Sarah at my Office

Years ago, I had a building in an industrial centre in North Kensington, where I used to publish Skin Two magazine. One day, there was a hand written note on the mat among all the letters. It was from a woman called Sarah, who said she wanted to report to my office after dark to be caned. 

Obviously, no woman in her right mind would contact a total stranger and ask to be caned on a dark night! Clearly my staff were playing a trick. They were a great bunch, we were always having a joke. Well, I wasn’t silly enough to fall for that one. However, they all insisted it was nothing to do with them.  So maybe it was the Sunday papers setting me up; I had experience of that. They would send a young reporter who looked the part and the photographers would be hiding nearby, ready to jump out with flashguns blazing.

So I was ready for them. I made a date with Sarah, for one evening after work. I was going to pretend to be fooled, but then tell her to get lost. 

On the night, there was a tap on the office door. A pretty young woman in a short dress stood there. No flashguns, no reporters leaping from behind cars, just Sarah.

OK, I played along, led her up to my office told her to lift her dress and bend over my desk, ready for the cane. Sarah was naked under her dress. Not something she would do if it was a set-up. I told her to spread her legs, as I swished the cane through the air.  

Now, the cane hurts. If you love to be caned, you go into a mindspace like the fakir who walks on fire. Then it doesn’t hurt. For anyone else, it hurts. You can’t fake it. This was the moment for Sarah to jump up and say she was from the News of the World. Her last chance.

Then I saw, from between her legs, a thin silvery trail of liquid snaking down to the floor. Sarah was absolutely not faking; To my surprise, she was very excited.

I caned her, taking great care to judge her reactions and make it hard enough, but not too hard. Then, a peck on the cheek, she thanked me and she was gone.

I had no clue how Sarah knew that she would be safe. Maybe a close friend of hers knew of me; I will never know. I was thrilled to have been trusted and very pleased that it had clearly worked well for Sarah. 

They say the test of a good dominant is whether the submissive asks to come back another day. If so, I must have passed, as Sarah contacted me again a few weeks later.

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Sarah at Maida Vale Underground Station

Sarah was instructed to wait outside Maida Vale underground station on a warm autumn evening, totally naked except for a raincoat and heels. She stood against a wall, her raincoat tightly belted, looking like a spy from a 1960s spy movie. Or possibly a hooker.

My Jaguar glided to a halt. I was not inside. Instead were my two friends Julie and Louise, both wearing full military uniform, army caps pulled low over their eyes. Julie was driving, Louise in the back. The window slid down. “Get in the back” said Louise to Clare. 

The car swept away toward the West. Lisa opened Clare’s raincoat, exposing her breasts. Then, Louise handcuffed Clare and slipped a pair of wraparound ski glasses onto her. The glasses had been spray-painted, so the victim was totally blindfolded, unable to see a thing.

The Jaguar glided through the streets of West London to a large secluded house, where Julie and Louise led Clare without a word down the cold stone staircase into the cellar below, their heels clicking on the hard cellar floor. Clare’s raincoat was stripped away and she was blindfolded. Then, wearing only her high heels, she was chained naked and sightless to the wall. 

Louise and Julie left Clare on her own, looking tense, nervous and excited, while they came upstairs, where Louise’s husband and I were relaxing with a coffee, watching everything on hidden CCTV. Clare had no idea that Robert and I are nearby, but she trusted me and knew that, although nervous, she would be safe.

Maybe Clare felt a bit too safe when Julie and Louise went back down the the cellar and took off her blindfold. Standing with them was a man she had never seen in her life: Robert, dressed in black leather.

Robert, Julie and Louisa worked on Clare for a few hours. I watched her orgasm time after time. Finally she was blindfolded again and I entered the cellar. Another man, unseen, never speaking…

Finally, Clare was driven safely home to her flat in Maida Vale by Louise and Julie, who saw her to the door. Clare was covered in sweat, her makeup all over her face, tired and smiling broadly. Her boyfriend opened the door and she fell into his arms. 

The next day, Clare called me to say thanks. Her boyfriend had waited anxiously all evening and asked her “How was it”. She had replied “It was fantastic!!”

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Sarah at Belgrave Square

My friend Amanda had a job which gave her access to to a fabulous house in Belgrave Square, one of the most exclusive addresses in London. Nobody actually lived there; it was the headquarters of a large organisation. However there was a private flat that senior executives were allowed to use when they needed to stay in town. 

Sarah had been instructed to present herself to this impressive address at nine o’clock one evening, long after everyone had gone home. Everyone except Amanda, who dressed in an expensive tailored suit and gleaming high heels, looking for all the world like something from a James Bond movie. 

Sarah had no idea what was waiting for her. She had never met Amanda. All she knew was to knock on the door and do what she was told.

Peeping from an upper window, I watched Sarah park her car and walk towards the big front door. She glanced left and right at the various embassy buildings around the square. Then rang the doorbell, as instructed.

Amanda stood before Sarah, looking fabulous, and said only three words – “come with me”. Amanda strode down a long hallway, her stilettos clicking on the polished floor, towards a massive boardroom with a long table and lines of chairs on each side. Amanda bent Sarah over the table, where a soft leather flogger was lying ready and lifted her skirt.

Sarah was never allowed pants or tights, only stocking and suspenders. I think Amanda was as excited as Sarah as she started the flogging, gently at first. After some time, when Sarah’s backside was pink and warm, Amanda led her over to a leather sofa in the corner.

Amanda used her tongue then her fingers, as Sarah moaned and orgasmed. Then, Amanda blindfolded Sarah as a strange man entered the room. Sarah never saw him and was never told who he was, although she may very well have guessed…

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James and Karen at the Reliance bar in Hoxton, with Sophie in my flat in Fanshaw St

James and I had been friends for a while, but I had not met his new girlfriend, Karen. In fact, James had not mentioned me to Karen at all. She had no idea that I existed. James said this was because he had a plan to introduce us.

Karen was told to wear a very short skirt with thigh boots, go to the Reliance bar in Whitechapel and wait there. Nothing else. Not a thing. that’s all she was told.

I parked my old Jaguar outside the Reliance and walked purposely inside. Sitting at the bar was a woman on her own, in a short skirt and thigh boots, with a bottle of lager in her hand. I look the half-full beer from her, placed it on the bar and simply said “Come with me.” Leading Karen gently by the arm, I put her into the car and, still without a word, drove off.

My apartment in Fanshaw Street was a few minutes away. Just time for Karen to feel apprehensive and yet, at the same time, start to experience a mounting excitement. We entered the flat and I led Karen into the soundproofed dungeon room. Her eyes widened as she saw the black whipping bench with leather straps. They widened further as she noticed my girlfriend Sophie, in a corner. Sophie was wearing only stockings and heels. She was gagged, unable to speak and helpless, strapped into a black leather chair, looking fabulous; I loved her long red hair and piercing blue eyes.  

I gently stripped and blindfolded Karen, staying totally silent all the time, using one of my special Skin Two blindfolds.They work really well, with soft foam padding keeping all the light out. Karen was bent over the whipping bench, naked, legs spread apart, and left to wait. Her excitement was visible.

At this point, I turned on the music, stepped out to the hallway and closed dungeon door behind me. So Karen could not hear John very gently slide my spare door key into the lock and slip silently into the flat.

At this point, Karen is restrained naked over a bench, legs apart, in an apartment she knows not where, under the control of a total stranger, with a gagged redhead watching her. Where is her boyfriend John? She has no clue. I can tell that she is excited.

Karen is gently flogged. She moans with pleasure. She is used sexually. This goes on for some time, But it’s not me – I am making tea in the kitchen. The man pleasuring Karen is in fact her own boyfriend, John.

Finishing my tea, I re-enter the dungeon. Karen starts as she suddenly realises that now there are two strange men in the room with her. All is revealed as I untie Sophie and John removes Karen’s blindfold, then releases her from the restraints.

Karen has not at any time been touched intimately by me. But she is touched by John all right, as Sophie is now touched by me. All’s well that ends well.

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Rachel as a birthday present

At a party some year sago, Rachel and her husband entered the room and greeted a few friends. I had never met them, but was immediately struck by Rachel. She was dressed in a business suit, wearing glasses, looking very much like a lawyer – which was exactly what she turned out to be. 

After only a few moments, Rachel stripped to her stockings and lingerie, hung her formal suit neatly – on a hanger! – and was restrained by three men, who proceeded to flog her. I was transfixed – whoever this woman was, I had to know her.

It turned out that Rachel was very friendly with a couple I knew, so we did indeed get to know each other and soon became good friends. In fact, Rachael became my regular birthday present…

Every year, around the time of my birthday, I would get a call from Chris, who was the very epitome of the upper crust city gent, complete with pin-striped suit, cut glass accent, a love of being caned, the lot. Now, Chris is a very kind man and every year he would call to suggest we have a drink to celebrate my birthday.

I would be invited to Chris’s lovely house in Kensington (he also has a place in the country) and he would pour us a birthday drink. Then, out of the blue – and a total surprise – Chris would say “actually, I have a little surprise for you”. He would show me into a side room, where a pretty woman was tied to a chair, blindfolded and wearing only stockings and heels.This was my present.

Happily, it was always Rachel, every year. She had simply been invited over to Chris’s place and told it was just for a drink and chat, nothing more. Being a highly educated lawyer, Rachel realised what was going on after the first couple of years… However, she played along and pretended to be surprised every year when I removed the blindfold. 

Rachel is married now and moved away from London. I think of her often and hope she is well and happy. 

* This scenario was organised for me, rather than by me. However, I though I would include it, as I remember it with such affection.

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Helena as a pro dominatrix

Helena and her husband Bill arrived at our meeting in Covent Garden on a powerful motorcycle, both dressed from head to foot in black leather. Either they had replied to a personal ad of mine, or I had responded to an ad of theirs – I can’t remember now. I knew at once that were really nice people and couldn’t help but notice that Helena was strikingly beautiful.

Helena and Bill didn’t seem too impressed with me and they didn’t want to meet up again, so that was that. But we ran into each other at a party not long afterwards and things seemed to click this time. We quickly became friends. Then I moved to North London, very near their home and they came round with a bottle of wine on my first night there. We started to see quite a bit of each other.

Helena was very ‘North London’, clever, elegant, sophisticated and well connected. I once met a cabinet minister at her house. Her friends included famous actors; she and Bill were very much part of the ‘Cool Britannia’ Blair years. Unknown to their influential mates, Helena and Bill would often attend the Skin Two parties I organised. Bill helped me out with a scenario once at Miss Kim’s dungeon in Hackney. (He entered the room silently which a sub was restrained over a bench, then entered her via the ‘tradesman’s entrance’, as you do.)

Helena looked fabulous in a catsuit and heels and was quite the stunner at Skin Two. One day, she agreed to a request from a submissive guy – she was going to be a professional dominatrix for the afternoon. In the basement of my house, I had a large dungeon space, with a rack, whipping bench, prison cell, suspension harness, the lot. This was where her client was instructed to report.

We watched from my bedroom window as the taxi drew up. Helena looked gorgeous in her shiny rubber catsuit and heels. She went to the door and led the client downstairs. I had rigged up a baby monitor, just to be sure that Helena was safe. Helena’s performance was faultless. She was imperious and ruthless. The submissive could have had no idea that she had never done anything like this for money before. 

After a couple of hours, the client was shown the door. Helena kicked off her heels and bounded upstairs to my room, ripped off her catsuit and flung the money into the air, delighted with her one-off experience as a professional dominatrix. She phoned Bill, who was on tenterhooks to hear how she had got on. Later that evening, she treated Bill to the most expensive dinner in North London. 

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Sinead at the Wicked club with Alex Cobra

Sinead is a distinguished civil servant. I picked her up just round the corner from parliament a few times. Sinead has a happy family and a responsible job. The desire to indulge herself sexually surfaces only occasionally. Far be it from me to argue with that.

One one of these occasions, when Sinead had an evening free, I said I would take her to a bar I knew in Southwark. Just that. Nothing more.

I parked and we strolled to a cobbled alleyway near London Bridge. It was quite dark and here was no sign of a bar. It was a misty evening, atmospheric, like something out of Jack the Ripper.

Sinead imagined the bar must be just around a corner; we would soon see the place. What she didn’t know was that a particularly eccentric fetish club promoter had set up a club called Wicked in this dingy alley. (It was in fact just beside Southwark Cathedral, which is why it didn’t last long, but that’s another story.)

Wicked was closed at this hour, but I knew that. My friend Jonathan was the Manager and he was prepared for Sinead and me. The door was open and in we went. Down a dark corridor and Sinead realised that something was up – this was not just a drink. She looked excited. We turned into a spartan room with bare brick walls. A single rope hung down from the ceiling, lit by a spotlight, with soft leather handcuffs attached, about six feet above the ground.

I instructed Sinead to remove her clothes, save only for her heels, and locked her slim wrists into the handcuffs. There she stood, arms above her head, naked, waiting.

Sinead knew well that she was safe under my control. So she was relaxed, though excited. She was quite a bit more excited as a total stranger strode into the room. It was Alex Cobra, a fit younger man, stripped to the waist, wearing leather trousers, carrying a bullwhip.

Time and again, Alex flicked the whip gently around Sinead’s naked body. She moaned with pleasure as it caressed her, leaving pink marks across her ass. (Alex is an expert.)

On my signal, Alex disappeared out of the room and into the night. I released Sinead from the leather handcuffs and she fell into my arms.

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Sinead at my flat with Michael

I picked Sinead up near parliament, where she had been in an important meeting. Unknown to her, I had arranged a treat at my apartment in Hoxton. We cruised through the streets, Sinead looking more and more relaxed at the thought of a glass of wine and a cozy evening in.

At the flat in Fanshaw Street, I gently stripped Sinead, laid her down and spread her legs wide apart, strapped into a spreader bar. She was naked, exposed and vulnerable, feeling excited and happy.

Suddenly, a loud buzzing sound. It was only the building’s entry system, so that didn’t bother her. But, when I picked up the handset, what I said came as a bolt from the blue. “Oh yes Mr Carlton, she’s all ready for you.”

Sinead had forgotten that, ages ago, she had mentioned a fantasy of being sold as a slave girl. But I had not forgotten and I had made secret and careful preparations.

My apartment was on the third floor and Sinead had plenty of time to squirm in anticipation, naked and legs spread, wondering what Mr Carlton was going to do to her. I blindfolded her.

My friend Michael is a younger guy, handsome and experienced. Unknown to Sinead, I had given him detailed notes of what she liked. As he reached my door, her excitement mounted. He entered. Sinead, blindfolded, could hear but not see as he looked her and and down, just  as though she was a used car he was thinking of buying.

“Hmm, she looks OK. Fifty pounds, we said. Tell you what, I’ll give you sixty and I can do what I like?” I agreed and Michael handed me sixty pounds. By this time, Sinead was so excited, I thought she might orgasm before he touched her.

Michael bent down and gently removed the blindfold. Sinead told me later that she was thrilled at the sight of him. After some initial foreplay Michael released Sinead from the spreader bar and, to put it bluntly, fucked her senseless for ages. And ages. I watched closely, making sure that Sinead was safe and happy, her limits respected. (They went at it for so long that I did slip out to the kitchen and make a cup of tea though.)

Some time later, we all fell into a bar off Hoxton Square and spent the sixty pounds on some particularly nice wine.

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Kandi in Hoxton

“Kandi” sent me three pages of A4 notes, explaining in detail what she liked, what worked for her and what did not. I assembled a team of trusted guys. We all studied her script carefully, noting her safe words and getting the feel of what turned her on and what didn’t.

A couple of days later, “Kandi” posted this online (all the words are hers, not mine)…

“A very hot Daddy arranged a private gangbang for me and 10 men showed up… when I walked in the whole venue was full of guys eyeing me and I was actually nervous. 

I was forcibly stripped naked and the whole group crowded around and called me a stupid cunt and dumb whore while they held me up in the air and spread my legs spread wide open, my bare pussy on display.

 I was led around naked in a collar and made to jiggle my tits and bend over and spread my ass. Then there were hours of being restrained legs open on a bed and fucked relentlessly in all my holes. 

They pinched my nipples and my clit while I screamed and writhed around. My pussy was flogged. I had to get down on my knees and kiss all their cocks while they spat on me. I deep throated cock after cock while they came on my face and in my mouth. 

By the end I begged to suck the organiser’s dick and he generously let me. It was so hot.”

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Katrina at the BMFC

My friend Katrina like to be fucked by handsome black men. No romance. She’s doesn’t need to know their names; just fuck and go. The ideal place for this is The Black Man’s Fan Club, which meets at selected venues around the UK. The men are all vetted by Helen, the lovely organiser, and they are all polite, respectful guys. 

Many women go with their husbands, who like to watch. For them, it’s a couples thing. Katrina is single and a good friend, so I was happy to take her along. I took her to a BMFC evening at a favourite venue, the Old Hellfire Club, just to the West of London, near Heathrow. This venue has side rooms with windows, so onlookers can watch what’s going on. It’s ideal for what Katrina has in mind.

I take Katrina into a side room and close the door. I sit her down on the bed and unbutton her shirt, exposing her. She is very pretty and has fabulous long legs. Her skirt is very short. She is naked underneath. I spread her legs, so she is on display, like an expensive watch in a jeweller’s window. All may look, but few can touch.

By this time, a crowd of fit young black guys has gathered at the window. Katrina looks down submissively, not making eye contact with them. I scan the men and pick out two of the best looking ones. I don’t refer to Katrina at all; I don’t look at her or ask what she thinks – that would spoil it for her.

i take my time. Katrina is breathing heavily, full of anticipation. Then I ask one the guys “Would you like to fuck my friend?” Then a second guy. I let them into the room. Katrine takes down their trousers and sucks them slowly. They fuck her hard and long. 

I observe closely, staying cool but always making sure that condoms are used and Katrina is happy. When the two guys are exhausted, I thank them politely and we go the bar, where Katrina gets her breath back with a glass of wine. 

After a few minutes, we do this again. I choose three guys this time, still picking them myself, without even looking at Katrina. 

Later, we wander downstairs to an orgy room, where there’s a big double bed. Katrina wants a gang bang. I undress her and a crowd gathers. I pick out some nice looking guys, two or three at a time, and invite them to join her. Katrina’s long legs are soon flying. She is filled at both ends. One guy is fucking her so hard that his head is banging against at the wall. I spot a cushion and toss it over to him. He catches it with one hand and slips it behind his head, never stopping his thrusts into Katrina for a moment.

Later, I drop Katrina at her house in Richmond. She is exhausted, her hair and makeup is all over the place. She is smiling broadly. A happy girl.

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The Spanish girl at the Porn Cinema

Out of the blue, I had an email from a woman saying her master had told her to contact me and ask me to take her to a porn cinema. I had no clue who she was or who her master was. It sounded like some fantasist – probably a sad and lonely man. However, I agreed to meet for coffee and a chat, half expecting it to be a waste of time. 

There used to be a very private porn cinema in a dingy basement in South London, hidden behind an anonymous shopfront. You pressed the buzzer and a little hatch opened. If they knew you or you seemed kosher, they let you in. I was known there and was let in free, having entertained them all a few times.

I arranged to meet Sofia at a coffee shop nearby, wondering whether she would turn up. A charming, attractive and polite Spanish girl showed up precisely on time and sat down to chat. She was confident and didn’t seem at all nervous. Apparently, her master had instructed that it was fine for random strangers to have sex with her, but he wanted one thing above all; she was to be sent home splattered with cum on her tits. That was their thing.

So we drank our coffee, walked over to the drab secret shopfront and pressed the buzzer. Inside, we descended the narrow stairway to a dimly lit dank room with a big screen showing porn. Through the murk, a few men could be seen, mostly wanking slowly to the porn. When a woman arrives, the etiquette is strict; the men show an interest, but do not crowd around unless invited. 

A handsome couple were fucking while the men watched but did not touch. We watched too and, after they had finished, I removed Sofia’s raincoat, undid her shirt and lifted her skirt, giving the men an exciting view. They gathered round, keeping a few feet away, stroking their cocks. I turned to the guys and said “we would love it if you’d like to cum all over her tits.” 

Sofia played with herself while eight or nine men walked over her tits, shooting loads of cum all over them. I let a couple of the men fuck her. Sofia orgasmed loudly. 

After Sofia got her breath back, I mopped the cum from her face, which was covered in it, but left it all over her tits, as her master had requested. Her shirt stayed open, loosely covered by by raincoat. Outside, I hailed a black cab and Sofia disappeared back to her master. 

I never heard from Sofia or her master again. It was strictly a one-off. I wonder whether they will read this.

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Sarah at Chiswick bandstand

My friend Sarah is a surgeon, a wife and a mother, so she is always responsible. Whether at work or at home, there is no respite. OK, a wife and mother can make mistakes now and then. A surgeon simply can’t; there is just no room for the smallest error. Not that Sarah is complaining. She loves her life. She just needs to step away sometimes, just for an evening, and let her hair down. 

Knowing what Sarah likes, I organised a treat for her. I didn’t tell her the details, just that I would pick her up and take her somewhere – and to wear an old dress, nothing delicate. The old dress always gives a clue…

It was late on a warm Summer night, starting to get dark. Perfect. I drove down a narrow lane to a park on the outskirts of London. Sarah felt a tingle of excitement, but had no clue of exactly what was in store.

We parked near the deserted bandstand, where the Salvation Army sometimes entertains the families in the afternoons. Sarah was in for a different sort of entertainment. We strolled over to the bandstand in the gathering darkness and sat down.

Hidden nearby, waiting quietly, were my friend Christina and four trusted men. They pulled balaclavas over their heads, looking like bank robbers. All you could see was their eyes. Suddenly, out of nowhere, they strode into the bandstand. Sarah gave a start – surprised, but not entirely surprised…

Christina sat facing me, as if to chat, but her eyes scanned the darkness behind me, looking out for any late-night passers-by. I scanned the park behind her. A little dog – a Jack Russel I think – did scamper into the bandstand wagging its tail. It’s owner called from far away and it hurried off. Otherwise, we were not disturbed.

The four hooded men lifted Sarah’s dress, laid it down and fucked her senseless, again and again. They had been carefully briefed and knew exactly what she liked – and what she didn’t (which is even more important)

Much later, the men melted away into the night, taking Christina with them. Sarah never saw their faces or knew their names. To this day, she has no idea who they were. I drove Sarah home to her door, her hair and make up all over the place and a happy smile on her face. She fell into her husband’s arms and I daresay got fucked again, as off home I went.

Postscript …

Sarah received an experienced tailored carefully to suit exactly what she loved. Not what I loved, not what my little team loved, but what she loved. That is the one vital thing to remember when you do this stuff.

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Carol, the Scottish Doctor at Clapham

Jerry invited me over to his place off Clapham Common, to help with his girlfriend’s fantasy. I had never met Carol, which was important to them both; they wanted a stranger she would never know in real life.

Jerry explained that Carol was a doctor working in an intensive care unit. She loved her job, but it was stressful and she occasionally liked to just let go and indulge her fantasy. Apparently, this involved an older man, a sort of uncle figure. So I put on a suit and headed to Clapham…

Carol must have been in her mid thirties, but in her fantasy she was Little Julie, a schoolgirl of thirteen and a half. In fact, I never met her as Carol; I only ever saw her as Little Julie. When I rang the doorbell, I was greeted not by Carol but by Little Julie. Every detail was perfect, the school uniform, the shoes, the hair in pigtails and most important of all, the girlish way of speaking. I greeted her as Uncle Tim. She never knew me as just Jerry’s friend Tim, not even for a second. The mask never slipped.

As Uncle Tim, I sent the evening chatting with Jerry, while Little Julie made the tea and served biscuits. It was explained to me that Little Julie had been a bad girl and, sadly, needed to be punished. It was for her own good, as she meekly agreed.

After tea and biscuits, Little Julie was punished. For quite a long time, in fact. After that, with a very pink bottom, she was allowed to thank Uncle Tim. 

As I left the apartment, Little Julie demurely said goodbye, her eyes cast down. Every detail of her clothing and her behaviour remained exactly that of a schoolgirl aged thirteen and a half. There was never the slightest hint of Carol, the highly professional doctor in her thirties.

The details can be so important. My favourite detail was Carol’s Scottish accent. I have no idea why.

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Dina and Amir

Dina and Amir are a wealthy Lebanese couple with business interests in several countries. We met several years ago, when they attended one of my formal fetish dinner parties. They are a handsome couple, highly educated and charming. We became good friends and they shared their fantasies with me, thinking to act them out for real when they are in London.

Dina is educated, elegant and pretty, so it was no problem to find two handsome black guys to entertain her at her apartment off Sloane Square. (She has a thing for black guys – can’t think why…)

Soon, Dina, came up with something as a treat for Amir, who enjoys the cuckold role. For this, I enlisted the help of Mistress Elita Darling, a top-level, sophisticated and beautiful dominatrix. You can see her interviewed on my internet TV channel at https://kfstv.net/  

Dina and I didn’t tell Amir where we were going. He had no idea. I drove us to Elita’s place in Kensington and he was pretty impressed when Elita opened the door. She looked lovely.

Immediately, Elita instructed Amir to strip, which he did. Elita locked his cock into a chastity gadget, led him to her boudoir and put him, naked, into a cage. We left Amir there, helpless, while Elita, Dina and I had tea.

Elita took Dina gently by the hand and led her through to the boudoir, where there was a big double bed with silk sheets. Elita gently teased Dina with a soft suede flogger as Amir could only watch from the cage, his cock firmly locked. The two women pleased each other for an hour or more, while I left them to it. (I slipped across the road to read the paper in a coffee shop.)

They texted and I returned to the apartment. Dina was a bit breathless, but very happy. She unlocked Amir’s cage, undid the chastity lock, threw his clothes at him and ordered him to dress. 

I dropped Dina and Amir back at Sloane Square. I could tell that he was pretty desperate to orgasm, but I have no idea when Dina allowed it

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