I beat a 92 year old pensioner for hours – older men are not frail

Nigel requests five minutes alone to change before we begin. He’s brought with him a collection of tote bags full of clothes and paraphernalia, which he dumps on my bathroom floor and begins to hurriedly sort through before insisting that I leave him alone.

“No, no tea for me, thanks.” Do you have Bacardi? NO? Vodka, sure? That will have to be enough. With cola and lots of ice…” and he starts sorting again.

I had barely finished his drink order when I heard a croaking “Done!” I looked up to see Nigel staggering into my kitchen.

He wears knee-high white socks, four-inch black heels, a gray sneaker, a blouse, a striped tie, and, to complete the effect, messy black pigtails that sit precariously on his shiny, age-spotted bottom.

Nigel is 92. My oldest customer. He grabs his vodka, sticks his tongue out at me, and then hops up the two flights of stairs to my playroom to await his overdue punishment.

The playroom itself is in a detached attic to protect neighbors’ ears and is painted all white as it will also serve as a modeling studio.

There’s a faint smell of Dettol, a nod to the constant disinfection of surfaces and equipment that takes place between customers. Some tell me that the mere whiff of Dettol can make their cocks wobble now.

There’s a picture of Queen Victoria on the wall, the ultimate no-nonsense pin-up, as well as a school desk, a sofa and a range of paraphernalia. It can be a headmistress’s study, a classroom or, with a little imagination and minimal remodeling, an aunt’s boudoir. Outside, seagulls squawk disapprovingly in the roaring traffic.

Nigel stands in front of me shaking as I start to scold him. He lifts his skirts and stands on my desk and I begin. He takes 24 cold strokes with the cane and then stands in the corner, his striped buttocks exposed.

I pace back and forth, waving sticks and taws, watching him shake at the sound. After a few minutes I take him over my knee and start spanking him with my hand and slipper.

He has been visiting me for ten years, strictly alternating with three other women: we all see him quarterly. Occasionally, when one of us is sick or on vacation, he changes the order even though he doesn’t like it.

The pensioner has been visiting disciplinary officers for 65 years, first finding their numbers in phone booths and now online. His desire to be punished began as a teenager.

For as long as I can remember, older clients have told me that they longed for punishment from a dominant woman. It feels innate and inevitable.

I have a theory that it’s because they were caned as punishment in school before these less palatable teaching methods were banned from the classroom.

The endorphin rush and joy you can feel after a good, consensual spanking is simply unparalleled, they tell me. With all of these physical and emotional benefits, it’s a shame that masochists are too often viewed as hilarious, bizarre, inexplicable, and strange: the punch line to a joke that no one wanted to hear.

I have many clients in their 80s and a handful in their 90s who still take the train or drive to me. Of course, spankos tend to be wealthy and middle class, which is also associated with better health and longer life expectancy, but even so, I suspect that for them, pain has some spectacular health benefits.

Nigel usually drives up to me in his shiny navy Jaguar. It’s about a two hour drive from his house to mine. I’ve visited him occasionally and admired his many paintings, antiques and the bomb shelter in his garden, but most of all he likes to come to me. It’s a day trip.

He’s also quicker in his heels than I am. Cross-dressing is a recent phenomenon, since the death of his wife a decade ago, when he started dating me. Nigel tells me he missed the touch of femininity in the house.

He first found me on a porn site. These days he spends a lot of time watching porn. After caring for his cancer-stricken wife, he realizes that time is difficult for him. He wrote down my porn name, googled me and found my email.

Others have seen me in documentaries on Amazon – “My Body,” “My Business,” and “Fifty Shades of Fetish Model.” Older guys are pretty resourceful when it comes to picking up girls. Historically, they had to be: looking for women in the 1950s and ’60s meant cards in phone booths, word of mouth and the occasional contact magazine.

I started in 1995 and really miss the days of receiving handwritten letters to a post office box to arrange a meeting. This meant less wasted time: Because you had put so much effort into a meeting, you were less likely to change your mind at the last minute or not show up at all.

I don’t ask my clients if they have any health problems before I start attacking them. I assume that if I need to know something they will tell me. However, I will ask a few general questions about their mental state as this will impact how much play they can endure. A guy had been playing for so many decades that he had destroyed his butt and found a plastic surgeon willing to implant him with a new butt.

It looked a bit strange, but I could attack it for hours without worrying about blood leaking. The butt gets weaker after a lifetime of beatings. You get the dreaded “weak spot” that opens messily on the first hit.

A new butt is the obvious solution for the man who is used to getting everything he wants instantly, unhindered by dull practicalities.

I have never had a medical emergency while selling my kinky goods. Some of my frail clients have told me that if this happens, I should call an ambulance, leave the front door open and leave. That seems like a sensible plan. Another reason to get the money in advance.

Another customer, Michael, found me on Facebook. His 85-year-old wife died suddenly last year. She had consensually spanked him during their forty year marriage, particularly in the face, which he loves.

I can’t do it as hard or as fast as them, but he trains me determinedly. Only the right side of his face because his dentures don’t fit as comfortably on the left side and he’s afraid I’ll break them.

The other day I slapped Michael until I broke a sweat, but he still shook his head at my ineffectiveness. He showed me pictures of his wife, in her late 70s, dressed in leather gloves and basque, with a whip in her hand. He brought me red wine and dark chocolate because he read that girls like that and that the two go well together. He didn’t want me to go.

As a former electrician, he occasionally does work near my house as part of his pay, but prefers it if I go to his place as he likes to drink a few beers while I beat him up. I felt bad when our lesson was over and I had to leave. But there was someone else waiting.

Most of the time the older guys are widowers, although some still cheat on their wives to give me an afternoon to visit. Some have always been single, like Joseph, who has cerebral palsy. He is 75 and uses a wheelchair, but until a recent shoulder injury was fairly independent, a college lecturer.

Apart from a few chaste kisses, he has rarely been touched by a woman, and fantasies about his pretty young carers dominate his entire sexuality.

One of them, seeing his state of excitement as she transformed him, suggested that he get an escort. But he was too embarrassed to try sex: instead he wanted to be scolded, slapped and then held. So she contacted me.

Many of my clients may be old, but they come to me to escape the real world, not to check in on their health, blood pressure, and sciatica.

They want to feel wild, young and reckless for an afternoon; to leave their needs behind them – and for me it is a privilege to be able to help them.

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