was so red it scared me. But she kept asking for more. I was wondering how the fuck much could she take and was trying to challenge her, so at the time I guess I was ignoring the fact that I barely use my right arm because the most I lift is my gallon bottle of Sunny Delight to mix my vodka with at night. Or a pizza box from Little Caesars. It was very satisfying when it was all over. And li’l Amber’s ass was a bright shade of red. But as I was putting her sweaty corset and skirts into the laundry, I noticed that my shoulder was not working properly. I could not fucking use it.
This went on for three fucking days. I don’t mean three days where my shoulder hurt. I mean three days where I literally could not move it. Then there is the first major problem of my significant other, who knows what my job is but refuses to ever talk about it, and now suddenly I can’t use one arm, and what the hell do I say? Others don’t know what I do. I could say it was a job-sustained injury, but what could have happened when most people think I work at a paper place doing graphic design? At one point, after three days of not being able to use my arm I thought about going to the emergency room. I mean nothing was fucking working. I’m on a ton of pain meds and stuff and am not supposed to feel anything. I think someone could literally throw a knife into my back and I’d think it was a bug bite. I have a very high pain tolerance.
But this was horrible. I didn’t go in because I had no idea of what I would say. I’m not embarrassed of what I do; I think it would be hilarious to tell a doctor that I threw out my shoulder doing a half-hour of constant spanking on this 23-year-old-boy in a corset and a skirt after he spent two hours cleaning the jizz, ass juice, period blood, and old-man sweat off of everything in the three-floor fetish playground I work in. But I don’t have insurance, so I did not go. Finally today - nearly a week later - I started to be able to move it again. That was the first injury of the week. I think that they need to come up with some sort of workman’s comp at this place, because two out of three days I sustained job-related sicknesses and injuries. And it is just-so goddamned hard to explain to the public at large why I am suffering. What can I say?
The second injury came when a fellow came in for a golden shower. Like I have said, I have no problem peeing all over these douchebags, and I actually really like doing it. Plus it pays a lot to pee. Since I’ve started working there I’ve developed this complex now that every time I do urinate, I think, this is worth about $200 dollars and it’s literally going down the toilet. But there can’t always be some eager pervert waiting to drink your pee waiting under you. Some refer to themselves as human toilets. I would have one if they paid my rent. That would be great.
I digress. Like usual, I was up on the second floor drooling on myself when the phone startled me and I wiped the drool off my face as I answered it and I was told to start drinking water because I would be peeing on someone soon. Wonderful. I thought. I already thought I might have to pee, so this was good. I did have one concern. I was on my period at the time and I had not yet done anything like that and I know some people have a problem with that but I was instructed to put a tampon in and like tuck in the string and pee and I’d be fine. That seemed sensible enough. So I started drinking water. A fucking ton. I must have guzzled eight glasses in 30 minutes. Then I got downstairs to the basement where the man was. I had to give him an enema (another money-maker which is easy as hell) and was instructed I’d have to pee on him in 15 minutes. I totally was about to burst then. It sucked. But I kept drinking water. Now the fun part came. This fellow was to have just about every girl there pee on him. There were four of us to do it. All of us are extremely proficient in this.
I was up first. I had to pee so bad and I talked it up so much and to my surprise NOT A DROP would come out. I told him he had to beg. He started begging. I couldn’t. Plus there were girls after me who I was sure had to pee, so I just gave up my place in line.
The second girl comes up. She has been drinking water for an hour now as well. I’ve seen her pee on sooo many people. She gets the same thing. She can’t fucking go. She tells him it’s all his fault (of course) and tells him he’s not begging good enough. I’m thinking this is hilarious. So she steps out of line. The begging starts to get funny at this point. The man really does not know what to say. He’s like, “I want it so bad!!!! PLEASE I WANT TO BE A TOILET!!! PLEASE PEE ON ME!!!” The third girl comes up. Another proficient pisser, she manages to go like a drop in his mouth, and then it stops. She’s waiting over his face trying to pee. I suddenly get the urge that I’m going to fucking burst so I go over his genitals and am gonna just go all over them. But then I get stuck again!!! This has never happened. Then everyone is yelling at this poor man to pee.
All of a sudden it goes silent and the man yells in his most desperate voice, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME!??!?!?!?!” At this statement I have to duck into another room because I am laughing so hard. But I am starting to get this terrible headache and am like totally fucking waterlogged. I really don’t know who’s more frustrated, myself or this man. I am ruining my bladder for this motherfucker.
Finally we decide to get out the potty chair. We put it over his face. It’s my turn again. It has been decided that if we are sitting maybe the peeing will be easier. I still can’t fucking pee, and now I have added a cup of hot coffee to the mix. At this point I am saved by the tampon. All of a sudden, he starts squirming and says, “NO, NO, NO, PLEASE PLEASE NO!!!” It’s really hard to tell in these cases if they’re actually serious or not because they always say no, and there is a code word for when things get too out of control and he’s not using it. He starts to say, “NO, YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD... I CAN’T.” Thank Fucking God. I got out of that one. The three other girls are still struggling, and a small trickle of urine ends up on this man. It’s hilarious. I have never seen anything like this. It was beautiful. My period totally got me off the hook with this one.
This was a time when I REALLY wish I had the tape recorder, though. It took literally everything in this man to yell, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME?” It was classic. I felt a little bad for him for a second. But it was more funny than anything. Then I had to deal with this crazy headache.
Of course I could not tell my significant other when I came home that I had a headache because I was waterlogged because I drank too much water to try and piss on this guy and couldn’t. My brain was fucking drowned. It took me two days to get rid of the headache. I never knew this job could be so dangerous. I asked one of my coworkers there who is a med student, and she said that it was a long-term “brain freeze” type thing from drinking a ton of cold water and then hot coffee and that I had to stay out of lighted areas and relax as much as I could.
Jesus Christ. These people are the ones that are supposed to hurt. Not me. Luckily I got paid for that golden shower. He was the wiener that was scared of a tampon. Dude, if you have four chicas fucking pissing straight into your mouth and you’re swallowing it, why in the hell would a non-bloody tampon bother you? People are so goddamned weird. You like shit, you like piss, you like enemas, you like ass-fucking, but girls on their period...that’s just a little over the line. What a weirdo.
I should start lifting weights during my off time, because last week I literally threw my shoulder out spanking this “house slave.” Of course I had spanked people before, but this one was literal nonstop spanking for thirty fucking minutes. NON-FUCKING-STOP. I really don’t know how he/she took it. I thought it was great when it was going on, so I think I was ignoring the fact that I was getting massively injured at the time. I really was getting into it, and this little girl/boy took endless fucking slaps with this paddle. Her fucking ass was so red it scared me. But she kept asking for more. I was wondering how the fuck much could she take and was trying to challenge her, so at the time I guess I was ignoring the fact that I barely use my right arm because the most I lift is my gallon bottle of Sunny Delight to mix my vodka with at night. Or a pizza box from Little Caesars. It was very satisfying when it was all over. And li’l Amber’s ass was a bright shade of red. But as I was putting her sweaty corset and skirts into the laundry, I noticed that my shoulder was not working properly. I could not fucking use it.
This went on for three fucking days. I don’t mean three days where my shoulder hurt. I mean three days where I literally could not move it. Then there is the first major problem of my significant other, who knows what my job is but refuses to ever talk about it, and now suddenly I can’t use one arm, and what the hell do I say? Others don’t know what I do. I could say it was a job-sustained injury, but what could have happened when most people think I work at a paper place doing graphic design? At one point, after three days of not being able to use my arm I thought about going to the emergency room. I mean nothing was fucking working. I’m on a ton of pain meds and stuff and am not supposed to feel anything. I think someone could literally throw a knife into my back and I’d think it was a bug bite. I have a very high pain tolerance.
But this was horrible. I didn’t go in because I had no idea of what I would say. I’m not embarrassed of what I do; I think it would be hilarious to tell a doctor that I threw out my shoulder doing a half-hour of constant spanking on this 23-year-old-boy in a corset and a skirt after he spent two hours cleaning the jizz, ass juice, period blood, and old-man sweat off of everything in the three-floor fetish playground I work in. But I don’t have insurance, so I did not go. Finally today - nearly a week later - I started to be able to move it again. That was the first injury of the week. I think that they need to come up with some sort of workman’s comp at this place, because two out of three days I sustained job-related sicknesses and injuries. And it is just-so goddamned hard to explain to the public at large why I am suffering. What can I say?
The second injury came when a fellow came in for a golden shower. Like I have said, I have no problem peeing all over these douchebags, and I actually really like doing it. Plus it pays a lot to pee. Since I’ve started working there I’ve developed this complex now that every time I do urinate, I think, this is worth about $200 dollars and it’s literally going down the toilet. But there can’t always be some eager pervert waiting to drink your pee waiting under you. Some refer to themselves as human toilets. I would have one if they paid my rent. That would be great.
I digress. Like usual, I was up on the second floor drooling on myself when the phone startled me and I wiped the drool off my face as I answered it and I was told to start drinking water because I would be peeing on someone soon. Wonderful. I thought. I already thought I might have to pee, so this was good. I did have one concern. I was on my period at the time and I had not yet done anything like that and I know some people have a problem with that but I was instructed to put a tampon in and like tuck in the string and pee and I’d be fine. That seemed sensible enough. So I started drinking water. A fucking ton. I must have guzzled eight glasses in 30 minutes. Then I got downstairs to the basement where the man was. I had to give him an enema (another money-maker which is easy as hell) and was instructed I’d have to pee on him in 15 minutes. I totally was about to burst then. It sucked. But I kept drinking water. Now the fun part came. This fellow was to have just about every girl there pee on him. There were four of us to do it. All of us are extremely proficient in this.
I was up first. I had to pee so bad and I talked it up so much and to my surprise NOT A DROP would come out. I told him he had to beg. He started begging. I couldn’t. Plus there were girls after me who I was sure had to pee, so I just gave up my place in line.
The second girl comes up. She has been drinking water for an hour now as well. I’ve seen her pee on sooo many people. She gets the same thing. She can’t fucking go. She tells him it’s all his fault (of course) and tells him he’s not begging good enough. I’m thinking this is hilarious. So she steps out of line. The begging starts to get funny at this point. The man really does not know what to say. He’s like, “I want it so bad!!!! PLEASE I WANT TO BE A TOILET!!! PLEASE PEE ON ME!!!” The third girl comes up. Another proficient pisser, she manages to go like a drop in his mouth, and then it stops. She’s waiting over his face trying to pee. I suddenly get the urge that I’m going to fucking burst so I go over his genitals and am gonna just go all over them. But then I get stuck again!!! This has never happened. Then everyone is yelling at this poor man to pee.
All of a sudden it goes silent and the man yells in his most desperate voice, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME!??!?!?!?!” At this statement I have to duck into another room because I am laughing so hard. But I am starting to get this terrible headache and am like totally fucking waterlogged. I really don’t know who’s more frustrated, myself or this man. I am ruining my bladder for this motherfucker.
Finally we decide to get out the potty chair. We put it over his face. It’s my turn again. It has been decided that if we are sitting maybe the peeing will be easier. I still can’t fucking pee, and now I have added a cup of hot coffee to the mix. At this point I am saved by the tampon. All of a sudden, he starts squirming and says, “NO, NO, NO, PLEASE PLEASE NO!!!” It’s really hard to tell in these cases if they’re actually serious or not because they always say no, and there is a code word for when things get too out of control and he’s not using it. He starts to say, “NO, YOU’RE ON YOUR PERIOD... I CAN’T.” Thank Fucking God. I got out of that one. The three other girls are still struggling, and a small trickle of urine ends up on this man. It’s hilarious. I have never seen anything like this. It was beautiful. My period totally got me off the hook with this one.
This was a time when I REALLY wish I had the tape recorder, though. It took literally everything in this man to yell, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WILL SOMEONE PLEASE JUST PEE ON ME?” It was classic. I felt a little bad for him for a second. But it was more funny than anything. Then I had to deal with this crazy headache.
Of course I could not tell my significant other when I came home that I had a headache because I was waterlogged because I drank too much water to try and piss on this guy and couldn’t. My brain was fucking drowned. It took me two days to get rid of the headache. I never knew this job could be so dangerous. I asked one of my coworkers there who is a med student, and she said that it was a long-term “brain freeze” type thing from drinking a ton of cold water and then hot coffee and that I had to stay out of lighted areas and relax as much as I could.
Jesus Christ. These people are the ones that are supposed to hurt. Not me. Luckily I got paid for that golden shower. He was the wiener that was scared of a tampon. Dude, if you have four chicas fucking pissing straight into your mouth and you’re swallowing it, why in the hell would a non-bloody tampon bother you? People are so goddamned weird. You like shit, you like piss, you like enemas, you like ass-fucking, but girls on their period...that’s just a little over the line. What a weirdo.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Tampon Dave
Here is another curious story of a weird-ass yokel who came into the sluthouse where I work. First, I must ruin some type of illusion. I really wish that it was CONSTANTLY a barrage every minute of every shift of each of these fellows, but for the most part there is a lot of time where I try to hide and sleep. Then someone finds me and tells me to do something, and I do it. Don’t get me wrong—I meet one of these extremely bizarre lovely fools almost every shift, but unfortunately there is usually only one or two. This will increase soon if I do keep this job and they put me on the website, and then weirdos from all over can call and pay unheard-of amounts of money to get barely an hour of my precious time. And they will, and I will get many more bizarro wastoid fat plugs cumming all over their bloated stomachs for me. But here is this week’s highlight.
OCTOBER XXX, 2007, SESSION 1 OF THE DAY.
TAMPON DAVE.
This cute little monster was already in with one of the other girls. I was to come into the session merely to take Polaroids. I walk into my manager’s office, and she over-excitedly asks me, “Are you on your period?” I say no. And all her perkiness leaves her. I am already getting excited about who the fuck I was going to get to see this time. Turns out, if I did, I could have sold this gem of a fat lovely man my used tampon for a cool $200. Imagine how much money all these girls are wasting just menstruating and fucking throwing their tampons in the garbage (or in the toilet like I do, only in other people’s houses) when there are men like Tampon Dave who will pay good, hard-earned cash for them. The man is a tampon collector. I already love him. I think it was the first time I really wanted to be on my period in my life. As a side note, some of you may or may not know that I lived with a man who stole my tampons, but it was more in a stalker-psycho sort of way. And it was very much the fact that they were MINE. Tampon Dave collects many ladies’ tampons, and don’t ask me why the hell he does it. But I think it’s great.
The Manager (I call her manager, OK? She is the Head Mistress, but I just hate all this Mistress talk) then starts to give me a summary of the gentleman I am about to see. It is short. She tells me to lie to him and act as if I am way younger. She just tells me that he is very obsessed with describing the inner workings of the cock as well as the vagina. I honestly thought this was some bizarre exaggeration and sort of put it in the back of my head, right up until I knocked on the door and barely introduced myself while his cheeks get really rosy and he excitedly grabs the diagram of the penis pump he is currently wearing and starts to explain EVERYTHING to me.
I, of course, am interested, but I act as if I have never seen a penis before. I just try to go with this one and get as much info as possible. I ask him, “Does that thing make it longer or what?” He gets excited and says it makes it hard and then starts to divulge all sorts of info about the cock. He points everything out on his little diagram, like where the urethra is and where the head of the penis is. He explains why sucking on it is called “giving head”—because you’re sucking on the head of the penis. I always thought it was because you were using your head. But I have no fucking idea. I just act like he knows everything. And I do not hesitate to continue to ask, as I would love to listen to this man talk about the functions of the cock all day long. As he talks, though, I start to get the impression that not all of his information is completely correct. In fact I am sure of it. This makes the situation more hilarious, and I continue to ask him questions and listen to his outlandish answers.
I notice that he has several bags and one is filled with pharmaceutical bottles. I’m thinking, I wonder what kind of wonderful anti-psychotics or narcotics are in there, but then he reveals what the little bottles contain. He pulls one out and proudly tells me, “This is two milkings’ worth.” Milking is a really weird, gross way of saying jacking someone off. It is the term that our place uses. I really like it because it likens the man to a cow and his penis to an udder. I ask if that’s a lot. He says it is. Each of these containers is filled with a different amount of jizz. I really, really want to swipe one and put it into a turkey baster and play a real mean trick on one of my passed-out girlfriends and have them give birth to a litter of baby Tampon Daves. It gets better from here.
He pulls another instrument out of the bag. This is one of those things that when I used to go to the doctor and get physicals, they’d stick in my ear to look for infections. It has like a magnifying glass on one end and a really little hole on the other. He instructs me to stick this into his penis hole and ask me what I see. I am sooo excited. What the fuck is this man thinking?!?!? I guess I could see why this could turn someone on. Only because it’s fucking awesome. He keeps asking me if I see any foam. I really can’t see shit except a big blur of pink. Dammit, Tampon Dave, I’m a fucking fetish whore, not a doctor. A coworker looks in and shoots me this look like, “What the fuck are you supposed to be seeing?” and I sort of shrug my shoulders. Then she says, “Oh yeah, there it is, can you see it?” and suddenly I am able to see whatever the fuck he’s talking about or making up. I would say I saw the Virgin Mary herself inside his dickhole if he was paying the right price. This guy must be nuts, allowing these strange girls to wield important medical equipment in his most sensitive of his parts. What the fuck is he thinking? Anyway, it makes me happy.
As I said in the beginning, I am only here to take Polaroids, but this guy is totally getting off on a new friend to listen to him go on and on about the cock. They even have to tell me to leave the room because I am giving him too much for his money. I take some photos. He gets five. I take three. The first three are boring photos of the girl folding his fat stomach up to reveal his semi hard-on. Wonderful. I went to four years of college for this!!!! But honestly, I don’t think there would be a single subject I’d rather be photographing. And I’m learning so much false weird information about a man’s penis. It’s almost like taking a biology class in an insane asylum. Since I’m socializing waaay too much and there is a “special act” that needs to be done before the two other photos are taken, I, sadly, must leave for a few minutes to dwell on the amazing wonderful scene I have just witnessed. Before I leave, Dave instructs me to find an envelope in his bag. He explains it that this is JUST FOR ME, and that it is extremely important that I receive it. I am hoping it is cash, but I cannot find it. He seems upset, but I explain that I will be back very soon to take the remaining two photos.
I am wondering what this “special act” is for about two minutes when the girl runs out and asks me frantically for some type of Saran Wrap to use as a dental dam. “OH GOD NO GROOOSSSSS!!!!” is all I can think. But I get it for her. I mean, if he is this weird quack who knows all about the cock and apparently the vadge as well, maybe he can munch a mound pretty well. But God, I don’t know if I want to find out...ever.
I am hearing my coworker in there with Tampon Dave, and she is moaning and her moaning becomes a scream, and she seems to be going just nuts, and then it slows down. While this is going on, another girl, Miss Monique, walks up the stairs and tells me she’s going to go for a tampon sale. She knocks on the door and is in there for about five minutes. She comes out carrying one of the precious prescription bottles full of Tampon Dave’s seed. She looks upset. “He wouldn’t fucking buy my tampon,” she explains. “The cocksucker tried to offer me this fucking thing of his semen instead. I told him if he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen.” Then she slams the little bottle down on the counter and stomps down the stairs. I start laughing so hard. I am thinking, when in the hell in the world would you ever hear that statement again—“If he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen”? Of course she wanted money, not semen. But God, what a great thing to happen.
At this point, I think it might be OK for me to reenter the room to take the remaining two photos. I look at the other photos, and they look so amazing. He has one of those extremely old Polaroid cameras, and the photos look like they’re from the seventies. This time, he starts to tell me how after a man cums, there is still a bunch of semen left in some reservoir or something, and he keeps pushing more and more drops of semen out of his penis. Then he does something really gross. He takes out his big stained briefs and shoves them really close to my face, and he says, “You see this?”
I assuming he means the huge yellow stain on the front. I say yes. He says, “That’s when you can tell that your boyfriend has been cheating on you, if he has a yellow stain on his underwear like this. This is from the semen that probably dripped out of his penis after he was fucking another girl.” My coworker finally challenges him, inquiring, “What if he was just jacking off and that happened?” She seemed to upset Tampon Dave with this rebuttal. He says, defeated, “Yeah, I guess you could find out if he’s jacking it without you as well.” I can’t believe she challenged him!!! She’s got fucking balls.
I take the two more photos. They’re gross. One of her sitting on his face. Another one of him looking fat and even more gross because he’s standing next to this girl like a quarter his age. But of course this is what he likes. I tell Tampon Dave that he must be real good at oral sex since I heard my coworker moaning and screaming from the other room. He says, very arrogantly, “I know the vagina very well.” She, of course, agrees. I wonder if he does. I still don’t want to find out. I finally, sadly, say my goodbyes to Tampon Dave. I have so much more to talk to him about. But, fortunately, that is not the end of him for me. Even for that day.
About an hour later, as I am still reflecting on the day’s events, I receive the envelope that Tampon Dave was looking for in his bag. I am honestly, like I said, hoping it was a large sum of money, but it was something almost as great. It is a really faded photo of his very fat baby potbelly and him holding his hard cock. I was very happy to receive it. I hung it on my wall. He is a regular, so I will be seeing him again. But I can see him whenever I want now that I have this photo. I think I’m going to collect all of my tampons for the next couple of months and string them up like garland and give them to him right before Christmas to string around the Christmas tree. He should love that.
OCTOBER XXX, 2007, SESSION 1 OF THE DAY.
TAMPON DAVE.
This cute little monster was already in with one of the other girls. I was to come into the session merely to take Polaroids. I walk into my manager’s office, and she over-excitedly asks me, “Are you on your period?” I say no. And all her perkiness leaves her. I am already getting excited about who the fuck I was going to get to see this time. Turns out, if I did, I could have sold this gem of a fat lovely man my used tampon for a cool $200. Imagine how much money all these girls are wasting just menstruating and fucking throwing their tampons in the garbage (or in the toilet like I do, only in other people’s houses) when there are men like Tampon Dave who will pay good, hard-earned cash for them. The man is a tampon collector. I already love him. I think it was the first time I really wanted to be on my period in my life. As a side note, some of you may or may not know that I lived with a man who stole my tampons, but it was more in a stalker-psycho sort of way. And it was very much the fact that they were MINE. Tampon Dave collects many ladies’ tampons, and don’t ask me why the hell he does it. But I think it’s great.
The Manager (I call her manager, OK? She is the Head Mistress, but I just hate all this Mistress talk) then starts to give me a summary of the gentleman I am about to see. It is short. She tells me to lie to him and act as if I am way younger. She just tells me that he is very obsessed with describing the inner workings of the cock as well as the vagina. I honestly thought this was some bizarre exaggeration and sort of put it in the back of my head, right up until I knocked on the door and barely introduced myself while his cheeks get really rosy and he excitedly grabs the diagram of the penis pump he is currently wearing and starts to explain EVERYTHING to me.
I, of course, am interested, but I act as if I have never seen a penis before. I just try to go with this one and get as much info as possible. I ask him, “Does that thing make it longer or what?” He gets excited and says it makes it hard and then starts to divulge all sorts of info about the cock. He points everything out on his little diagram, like where the urethra is and where the head of the penis is. He explains why sucking on it is called “giving head”—because you’re sucking on the head of the penis. I always thought it was because you were using your head. But I have no fucking idea. I just act like he knows everything. And I do not hesitate to continue to ask, as I would love to listen to this man talk about the functions of the cock all day long. As he talks, though, I start to get the impression that not all of his information is completely correct. In fact I am sure of it. This makes the situation more hilarious, and I continue to ask him questions and listen to his outlandish answers.
I notice that he has several bags and one is filled with pharmaceutical bottles. I’m thinking, I wonder what kind of wonderful anti-psychotics or narcotics are in there, but then he reveals what the little bottles contain. He pulls one out and proudly tells me, “This is two milkings’ worth.” Milking is a really weird, gross way of saying jacking someone off. It is the term that our place uses. I really like it because it likens the man to a cow and his penis to an udder. I ask if that’s a lot. He says it is. Each of these containers is filled with a different amount of jizz. I really, really want to swipe one and put it into a turkey baster and play a real mean trick on one of my passed-out girlfriends and have them give birth to a litter of baby Tampon Daves. It gets better from here.
He pulls another instrument out of the bag. This is one of those things that when I used to go to the doctor and get physicals, they’d stick in my ear to look for infections. It has like a magnifying glass on one end and a really little hole on the other. He instructs me to stick this into his penis hole and ask me what I see. I am sooo excited. What the fuck is this man thinking?!?!? I guess I could see why this could turn someone on. Only because it’s fucking awesome. He keeps asking me if I see any foam. I really can’t see shit except a big blur of pink. Dammit, Tampon Dave, I’m a fucking fetish whore, not a doctor. A coworker looks in and shoots me this look like, “What the fuck are you supposed to be seeing?” and I sort of shrug my shoulders. Then she says, “Oh yeah, there it is, can you see it?” and suddenly I am able to see whatever the fuck he’s talking about or making up. I would say I saw the Virgin Mary herself inside his dickhole if he was paying the right price. This guy must be nuts, allowing these strange girls to wield important medical equipment in his most sensitive of his parts. What the fuck is he thinking? Anyway, it makes me happy.
As I said in the beginning, I am only here to take Polaroids, but this guy is totally getting off on a new friend to listen to him go on and on about the cock. They even have to tell me to leave the room because I am giving him too much for his money. I take some photos. He gets five. I take three. The first three are boring photos of the girl folding his fat stomach up to reveal his semi hard-on. Wonderful. I went to four years of college for this!!!! But honestly, I don’t think there would be a single subject I’d rather be photographing. And I’m learning so much false weird information about a man’s penis. It’s almost like taking a biology class in an insane asylum. Since I’m socializing waaay too much and there is a “special act” that needs to be done before the two other photos are taken, I, sadly, must leave for a few minutes to dwell on the amazing wonderful scene I have just witnessed. Before I leave, Dave instructs me to find an envelope in his bag. He explains it that this is JUST FOR ME, and that it is extremely important that I receive it. I am hoping it is cash, but I cannot find it. He seems upset, but I explain that I will be back very soon to take the remaining two photos.
I am wondering what this “special act” is for about two minutes when the girl runs out and asks me frantically for some type of Saran Wrap to use as a dental dam. “OH GOD NO GROOOSSSSS!!!!” is all I can think. But I get it for her. I mean, if he is this weird quack who knows all about the cock and apparently the vadge as well, maybe he can munch a mound pretty well. But God, I don’t know if I want to find out...ever.
I am hearing my coworker in there with Tampon Dave, and she is moaning and her moaning becomes a scream, and she seems to be going just nuts, and then it slows down. While this is going on, another girl, Miss Monique, walks up the stairs and tells me she’s going to go for a tampon sale. She knocks on the door and is in there for about five minutes. She comes out carrying one of the precious prescription bottles full of Tampon Dave’s seed. She looks upset. “He wouldn’t fucking buy my tampon,” she explains. “The cocksucker tried to offer me this fucking thing of his semen instead. I told him if he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen.” Then she slams the little bottle down on the counter and stomps down the stairs. I start laughing so hard. I am thinking, when in the hell in the world would you ever hear that statement again—“If he won’t take my tampon, I don’t want his fucking semen”? Of course she wanted money, not semen. But God, what a great thing to happen.
At this point, I think it might be OK for me to reenter the room to take the remaining two photos. I look at the other photos, and they look so amazing. He has one of those extremely old Polaroid cameras, and the photos look like they’re from the seventies. This time, he starts to tell me how after a man cums, there is still a bunch of semen left in some reservoir or something, and he keeps pushing more and more drops of semen out of his penis. Then he does something really gross. He takes out his big stained briefs and shoves them really close to my face, and he says, “You see this?”
I assuming he means the huge yellow stain on the front. I say yes. He says, “That’s when you can tell that your boyfriend has been cheating on you, if he has a yellow stain on his underwear like this. This is from the semen that probably dripped out of his penis after he was fucking another girl.” My coworker finally challenges him, inquiring, “What if he was just jacking off and that happened?” She seemed to upset Tampon Dave with this rebuttal. He says, defeated, “Yeah, I guess you could find out if he’s jacking it without you as well.” I can’t believe she challenged him!!! She’s got fucking balls.
I take the two more photos. They’re gross. One of her sitting on his face. Another one of him looking fat and even more gross because he’s standing next to this girl like a quarter his age. But of course this is what he likes. I tell Tampon Dave that he must be real good at oral sex since I heard my coworker moaning and screaming from the other room. He says, very arrogantly, “I know the vagina very well.” She, of course, agrees. I wonder if he does. I still don’t want to find out. I finally, sadly, say my goodbyes to Tampon Dave. I have so much more to talk to him about. But, fortunately, that is not the end of him for me. Even for that day.
About an hour later, as I am still reflecting on the day’s events, I receive the envelope that Tampon Dave was looking for in his bag. I am honestly, like I said, hoping it was a large sum of money, but it was something almost as great. It is a really faded photo of his very fat baby potbelly and him holding his hard cock. I was very happy to receive it. I hung it on my wall. He is a regular, so I will be seeing him again. But I can see him whenever I want now that I have this photo. I think I’m going to collect all of my tampons for the next couple of months and string them up like garland and give them to him right before Christmas to string around the Christmas tree. He should love that.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Sissy Sally
It’s been a month now...a very fast month, since I have been sticking things in fat men, peeing on them, and calling them all sorts of wonderful names. I’ve met trannies, sissies, slaves, doms, masters, and fetishists of every kind imaginable. I have always lived a fast life, but I feel like in the last month I have been thrust into this world of complete perversity, and as I explained earlier, it is much more difficult to return to regular life when I am not working. Sometimes I’ll see a man (and it’s always men, because those are the only clientele) on the street that I don’t know and I picture him in panties, getting beaten and pissed on. This doesn’t happen constantly, but it happens randomly, and it is uncontrollable. I’m sure I’ll have all sorts of PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) haunting me after doing this, but, hey, I’m having fun and making money. I love CJ because it is the only forum where I can write the most foul stories without getting censored or being told to “tone it down.”
As you may or may not know, I am keeping a diary of every session that happens with me in this place. I try to keep them as detailed as possible, but sometimes they’re just vague outlines. After a month of part-time work, I have a notebook full. “Stinky Stan” still remains my favorite gentleman who has visited. The next one comes in a very close second.
“Sissy Sally” and I did not engage very much one-on-one, but the session as a whole was definitely, without a doubt, the most sickening atrocity that I have witnessed there thus far. She came in my first week of working and has stuck with me ever since, and I doubt I will ever forget her.
I will copy my diary entry here, but I will add certain things for explanation’s sake. I will try to keep it as true to the diary form as I can.
OCTOBER XXX 2007 SESSION 2 OF THE DAY.
SISSY SALLY.
Sally was Monique’s slut. Monique is a lady who works there, and I guess as you work there longer, you accumulate “sluts” who want you to teach them to be a woman. Please don’t be confused. Sally is biologically, and I am pretty sure in most of his daily life, a male. He is only a sissy slut when he comes to visit us. She is definitely my kind of girl. She could really take the terribly foul stuff. Oh, and was she whiny. She was a whiny little bitch from hell. I was instantly in love.
Before I went up to see Sally, the Headmistress gave me a short briefing. (I really hate all this Mistress/Master language, but they force me to use it, so I go with it.) She told me that I was going to be giving a G.S. (golden shower) to Sally. For you innocents whom I really envy, a golden shower is when you piss on someone. For me, it means good money for taking a fucking piss. Honestly, as a secret side note, I am on some very heavy medication and often wonder when I piss in someone’s mouth if they get some kind of high from it. I think I might research this. If anyone knows anything about this, please tell me. I know it happens with some hallucinogens, but I don’t know if it happens with tranquilizers and narcotics. I digress. I was also told that Sally is a “little slut bitch who is like the kind of girl in junior high school who always wanted to get into the cool kids’ parties, but who never got invited.” I could identify. If only this meant being pissed on, shit on, and puked on in jr. high, I believe it would have made for a much more interesting experience.
I enter the salon where all of this is happening. There is a bathroom in the salon where Sally is lying in the bathtub, but I have not seen her yet. I just smell the very strong odor of urine and hear people yelling, “Look at you, Sally. You disgusting slut!!!! You make me want to puke!!!” I am enjoying this thoroughly and cannot wait to see Sally. I am continuing to drink water as fast as I can because I really don’t have to pee, and this place keeps annoying me because they tell me I have to do a golden shower like ten minutes before I’m supposed to, and a girl needs some time to gear up to pee on someone. I’m not pee-shy, but I have to get something to come out first.
There is a male slave I almost never see who has some weird role where he is also a client but works for the dungeon since he is the only male on staff. He is usually described as a “Master,” or at least on the website he is, and he mostly works with couples, I guess. His getup is far different than the scary corporal master I saw on the website. He looks and talks EXACTLY like Mr. Slave from South Park. He is balding, with a handlebar mustache, sporting leather straps across his chest, blush on his pretty little cheeks, and he talks exactly like a flaming homo. He asks me if I am Latina. I gather he is trying to make small talk. I always wished I was Latina, so I say yes and he smiles. I gather that this man is here to play the perfect slave that Sally is to look up to, but he is also there to shit on her.
Monique walks out of the bathroom after yelling at Sally and starts shoving this yogurt mix into her own mouth while explaining that she is going to puke on Sally. This is getting more and more wonderful. I just thought that I was going to give a G.S., and here I am in the midst of someone who is about to get pissed on, shit on, and vomited on by three girls.
Most of the trolls that walk in and out these doors are by far the fattest pockmarked hairy-assed monkeys that I’ve ever seen. Despite the whiny voice, I was definitely expecting an old hairy man with a potbelly and welts on his face. It is time for me to go into the bathroom after so much anticipation to see Sally.
To my surprise, Sally is this skinny younger man with a nice body wearing a bra and panties. He is completely wet, covered in piss, and he fucking smells worse than a urinal-puck sandwich. He’s doing a cute little dance in the tub. I introduce myself and explain that I will pee on him. It is so lucky that this is a session that I am allowed to laugh in, because for the life of me I would not be able to hold my laughter in.
He lays down to get the “golden nectar” that I am going to give him, and I step over the tub. He gets off on how much I tell him what a disgusting piece of turd he is, and I guess it’s the whole atmosphere, because I usually pride myself on my ability to piss all over anyone at the drop of the hat, but I can’t piss. Sally is waiting so patiently in the tub, and I am trying to piss as much as I possibly can, but all I can do is fart. The weird thing is that I NEVER fart. I know people say that, but I really have nothing to hide here. I really never fart. I pretend this is completely planned and try to push more urine out but can only fart again. I yell at Sally to smell my farts and I ask her what they smell like, and he says that they smell like “chocolate-chip cookies.” HAH. Oh, there is something very wrong here. Monique instructs Sally to perhaps sing a song to me. Sally starts to sing, in her terribly whiny voice, “Singin’ in the Rain.”
That is it. I cannot stop laughing, and I don’t think my body could function after the third fart and Sally’s whiny rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain.” I realize that I cannot yet pee, and I explain to Sally that she is simply too disgusting for me to even urinate on and that perhaps I will be back later. I know the logic to that particular statement probably makes no sense, but I think it got Miss Sally off a little bit, and it bought me more time. I want to piss on Sally so bad. I, once again, think I am in love.
I go into the salon again, and of course, it instantly comes on...I have to pee BAD. Like I can’t possibly hold it and am doing damage to my bladder. Only now I have to wait for Miss Monique to puke on her and Master/Slave man to shit on her, and then for her to lick the shit off of him.
As clean as you try to keep a place like this, it is virtually impossible. I always think that if I got one of those lights they use on Dateline that they take into hotel rooms to look for semen and gross stuff, like those glow lights, the whole place would shine like the sun. I doubt there would actually be a spot that didn’t contain a ton of shit, piss, cum, spit, vomit, ass juice, period blood, regular blood, and every type of disease ever. We clean EVERYTHING with bleach and alcohol, but when people like Sally come in we, of course, seem to have a small fly problem. This small fly problem turns into a swarm in the salon and especially the bathroom where Sally is.
The smell is getting worse and worse, and I really don’t know how long I can take it. I have to hurry up and piss before I accidentally puke on Sally for free. I run in there, yell at Sally to open her mouth wide, and I piss like a fucking fountain. Sally laps it up happily. I am pissing so much that she starts gagging and I yell at her not to spit it out. The thought passes through my head again about how many meds I am on and the possibility of overdose through drinking so much of my pee. I guess I will just have to wait at this point to see if she goes to sleep or dies or something. I run out of the room and wash off my legs.
When I enter the salon again, Monique is retching to vomit and it is really making me sick. I hear it. It gets all over Sally, who is now standing up shaking her skinny ass back and forth seductively. Now comes the climax. The slave shits on Sally and then Sally must rub it on his dick and lick it off. I, unfortunately, do not witness this, but I hear it. And smell it. Although the buzz from the flies is so goddamned loud it is hard to hear anything, I hear Sally whining and sucking and eating the shit.
Intermittently throughout this entire session, I am going into the bathroom to laugh at and harass Sally. I go in there a bit after that, and here she stands in all her glory. She is wearing a mismatched bra and panty set, wet head-to-toe from four girls’ piss. Covered in smears of vomit. Mostly pink and brown vomit. And then there are shit smears...everywhere. Sally has shit all around her mouth, sort of like a clown. It is a vision of glory. Of course there is no camera. The girls start taunting her with the possibility of sending her out onto the busy street just like that. I am wondering if this could possibly happen, but I realize this is all a fantasy. I WANT it to be real. The party is then over, and Sally is forced to shower in the shit-and-piss-covered mess she made.
I REALLY wanted to see how she cleaned up. I mean, she must have blown (no pun intended) over a grand for that fun little time. At one point she said that she had no more money and that her wallet was in the car. Miss Monique asked Sally if she could check Sally’s pants for more money and pulled out this HUGE wad of cash, and Sally was more than eager to give up every penny of it. She was having so much fun. I’m almost positive Sally is an important politician of some sort. It almost makes too much sense. I really cannot take the smell anymore, and I have decided that this is the only type of real party. I love Sissy Sally and cannot wait until she comes in again. I have done a lot of humiliation play, but Miss Sally took it to a whole new level. The whining, the mismatched bikini, the singing, the flies—I could go on forever. It was a vision of beauty.
As you may or may not know, I am keeping a diary of every session that happens with me in this place. I try to keep them as detailed as possible, but sometimes they’re just vague outlines. After a month of part-time work, I have a notebook full. “Stinky Stan” still remains my favorite gentleman who has visited. The next one comes in a very close second.
“Sissy Sally” and I did not engage very much one-on-one, but the session as a whole was definitely, without a doubt, the most sickening atrocity that I have witnessed there thus far. She came in my first week of working and has stuck with me ever since, and I doubt I will ever forget her.
I will copy my diary entry here, but I will add certain things for explanation’s sake. I will try to keep it as true to the diary form as I can.
OCTOBER XXX 2007 SESSION 2 OF THE DAY.
SISSY SALLY.
Sally was Monique’s slut. Monique is a lady who works there, and I guess as you work there longer, you accumulate “sluts” who want you to teach them to be a woman. Please don’t be confused. Sally is biologically, and I am pretty sure in most of his daily life, a male. He is only a sissy slut when he comes to visit us. She is definitely my kind of girl. She could really take the terribly foul stuff. Oh, and was she whiny. She was a whiny little bitch from hell. I was instantly in love.
Before I went up to see Sally, the Headmistress gave me a short briefing. (I really hate all this Mistress/Master language, but they force me to use it, so I go with it.) She told me that I was going to be giving a G.S. (golden shower) to Sally. For you innocents whom I really envy, a golden shower is when you piss on someone. For me, it means good money for taking a fucking piss. Honestly, as a secret side note, I am on some very heavy medication and often wonder when I piss in someone’s mouth if they get some kind of high from it. I think I might research this. If anyone knows anything about this, please tell me. I know it happens with some hallucinogens, but I don’t know if it happens with tranquilizers and narcotics. I digress. I was also told that Sally is a “little slut bitch who is like the kind of girl in junior high school who always wanted to get into the cool kids’ parties, but who never got invited.” I could identify. If only this meant being pissed on, shit on, and puked on in jr. high, I believe it would have made for a much more interesting experience.
I enter the salon where all of this is happening. There is a bathroom in the salon where Sally is lying in the bathtub, but I have not seen her yet. I just smell the very strong odor of urine and hear people yelling, “Look at you, Sally. You disgusting slut!!!! You make me want to puke!!!” I am enjoying this thoroughly and cannot wait to see Sally. I am continuing to drink water as fast as I can because I really don’t have to pee, and this place keeps annoying me because they tell me I have to do a golden shower like ten minutes before I’m supposed to, and a girl needs some time to gear up to pee on someone. I’m not pee-shy, but I have to get something to come out first.
There is a male slave I almost never see who has some weird role where he is also a client but works for the dungeon since he is the only male on staff. He is usually described as a “Master,” or at least on the website he is, and he mostly works with couples, I guess. His getup is far different than the scary corporal master I saw on the website. He looks and talks EXACTLY like Mr. Slave from South Park. He is balding, with a handlebar mustache, sporting leather straps across his chest, blush on his pretty little cheeks, and he talks exactly like a flaming homo. He asks me if I am Latina. I gather he is trying to make small talk. I always wished I was Latina, so I say yes and he smiles. I gather that this man is here to play the perfect slave that Sally is to look up to, but he is also there to shit on her.
Monique walks out of the bathroom after yelling at Sally and starts shoving this yogurt mix into her own mouth while explaining that she is going to puke on Sally. This is getting more and more wonderful. I just thought that I was going to give a G.S., and here I am in the midst of someone who is about to get pissed on, shit on, and vomited on by three girls.
Most of the trolls that walk in and out these doors are by far the fattest pockmarked hairy-assed monkeys that I’ve ever seen. Despite the whiny voice, I was definitely expecting an old hairy man with a potbelly and welts on his face. It is time for me to go into the bathroom after so much anticipation to see Sally.
To my surprise, Sally is this skinny younger man with a nice body wearing a bra and panties. He is completely wet, covered in piss, and he fucking smells worse than a urinal-puck sandwich. He’s doing a cute little dance in the tub. I introduce myself and explain that I will pee on him. It is so lucky that this is a session that I am allowed to laugh in, because for the life of me I would not be able to hold my laughter in.
He lays down to get the “golden nectar” that I am going to give him, and I step over the tub. He gets off on how much I tell him what a disgusting piece of turd he is, and I guess it’s the whole atmosphere, because I usually pride myself on my ability to piss all over anyone at the drop of the hat, but I can’t piss. Sally is waiting so patiently in the tub, and I am trying to piss as much as I possibly can, but all I can do is fart. The weird thing is that I NEVER fart. I know people say that, but I really have nothing to hide here. I really never fart. I pretend this is completely planned and try to push more urine out but can only fart again. I yell at Sally to smell my farts and I ask her what they smell like, and he says that they smell like “chocolate-chip cookies.” HAH. Oh, there is something very wrong here. Monique instructs Sally to perhaps sing a song to me. Sally starts to sing, in her terribly whiny voice, “Singin’ in the Rain.”
That is it. I cannot stop laughing, and I don’t think my body could function after the third fart and Sally’s whiny rendition of “Singin’ in the Rain.” I realize that I cannot yet pee, and I explain to Sally that she is simply too disgusting for me to even urinate on and that perhaps I will be back later. I know the logic to that particular statement probably makes no sense, but I think it got Miss Sally off a little bit, and it bought me more time. I want to piss on Sally so bad. I, once again, think I am in love.
I go into the salon again, and of course, it instantly comes on...I have to pee BAD. Like I can’t possibly hold it and am doing damage to my bladder. Only now I have to wait for Miss Monique to puke on her and Master/Slave man to shit on her, and then for her to lick the shit off of him.
As clean as you try to keep a place like this, it is virtually impossible. I always think that if I got one of those lights they use on Dateline that they take into hotel rooms to look for semen and gross stuff, like those glow lights, the whole place would shine like the sun. I doubt there would actually be a spot that didn’t contain a ton of shit, piss, cum, spit, vomit, ass juice, period blood, regular blood, and every type of disease ever. We clean EVERYTHING with bleach and alcohol, but when people like Sally come in we, of course, seem to have a small fly problem. This small fly problem turns into a swarm in the salon and especially the bathroom where Sally is.
The smell is getting worse and worse, and I really don’t know how long I can take it. I have to hurry up and piss before I accidentally puke on Sally for free. I run in there, yell at Sally to open her mouth wide, and I piss like a fucking fountain. Sally laps it up happily. I am pissing so much that she starts gagging and I yell at her not to spit it out. The thought passes through my head again about how many meds I am on and the possibility of overdose through drinking so much of my pee. I guess I will just have to wait at this point to see if she goes to sleep or dies or something. I run out of the room and wash off my legs.
When I enter the salon again, Monique is retching to vomit and it is really making me sick. I hear it. It gets all over Sally, who is now standing up shaking her skinny ass back and forth seductively. Now comes the climax. The slave shits on Sally and then Sally must rub it on his dick and lick it off. I, unfortunately, do not witness this, but I hear it. And smell it. Although the buzz from the flies is so goddamned loud it is hard to hear anything, I hear Sally whining and sucking and eating the shit.
Intermittently throughout this entire session, I am going into the bathroom to laugh at and harass Sally. I go in there a bit after that, and here she stands in all her glory. She is wearing a mismatched bra and panty set, wet head-to-toe from four girls’ piss. Covered in smears of vomit. Mostly pink and brown vomit. And then there are shit smears...everywhere. Sally has shit all around her mouth, sort of like a clown. It is a vision of glory. Of course there is no camera. The girls start taunting her with the possibility of sending her out onto the busy street just like that. I am wondering if this could possibly happen, but I realize this is all a fantasy. I WANT it to be real. The party is then over, and Sally is forced to shower in the shit-and-piss-covered mess she made.
I REALLY wanted to see how she cleaned up. I mean, she must have blown (no pun intended) over a grand for that fun little time. At one point she said that she had no more money and that her wallet was in the car. Miss Monique asked Sally if she could check Sally’s pants for more money and pulled out this HUGE wad of cash, and Sally was more than eager to give up every penny of it. She was having so much fun. I’m almost positive Sally is an important politician of some sort. It almost makes too much sense. I really cannot take the smell anymore, and I have decided that this is the only type of real party. I love Sissy Sally and cannot wait until she comes in again. I have done a lot of humiliation play, but Miss Sally took it to a whole new level. The whining, the mismatched bikini, the singing, the flies—I could go on forever. It was a vision of beauty.
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