13 Men Who Bought Me: C4: The One Who Couldn't Have A Woman.

Note: This is a series. The prologue can be found here and the catalogue of all the posts is here. These pieces can be read as standalone pieces but you will get the best out of them if you read them as a series.

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Chapter 4 : The One Who Couldn't Have A Woman. 

Contrary to what one may think, once I fell in love and entered a serious relationship, my work really took off way more than I ever could have anticipated. People often believe that prostitutes only remain so until they are married or "rescued" but most women I know who do this, started after they were married, and tragically, many of them, at the aggressive insistence of their partners. That wasn't the case for me. Guru was the ultimate conundrum because I couldn't figure him out at all and he scared me, yet he possessed this quality of a cold, seething fire that drew me to him constantly. He really didn't care about what I did for a living, I could have stopped and he would have happily supported me, or I could have continued, and he'd be happy to spend my money alongside his own. He wasn't threatened by any of the men I fucked, nor was he excited by it, but he was happy to use either notion to further the sexual dynamic between us. He never treated me like I could only be Madonna or whore but on some level I do believe that he thought that because we both were outlaws in a way that meant the rules of propriety were different between us. I should have considered that when he first showed up at my house to announce what he does for a living, believing that the revelation allowed him to take that kind of liberty with me. That would always remain his thing, he took liberties with me, and he felt he was entitled to them, not because I was a whore, but because I was a whore and he sold them. The serendipity made him believe everything was acceptable. 

Many years after we broke up, and miraculously managed to remain friends, I asked him if he thought he had ever raped me, and he couldn't for the life of him understand why I believe all the paid-anal was rape. He wasn't offended or angered by the accusation, which is completely true to anyone with a half a brain, but he told me that I was missing a major element. 

"I didn't and wouldn't just do that to any woman," he said, "I would only do it to you, because you're the only one who would.. appreciate and nurture it."

He was not entirely wrong. There was something about the way he treated me that made me feel more beautiful, and powerful. No lipstick ever plumped my lip like he did, no corset ever made me feel the definition in my hips like he did either. Guru taught me that if I took the garbage treatment with poise and acceptance, instead of retaliating or just bearing it because I felt like I had to, I would become irresistible to men. It's an obvious lesson, in that women have done this for millennia and being agreeable and docile is what ingratiated us to men in the first place but from him I learnt to ornamentalize it. Nothing makes a man feel more powerful than when a woman suffers for him. A certain type of man, anyway. After Guru, i realised those type of men might have been my niche all along, I just didn't know it. 

It was the pain that awakened me to the realisation. Back when I was a little girl, I used to secretly wish the nanny would spank me. One day stands out in memory so strongly, I can still feel myself in that moment, as if that part of me froze in time and never grew up. I could not have been older than seven, and i remember distinctly the book that I had been reading. It was a book about bears, not Goldilocks, it was an old British children's book and the cover had a very small illustration of a family of bears in the middle. The rest of the cover, a very pale green, had the name of the book and the font was so ostensibly sensible that as an adult it's hard to understand why any child would ever be interested in that book. I was sitting at my desk in the reading area of the nursery, and reading, the little bear had forgotten her galoshes at school, and she was trying to trying to hide that from her father because if he found out about her carelessness he would spank her. 

Children's literature through the years, is appalling. All of it, it's really not just one phase of it that is insane, it is all of it. Usually it's the macabre of the ancients that gets the heat or the intolerance of the contemporaries that gets the disdain, but it is, indeed, all of it. I think it will always be, as long as adults are writing for children. I remember reading  Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti as an adult, and only after the fact did I realise that it was written as a children's poem. All I got from that poem was sororal incest, that's the only place my mind went, aside from the eroticism of the fruits of the goblin men which were clearly a stand-in for their dicks. Or lust. Essentially to me it just read like a cautionary tale telling you to fuck your sisters because you're less likely to get STDs than if you put a dick in you. Say it however you want, I don't understand why a child would enjoy reading that or why that would ever be written for a child. 

Retrospectively, I also think of my bear-book as inappropriate for children, and on that front, maybe I have the wrong reason. Modern, post-truth, literary sensibility would like to remove corporal discipline from books because threatening a child with physical harm is barbaric and unnecessary, and I agree, but to me the inappropriate part of it was that I got turned on and I didn't know how to process that or understand what it was. I didn't know it was a sexual longing, I didn't even know what a sexual longing really was, I just knew that I had to immediately do something bad or wrong, and have the nanny discover it. I spilt my milk on the carpet. My brain just immediately decided that for me, I had a glass of milk on the desk, I picked it up and threw it down on the carpet. Then I went looking for the nanny to tell her what I had done, it was such a heady feeling, like I was walking in a trance. I don't remember what I said to her when I found her, but I do remember, for the rest of that afternoon, walking around behind her and inquiring, over and over again, whether she was going to spank me. Eventually, when she put me to bed that night, she locked the bedroom door and pulled me over her lap. 

Her hands were soft, and cold, as she lowered my pajamas and rubbed my skin. Even today, I am immediately pliant to a woman with cold hands. She didn't spank me hard, nor very long. It lasted for less than twenty minutes and after she was done, she put me in bed and quietly left the room as if she had done something wrong, not I. A few days later, she left her job and a new nanny replaced her, no one explained the decision to me, but the housekeeper did mention that she hadn't been fired, she'd just left of her own accord. Many years later, it occured to me that she must have experienced a thrill while she spanked me, the kind of thrill that makes you question exactly the type of person you are. I don't believe I've ever had that moment, that moment where morality is at odds with sexuality, nor have I ever loved someone who has but I did have a client quite like my first nanny. Ensorcelled by depravity, yet tethered by morality. 

He was a married man, who was introduced to me by Guru, he did that sometimes, his own practise didn't service high-end or wealthy clients but he was friends with these men, and sometimes supplied women who worked the room or served as filler at their parties, and sometimes he identified one who might fit quite well within my practise. He was insistent, though, that we could not meet in public and while I was initially quite strict about my rule to meet men in public first, as the cheques got bigger, I understood why the need for discretion got more serious as well. You have more to hide when you have more to lose, and most of us, we refrain from living our truths not because we would lose our families or even the respect of society, that's fine, but it is often accompanied by losing our wealth and no one wants that. It was better to risk having my head bashed in than to lose a prospective, wealthy client. 

We met at a farmhouse, about fifty kilometres outside of town. My dad used to say that people who seem to know nothing about farming but owned a lot of farm-houses didn't pay their taxes. He just had a distaste for farm-houses, he seemed to believe only shady things happened in there, and as someone who has pretended to find god on the floor of many a farmhouse, I have to say my father may have been right. I drove myself to the place and parked exactly as he had instructed. He was waiting for me in the lobby. I had dressed in a very simple white dress and heels, it's what I wore when I had no idea what a man wanted from me, there had been no direct communication between us and I hadn't, at all, been able to gauge what he may like in a woman. Most people think it's hard to go wrong with black, but it's white that's impossible to get wrong, most men love a woman in white, because most men love the idea of being the first to befoul a pristine environment. Most men are also idiots. 

I entered through the front door, and he was already standing there, in the lobby. I recognised him immediately and all of a sudden all the demands for discretion and privacy started to make sense. He was a prominent businessman but no one recognises them, he had also just made a bid for political office and it had made him a lot more recognisable.  That's how I knew him too. I walked up to him and shook his hand. 

"You don't look like a whore," was the first thing he said to me, "Does your daddy know you're doing this?" 

It's rare, but I was taken aback, for a moment I wondered if he actually knew my father, not that it really mattered. 

"That's not a very nice thing to say, Mr. Murthy," I said to him. 

It was his turn to be taken aback. 

"You know who I am?" He asked, taking an involuntary step backwards, "Did Guru tell you?" 

"No, he didn't tell me anything," I told him, "I've seen you on the news." 

He laughed and sat down on the couch, gesturing for me to come sit beside him. He made a comment about being surprised about hookers watching the news, the man was a complete asshole, it would make sense for him to know my dad. I sat close enough for our knees to be in contact, but not so close, that I couldn't talk to him. We made idle chit-chat for a few minutes, talking about the power supply in the area and voting, he offered me drink which I declined but he proceeded to mix one for himself. 

"So did Guru tell you what it is I want?" He asked finally. 

Sometimes it is so clear that they've been waiting for the perfect moment to tell you something they have rehearsed or practiced, but with him it wasn't. He had the casual nonchalance of seasoned pervert. He was too comfortable in my presence, way too comfortable, for me to feel any kind of control. True whoremongers are rare, in all the years that I worked as an escort, I only met a handful of them and he may have been the first. 

"He didn't tell me anything at all," I told him, "We don't actually work together." 

He wanted to spank me. He explained in way too much detail, clearly, even the process of explanation was an erotic act to him. I understand that, I often find the most gratifying part of sex for me is the explanation, whether that comes before or after, it is in the words that I locate my true intention and desire. In the words I experience much more than I do when my body is engaged in the act. He explained that he had specific clothes laid out for me, he didn't seem to think he needed to enquire whether I could take it, I could, and I assume he was informed of that, but it genuinely didn't occur to him to ask me. Despite myself, I respected his thorough commitment to objectifying me, and wished he could be relegated entirely to whores like me, instead of being subjected on woman as a whole. He told me he needed me to play as realistically close to his daughter as I could, not his actual daughter, I don't know if he had one, but as realistically close to the concept of a daughter as I could. He told me to go into the bedroom and get dressed, but just as I got up, he stopped me. 

"Oh and after I'm done spanking you, young lady," he said in the tone of a perverted patriarch, "I'm going to need to fuck your ass." 

"Sure daddy," I told him, committing to the role even though it made me a little sick. 

"And Guru will pay for it," he said, delivering the sentence like a blow to the head. 

"What?" I asked, confused by the strangeness of this arrangement. 

"He owes me," he told me, "He promised me the finest whore-ass money could buy, and then he promised to pay for it." 

I should have hated Guru, but the fact that he managed to get his fingers in me even when someone else would be doing the fucking only made me yearn for him more. His sickness was vast and self-aware, it didn't spring from his dick, but from the soiled recesses of his mind. I once asked him what his mother could have possibly done to fuck him up so terribly, and he beat me to a pulp. Later, he told me his mom was a delight, a perfect mother, and he wasn't lying, he just wanted to spend a couple of hours playing a guy whose mom fucked him up. 

"Sir, I don't exactly come...à la carte, if you know what I mean," I tried to explain, only because I wasn't sure what percentage of my fees would qualify as suitable for a single hole. 

He passed me a sheet of paper. 

"Write down the number you usually charge and 20% of it is for your ass," he explained, and I wondered if he had played this strange game before, "You can calculate 20% right? I can only imagine they taught that at your school or did you drop out before they took percentages?" 

The man was repulsive as a human being, but he had answers. He knew exactly how to handle everything. I guess, when you're intending to fuck the entire population of a state, one woman is a pretty easy thing to handle. I did the calculation wrong, I just thought it would please him more to know that I was dumb. Men will do anything to feel more powerful that a dumb little woman and I had come to see sex work as extending power, not keeping it. 

"Did I solve it correctly, daddy?" I asked him, passing the piece of paper. 

He seemed pleased with my demeanor. 

"Let's take a look here," he said, picking up his glasses from the table and going over my math, "No, no, no... Have you not even learnt to divide?" 

He corrected my math and I knelt beside him on the floor, apologising for being a dumb little girl, and begging him not to punish me. He can lead a boardroom, maybe, but no one leads an act like me. 

"Go into the bedroom," he said pointing at the open door, "Get ready, stand in the corner and wait for me." 

A tonne of people like to spank and be spanked but my favourites were always the ritualistic ones. They're the ones who treat it like a disease and perform it like a surgery. A few swats, here and there, can be expected from practically any person, but it's the ones who put you in a corner that fascinate me. I suppose I am attracted to compulsion and needless ritual, those desires run deep and are often laden with shame. I went into the bedroom and put on the clothes that were laid out on the bed. They were exactly the clothes you would expect — a little plaid skirt, a while shirt, white cotton panties, ribbons for my hair — I washed my face first, men who like the concept of little girls rarely like make-up and if I had known what he wanted, I wouldn't have put on any make up. I made my hair into plats and put on the clothes, and then, I walked myself to the corner most clearly visible from the entrance. Certain acts have an impact even when you're faking them, as soon as I stood in that corner, I felt like a disgraced child. It's not an act any adult undertakes except in the interest of humiliation. It made sense to me that he'd want to make me feel ashamed and embarrassed, his entire demeanor seemed to suggest he longed to humiliate a woman. As I stood in the corner, i began to embody the role, I started to think like this girl, one about to be exposed and spanked, and when I couldn't manifest enough shame of my own, I began to draw on the shame of my nanny.

I lost myself in my own mind so completely that I didn't even hear him come inside the room, he came up behind me and jumped. He put his hands on my hips, and leaned over onto me. 

"Are you ready, little girl?" He asked me. 

I nodded my head. He took me by the ear and dragged me across the house, past the lobby and several other doors, to a study. In my experience, the people who are most insecure about their intelligence have the most elaborate rooms dedicated to knowledge. His was beautiful. It had a big mahogany desk, a matching file cabinet, a wall-shelf dedicated to books that looked expensive and untouched. He sat down on the straight-backed chair that didn't look like it belonged in the room and pulled me over his knees. For a little while, he just rubbed my butt. The skirt was tiny, and it fell upwards immediately, his fingers rubbed against the panties he had bought me, and underneath me, I could already feel his cock responding to the situation. He started to spank me slowly, very gently, almost to no impact at all. The cotton provided an excellent barrier to impact, and while I knew it wouldn't last long, I was surprised he didn't strip me naked right at the beginning. Few people like a clothed whore. 

"You're a bad, dumb little girl," he said to me, his voice had changed, it was deeper but lower, and laden with headiness, "You need to be punished." 

"I'm sorry daddy," I squeaked, in a voice I hate doing, "I'll be a good girl, I promise." 

He chuckled as he lifted the waistband of my panties and pulled them halfway down my thighs, he began to spank me harder. Nothing like the gentle and cold swats of my nanny, his hands were warm, big and harsh. My reactions turned from feigned pain to genuine remorse so quickly, I was surprised at myself. I can fake my way through anything, but pain is my reckoning, I am forced to be myself before it. A little while into it, just as my legs were getting too tired from hanging in the air, he stood me up on my feet and began to undo my skirt, it fell on the floor and I stepped out of it, the underwear still wrapped around my thighs made me feel more naked than I would have had he taken everything off me. He pulled me by my ear again and bent me over the desk. I waited as he produced an array of implements and lined them at the table: a paddle, a strap, a cane. I wondered if he was doing it just to scare me, because it was working. 

He picked up the paddle and came up behind me. He rubbed my ass, it felt good, I couldn't understand why it felt so good. The first smack of the paddle was harder than I thought it would be but it made the second one easier, I lost my composure and yelped like a little girl in trouble, but the longer he hit me, the less I felt the need to scream. The warmth started to creep through my behind and into my chest, I felt like I was being lulled to sleep in a sea of endorphins. He pulled me up to my feet again and from behind me, began to undo the buttons of my shirt, there was nothing underneath the shirt and soon I was bent over the table in nothing but socks and panties around my ankles. Something about it felt way dirtier than anything I had ever done before, at the moment, I would have put my tongue up an asshole and felt cleaner.  

"Are you..wet, little girl?" He asked leaning over behind me, and whispering into my ear, "Because you know, little girls who get wet, get caned."

His fingers slipped between my legs and rummaged around like the fingers of a man who has never had any business pleasing a cunt. He pulled them out of me and placed them over my mouth, I was not accustomed to smelling myself in that situation and it made me feel both afraid and excited. 

"Looks like you're learning nothing from your punishment," he announced, retreating from me and walking to the cane. 

He told me to take off all the clothes that remained on my body, and for this, I was more grateful than I had anticipated. 

"Kneel on the floor, spread your legs and bend over," he said, tapping my back with the cane in his hand. 

I respect a person who can tell you in minute detail exactly what they want, and he knew, he knew exactly what he wanted from me and perhaps having me walk in there, unaware of the circumstances, was part of the power games. I knelt on the floor, exposing myself in a way I am much more accustomed to doing. 

"Count every stroke," he said, rubbing my sore behind, "And apologise for being a dirty whore." 

No one had ever caned me before, I had no idea what to expect. Guru was all hands and belts. His pain was violence. This wasn't violence, it was cold and methodical, and I had no idea what to expect. I tried to do the pain-math in my head but I was off by 20%. I screamed louder than I ever have before at that first stroke, not just once either, I screamed several times before remembering my place. 

"One, daddy," I said finally, "I'm sorry for being a dirty whore." 

"Good," he said approvingly. 

He hit me twelve times and by the end I was crying. I had never cried in front of anyone, but the tears weren't emotional, they were extracted from me through pain. I had to believe that. He lifted me up and walked me out of the room, back to the lobby. Somehow, in that open space, I felt all too aware that I was naked, and he was still fully-clothed. He bent me over the back of the couch, and rubbed my ass, playing with it like a broken toy. I heard him unzip and put on a condom. 

"Remember, Guru is paying for this," he told me as he placed his cock against my asshole. 

I don't know why he said that but because he did, the act felt more violent than it needed to. I wonder, still sometimes, whether he knew, and whether Guru had orchestrated this moment exactly, I could never ask him, because I am sure, even today, he would lie. He fucked me harder and faster than I had anticipated, but his cock was small and not as hard as he would have liked it, so the pain I remember most strongly is that of his hips banging against my spanked ass. 

He left the room the second he was done. I was confused. It took me a few minutes to gather myself and then I sat on the couch waiting for him. He emerged, half an hour later, clearly having showered. 

"Why aren't you dressed?" He asked. 

"I figured you'd want..." I started to say, because most of them do want to fuck you again when they're paying for the entire night. 

"No, you can leave," he said. 

"Leave?" I asked, stepping closer to him, "It's past 3 AM. Don't you want me to get in bed with you?" 

He stepped away from me and towards the little makeshift temple shelf in the corner of the house, all of a sudden he looked like a completely different person, not like the person who played perverse games with prostitutes and their lovers but one who focused on piety and virtue. 

"You should go now," he said, lighting the lamp in his temple and blowing the smoke that emerged onto himself, "I have to start my day. Your money is already paid." 

I got dressed, back in my white dress and left without another word from him. All of a sudden he didn't want the playful degradation of associating with me, he seemed to actually believe it. I drove through the villages in the middle of the night, and by the time I got back home, the pain in my ass had escalated from a mild soreness to a searing madness. The sun was rising as I parked my car, Guru was waiting for me in the living room. 

"What are you doing here?" I asked him. 

"We're going running, of course," he said, "It's time." 

"I'm exhausted," I told him, "And not only did you get me spanked but I'm pretty sure you owe me money." 

He laughed as I sunk beside him on the couch and undid my shoes. 

"Oh you poor girl," he said, kissing me on the neck, "Did you hurt terribly much?" 

He was such a confusing human being. I couldn't ever tell if something was funny to him or erotic or none of the above. 

"What the fuck Guru?" I asked him, "Was this some convoluted way of telling me you want to spank me?" 

He stood up as if I had said something offensive. He stood in front of me. He took my chin in his hand and lifted my head up, looking into his eyes, the way he looked at me, made me forget everything in the world that wasn't between us. 

"I would never beat you like a child, Savera," he said, squeezing my face, as he grit his teeth. 

"I'm sorry," I told him, instinctively, I had no idea for what I was apologising. 

He slapped me, twice, both times with the back of his hand, right in my mouth. 

"You're a woman, I'm going to treat you like one," he said. 

He walked away from me and into my bedroom. He came back with my sneakers and shorts. 

"Come on," he said, tossing the clothes at me, "We're going running." 

I was exhausted but he didn't care. He didn't like cutting anyone any corners. I ran with him until I dropped from the exhaustion. He picked me off the ground and made me walk my ass home. That's what women do, apparently.