Daisy Gets the Treatment She Wants – ch 01

DAISY GETS THE TREATMENT SHE WANTS – Ch 01


Daisy was beginning to interest me again. Her blogs had been subtly changing over the last few weeks and the change was a good one. She was having more depraved fantasies, having some doubts about whether she even knew where her limits were and wondering if she should go on. It was in those delicious moments of self-questioning that these submissives were the most interesting, the most vulnerable, the most compliant. It was when they needed to be reminded of their place in the scheme of things. It was when I got together with them in the real world.

Daisy was one of the few submissives I’d found interesting enough to meet in real life and one of the few I still followed online. We’d been together for a week about a year ago, she was from the UK but had flown to the States for a summer break in Las Vegas. Sin City. She sinned a lot that week. Her absolute obedience and near-complete lack of limits convinced me she was a “keeper”. She spent most of that week on her back or on her knees, entertaining businessmen and college kids, perverts and lesbians, drunks and derelicts. She went back with marks that she sent me pictures of well into November.

Daisy was different than most of the ones I played with – she was a bona fide pain slut. My flash point is humiliation, my goal, absolute control and quick, unquestioning obedience. Daisy started off that way — a red-headed Catholic girl from the UK who reveled in her own humiliation and sexual abuse — but quickly dropped hints that she wanted more pain than shame. It was new territory for me. But I’m a quick learner and had an eager student and before long, I was watching on cam as she spanked, poked, caned and pricked herself to orgasm after intense orgasm.

Her mantra, repeated in each email and online chat, was: “please, as exteme as You like. Pimp me out. Gangbangs and pain orgies. What You need to know is that i have no control over what happens to my body; i suffer for Your pleasure. i exist for Your enjoyment.”. It never failed to get me off to a running start for our next session.

And now, it seemed she was at another crossroads. Nervous she might be getting in too deep, anxious about the future, unsure that more pain would lead to more pleasure, wondering if there was something wrong with her. In other words, time for a good dose of reinforcement.

I arranged my schedule for 2 weeks off and reserved two hotel rooms in San Francisco. One was a suite smack in the middle of downtown, the other a dive in the Mission. I also contacted David, a friend who belonged to one of the local BDSM clubs. He was the one who helped me chose the hotels. The manager of the upscale place knew all about discretion and the dirty hotel was in an area that was visually scary but more-or-less safe.

David made an offer to help “set up” the downtown suite and I agreed, excited and enthusiastic. I reserved the downtown hotel two days early and put David’s name on the reservation. He went in with some friends and installed some toys. He sent me the photos just a few hours before I got on my plane. Amazing. He’d turned the entire reception room into a bondage playhouse. I barely survived the plane trip without running back to the head and jerking off.

Daisy’s plane arrived just forty-five minutes after mine. As instructed, she’d worn a shimmery red zentai bodysuit with a scarf wrapped around her waist as a makeshift, and completely inadequate, skirt. Her boots were knee-high with four inch heels. Everyone’s eyes were on her as she came out of the ramp, including the crew who very obviously disapproved.

She had only one carry-on bag, which I took. As we walked, I rifled through it, past the newspaper, paperback book, snacks, lipstick and makeup, and other bits until I found her passport and her small clutch purse. I handed it back to her and pushed the passport into my pocket.

I stopped in front of a trash can. “Throw it away,” I said.

Daisy didn’t hesitate, she pushed the bag through the small hole then stood with her arms at her side waiting for her next command. I watched her, fascinated and half-stiff already. I noticed a brown bag with silver foil sticking out and leaned to look closer. Someone had thrown away a half-eaten sandwich. I told her to dig it out and finish it. She hesitated, looking into the trash and looking up and down the terminal. It was crowded with people, dozens would see her do it. Slowly, she reached into the trash and dug out the bag, unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Heads turned, a mother picked up her little boy and buried his face in her shoulder. An old man stopped and stared, his eyes on fire with curiosity. Two guys stopped in front of her and looked at each other. “Gross, man.” “Yeah, what a pig.”

This was going to be a fun two weeks. For me.
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David and three of his friends sipped wine and chatted while I connected Daisy to the ankle cuffs. When they were both firmly in place, I had one of them help me with the ropes. The ropes ran through pulleys at the outside upper corners of the big wooden frame and she was soon hanging upside down, her legs opened wide, her heels about six feet apart. I crouched down and ran my fingers through what was left of her hair. She turned her face, her eyes tearing up, trying to rub her cheek against my palm. I knew how difficult the shearing had been for her, she’d talked about her hair over and over in our chats, she was proud of how thick and lush it was. The man at the barber shop had been completely oblivious to any hesitation on her part, he’d taken the shears to her in a way to reminded me of those movies in which hippies got their first Army buzz cut. This wasn’t nearly that bad, but what was left was a cross between a pixie and a punk cut. Enough to grab on to but not enough to really need to brush out. I pulled her hair back hard, pulled her head upward behind her. Her back arched and I twisted her nipples hard, watching them stiffen from the pain.

Daisy wasn’t pierced, which was fine with me.