Free Laura Meets Jeffrey by Jeffrey Michelson, Laura Bradley Page A

of something that it’s good to be rid of. It feels right.”
    â€œWhen I was about twelve years old,” Laura confesses, “I read this salacious story about someone getting whipped in New York—and it totally lingered in my head.
    â€œIt made such a huge impression on me, it was so decadent, and it was so other —because this woman was totally having pleasure in searching out these hot guys who would whip her. And I was like, ‘WHAT? OH MY GOD!’
    â€œI don’t remember the name of the book or who wrote it,” Laura continues, “it wasn’t The Story of O— I just remember that this woman was searching out hot guys who would whip her. It was such an amazing thing! It was just such a foreign concept to me. And it intrigued me—so I always wanted to be in it for real. I was creating my own novel out of my experience. I would do anything to take orgasms to the extreme, and Jeffrey was doing that for me. I was in a place where being whipped felt good and I knew Jeffrey was the right guy to take me down this road. I knew being slutty and whipped was the next place I wanted sex to take me.
    â€œI finally did read The Story of O when I was going out with Jeffrey,” Laura explains, “and God, The Story of O definitely has preoccupied a huge amount of my orgasms for most of my life.”
    She dresses, smokes a joint, and heads off to work. I wonder what her tricks will make of her black and blue ass. Out of bed and brewing coffee, I look in the mirror. She’s gone. I am not Mick Jagger or Clint Eastwood anymore. I am just this Jewish guy with love handles who finally has the woman of his dreams.

12
    Whip this
    That first whipping turned on a new switch inside me. I had enjoyed power and domination games, and I could get into talking all kinds of strange shit. But that was just words and didn’t leave welts. I had never had an urge to whip a woman.
    I met a few guys who would boast about some chick who loved to be tied up and hurt. Once, at an orgy, a black pimp smacked around the white girl he brought who not only didn’t just take it, she loved it and begged for more. It was unsettling. During a break while sharing a joint he gloated about other beatings he had inflicted on other women who wanted it. He was sinister, perverted in a way that I didn’t admire. I remember thinking his behavior was a weakness, not a strength. Slapping asses and snapping directions were my limit.
    For some reason sadism seemed less odious in women. An orgy buddy, Janet, an ex-Playboy bunny, worked as a dominatrix. She spent her days humiliating and whipping men. Usually they were rich and powerful men who, I guess, needed a vacation from being boss. I accepted it in her. In bed with me she was a submissive pussycat.
    Once I met Janet in her lobby as she was coming home from work. Inside her apartment, she opened her coat to reveal her black-leather Mistress-Janet, Goddess-of-Pain, uniform.
    â€œI didn’t get a chance to change. What do you think of me looking like this?”
    â€œYou are startling to behold.” I convulsed back in a hammy theatrical cringe. These were the days before girls dressed like that to go to rock clubs, proms, or bar and bat mitzvahs.
    She must have had on a dozen pieces of clothing, yet half her lovely Playboy Bunny body was exposed. Arm bands, wristlets, bra, corset, coarse fishnet stocking with garters, hip boots, crisscrossing bandoleer belts, choker necklace—all black leather—and metal studs everywhere, especially on her leather thong. “And what naughty things did you do today, little boy?” she grinned, taking what must have been an elephant whip out of her closet and posing like a postcard from Hell.
    â€œNothing that bad.”
    I took the whip out of her hand and dragged her into the bedroom and playfully threw her onto the bed. We kissed. She slipped out of her weaponized panties and turned into the