I am exceedingly bored by the weather and my tedious job. It's quiet out there. During a quiet week, only the regular odd balls call. A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine in the same profession declared that one mustn't grumble about the odd balls. You really know you're in trouble when even they stop calling. Well, we've finally descended into that pit. Oh well, one mustn't stagger around in the mire railing at the elements, like some perverted King Lear. Let's suck it up and write a novel. I must just cast aside my fears of impending poverty. I'm sure we're all in the same boat (myself and the other Mistresses, that is. Although, I know a few and they're cool, there seems to be a frightening percentage of replicants in the boat with me these days. I thought that the lack of human empathy was supposed to be the realm of the call girl).

There's a rather disconcerting shift these days into the field of humiliation. It's proving to be a popular request. An excellent example of this 'shift' occurred last week. A client of mine who has been visiting with me for two years or so, originally visited predominantly for corporal punishment and golden showers. Last week, we had progressed to him licking out my toilet bowl dressed in mesh lingerie and a long blonde wig. While he was parading around my play room, perfoming a stip tease, I sat back in wonderment at what was happening with the world. Perhaps I should explain further. This is a middle aged English businessman who arrives in cufflinks. Before you know it, he's semi naked and caressing himself to the tune of Portishead while I proclaim 'that's right, tweek those nipples. Show me what a slut you are!' He is most enthusiastic.

Why is it considered humiliation to be dressed in womens' pants? And why does he have to be a 'slut' called Samantha while doing so? When did he decide that being hit repeatedly with a stick wasn't enough? Perhaps I'm asking the wrong questions.

By the way, I've been doing this for over seven years. Maybe even eight years.