Swans adventures. An average week where a domme is launched into season and phone chat goes hideously wrong…
By Elizabeth Swan on
So here we are. The third blog that I have written in the last two months but the first one I have posted. The first was a moan. The second was a rant. And this one...just a write up of my week. (And after editing it is probably two months old). My week involved sadness, anger and a lot of laughing. The sadness we will leave aside. It isn’t mine. It belongs to the families of two of my clients who over the years became dear friends and are now ill.
The anger can also be left aside. Some people are appalling people, we know this. Best that we leave them to it. For now.
But the laughing? Well that is what life is about. My memories of all the people I have loved and cared about in my life are often focused on the laughter. The laughter which involves the shaking of shoulders and the tears rolling. Then you know you are in the presence of a loved one. If I explained these moments you wouldn’t get them. You really do have to be there. Does your life flash before your eyes or is it the laughter that takes you away?
I occasionally do phone chat. One of my work colleagues occasionally has me talk to one of her clients as he likes speaking to lots of different women. For this gent I am never Elizabeth, I am different characters with different ages and voices. I have asked most of my friends to talk to him...even my mother spoke to him once. She whispered afterwards “Does that mean I am now a sex worker?” You betcha mum. And dad is your pimp as he was giggling with me in the living room.
Anyway this week I was another character. Five foot ten and fifteen stone. A boxer part time who worked in a pub. I know a bit about boxing. I used to know people in that world. And my left hook is/was enough to floor a man. My second fact was that I lived in Margate. Any questions about that I can answer as I know Margate. Shell Grotto? Check! What could go wrong?
“What ales do you have on tap?”
Oh fuck fuck fuck fuck
“Oh the line is cutting out a little. Could you repeat that?”
Frantic googling on my computer.
“What ales do you have on tap?”
Oh mother fucker LOAD you crap useless why on earth can’t I think of a single ale?!
“Uhhhh, well, errrm”
Just say something
ANYTHING! SAY ANYTHING!
Not that! Don’t say that!
That was Thursday. Then on Friday I had a meeting with a new client. I don’t often see new people now but if the introductory email appeals then I’ll take a punt. It’s all about connection. What happen in the session is irrelevant. If I like the man I will enjoy the session, whether the session involves, CP, CBT, cross dressing, tickling, sploshing or strap on.
And the best way to tell if I am enjoying it is if the time flies. It was a three hour session and it didn’t feel long enough. Lovely, lovely man who has already booked to see me again.
Then afterwards I went to another slaves to drop my things in his home in Belgravia (for five years I have asked him if I could work from there. And for five years he has laughed in response). Then off we went for a meal with some of his none kink friends. I spend a lot of time with wealthy men singular. Easy peasy whether sessioning or dining in fabulous restaurants. I’ve never had a problem with conversation. That is, as long as the man isn’t indiscreet in front of the waitress “SO WHO HAVE YOU SPANKED TODAY!” or the man isn’t one of those berks who like to put a woman down (funnily enough I don’t accept them as clients) But a group? And a group of successful, well educated men and women at that? Amongst them was an ex editor of a national newspaper. I was fairly certain that he would smell a rat if I talked to him for too long about, well anything and everything. What do you write? ermmmm What do you do? ermmmm Where do you summer? (ooo ooo I know this one!) “Stoke!” So I thought as I stepped out of the taxi, as long as I am not sitting next to that chap I shall be okay. I can bluff and turn conversations around faster than you can say “dildo in the ass your honour?”
Sweeping into the private club we were were shown our seats…and lo and behold I am seated next to the editor. Eeeeek! But on the plus side, at least I hadn’t met any of the men before. Now that MIGHT have been awkward….