00491734208782 mail@hetaera.de

 

In times of Brexit, don’t forget the English fetish for penalties and punishment

 

Little canary-bird, another story please! No more self-referential political clobber!

A story, oh yes. I promised you that. Perhaps something on the subject of Brexit? Joking aside, this is a story for the sensitive reader of this periodical, for the gentleman reader. Voilà.

 

 

Be well prepared

 

Perhaps you don’t know what a typical customer inquiry at an escort agency looks like. Maybe you think it’s very straightforward, that the gentlemen have very detailed ideas, from the kind of services to my outfit and how I am to style myself for the evening. Now, quite honestly, that is rather seldom. Serious customers write as little as possible and are smart enough to allow room for a certain spontaneity. Those, however, who annoy us with dozens of e-mails ahead of time, arouse the suspicion of being wankers, that is, someone who doesn’t even really want a date, but derives their satisfaction from the communication itself. All the more astonishing that such a customer at my agency at the time was taken seriously. This man had written a proper script for the evening with me and my colleague. With dialogue!

He was a really fat and probably really wealthy London logistics entrepreneur. A mountain of pink blubber, really chubby. A flabby monster, but lovable. This isn’t fat shaming, such talk doesn’t taint the dignity of the Tory, though it does the value of the western bourgeois woman’s precious time. He was staying in a suite at the Ritz Carlton. As I recall, he had just sold one of his businesses to the Deutsche Post and wanted to celebrate in his own way. Please don’t ask me for details! But I swear, the bit I still know I experienced as it was. This story is, like all my columns here, not made up, it really happened. Don’t hold me to it. It was years ago. I was still inexperienced, not yet practiced in noticing the right details by which to read people. He had said he was a Tory and regarded himself fully as a typical Tory. He spoke Received Pronunciation, lived in a city villa in a Tory area and was a member of typical Tory clubs with his Tory friends he still knew from his Oxford days. But I don’t remember university insignia on his sweater or the brand of his expensive, tailored Savile Row suit. Should he have spilled any names or information someone smarter than I could have used to identify him, they went in one ear and out the other. But what I do remember: he no longer had a prostate. Cancer. He was lucky to be a survivor. Without this organ, with an upside-down hormonal balance, he had turned into a soft jolly baby face. What did this man without masculinity want with two luxury whores all night? The price for a little pleasure and fun with both of us totalled 6,000 euros. But the man wasn’t someone to bat an eyelash at such sums. Visibly excited, he handed each of us a thick envelope, as if it was a Christmas present.

What the Tory hog wanted? He wanted my curvaceous blonde colleague, Alicia, and me for a spanking scenario. Spanking. Slaps on the arse, to get a good hiding, to give someone a good thrashing. A fetish one knows in my line of work that occurs with above average regularity among those born in the British Isles, particularly the English. (FYI: in Germany the most common fetish by far is anal sex, which of course is related to our history.)

So this multi-entrepreneurial big boss wrote a detailed scenario for our date, including text, which we had to memorize. College girls in short skirts with him as the director, we were so naughty – the usual cliché you know from pornographic films.

Then he turned out to be surprisingly effortless. He had already entirely forgotten what he had written to the agency and no longer had a concrete scenario in mind. Instead he took a seat next to us schoolgirl brats on the suite sofa and played uncle storyteller. He told us how he came to spanking. We were hanging on his every word! And now I’ll relay this story here. All information is subject to change!

How should I know if the man told us the truth? But I tell it as he did, to my best knowledge and in my best conscience.

 

 

Anita

 

Anita, the wonder girl. Fresh out of college, good-looking and more than slightly conceited. In his eyes a mistake to trust such children, still sitting in a lecture hall, with a leadership position at a listed company responsible for thousands of jobs. Career-hungry achievers without any experience, without a trace of a sense for the social responsibility of their decisions to boot. Without prudence and proportion, with the only goal of rising fast. Punters. Anita did well for herself initially – pure luck, of course. And it irritated him to go to the firm in the morning, his enthusiastic colleagues asking him first thing: Do you know what Anita did? Even the cherished ritual of tea and scones in the company lounge galled him. He did not like the Mediterranean, sporty, fit Anita and saw even more clearly that it must have been her outward appearance that ensnared the other guys. It was only a matter of time until she erred. The success and the unfathomable amount this under-25-year-old made went quickly to her head.

The catastrophe came. At some conference (please, no questions!) – did Anita spread some news too early? – she leaked some company secrets too early, which in this world of money (don’t ask me how) led to shares plummeting, a loss of millions, and Anita alone was to blame. Even for her fans and supporters, there would have been no other alternative than to fire her immediately. At the time Anita was in the Far East – I think it was Singapore, let’s say Singapore? He thought it better to visit and inform her of her dismissal in person. That’s how you do things in these crises. You just fly halfway around the world. Perhaps he wanted to retrieve a laptop with company data from her or something of the sort, to make sure that she wouldn’t short-circuit and seek revenge, eliminating a couple thousand jobs in the logistics industry in the process. But how should I know! What I do know is the scene he described in the luxury hotel in Singapore(?). Her tears. A hysterical seizure in the lobby. He, embarrassed, asks the concierge to bring the lady to her room and to inform him when she is responsive again. He hates hysterical women. Then, upstairs in her luxury suite, the young lady is still beside herself. She wails and begs for her job back. She’ll never have such a good-paying job in the industry when everyone finds out what she has done! And she just bought a flat in the City, how shall she pay it off now? And what, pray tell, should she tell her parents?

Devastated by so much selfish stupidity, this abyss of immaturity and lack of responsibility that far exceeded his worst expectations, he said – something – a sentence – nine magical words, an unknown code, a Hogwarts-esque magical formula:

What shall I do to deal with your failure?

 

 

Deal with your failure

 

This formula triggered Anita’s reflexes. Her wailing hushed abruptly, she pulled up her skirt, pulled down her slip and threw herself face down over his lap.

Sir, I deserve to be beaten hard for my failure!

Imagine the shock, the consternation of this financial bigwig with global problems. He shoved her off. On the ground she regained composure. She was completely quiet. Her disgrace had exceeded all human measure. It was, God knows, not a sign of disrespect, rather displacement behaviour. Her professor at the university had always said to her, precisely this sentence, ritualistically: What shall I do to deal with your failure? That was the catalyst, and then she had to do what she just did. A Pavlovian reflex, triggered by a nervous breakdown.

Yes, and then? What did you do then – we asked, the two schoolgirls on the sofa, lasciviously curious. He skipped this part. The next morning with her at breakfast in the hotel, well, she kept her job. It was the beginning of a better collaboration with him guiding her as a mentor. And their spanking relationship. He assumed the role her college professor had had, and that she obviously so urgently needed to maintain her mental balance. She quit after a year anyway once she married a superrich supremo. I forgot which industry, but stop, wait, the boardroom of Rolls Royce UK (“Drive or be driven?”) – don’t ask which position exactly, she certainly married well. On the day before the wedding she knocks on his office door once more. She wants it, one last time. He is dismayed. You would see the weals on the wedding night. She should only do such a thing with her future husband, it’s over. She says she doesn’t dare tell her fiancee about it, that she doesn’t want to lose him. He should do it, it may be the last time! He hesitates. She would have to tell her husband about her inclinations, otherwise she would be making herself very unhappy.

Years later he meets her again. Her husband was the one who invited him to a party. A special party. A BDSM party of the upper upper upper class, and what he was to do there was to be the spank-master for darling Anita. Apparently, Anita had dared to reveal herself to her spouse. Maybe it happened unintentionally. Perhaps because she broke a porcelain plate or set the house on fire, and her husband reacted with: What shall I do to deal with your failure? But how in the hell should I know that! The husband was obviously very okay with Anita’s propensity. And these parties happened regularly. And he, the London Tory, continued to be a part of this world.

And after this long story we had to go straight to dinner! What happened after is too perverted for this publication. Ta-ta for now!

The little canary-bird

The little canary-bird

 

 

 

 

Extra:

 

 

Or not? The evening obviously didn’t end with dinner. We were two high class escorts, he was all too chipper, so it goes without saying that there was much more than just milk and cookies before bed. This isn’t part of the story, but it is a remarkable addition to understand this lovable type of man. He wasn’t just a hardliner, but also its equivalent, which in this country is often left out. A part of spanking is caressing and tickling, forced, torturous tickling; he loved that, he was positively ticklish. And we were awestruck, we had never experienced such a thing with a man: lacking a prostate and ejaculation, nature compensated more than enough by making him capable of multiple orgasms! Like a woman! Non-stop, one after the other! Each one, in feminine fashion, intense, the whole fat flab sack wobbling, contorting in lusty spasms, emitting squeaking tones! And after just a few seconds it repeated, for almost a half an hour until complete exhaustion. Enviable.

Men, go inward: if, after rational consideration, you conclude that don’t need your prostate anymore, then lose it! I recommend it. But for the sake of caution, ask your doctor – what do I know. I cannot safely guarantee that my memory isn’t playing tricks on me. I am but a small canary-bird.