The Session with the Mistress I’ll Never Forget

The reason for the trip was a work meeting in Valencia, but two weeks before leaving I was already thinking about something else. I’d been wanting to broaden my experiences for a while, and that city gave me the perfect excuse. I asked my Mistress 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, my limits. The first reply was correct. The second, when I tried to clarify some details that hadn’t been entirely clear to me, was curt: “Don’t insist. I’ll write to you.” That was all.

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

The address led to a discreet building in the old part of the city. From the outside there was nothing to betray what was happening inside. I went up to the second floor and rang the bell. The door opened almost immediately.

I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

Mistress V was tall, with sharp features and a gaze that filled the whole room. She wore a tight black dress ending halfway down her thigh, and transparent-heeled sandals that left her feet completely bare. Perfect feet, with slender toes and high arches. She stood in the doorway without saying a word and held out her hand to me.

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

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

The main space was a large room with dim lighting. She offered me water and I accepted. I drank it standing up, 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 there,” she said.

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

“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 clothes folded on the shelf and waited by the door. Then I remembered the instructions she had sent by message: the tribute had to be carried in my mouth when I came out, hands behind my back.

I came out like that. Naked, with the envelope between my teeth and my arms crossed behind my back, without looking directly at her. My cock was already starting to swell just from the humiliation of appearing in front of her in that state, and she saw it immediately. She made no comment, but her eyes dropped for a second to my half-erect dick and returned to my face with the faintest half-smile, barely a curve.

Mistress V came closer, took the envelope with 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 interruption.

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

“Yes, Mistress.”

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

“Take off my shoes.”

Carefully, unhurriedly, I undid the sandal and set it aside. Then the other. When both her feet were bare on the parquet floor, she looked at me.

“Smell them. Both.”

I did. The smell was soft, warm, with a faint trace of sweat that wasn’t unpleasant. Quite the opposite: it climbed up my nose and went straight to my cock, which jerked against my stomach without my being able to do anything about it. I stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary, breathing deeply between her toes, and she noticed without saying a word.

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

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

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

She kept playing with her feet over my body for a while. She rested them on my shoulders, on my chest, on my face. She slipped the toes of her left foot into my mouth while the right descended, slowly, until the arch brushed my hard cock. She pressed it against my stomach with the sole, not quite enough, measuring how much she could tense me before a groan slipped out. When it did, she withdrew her foot immediately.

“I didn’t say you could make noise.”

“Sorry, Mistress.”

Unhurriedly, exploring, measuring my reactions with the same coldness a doctor uses to examine a patient. When she decided enough was enough, she stood up.

“Get up.”

***

She put a black leather collar around my neck, snug but not tight. Handcuffs on my wrists. She led me to the back of the room, where there was a wooden X-shaped cross fixed to the wall. She strapped my wrists and ankles down with leather restraints. I was completely immobilized, 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 recede and return. Something cold and precise wrapped around my genitals: a rope bondage that cinched the base of my cock and my balls, separating them, tightening just enough to trap the blood in the head and make my dick 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 stayed fixed. My cock was pointing straight ahead, swollen, the tip purple.

“Now then,” she murmured.

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

I heard her rummaging in a drawer. A few seconds later, I felt the weight of two uneven surfaces under my feet: covered in tiny rounded stones. The pressure was immediate, sharp at every point of contact, and it increased with my own weight every time I tried to relax.

“Your request amused me,” she whispered in my ear. “Few people surprise me.”

She started working. Her hands found my nipples and tortured them slowly, learning exactly where my limit was and staying right there. When the pain began to become unbearable, she eased off. When I relaxed, she came back. It was a wordless conversation she controlled effortlessly. Between pinches, her right hand dropped and took my tied cock. She squeezed once, firmly, and I felt blood hammer in my temples. She let go. Squeezed again. She began to stroke slowly, very slowly, with two fingers and her thumb, sliding the skin up and down over the taut shaft. Pre-cum was already leaking from my head, and she caught it with a finger, brought it to my lips, and made me lick it off.

“Suck your own juice. 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 nowhere near enough to get me anywhere. My balls, pulled tight by the rope, were throbbing. Every time I felt the orgasm creeping closer, she sensed it before I did and stopped dead, leaving me trembling, my cock beating by itself in the air. She repeated the operation 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 the orgasm before it could begin.

Then she removed the blindfold.

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

Our eyes met. Hers had no particular expression: they only watched.

“You تحمل better when there’s eye contact,” she said. “See for yourself.”

She was right. Something about looking at her directly—knowing she could see me endure it—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 started jerking me slowly, looking into my eyes, measuring my pupils, watching them widen every time the pad of her thumb brushed the head. Not a blink from her. I had to hold hers while the orgasm climbed again through my balls, until she released my cock just in time.

“Not yet,” she said.

She moved behind me again. Her nails traced my back from top to bottom slowly. Her bare feet rested on my heels, then moved up my calves. I felt her full weight for a moment, and what it produced was not just pain: it was a kind of surrender unlike anything I had ever experienced before. She pressed herself against my back for an instant, and I felt her tits against my shoulder blades over the dress, the thin fabric, the nipples that were hard too. Her right hand came around in front again and grabbed my cock from behind, pumping it against my own stomach while she bit my shoulder. A slow bite, tightening 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 heavy, like a slab of meat hanging between my legs.

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

I bent down awkwardly and brushed the little stones off my soles. I straightened and waited.

“Here,” she said, from the other side of the room.

I took a step. Then another. I followed her by the sound of her words—“here,” “turn left,” “forward”—without being able to see anything, arms crossed behind my back and cock pointing forward like a compass, swaying with each step, entirely at her mercy. At some point I realized I wasn’t afraid. Only fully, sustainedly attentive, emptied of every other thought.

***

She stopped me beside a massage table. She told me to rest my torso on it, standing, with my hips 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 finer—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 blows the silence was almost physical. Each strike pulled me forward, and my tied cock bounced against the edge of the table, rubbing against the rough fabric, adding pleasure to pain in a way that kept me on the edge again.

Between sets, she spread my ass cheeks with both hands and ran a damp finger over my hole, not putting it in, just probing, pressing the shut opening without quite entering.

“This hole is still intact, isn’t it?”

“No, Mistress,” I answered, voice tight. “It’s not intact.”

“I thought so,” she said, and drove the tip of her finger a centimeter inside before pulling it out.

She repeated the operation several times while continuing to hit me with her hand and the strap. She never pushed her finger all the way in. Just enough for the sphincter to open and close around it, and for me to start pushing back, wanting more. When I did, she landed a harder blow than the previous ones.

“You didn’t ask permission.”

“Sorry, Mistress.”

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

“I’m very aware of that,” she said, without stopping.

She went on until the limit allowed it. When she stopped, the absence of pain was almost as intense as the pain itself. It took me a few seconds to realize she had finished.

She removed the blindfold. She ordered me to kneel before her and kiss her feet. I did so slowly, unhurriedly, grateful without exactly knowing for what. 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 pressed flat against the cold wood, and just from the contact a groan escaped me. Her feet appeared in front of my mouth and I started kissing and licking them without needing to be told again. I sucked every toe, one by one, taking them into my mouth up to the knuckle, running my tongue over the arch, gently biting the heel. She let me work for a good while before she withdrew her feet.

Then I heard the crack of a long cane against the floor on the other side of the room, and her steps started 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 to her feet, following her as she paced slowly from one end to the other. Every time I lifted my head more than I should, the cane came down on my ass. The pain ran through my whole spine. The contact with the floor as I moved was a constant discomfort that added to everything else—the tied cock rubbing the parquet, the hanging balls sweeping the wood, the still-sensitive hole from the finger—and yet I kept going.

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

***

She sat in the armchair and told me to sit in front of her, also on the floor.

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

What came next was a foot-massage lesson. She showed me in detail how to work each area: the heel, the arch, each toe separately, the instep. What pressure to apply in each area, in what direction, how to read through the muscles whether the tension was easing or not. She explained it with the same precision with which she had directed everything else that night.

I spent a long time practicing under her supervision, correcting the technique when she indicated, repeating the movements until I found the right pressure. It was genuine learning, not a formality. When she considered the class over, she was 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.

***

The last stretch of the session was on a padded platform flush with the floor, with side rails. I lay on my back at her command. She tied my feet up high and my hands behind my head, at floor level, so I was completely open but not rigidly immobilized. With my legs raised, my ass was exposed and my cock, still tied, pointed at the ceiling, red, throbbing on its own.

She climbed on top of me.

Her feet traveled over my chest, my ribs, my stomach. She placed her full weight on my sternum for a few seconds, measuring, and then kept 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 slowly descended to my cock and settled over the taut shaft, flattening it against my stomach. She began to move it in small circles, rubbing the sole against the head, spreading pre-cum all over the skin. Her toes pinched the tip and drew a grunt out of me. The other foot came down to my balls and tapped them lightly with her heel, three times in a row, gauging my tolerance.

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

The sole kept working my cock up and down, slick with my own fluid, and at some point my vision blurred. My balls were burning from holding on. She noticed and removed her foot in time, again.

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

The bastinado started slowly. The first blows were exploratory, almost gentle. They increased in intensity gradually, and by then I was so overloaded with sensations that the pain no longer registered in the same way. It was something else: deeper, more complete. The last blow was the hardest. It landed without warning, dead center on both soles, and left me completely emptied.

She untied my feet. She moved behind me and rested her soles on my face, asking me to kiss and lick them. I ran my whole tongue over 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 thumb. At that moment, with her feet on me, she told me I could touch myself with my left hand. I closed my fingers around the tied cock and started stroking it slowly, with the opposite hand, clumsy, awkward, exactly as she wanted. The orgasm came up immediately, and she knew it.

“Switch.”

I let go and changed to my right hand. My cock throbbed as if it had a life of its own, and after two strokes I was on the edge again. I stopped only a second before.

“Not that way either.”

She said this was the moment to stop, that I’d have to finish back at the hotel. My balls felt as if they were filled with 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 used my tongue on them for a long time, going over every inch of her soles, between the toes, over the instep. I sucked, licked, ran my tongue flat from heel to the tip of the big toe, slipped it between each toe, gently nibbled the edge of the foot. She watched me from above in silence, her head slightly tilted, while my hard cock kept hanging between my legs, forgotten, throbbing on its own. When I finished with one foot, she switched to the other without saying a word. When she decided they were clean enough, she pushed my face away with the top of her foot.

“Enough.”

Before sending me to the shower, she loosened the rope I had been wearing from the start. Blood rushed back all at once and I was on the verge of coming from that alone, without even a touch. She saw it, and the half-smile appeared again.

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

She sent me to shower. I showered with my cock still hard, holding back the urge to grab it right there under the water, and dressed as best I could with the clothes too tight over the 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 conversation, almost ordinary, except that half an hour earlier I had been crawling on the floor kissing her feet.

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

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

I stroked them while we kept talking, unhurriedly, with no need for anything else. It was the best possible ending to a night that I still remember exactly today, every detail in its place, as if it had happened no more than a week ago.