Men Can't Cry , livre ebook

MEN CAN’T CRY
Based on a True Story
Dimitra E.




First published in 2017 by
House of Erotica Books
www.houseoferoticabooks.com
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2018 Dimitra E.
The right of Dimitra E. to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The views and opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of House of Erotica Books or Andrews UK Limited.
Warning: This story is about a female dominating males. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language, which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is for sale to adults only , as defined by the laws of the country, in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where underage readers cannot access them.
Disclaimer: Please don’t try new sexual practices, especially those that might be found in this title, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. The author will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of information contained in this novel.




Everyone is a potential naked slave to you, once you become a trainer.
-Anne Rice




For E.G. and I.G.



Chapter 1
January 6, 2012, Switzerland
I glanced around my luxurious new place of work with indescribable curiosity. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen before.
I must be out of my mind - completely crazy to travel halfway around the world to come here. To undertake this odyssey that would change my life forever.
Even as a professional dominatrix, I’d never been in a place like this before.
Maison de Sade, a three-story house in Zurich, was fully equipped to provide the ultimate BDSM experience - for a price. I’d been in the business for a couple of years, but I felt like an absolute beginner that day. Everything I knew about BDSM I had learned from the Internet or books.
Truthfully, I had traveled to Zurich because I needed to. The money would be great. After all, my situation in Tampa had not been rosy at the time. And while America was still in a terrible recession, Switzerland’s economy was booming. I definitely wanted to work there.
Madame Diamond was showing me the dungeons - torture chambers , as she called them. I’d recognized her immediately from Maison de Sade’s website when she had picked me up at Zurich Airport. She looked to be about fortyish, an exotic brunette with full lips and smooth hair pulled back in a classic ponytail. We had been corresponding by e-mail for almost six weeks, over the course of which I’d learned that she was from Germany and had moved to Switzerland years earlier to manage Maison de Sade for a foreign investor.
For some reason, I’d been anxious about meeting her, but she seemed genuinely pleased about my arrival in Zurich. The smile on her face seemed genuine. I liked her instantly.
For the next month, she would teach me how to be a real dominatrix.
Madame Diamond led me down hallways of black marble tile, decorated with ornate rugs. Antique sconces glowed softly along the chic gray walls, reflected in mirrors hanging in gilt frames. It was even more luxurious than I had imagined. The sprawling house smelled clean, and my senses filled with that particular scent of leather and rubber. I followed her in and out of the tastefully furnished dungeons, truly designed for fantasy. The Red Dungeon, the Blue Dungeon, the Purple Dungeon, the Green Dungeon - all accordingly colored, they were decorated with seductive hues of crimson, cobalt, royal purple, and emerald, complete with industrial stainless-steel chains and carabiners hanging from the ceiling; an astonishing array of apparatuses of extreme torture were lying about. My mouth hung open as I stared at restraints, whips, ropes, nipple clamps, blindfolds, ball gags, hoods, and all the other pieces of torture equipment. Jesus Christ. I had no idea what some of the stuff was.
Any grogginess left over from the ten-hour flight from Tampa immediately disintegrated. I felt the nervous energy inside me multiply. Maison de Sade was truly something.
I caught a glimpse of myself in an antique mirror. My hair was windblown, but the chill I felt had nothing to do with the January breeze. Apparently I still had a lot to learn. What I would actually learn, I did not know at the time.
Moments later, we stepped into an all-gray kitchen at the end of a long corridor on the first floor. I tried to relax.
“Would you like something to eat? You must be hungry.” She nodded at the table covered in white linen. The kitchen table faced a wall covered with monitors. They revealed the activity at the entryway, all of the hallways, and the stairs.
“Sure.” I sat down in one of the chairs. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to work with you.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she replied, busying herself with some croissants and pasties. “Anytime I can mentor someone, I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
She uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured it into crystal flutes. She then took her place at the opposite side of the table. I’d never had champagne at nine thirty in the morning before. I could learn to like this.
“Let’s toast your arrival in Zurich.” She picked up her glass, and we touched our flutes. “Welcome to Maison de Sade.”
I took a long sip of my champagne. It was ice cold and tasted delicious sliding down my throat. I ate a fresh croissant while we chatted.
“If I’m remembering your e-mail correctly, you grew up in Germany as well?” she continued, looking at me expectantly.
“Yes, although I was born in Greece. My family moved to Germany when I was one,” I replied.
“Have you lived in the United States long?”
“Yes, fifteen years, but I’m planning to move back to Europe. It’s inevitable. I miss my family.” I felt an increasingly familiar pang of homesickness. Just think: now that I’d found Maison de Sade, I wouldn’t need to look for a job after I’d moved from the States.
Then she showed me Maison de Sade’s price list, and fresh blood rushed to my face. I almost choked. Wow, a thousand Swiss francs per hour, not including tips! Zurich was an expensive city. With that money, I could even splurge on a trip to visit my grandmother in Greece. I leaned back in my chair, a bit tipsy but suddenly calm around Diamond. When we’d emptied our glasses, she suggested showing me my room.
“Are you tired from your flight?” she finally asked, as if reading my mind.
“Yes, a bit.” I grabbed my large, black suitcase from the hall and followed her up to a second-floor bedroom.
“You can rest now, and I’ll book tomorrow’s appointments for you,” she said and turned to leave.
Before entering the room, I had seen another door to the left, with a sign that read Klinikum .
“Diamond, what’s that?” I pointed to the door.
“It’s our white room.”
I couldn’t hide my surprise. She must have seen my puzzled expression and laughed.
“Fantasy medical scenarios. It’s decked out with state-of-the-art medical equipment.”
Of course it was. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
I swallowed uneasily.
My room was a gold and jade antique affair, the finest from the Old World. I admired the crystal chandelier hanging above the hand-carved four-poster bed. They certainly didn’t scrimp on the quality of the furnishings at Maison de Sade. They didn’t have to, I realized, when wealthy men paid out of their asses to be dominated and abused for their pleasure.
After Diamond left, I was alone and jet-lagged - frankly exhausted - but happy. A new door was opening for me. Slipping out of my travel-creased clothes and dropping them onto the bench at the foot of the bed, I walked into the bathroom. The water in the shower was instantly hot, and I stood beneath it, letting the heat loosen the knot between my shoulders. I slept like a log the whole day, waking again at midnight.
The white room intrigued me.
I padded next door, pushed open the heavy metal door, and entered the room quietly. It was indeed white, tiled, and sparkling clean. It had white cabinets along the walls, and a huge surgical lamp was hanging from the ceiling. An ob-gyn medical table and dental chair stood in the middle of the room. Near the sink was a surgical cart on wheels, a box of surgical gloves, and a tube of lubricant. Could I be believable as a “doctor” or “nurse”?
The next day was full of appointments. It was eleven thirty, and I dressed carefully for my first client. I was nervous, anxious not to disappoint Madame Diamond.
My client was a regular of Maison de Sade, a banker who wanted to be a little schoolboy, punished by his strict teacher. I was dressed as a not-so-prim-and-proper schoolteacher.
I gazed at myself in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw: full breasts, small waist, a cupless bra propping up my tits. A classic white shirt was cinched at the waist with a corselet. Slim hips and thighs were wrapped in a black pencil skirt with a slit, over the sheerest stockings and lace garters. No panties. I wore pointed-toe stilettos with six-inch solid-brass heels - the shoes too small on purpose and hurting so that I could better channel my ang