Deadly legs

Mixed wrestling, ballbusting, 190 pictures 1920x1080 (Full HD), partially CFNM, no blood.

Patricia liked the word “courtesan” best for the way she earned her living, but she realised it was practically obsolete, so she opted for “escort”. Her advertisement, subtly placed in the more expensive publications (she disliked the word “magazine”) offered “discreet, sophisticated escort services for the discerning gentleman”. Yes, she was a bit of a snob; but every profession has its little hierarchies, so why not that one?

What did she think about her clients? The way some of them spoke, she considered she took her job a lot more seriously than many of them did. While she could speak two foreign languages quite well, was able to talk about the Arts to a reasonable degree, and kept up to date with current affairs, a lot of them seemed like rich thugs. Money and power were all that appeared to interest them.

Take her present client, who called himself Alan. What an unpleasant man! She felt as if she had been listening to him for a week. But, being the professional that she was, she appeared animated and intrigued by what he told her.

“Everyone hates me,” he told her, chuckling, “but they all pretend to like me, because they depend on me for their livelihoods. If I suspect someone’s happy in a department, I get them moved to another, but not just because I like being a bastard for its own sake (which I do). I don’t mind them hating me, but I want them to hate each other as well. I depend on that for the little stories they tell me about one another.”

“Gosh! So how would you describe yourself?” Patricia encouraged him.

“I’m the executive, they’re ‘staff’. Oh yes, they have their structures, of course; but occasionally it pays to make the general manager realise that he’s a glorified messenger boy, and that it’s only the person he takes the messages to who really matters. And that’s me. But I bet” – he lowered his voice, pointing at Patricia – “you hate the pimp that you work for.”

“I don’t work for anyone,” she replied, working hard to keep the anger she felt out of her voice.

Alan took her card out of his pocket and read it. “Posh, isn’t it? You sound a proper lady,” he commented, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice. “But I have a motto.”

“And what’s that?”

“Treat a whore like a queen, and a queen like a whore. Anyway, shall we go to my place now? I have my own gym, you know. I can show it to you,” he continued, a little nervously she thought, “after we’ve had a glass of champagne. I always keep champagne in the house.”

*****

Alan had his arm around Patricia’s waist as they sat on the sofa. Being the accomplished actress that she had to be, she “played up” and appeared to like it.

“There is something a little unusual that I like to start with.”

“Ooh!” she giggled, “And what’s that?”

“After a week spent exercising my power over people, I like to be dominated myself.”

“Oh, no. Definitely nothing like that,” Patricia freed herself from him and stood up, making to go.

“Oh, come on,” he coaxed her, “just a little foot worship, perhaps. I’ll pay you more. Here.” He held out several banknotes.

“Well all right,” she agreed, apparently reluctantly. These are very expensive shoes and tights after all, and I can’t have them getting spoilt, you know. Now you just watch.”

Patricia turned away from him, and slowly lifted her dress up her body, moving her bottom ever so slightly as she did. She pulled it over her head, and posed for him, turning very slowly so he could admire her beautiful curves and breasts. Then she moved towards the sofa.

“Off,” she instructed him, pointing to the floor. “I want to sit there. That’s better,” she concluded, as Alan obediently sat on the floor facing the sofa. She sat down and crossed her legs, pointing her elegant shoe at him.

“Kiss my foot!” she commanded.

Alan readily obeyed. Patricia tutted and reached for her handbag, impatiently taking out her cigarettes and lighter.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like smoking,” Alan told her.

“I don’t give a dam’ what you don’t like!” she snapped, startling him. “Now carry on with what you were doing.”

It was fun after all, Patricia told herself. She lit her cigarette and blew smoke down at Alan, warning him not to cough over her expensive shoes. She laughed softly and mused aloud:

“Treat an executive like a messenger boy, and a messenger boy like an executive.”

Alan looked up. “Now that’s crossing a line …”

“Did I say you could stop?” she demanded imperiously, raising her voice like a school teacher with a naughty child, and making him jump a second time.

“She’s great at this,” Alan thought to himself, eagerly complying when she told him to take her shoes off and carry on worshipping her feet. Certainly she seemed to have a natural authority, which he found extremely stimulating. When she told him she wanted a glass of champagne, he eagerly complied. She added that she wanted him to take his clothes off except for his underpants (for the time being), and he almost tore his suit off, just throwing it out of the way. She took a sip of champagne.

“Now,” she began, stretching out, “worship me where it really counts.”

Alan got on his knees and moved his head up the inside of her thighs. “I love your silky tights and smooth, long legs,” he murmured.

“Of course you do!” Patricia told him. “A woman’s legs are powerful things, in a thousand different ways, and they deserve luxury tights or stockings. Ah, there you are at last,” she said softly, as his mouth met her sex. “I thought you were scared.”

She smiled as he explored, and hooked one leg around his neck, locking his head in place. She moved her calf back and forth over the back of his head, delighting in the crackling of static electricity as the nylon ruffled his hair.

“Please let me worship your feet again,” Alan implored after a while.

“Very well,” she assented, amused at his eagerness.

He was very intense now, moaning and groaning with desire, until at last he begged her for sex. She stood up lazily, and told him to get up. She lowered the front of his underpants, and felt his rampant erection with her fingertips, making him gulp.

“Now, take them off!” she commanded, pointing at his underpants. He yanked them off in one go, almost falling over in his impatience.

“So, you want sex now?” Patricia asked.

“Yes! I do, I do!”

“Hmm, wouldn’t you like to take the domination to another level?”

“Is there another level?”

“Oh, yes! Tell me, have you ever lost a fight to a woman?”

“What?” he stammered.

“Have you ever been beaten up by a woman?”

“No!” his mouth went dry at the thought. “You mean, you can fight?”

“Naturally. I’ve had clients who have got rough, you know, and I wouldn’t have been able to deal with them if I hadn’t learnt self-defence. So far we’ve only been playing at domination, and I’ve been acting the part. But I can do it for real, you know. That is, if you’re man enough …”

Patricia sensed that Alan wouldn’t be able to resist the idea, and it would be a pleasant change for her from being groped about by men she didn’t care for. If anything she had underestimated his eagerness to try this new level of his fetish. She had some fun playing the haughty lady, insisting on him carrying her to the gym, to avoid getting the feet of her expensive tights dirty.

As they stood on the mat, Alan realised for the first time that she was very slightly taller than he was – another stimulating ingredient to the simmering pot of excitement. Patricia, taking command of the event, told Alan to show her his strength with the weights, while she loosened up on the mat. What a display of womanly beauty she showed him! She stretched her long, tapering legs; she perched, one-handed on the mat and spun; she did cartwheels, and showed her masterly agility in a routine that bordered on dance.

Keeping the courtly, historical novel-type theme, she invited Alan to kiss her hand, and then told him,

“Now, test of strength.”

“Are you sure?” he stammered, glancing at her arms and shoulders, and emphasising the power of his.

“Oh, yes!” she replied, adopting a stance. He locked hands with her and pushed, showing initial restraint, to gauge her ability.

“You see,” she instructed him, “it’s widely known that whereas a man’s strength is in his arms and shoulders, a woman’s is in her legs. Now, while your upper body looks formidable in comparison to mine, I can use the deceptive superiority of my legs to feed strength into my arms, like this.”

She equalled his force, so he applied a little more pressure, which she met. She was strong, he had to admit to himself, but he was still confident he could overpower her. Sure enough, he had her in retreat. Now, just a little more force should decide it …

Corrosive acid seemed to burn its way from his genitals through his body. Patricia had brought her right knee up sharply into his groin.

“You love my silky tights and smooth, long legs, don’t you Alan?” she chuckled, as he yelled. “Lady’s knee in shimmering tights crushes the executive’s balls,” she murmured gloatingly, before advancing and grabbing him round the neck with one hand, and clutching his free hand with her other. With a swift, violent movement she had him over, sprawling untidily on the mat at her feet.

“Do you ever shout at your secretary, Alan?” Patricia asked, preparing to pounce.

“Eh, ah, er, yes,” he gasped.

“Well you want to be careful,” she warned, landing on him with a thump, then school girl pinning him and staring into his eyes, inches below hers. “More and more women are taking up self-defence, and the next time you shout at her, she might start throwing you round the office. Although you might like it, you pervert!” she added, teasingly rubbing her thigh against his cock for a few moments.

She shifted position, and lay across him, locking his left arm in the crook of her right leg, and yanking his right arm into a bar, causing him to shout in pain. “Yes, your meek little secretary suddenly removes her glasses, and hurls you to the floor! You’ll think about that when you see her Monday morning, won’t you?”

“Oh God!” Alan exclaimed, as she maintained the hold, but with a swing from those deadly legs, scooped him up in the air, so that he lay suspended across her. Then she crashed him down again, and resumed the hold, notching up the pressure of the arm bar, until he begged her to stop, telling her she’d won the round.

Patricia stood up and looked down at him, amused, while he whimpered in pain. At length he stood up.

“Ok, you’ve made your point,” he panted. Let’s have another glass of champagne and relax now, eh?”

“Oh, no!” she insisted, kicking him in the balls. “You opted for the full domination,” she continued, powering a high kick into his face, “and the programme can’t be interrupted.”

The kick had him down on his knees. Patricia hit on a novel form of standing head scissors, by standing with one leg pushing against the side of his neck, and hooking the other to lock it in place, once again causing a crackle of static electricity.

“That reminds me,” she commented thoughtfully, before bringing him down and maintaining the scissors, forcing his face against her sex.

“Mustn’t enjoy this too much,” she considered after a while, shifting into a crossways head scissor and sending a charge of extra strength through her legs. It was enough to force a second surrender from Alan, declaring he couldn’t breathe.

She toyed with him lazily for a few moments, threatening more destruction from her legs, before finally moving away from him. She knelt and smiled at her handiwork: a gasping self-pitying wreck, clutching his throat and moaning. She stood up, hands on hips, and waited for Alan to recover enough to stand as well.

What a contrast! There was Patricia, sleek, confident and in control; then there was Alan, cowering, close to tears, and imploring her to stop. She looked at him, still smiling, but appearing to invite him to make the next move. He chose escape. He made to run, but she easily anticipated his move, seizing his wrist and halting him with her right leg.

Alan felt his whole body jar as a karate chop banged down on his neck. He partially collapsed to his hands and knees, presenting an obvious target. Patricia helped herself, and kicked him in the balls from behind. This made him totally collapse, howling, and he lay on his front, dreading what might come next. He didn’t have long to wait, and she knelt on his neck, which was still very tender from her karate chop.

“Oh, God!” he groaned again. Patricia squatted on the small of his back, trapping his arms behind him between her thighs and ribs, and prized his chest upwards in a camel clutch, with her hands grabbing his head. She changed this to a sleeper, bringing him by degrees onto his back, before opting for a headscissor-armlock.

The shooting pains in his arm competed with the choke hold of her legs. But Alan must be the judge which won, and he was in no doubt:

“Nooo! You’re killing me with your legs! I submit!”

Patricia ignored his plea, and maintained the scissors, determined to knock him out. It didn’t take long. What a wimp, she thought, what a loser! She stood up, and realised for the first time that Alan’s erection had increased during their bout. It would have to be the shocking wand, which would make his genitals feel numb for a few days. She already had it in a locker, whose lock she had previously picked with a hair grip while Alan had to make “an important phone call”.

Well, an escort must be resourceful; still more so, a courtesan.