*Warning: This erotica contains BDSM elements and is NSFW*
Picking up the mobile and dialing the 646 exchange, I wait as the line rings and rings. After four rings, I am about to close the line but I hear a crisp, professional female voice answer. I receive the instructions without comment, noting them in my journal. After repeating the instructions and address, I ring off. Gathering my kit, I put on my coat, hail a taxi and head to the Hotel Chelsea for my second “real” professional dominatrix appointment in New York City. It is Christmas time and I am excited to have this job earning extra money just in time for my return to London for the holidays.
Arriving at the hotel, I feel that mixture of excitement and nervousness which signals the beginning of a session. I am dressed in a chic little black dress; the red and black corset, garters and g-string are camouflaged beneath. My new black leather Louboutin boots complete the look. With my fingers, I trace the outline of the handcuffs attached to my garters; they are the lucky red ones that I received when I graduated from my year-long apprenticeship as a dominatrix. Power and confidence surge through me as I approach the front desk and, as pre-arranged, call room 818. A deep male voice answers and in Russian-inflected English tells me to come up in five minutes. I thank and tip the attendant and head towards the elevator bank.
Exiting the elevator on the eighth floor, I walk along the corridors, glancing at the numbers on the room doors, smiling at the sounds of humanity which always make up the constant background music of the Hotel Chelsea: thumping and grunting from one, the sounds of the television blaring from another, a neo-punk band rehearsing in the third and so on. Finding myself in front of room 818, I pause, gather myself together and knock briskly on the door three times.
I wait, counting to one hundred and knock three times again.
Still, there is no answer.
Just as I am about to turn away, annoyed at the unexpected turn of events, I hear the sounds of the door being unlocked. A slight pause ensues before the door opens half-way. A large man with a beard gives me a slight bow and extends his hand for me to enter. I do so. There are heavy black velvet curtains hanging from the windows. On a small table by the far wall sits an ornate silver crucifix surrounded by one hundred votive candles. A cascading waterfall of roses riots next to a hotel lamp on the writing desk by the window. An elaborately laden serving cart with unopened champagne bottles, a bucket full of crushed ice complete with scoop, sushi, caviar, petit four and loaves of French bread sits against another wall. A portable CD player is on the mantel, along with a scattering of CDs. An ornate gilt mirror reflects the room faithfully, adding an added glow to the muted lighting.
My client is lying on his back, on top of black satin sheets, totally naked.
The large man with the beard bows to me again, hands me a sheet of paper and an envelope, gathers an overcoat and hat, and departs without a look back. Locking the door behind him, I check and stash the envelope and then open and scan the sheet of paper. It says that upon the recommendation of my mentor I am instructed to make this two-hour session one of my greatest creations. It informs me that my client speaks little English but shall hold up three fingers if he disagrees with the “treatment”. It ends with the words, “Be brilliant.” There is no signature.
Folding the paper up, I put it into my coat pocket. I open my kit and remove some items, then turn to face the client. He is still in the same position, arms by his sides, legs together. His body is relaxed and he is naked. The rise and fall of his respiration is apparent. He is tall and muscular, his body strong and well-cared for, except for the tell-tale horizontal scars covering his thighs. His genitals are relaxed and corpulent. The veins are prominent in his feet which are covered with calluses but strangely compelling and beautiful nonetheless.
I cannot see his face for it is covered with a lovely papier-mache mask of The Nutcracker complete with full mustache.
I approach the bed with the items I took from the kit. “Hello, there” I say. “I am so pleased to meet you.” I take the leather restraints and gently place the delicate wrists within before attaching the long silver connecting chain to the legs of the bed beneath. “Today is a great and glorious day for both of us,” I continue as I move to secure his ankles within the restraints with the long silver chains that attach to the foot of the bed. I next unwrap a piece of black lace, about two hands wide and four feet long; this is secured beneath him and I let it drape about his hips.
He moves and arches and lifts and turns but never does he speak nor utter the smallest sound.
Once he is secure, I remove my dress and hang it up in the closet full of sumptuous furs and designer clothes. Returning to my kit I remove from it a set of nipple clamps, and a smallish Japanese lacquer music box along with my flogger and tickler. Moving to the bed with a deliberately slow stride, I take the clamps and attach them to his nipples. Inside the mask I hear a sigh, whether of contentment or anticipation I cannot say.
Opening the music box allows the melody of “Sakura” to fill the room as I dance, twirl and bob the tickler in time to the music over his skin. His tapping fingers and the humming from within the mask signal his appreciation for the music. Using the opposite end of the tickler, I lightly and rhythmically beat along his arms and torso and then switch back to the feathers to tease around his genitals and inner thighs. I knead the skin of one thigh with my fingers, digging my nails into his willing flesh whilst using the tickler and then I rapidly switch to the other thigh. He moans and spreads his thighs wider while his penis begins to fill with blood.
The music comes to an end and as it does I pinch the inside of both his thighs simultaneously which makes him jump a little on the bed. “Wait a moment, I am going to put on some more music” I tell him as I cross to the mantelpiece. Among the classical music selections is the soundtrack to “The Nutcracker” so, of course, I insert the CD and the music begins. I stop at the table and take a bottle of champagne, the ice bucket and scoop, as well as the caviar and return to the bed. I take the scoop and half-fill it with ice; this I pour onto his genitals in a circular motion. He writhes on the bed at the shock; in the meantime I busy myself opening the champagne bottle.
It is open now and I inhale the intoxicating aroma. With my other hand I pick up the flogger. The champagne pours out upon his skin with golden drops as the flogger does its work upon his chest, legs and torso. First the champagne then immediately the flogger; it is a steadily insistent pattern which when combined with the melting ice creates a wave of sensations that causes his penis to become erect and for him to arch his back and curl his toes. I pull on the nipple clamps then twist his nipples one by one as I pour the last of the champagne into the hollow of his neck. This elicits groans of approval along with some Russian words that I don’t understand.
With the music building, I pour another scoopful of ice to his genitals while I pull on the nipple clamps at the same time. He rises from the bed; I grab him by the neck and use some of the ice on his back then scratch the skin with my nails. “More, more” comes from beneath the mask. I oblige by using the ice scoop to slap him up one thigh and down the other. Taking the fork from the caviar, I stick the tines into the skin slowly, proceeding down one leg then up the other as he moans and grunts.
Using the length of lace about his middle, I wrap and bind his penis and testicles. Once those are bound I flog him about the middle, including the wrapped package of his sex, alternating with prickings from the caviar fork and pressure from a red-soled boot. Flogging and pricking down his leg, I stop at the foot. The exposed sole begs for attention; I oblige by providing ice between the toes as a start. I then manipulate the toes, separating them, massaging them before moving on to the sole. I run the fork up and down the sole lightly before spanking each foot in turn with the fork.
The Nutcracker writhes on the bed and I see that he is just about ready. I tickle up his leg with my tickler and then with a decisive movement lay down the flogger expertly over his genitals; he is bucking on the bed. Quickly moving to his mid-section, I use the handle of the fork to massage the area above his pubic bone whilehe ejaculates, words and semen and shivering flesh melding into one concentrated moment. “Good, good, shh, relax now” I soothe him with my words and massage my hand over his chest.
Afterwards, I clean my toys, drying them and replacing them within my kit. I clear away the foodstuffs that I used and tidy up the room a bit. I put my dress back on and release The Nutcracker from the restraints which I then clean and pack up. “Thank you,” I say to him as I slip into my coat and gather my things. “Have a Happy Christmas and lucky New Year.”
With a deep and graceful stage bow, The Nutcracker pays me a wordless compliment.
Pausing at the door, I turn around just in time to see The Nutcracker dancing to The Prince’s music from the still-playing CD. He is lovely, the muscles of his legs and feet working together to produce an ethereal grace. He is still naked and as he whirls his cock and balls bounce and jiggle but he doesn’t care, he is happy, alive, one with the music and finally, when the music climaxes he does as well; his hand between his legs he leans back and strokes his shaft until he cums with a double pump of joy that arcs outward from his body onto the wall as he lets out a roar of pure power. Not thinking, caught up in the exquisiteness of the moment, I applaud.
He stops immediately, frozen in front of the mirror. I catch my breath and pink up, embarrassed that he caught me watching his triumph. After an eternal pause, he slowly raises his right hand and waves. I wave back and exit, closing the door behind me. The last glimpse I have of The Nutcracker is him before the mirror, naked, the candlelight playing over his body, one hand expressively placed on his chest.
On the way to JFK the next day, I scoop up all the New York papers available and stuff them into my carry-on bag. I sleep for most of the trip to London; once I arrive at Heathrow life is a blur of parties and friends and Christmas so I don’t think about the encounter for the next couple of days.
Idly, occupying a few quiet moments on Boxing Day, I check the New York Daily Post Page Six column to see a review of a friend’s club opening. A bold headline immediately catches my eye:
Nutcracker dancer suicides Christmas Day at infamous Hotel Chelsea