Written by henrietta612

Fact
30 Jul 2017


Ever since I became sexually aware, I have needed to dress and make up as a female, then put myself in dangerous situations. Being truly vulnerable and afraid sexually excites me. These days I work as an escort as changing sex makes it difficult for me to get a proper job an I have bills to pay. As a well dressed upper middle class woman, I have no shortage of clients who want to visit and abuse me. I get a clue to what the look like and what they want to do to me when they phone me.

A recent visitor told me, in a menacing and commanding voice that he was not going to take his clothes off, but he was going to make me strip to my satin and lace lingerie, stockings and high heels, then he was going to ‘beat the crap out of me.’ He wanted to know what toys I had. I said I only had my riding crop and a device for giving electric shocks to certain parts of my body. ‘Oh nice, very nice, that will do’ he said with rasping sneer in his voice, making me feel helpless and stupid, knowing ho helpless and exposed I would be.

We fixed a date a few days hence. He was coming in the early afternoon after his shift at a warehouse. That gave me the morning to make myself look nice, showering, making sure my whole body was smooth and perfumed.

Then I put on black satin and lace lingerie, including full slip, tight satin pantie girdle, crushing my tiny bald sex flat between my legs and my little balls up in the ;pockets in front of my pubic bone. This girly sex is always a provocation to the sort of men I meet, and a pain zone they can’t resist punishing as soon as they have me against the wall, pulling my skirt and slip up, exposing my stocking tops and suspenders.

With my lingerie looking perfect and demure, I did my hair, then put on my favourite and most expesnive blue skirt suit, by Yve St Laurent. It is figure huffing, with the pencil skirt reaching down to my knees.

All ready, I sit down, clasping my handbag and wait. The French windows are open on this sunny day. The instruments of torture are on the table in front of me. After what seems like a long time, with so many thoughts and fears in my mind, I hear his car pull up on my drive, in front of the French doors,. I get up, push the chair under the table, my slender stocking legs quaking udner my tight skirt, and back against the wall as a very odious and unpleasant stocky man pushes through the door and the curtains, marching aggressively and authoritively towards me. His eyes are angry, burning into me.

I am trembling, hands down by my sides, totally exposed as he ends up in front of me, eyeing me up and down. Then with a snarl, he said ‘You f-cking posh little tart, you are gonna be sorry you invited me ‘ere. You want f-cking pain. You’re f-cking gonna get it.’ I was staring wide eyed, wondering why I needed this. Then came the first slap to my powdered face.


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