Elegance tinged with perversity

It's always a pleasure to meet you at each new session. I also enjoy bringing Marthe to life, session after session.

I've always more or less lived with a female alter ego. It's pretty hard to explain, but from a very young age, I started imagining myself in situations as a woman.

My greatest fantasy is to be able to switch from one sex to the other at the snap of my fingers.

When I was nine, I imagined myself as a dancer, after seeing a ballet.

When I was twelve, I imagined myself tied to the mast as a prisoner after seeing a pirate movie.

When I was fifteen, I imagined I had to transform myself into a woman to escape from who knows who.

At eighteen, I imagined myself confused with a woman in hospital, forced to conform to what some perverted doctor wanted of me.

As the years went by, so did the fantasies, always with that feminine alter ego close by.

Starting out simply as a transvestite dancer, the prisoner's fantasy led me to add bonds and chains and discover self-bondage and then masochism.

My solo discoveries were followed by couple discoveries. Many years later, all this led me to take the step of meeting you.

I don't think I've ever suffered from this "dual" state. I'm a man, and I like to imagine experiencing certain things as a woman. I don't feel the need to look any further.

For the past two years, Marthe has been this alter ego.

Initially a little taken aback by the arrival of this character, I brought him to life in my dreams.

Marthe, a man hired as a female soubrette for lack of a suitable candidate, lives under the iron rule of a stern Mistress who doesn't hesitate to punish any deviation. She lives in a large house, disguised as a woman so as not to appear different from the rest of the staff.

Marthe, her fire in the buttocks, her mischief with the gardener's son, her lateness, her stammering, her inability to rhyme in -ette.

Marthe, her chastity cage and necklace to mark her lack of freedom.

Nowadays, in the days leading up to one of our meetings, I often imagine myself being summoned to answer for a mistake, a delay or some other rule violation.

This was the case at our last meeting.

During this one, I discovered your new cross. You were worried that it would distort the ambience of your boudoir.

This bourgeois boudoir, candlelit, hushed and then behind the red curtains, the other side, the collection of pumps, ties, whips and that cross!

Initial codes are hijacked. The prie-dieu and the ropes, the shelf and the cocks, the varnished (and smooth!) wood of the cross and the leather bracelets attached to the metal rings.

I felt a perfect harmony between the elegant, perverse atmosphere of your boudoir and the character you embody so well during the sessions.

The heat of the wax, the cold of the steel, the embrace of the ropes, the tingling of the roulette, the spasms caused by the electrodes, the blindfold, the gag, the slaps, the caresses.

Your orders and also your whispers, your laughter and your smiles, your breath that speeds up, that slows down, your tone of playfulness and then mockery.

And then the wood, still rough against my skin. The fumbling to fasten the bracelets in the right place. Vulnerable.

When the swifts started dancing on my skin, I left. If you could have seen my face, you'd probably have said I had that look!

Other instruments followed. More or less heavy, scathing, stinging. Pain mixed with pleasure. A circle as vicious as Martha and the gardener's son combined.

That I felt like Marthe being punished.

I still shudder when I think about it.