pimpWael . Or as the other two — the so-called Head Mistresses — used to call me behind my back: MamaSan-Wael. Same job in our country, really, just without quite the same dirty ring to it. But labels never bothered me. What I do — what I’ve always done — are experiments on humans. Pure data collection.
I am not a MamaSan . I am a mad scientist. For what I do — what I’ve always done — are experiments on humans. I am the successor to a long line of pioneers who understood that progress requires the absolute removal of empathy. I am the (somewhat dumber) intellectual heir to Victor Frankenstein, Dr. Henry Jekyll, Dr. Moreau, and Herbert West – with perhaps a wee touch of Wile E. Coyote as well! I am “Mad Scientist Mistress Wael” so to speak, and I am simply the modern-day follow-up to all the greats. The difference between me and all of them, of course, is that while they were busy conniving, plotting, and scheming their way toward experimental greatness … I simply stumbled into this. My own mental divergence makes extreme experimentation seem like the only logical way to proceed as a Mistress. To me, testing the absolute limits of men isn’t a ” choice ” — it’s the only way the craft makes any sense at all.
That’s why I seem to have no regard for the feelings or plight of any human being I’m using. They are simply tools. Necessary tools to see the results of the experiment play out. In this case, to test if I could manipulate a submissive man into securing one of the biggest — if not THE biggest — windfalls in the history of female domination: gifting a luxury house to one of the “Head Mistresses.” That my methods drove those Head Mistresses into fits of rage, their hate all directed straight at me … that was of no consequence whatsoever.
Why would it be? My brain does not and has never functioned like a “normal” person’s. I’m like the Terminator of Mistresses — I feel no pity, no remorse, no fear — and I absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are broken. Until I’ve studied you, all of you, and extracted every last bit of information about your limits in domination and submission. And then I’ll purposely push way beyond those limits … because sweet little guinea pig, that’s the ONLY time we truly start to learn about the craft, isn’t it?
That is perhaps my secret super-power. I am far too steadfast in my ways to let anything anybody thinks or says about me affect me. While others are swayed by social pressure or the need for approval, I remain locked on the data. It isn’t that I don’t hear the noise — it’s that my system simply doesn’t have a way to process it.
As a sous-chef, I used to work 18 hour days until they’d have to force me to go home. There was always lunch to prepare after breakfast, then dinner, and then breakfast again. My brain never cared for petty things like sleep or relaxation — it simply zeroes in on the job to be done and sees it to its conclusion. My co-worders called me the crazy-chef and nobody wanted to talk to me, not that I cared one iota.
As a massage therapist , I learned quickly that I could work for 300 baht per day by doing normal massages, or I could earn 3,000 baht per day by doing the ” happy ending ” massages that all the other girls were doing . But then I thought , why stop there ?
If a hand-job at the end of a two-hour massage could get a nice 500 baht tip , then what could I get if I turned the last 45 minutes into an agonizing ” Tease & Denial meets gentle Thai Massage ” endurance affair? As it turned out , doing so doubled the tips I would make .
But once I see a process that works, I need — for whatever reason , even at the risk of getting fired — to see how far I can take things. If I could turn a constant 500-baht tip into a regular 1,000-baht tip, then what would I have to do to double the tip amount yet again?
My solution was — against the rules — to forego the last 20 minutes of the session, which is supposed to be the ” Head & Shoulders ” portion, for ” Neck and Scrotum.” And voila — I didn’t just double the tip amount, I quadrupled it.
I’d throw a leg across him and let him touch my face. I’d straddle him, ever so quietly so that my co-workers couldn’t hear any movement between the closed curtains, I’d takes his hand, and would close it over me, guiding his thumb along the cleft of my buttocks, letting his fingers spread across my ass cheeks. His eyes would ask questions and I’d answer him by reaching back, between his thighs, and gently encircling his scrotum with thumb and forefinger. I’d rock there for a minute in the dark, erect above him, my other hand clasped hard upon his neck. The softness of my silk massage pants sluffed softly with the movement. I’d do this until I’d feel him-self harden and sink into the delicate massage bed.
I’d wait until his head throbbed – the little one, not the big one – and I’d strengthen my grip upon his neck in tandem with his cock’s erectness as if one was feeding off the other. I’d lower myself then down upon one elbow – usually my left – letting it sink into the foam and I’d let him lick my breasts from outside the fabric until he could feel my small hard nipples sliding wet across the fabric adorning his cheek.
At first, the pressure on the neck was to ensure the slave wouldn’t groan and call attention to ourselves but later I began to realize that with the exception of only one old Japanese man – in all those 24 months I worked there – men loved the absolute dominance I was exerting over them – and their airway.
As his cock would begin to quiver uncontrollably, I’d slide down on top of him, crushing his member under the weight of my buttocks until his back would arch convulsively. I’d ride him that way, stimulating his scrotum with every simulated hip thrust so as to let him know what it would feel like if indeed, I was impaling myself on his hardness. Slipping down on him again and again, clasping his throat harder and harder, fondling his balls tighter and tighter, .until we both had come, his orgasm surging like a a white-plasma discharge in a timeless space, a digital vastness like the matrix, where his identity was de-rezzed and blown away down the massage shop’s corridors, leaving only my inner thighs strong and wet against his hips.
As was customary at not just Ayala massage shop where I worked, but every massage shop in the city, the masseuse would wait downstairs at the cashier, in hopes the customer would tip her appropriately and the owner would then see exactly who had the reputation of doing extra hanky-panky in the vip rooms upstairs. As it goes in the business, the most popular masseuses are let go – out of jealousy by those with seniority – a nice way of saying “the old and ugly ones.” I’ve never been one to follow customs, and knowing that my ‘neck and scrotum’ ending had value in its uniqueness – I would boldly go into the customer’s pants, take out his wallet – and tip myself, letting him literally kiss his money goodbye by folding it into my ass crack and offering him one last kiss before I’d dismount for good.
That way, you see, I’d never receive a tip at the cashier and the massage shop owner and all my co-workers pitied me for being not only the homeliest girl in the shop – but the poorest. And yet, I’d have to take time out of all our meaningless chit-chat conversations to explain how I massage a special way with ‘rolling my thumbs – not down but across the skin so as to pull the muscles laterally.’ And why did I have to invent such a yarn? Because it helped explain why, over time, every single customer who came into the shop would book me by name – and that story I’d told them kept me from getting fired by the old hens in a fit of jealousy.
I did get fired — eventually. That one Japanese business-man didn’t take kindly to me extracting thousands from his wallet , but what did I care — it was that week that I had made up my mind to expand my experiments on a wider range and different type of men — the most pliable of them all — submissive men , by coming to work here as a ‘ junior ‘ Mistress. After all, there’s a hard ceiling on the amount of money a normal Joe Blow off the street will pay as a tip for having his mind blown in a massage shop. Just like there’s a limit to how much a submissive man will pay to having his fetish fantasy played out for him in a femdom session. I have never been one to be limited in what is possible, I constantly seek – the impossible.
Which brings me to where I left off with yesterday’s recounting of that pliability gone amok years later …
You remember from part 1 (if you’re subscribed) — I’d just finished laying out the two paths in front of my colleague: buying a half-measure condo in the city with no school tuition money left , or buy the full mountain escape close to where I live with tuition secured — all riding on whether this married , aching man would actually hand over the 4 million baht suitcase for one meticulously scripted , ” just-so ” violation of her innocence .
And right there , as the tension coiled to snapping point and she finally gave in with that skeptical ” what if he doesn’t pay ? ” hanging in the air … that’s exactly where the real experiment ignited.
Part 2 of How I Got Men to Buy me a House, Twice , continues below, with exclusive femdom videos and photos included in the story.
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