I’ve only spoken briefly with David on the phone. He tells me he’s looking for a slave. He’s also specified he’s “older,” which usually means someone in their late 70s or beyond. I discovered early in the sex business that the vast majority of my clients would be bottoms and I’ve fumbled my way through handling a few slaves at this point.
While it’s never been part of my own fantasies, I’m curious to try being a sub. Whatever it’s like, I’m confident the understanding and sensitivity it will bring will make me a better dom.
The doorbell to the Montreal apartment I’m subletting is broken, so I’ve taken to waiting on the front steps of my building for clients, where I can see the entrance to the metro, which is less than 50 metres away. David hasn’t said anything about what he looks like, but when he exits, I’m almost sure it’s him.
Despite the fact that it’s over 30 degrees outside, he’s wearing long pants and a jacket, along with a broad-brimmed straw hat and pair of those huge sunglasses designed to be worn over another pair of frames. He holds a small black leather bag in one hand.
He walks slowly, with a strange twist to his gait that looks like he has a bad knee on one side and a bad hip on the other. When he’s nearly at my door I stand to greet him, flashing a smile, but he keeps walking towards my stoop, unresponsive to my presence. He pauses, stares at his watch, then takes a long look up and down the street, before gesturing towards the door with his head.
I take this as a cue that he doesn’t want to be seen going in with me so I step inside first, leaving the door open as I walk partway up the stairs. After another few minutes, he follows me in, closing it behind him.
As he steps into my apartment he takes off his hat and sunglasses, smiling widely.
“A fine looking boy,” he says in his thick Quebecois accent. I smile back.
“To begin, a few things,” he says. “I do not pay until after. It doesn’t turn me on. You accept this?”
I nod.
“For today if you must stop, you say ‘I quit.’ C’est clair?”
“Oui, c’est clair.”
“Excellent,” he says. “Your attitude is good. You can strip now.”
I obediently doff my t-shirt and shorts, leaving my underwear on. He walks behind me and delivers a sharp slap to my ass.
“Everything,” he says.
I slide my underwear past my hips, letting them fall to the floor. He reaches around and roughly grabs my dick in his arthritic hand. I can’t tell whether he’s intending to offer pleasure or pain.
He’s left the black bag he was carrying on the floor and he bends to try to pick it up but can’t manage to reach it. Though I’m assuming I’m not supposed to move without him telling him to do so, I quickly reach to grab it and place it on the table next to us.
He opens the flap and pulls out a metal choke chain with a small brass lock and a leash attached. He places it around my neck, his hands shaky, and fumbles to try to attach it. Rather than wait for him to ask for help, I reach up and easily close it, only pausing after to wonder whether he actually remembered to bring the key.
“Down boy,” he says, pushing on my shoulders. I obey and lower myself to the floor. Still holding the leash, he pulls me roughly toward the bathroom on my hands and knees and orders me into the shower. He doesn’t say anything, simply turning the cold tap on full blast. There’s a moment of relief as the frigid water hits my body, sopping up some of the residual heat from the day. But it rapidly turns to discomfort as the icy needles poke at my flesh and I start to shiver, my dick and balls retreating into my body.
“Clean yourself,” he says, gesturing to the bar of soap resting on the edge of the tub.
I quickly lather up, hoping to get through the process as fast as possible. Trying to be a good sub, I’ve been averting my gaze until now. But as I’m rinsing myself off, I catch a glimpse of his face. There’s an oddly sadistic glint in his eye. It’s something I’m not sure I’ve seen in a client until this point; a genuine pleasure in my suffering.
When he’s satisfied, he turns off the water and I grab a towel. I step out of the tub and he pulls roughly down on the leash to signal I should get back on my knees. Naked, I follow him back to the living room and he takes a seat on the couch. He pats his knee, like you would when inviting a dog onto your lap, and I assume that’s a signal to climb on top of him.
I’m worried I’ll be too heavy for his arthritic frame, so I position myself across his knees, balancing most of my weight on my shins and my elbows, my body perfectly taut. He delivers a sharp slap to my ass and I jump. After several more, I caution him against leaving marks.
“I don’t like to hear no,” he says, delivering another even harder slap, at the same time he pulls on my collar.
We have our safe word and I know he’s not actually going to injure me. But at the same time, I don’t feel entirely safe. The enjoyment that he’s taking in my pain — I’m not sure why but I find it unsettling.
As a dom, I’ve inflicted pain on clients, but always with the understanding that it’s not only something they’re consenting to, but something they enjoy. In this case, I’m definitely not enjoying it. I try to let my mind float somewhere else, ultimately resting on the stack of bills I can expect at the end of the session.
He’s now satisfied that my ass is sufficiently red.
“Down!” he barks, and I resume my position on the floor. He tries to stand, but he’s not able to get up from the sofa so I offer a hand to help get him vertical and then return to my position at his feet. He leads me by the leash to the bedroom, pausing to grab the bag. Once inside, he instructs me to get on the bed, which is actually just a futon on the floor. I lie back, spread-eagle, unsure of what’s coming.
Next: BDSM with an 80-year-old top (Part 2) >
Previous: Will he still want me if he knows I turn tricks?
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