The Session with the Domme I’ll Never Forget

The reason for the trip was a business meeting in Valencia, but two weeks before leaving I was already thinking about something else. I had wanted to expand my experiences for some time, and that city offered me the perfect excuse. I asked my Mistress—the one I had at home, the one who knew me better than I knew myself—for permission, and when I told her, she nodded without surprise. She recommended Mistress V.

I contacted her well in advance, about twelve days before the date. I explained who had recommended her, what kind of session I was looking for, and my limits. Her first response was proper. The second, when I tried to clarify some details that had not been entirely clear to me, was blunt: “Don’t insist. I’ll write to you.” That was all.

Those words cost me a couple of restless nights. Had I messed up? Had I offended her without meaning to? But I kept still, as she had ordered, and waited. Then, the night before the trip, punctual and without preamble, the message arrived: confirmation of the time and address, specific instructions on how to present myself, and a single sentence at the end that kept me awake: “See you tomorrow.”

The address led to an unobtrusive building in the old quarter of the city. From the outside there was nothing to give away what happened inside. I went up to the second floor and rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately.

I wasn’t expecting what I saw.

Mistress V was tall, with striking features and a gaze that filled the entire room. She wore a tight black dress that ended halfway down her thighs, and transparent-heeled sandals that left her feet completely exposed. Perfect feet, with slender toes and a pronounced instep. She remained in the doorway without saying a word, and held out her hand.

I understood what I was supposed to do. I bent down and calmly kissed the back of her hand. Then she lowered her gaze toward the floor.

I knelt without needing to be told twice. I took her right foot between my hands and kissed it slowly, on the instep, then the toes, without hurrying. I did the same with the left. When I finished, she stepped back and gestured for me to come in.

The main area was a large room with subdued lighting. She offered me water, and I accepted. I drank it standing, not knowing what to do with my hands, aware that she was watching me from the armchair with her legs crossed. When I emptied the glass, she pointed to a door at the back.

“The shower is in there,” she said.

I explained that I had just showered at the hotel, less than an hour earlier.

“I know,” she replied. “Those are the Mistress’s instructions.”

There was no further discussion. I went into the bathroom, undressed, and showered. When I finished, I left my folded clothes on the shelf and waited beside the door. Then I remembered the instructions she had given me by message: I was to carry the tribute in my mouth when I came out, with my hands behind my back.

I came out that way. Naked, with the envelope between my teeth and my arms crossed behind my back, without looking directly at her. My cock was already beginning to swell just from the humiliation of appearing before her in those conditions, and she saw it immediately. She made no comment, but her eyes dropped for a second to my half-erect cock and returned to my face with a very slight half-smile, barely more than a curve.

Mistress V approached, took the envelope between two fingers, and set it aside. Then she pointed to the floor in front of her.

“Sit.”

I sat cross-legged on the cold floor. She settled into the armchair and began to speak with a calm that left no room for interruptions.

“Three rules,” she said. “First: whenever you address me, you always end with ‘Mistress.’ Second: you don’t move a muscle unless I ask you to. Third: hands behind your back at all times, unless I indicate otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Without rising from the armchair, she crossed one leg over the other and left her foot a few inches from my face.

“Take off my shoes.”

Carefully, without hurrying, I unfastened the sandal and set it aside. Then the other. When both her feet were bare on the parquet, she looked at me.

“Smell them. Both.”

I did. The scent was soft and warm, with a faint trace of sweat that wasn’t unpleasant. Quite the opposite: it rose into my nose and went straight down to my cock, which jerked against my belly before I could do anything. I lingered a moment longer than was strictly necessary, breathing deeply between her toes, and she noticed without saying a word.

“Open your mouth,” she said then, in the same calm voice.

I opened it. She pushed her right thumb between my lips, all the way in, and made me suck it as though it were a small cock. I closed my eyes, pressed my tongue against the pad of her thumb, and slid it around it. She withdrew her thumb and inserted her other four fingers together, pressing my tongue down. I accidentally spit out a little saliva, and she saw it.

“Swallow it,” she ordered. “And keep sucking.”

She continued playing with her feet over my body for a while. She rested them on my shoulders, my chest, my face. She put the toes of her left foot into my mouth while her right foot moved down slowly until the instep brushed my hard cock. She pressed it against my belly with her sole, without squeezing completely, gauging how tense she could make me before a moan escaped. When one did escape, she withdrew her foot immediately.

“I didn’t say you could make noise.”

“Sorry, Mistress.”

Without hurrying, exploring, measuring my reactions with the same coldness with which a doctor examines a patient. When she decided it was enough, she stood.

“Get up.”

***

She fastened a black leather collar around my neck, snug but not tight. Cuffs around my wrists. She led me to the back of the room, where there was an X-shaped wooden cross anchored to the wall. She strapped my wrists and ankles to it with leather restraints. I was completely immobilized, my arms and legs spread, facing the wall.

“I’m going to blindfold you,” she said from behind me. “Move your hands from time to time so they don’t go numb.”

The darkness was total. I heard her footsteps move away and return. Something cold and precise encircled my genitals: a rope bondage that tightened around the base of my cock and balls, separating them, squeezing just enough to trap the blood in my glans and make my cock so hard it hurt. I felt the rope pass underneath, between my testicles, pulling them down until they hung taut and exposed. A sharp tug at the end, and everything was fixed in place. My cock remained pointing forward, swollen, purple at the tip.

“Now we’re ready,” she murmured.

Then I remembered the request I had sent her by message before the appointment, one of those ideas that seem interesting when you write them from the comfort of your sofa: I wanted to feel something beneath the soles of my feet, something that would hurt under my own body weight.

I heard her searching through some drawer. A few seconds later, I felt the weight of two irregular surfaces beneath my feet, covered with small rounded stones. The pressure was immediate, sharp at every point of contact, and increased with my own weight every time I tried to relax.

“Your request amused me,” she whispered beside my ear. “Not much surprises me anymore.”

She began to work. Her hands found my nipples and tortured them slowly, learning exactly where my limit lay and staying right there. When the pain began to become unbearable, she eased off. When I relaxed, she returned. It was a wordless conversation she mastered without any visible effort. Between one pinch and the next, her right hand moved down and seized my bound cock. She squeezed it once, firmly, and I felt the blood pound in my temples. She let go. Then squeezed again. She began to stroke me slowly, very slowly, with two fingers and her thumb, sliding the skin up and down over my tense shaft. Pre-cum was already dripping from my glans, and she collected it on her finger, brought it to my lips, and made me lick it.

“Suck your own fluids. Tasty, huh?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I murmured with her finger in my mouth.

She went back to my cock. She resumed the slow handjob, a rhythm impossible to endure and at the same time insufficient to get me anywhere. My balls, pulled taut by the rope, throbbed. Every time I felt my orgasm approaching, she noticed before I did and stopped dead, leaving me trembling, my cock throbbing by itself in the air. She repeated the process three times, four. On one of them, she dug her nails into my balls with her other hand just as I was on the edge, and the pain cut off my orgasm before it could begin.

Then she removed my blindfold.

“Look at me,” she ordered, positioning herself in front of me.

Our eyes met. Hers held no particular expression; they were simply observing.

“You endure better when there’s eye contact,” she said. “Prove it to yourself.”

She was right. Something about looking directly at her—in knowing that she was watching me endure—shifted the threshold upward. The pain was still pain, but it was no longer the only thing in it. Without breaking eye contact, she slid her hand over my cock again and began to masturbate me slowly, looking into my eyes, measuring my pupils, watching them widen every time the pad of her thumb brushed my glans. She didn’t blink once. I had to endure her gaze while my orgasm rose through my balls again, until she released my cock just in time.

“Not yet,” she said.

She went behind me again. Her nails traveled slowly up and down my back. Her bare feet rested on my heels, then climbed up my calves. I felt her full weight for a moment, and what it created was not only pain: it was a surrender of a completely different kind from anything I had experienced before. She pressed herself against my back for an instant, and I felt her breasts against my shoulder blades through the dress, the thin fabric, the nipples that were hard too. Her right hand came around me from the front again and grasped my cock from behind, pumping it against my own belly while she bit my shoulder. A slow bite that tightened until it made me gasp.

When she untied me from the cross, I was still blindfolded and my cock was so swollen it already felt as heavy as a bar of flesh hanging between my legs.

“Clean the soles of your feet,” she said. “Then follow me. By my voice. Hands behind your back.”

I crouched awkwardly and brushed the little stones from my soles. I straightened up and waited.

“Here,” her voice said from across the room.

I took one step. Then another. I followed the sound of her words—“here,” “turn left,” “forward”—unable to see anything, my arms crossed behind my back and my cock pointing ahead like a compass, swinging with every step, completely at her mercy. At some point I realized I wasn’t afraid. There was only sustained, total attention, emptying out every other thought.

***

She stopped me beside a padded table. She told me to lean my torso over it while standing, with my hips sticking out and my ass at her disposal.

The first slap came without warning. Then another, and another. She established an irregular rhythm, impossible to anticipate, alternating her hand with something thinner—a small whip, perhaps, or a narrow strap—and with other objects I couldn’t identify without seeing them. The pain rose and fell in waves, and between strokes the silence was almost physical. Each smack drove me forward, and my bound cock bounced against the edge of the table, rubbing against the rough fabric, adding pleasure to the pain in a way that brought me to the edge again.

Between series, she spread my buttocks with both hands and ran a wet finger over my ass, without inserting it, merely testing, pressing against my closed asshole without going in.

“This hole is untouched, isn’t it?”

“No, Mistress,” I answered in a strained voice. “It isn’t untouched.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said, and pushed the tip of her finger an inch inside me before withdrawing it.

She repeated the process several times while continuing to hit me with her hand and the strap. She never inserted her finger all the way. Just enough for my sphincter to open and close around it, and for me to begin pushing backward, seeking more. When I did, she gave me a harder smack than the ones before.

“You didn’t ask permission.”

“Sorry, Mistress.”

At some point I remembered having asked her not to leave marks.

“I’m keeping that very much in mind,” she said, without stopping.

She continued as far as the limit allowed. When she stopped, the absence of pain was almost as intense as the pain itself. It took me a few seconds to realize she was finished.

She removed my blindfold. She ordered me to kneel in front of her and kiss her feet. I did it slowly, without hurrying, grateful without knowing exactly what I was grateful for. Then she said:

“Now face down. And since you can’t see, I want you to make noise so I know where you are.”

I lay down on the floor with my face against the parquet. My cock was crushed against the cold wood, and the contact alone made a moan escape me. Her feet appeared in front of my mouth, and I began kissing and licking them without needing her to repeat herself. I sucked each toe, one by one, taking them into my mouth up to the knuckle, running my tongue along the arch, gently biting the heel. She let me work for quite a while before withdrawing her feet.

Then I heard the crack of a long rod against the floor on the other side of the room, and her footsteps began to move away.

“Follow me.”

What followed was the strangest and most intense experience of the entire night. I crawled face down across the dungeon floor, my face pressed against her feet, following her as she slowly walked from one end to the other. Every time I raised my head higher than I should have, the rod came down on my ass. The pain traveled along my entire spine. The contact of the floor as I moved was a constant discomfort added to everything else—the bound cock rubbing against the parquet, my hanging balls sweeping the wood, my asshole still sensitive from her finger—and yet I kept moving forward.

I hadn’t thought about anything for more than ten minutes. Only her footsteps, the wood beneath my body, the skin of her feet.

***

She sat in the armchair and indicated that I should position myself in front of her, also sitting on the floor.

“I’m going to teach you something,” she said. “A gift.”

What followed was a foot-massage lesson. She showed me in detail how to work every area: the heel, the arch, each toe separately, the instep. What pressure to apply to each area, in which direction, how to listen through the muscles to tell whether the tension was yielding or not. She explained it with the same precision with which she had conducted everything else during the night.

I spent quite a while practicing under her supervision, correcting my technique whenever she told me to, repeating the movements until I found the right pressure. It was genuine instruction, not a formality. When she considered the lesson over, she remained silent for a moment.

“You did well,” she said.

I didn’t answer. There was no need, and I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

***

The final part of the session took place on a padded platform close to the floor, with side rails. At her instruction, I lay on my back. She tied my feet up high and my hands behind my head, at floor level, leaving me completely open without being rigidly immobilized. With my legs raised, my ass was exposed and my cock, still bound, pointed toward the ceiling, red and throbbing on its own.

She climbed on top of me.

Her feet traveled over my chest, my ribs, my belly. She rested her full weight on my sternum for a few seconds, gauging it, then continued moving. She ordered me to kiss her feet every time she brought them near my face. Sometimes she simply rested them on my cheeks, just to feel how my breathing reacted. One foot moved slowly down to my cock and settled on my tense shaft, crushing it against my belly. She began moving it in small circles, rubbing her sole against my glans, spreading the pre-cum over my entire shaft. Her toes pinched the tip and tore a grunt from me. Her other foot descended to my balls and gently struck them with her heel three times in a row, gauging my tolerance.

“You take it well,” she said in the same flat voice. “It’s a shame you can’t come yet.”

Her sole continued working my shaft up and down, sliding through my own fluids, and at some point my vision blurred. My balls burned from holding back. She noticed and withdrew her foot in time, once again.

Then she focused on my feet. She worked them with her nails, drawing slow lines across the soles that shifted between tickling and sharp pain. She ran something hard—perhaps a pen—up and down the soles several times in a row, and the contrast between that fine pressure and what came afterward was brutal.

The bastinado began slowly. The first blows were exploratory, almost gentle. They gradually increased in intensity, and by then I was so saturated with sensations that I no longer processed the pain in the same way. It was something different: deeper, more complete. The final blow was the strongest. It came without warning, right in the center of both soles, and left me completely emptied out.

She untied my feet. She went behind me and placed her soles against my face, asking me to kiss and lick them. I ran my entire tongue along the arch, sucked each toe one by one, the tip of my tongue searching between them, and she pressed them against my mouth until I gagged on her big toe. At that moment, with her feet on me, she told me I could touch myself with my left hand. I closed my fingers around my bound cock and began pumping it slowly with the opposite hand, awkwardly and uncomfortably, exactly as she wanted. My orgasm rose immediately, and she knew it.

“Switch.”

I let go and moved to the right. My cock throbbed as though it had a life of its own, and after two strokes I was on the edge again. I stopped just a second before.

“Neither.”

She said it was time to stop, that I would have to finish back at the hotel. My balls felt as heavy as though they were full of stones. My cock wouldn’t go down. Every beat of my heart shook it.

She climbed down from the platform.

“Get up.”

***

I thought the session was over. But she ordered me to kneel in front of her again.

“My feet have been bare all afternoon,” she said. “Clean them.”

I applied myself with my tongue for quite a while, covering every inch of her soles, between her toes, over the instep. I sucked, licked, ran my flat tongue from heel to the tip of her big toe, pushed it between each toe, and nibbled the edge of her foot. She watched me from above in silence, her head tilted slightly, while my hard cock continued hanging between my legs, forgotten, throbbing on its own. When I finished one foot, she switched to the other without a word. When she decided they were clean enough, she pushed my face away with her instep.

“Enough.”

Before sending me to the shower, she loosened the rope I had been wearing from the beginning. The blood returned all at once, and I nearly came just from that, without even a touch. She saw it, and the half-smile appeared again.

“At the hotel,” she repeated. “Not here.”

She sent me to the shower. I showered with my cock still hard, resisting the urge to grab it right there under the water, and dressed as best I could with my clothes too tight over my erection. When I came out, she was already sitting on the sofa in more comfortable clothes and flat sandals.

I sat beside her. We talked about the session: what had worked, what I had felt at each moment, what had surprised us both. It was a calm, almost ordinary conversation, except that half an hour earlier I had been crawling across the floor kissing her feet.

At some point I noticed myself looking at her feet, now barely covered by the sandals. She noticed too.

“You can stroke them if you want,” she said, and placed them on my thighs without further ceremony.

I stroked them while we continued talking, without hurrying, without needing anything else. It was the best possible ending to a night I still remember exactly today, every detail in its place, as though no more than a week had passed.