the dial again.
He kept yelling.
I couldn’t breathe, or take my eyes off his face, which was morphing into something like Edvard Munch’s most famous painting.
As subtly as I could, I grinded my pussy into the medical bed we were sitting on. I hoped Clint didn’t notice.
Probably because I was holding my breath, I started to feel a little dizzy. As I tried to focus on my breath and calm myself down, Clint pulled the rod out himself, squeezed my hand over his cock, and jerked it till cum came pouring out on both of our hands.
I don’t know how I left that room, but the next thing I remember is rubbing my pussy in the bathroom. I used the hand with Clint’s cum on it.
It was the only time I touched a penis at the dungeon, and I felt dirty and disgusting. I saw something I was appalled by, yet somehow it was completely fascinating. I made myself climax as quietly as I could.
I turned on the sink and watched the cum on my hand turn into rubber when it hit the water. Something about cum, once it’s cooled off, is just nauseating. Like my orange juice, it was something I only enjoyed freshly squeezed.
I flushed the toilet so no one would suspect anything. Clint was our “gross manager,” and I didn’t want him to think he turned me on.
He was hardcore like that.
At twenty years old, I was the youngest one at the dungeon, but not by much. No one was over thirty. The head bitch in charge was Mistress Rox. She had been there for eight years, and was known in the city as one of the meanest, baddest, yet most sensual masters. I’ve seen her shit on a guy. Like, right on his face. There’s no way he didn’t get pinkeye from that. You can’t erase things like that from your memory, no matter how much you want to. It’s like herpes in your brain. It’s forever.
Rox is tall, even before she puts on her six-inch heeled boots every night. She had long black hair paired with a cold Eastern Europe–esque face, and when she was sober, she could dominate like no one I had ever seen. The creativity, commands, and insults that would come out of this woman’s mouth were unfathomable to my comparatively amateur mind. Throughout the last year I had seen her relapse into her heroin addiction multiple times, and there was always a big drama to get clean again. There were nights she would sit at Clint’s desk crying, all doped up, refusing to see a single client. “Tell him to go fuck himself . . . I quit . . . I quit . . . I hate that pathetic piece of shit . . . I want my sweetie . . . Clint, tell my sweetie to come get me . . .”
Her refusal of service was ultimately for the best. Subs are clients for life, if you want them to be. You can’t let them see you in any type of position but strong, or they’ll find someone else to worship. Rox always bounced back up. She never quit for long.
None of the other girls had been working longer than two years. From what I’ve seen, it’s not a job many can stick to much longer than that. In the beginning, it’s liberating. It’s the boyfriend you always wanted to beat the shit out of, the boss you only thought you could be in your wildest dreams, the carnival in town with the biggest collection of freak shows you never knew existed. A whole new world to explore.
Clint had picked me up on the street—almost literally—one night when I was walking back home with Eddie, my then-husband, from a concert. I had a moderate-to-medium OxyContin habit around that time, and there came a point at the concert where I just didn’t want to stand anymore. I had convinced Eddie to leave early. Oxy is a versatile little pill, in the sense that depending on how much you take, it can be like five different drugs. You’re in complete control of how high you are. Take a little, and you’re a perfectly functioning human being. No one can tell you’re on anything. Take a lot, and you’re all “I think my eyes are open. Are my eyes open?”
That night I had only taken a little. When I was on this level of high, it was a common occurrence for me to be walking, talking, excuse myself to go throw up on the side of the street, wipe my mouth off, and then come back to the conversation like nothing had happened.
“You okay, Peanut?” Eddie yelled from the hot dog stand as I finished barfing on the side of a building. I could never understand how Eddie could eat on Oxy.
“Yah. One second.” I was spitting out what was left in my mouth when Clint approached me.
“Excuse me, miss?” Fuck. Tell me I didn’t just puke on this man’s wall. “I’m sorry to bother you; can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” Really? Now?
“Would you be interested in working in the adult entertainment industry?” This guy was bold.
“Sure. Let me get my husband.”
Dungeons always smell the same way. A base of rubbing alcohol, with high notes of metal and semen. I’m not the kind of person to walk into a room and claim, “Ooohhh, the energy in here is so weird,” but let me tell you—the energy in a dungeon is fucking weird. It’s almost like the air is a little thicker. Looking back, I can’t believe we followed Clint upstairs, much less agreed to start training the next day. But I had always wanted to work in porn, or a stripclub, or do something in the adult world. Eddie, my friends, everyone around me knew that.
Day one, I was already in heaven. My first client was a pro baseball player.
“I want to role-play like we’re on the subway. I’ll like stare and stare at you, and you’re like just totally creeped out by me.”
My second client gave me an hourlong foot massage. Another guy wanted me to piss on him. Five clients in total booked me that night. I left feeling like I had found my calling.
I should mention now that I’m not sexually dominant in my personal life. Ironically, none of the girls working at Nutcracker were. Not even Rox. We were all submissive in nature, to one degree or another. At that point in my life, I didn’t recognize myself as submissive or dominant. I just knew I liked to please.
Eventually, I met Ronnie, who had seen every dominatrix in the city. Every single one. He never saw the same one twice. It was bound to be my time sooner or later. Before I introduced myself, the girls let me in on what he was about.
Ronnie has a dentist fetish. And elephantiasis on one of his balls. Maybe it’s not fair for me to label it as elephantiasis. But one of his balls is fucking huge.
Anyway, what Ronnie does is he brings in his own dentist kit to the session. He always books an hour and a half, never more, never less. He will try to persuade you to shoot his mouth up with Novocain, but from what I hear, he’s only succeeded in getting two girls to go through with this.
When I walked into the medical room, Ronnie had already set himself up in the chair. The rumor is that he bought this chair himself and had donated it to the dungeon. I have yet to meet another client with a fetish involving a dentist chair, so this makes sense.
Ronnie had a bib around his neck, and his dentist kit was laid out on the counter for me.
“How are we feeling today, Ronnie?” I started.
“Hi, Doctor, I feel like there’s a loose tooth. I think I need it looked at.”
I slowly put on my latex gloves as I listened, even adding the snap at the bottom like I had seen in pornos.
“Open your mouth wide, say ‘ahhh.’” I dug around his mouth and felt the latex squeak against his teeth. “Which tooth is the one we’re concerned about, Ronnie?”
“The third molar from the back, on this side.” He motioned his hand up to the left side of his face, the side I was on.
“I see.” I wiggled the tooth in question. “This doesn’t look good, Ronnie.”
“Do you think you’ll have to pull it out?” The sudden excitement in his voice was impossible to miss.
“I’m afraid so, Ronnie.”
After that, I didn’t know where to go. I mean I wasn’t going to pull