Xaviera Hollander - The Happy Hooker - My Own Story

Tame Timmy is twenty-nine, always suntanned, with a really lovely face and a darling disposition.

His routine had been to come to my house, but lately, since he divorced his last wife, he implored me to came over to his house and freak him out.

“Okay, Timmy, don’t you worry, I’ll come over as soon as I can get away,” I assured him. Fortunately, it was a Saturday night and quiet at my house.

It was around eight o’clock when I got there, and already dark, and he was in a really freaky mood. He wanted me to dress him in women’s clothes, tie him tightly down to the bed, switch off all the lights, and leave him alone in the gloom.

I left the front door ajar while I went home, watched a movie on TV, and had something to eat. It was dusk when I left him three hours before, but when I returned the apartment was in total darkness, and the atmosphere was kind of spooky. The silence was eerie, because I knew that somewhere in a back bedroom lay my living slave.

I walked into the bedroom and switched on the lights and found Tame Timmy in almost exactly the same position as I had left him. There was a sad expression in his eyes, and an erection in his penis. I released the bonds and gave him his freedom, but only temporarily. I dressed him up again in a different outfit and, with him back in bondage, I raped him strong and forcefully, meanwhile slapping my beautiful helpless, tied-down slave in the face. At the same time, I fed him an entire box of amyl nitrates, to get him good and stoned.

He has since made another home appointment to coincide with the television screening of a Boris Karloff horror movie, and I had to bind him up in an excruciating position, like a giant pretzel, close to the set, which is where he spent the next two hours being spooked out of his head.

Not all S and M’s are harmless or docile, and I heard that when the New York freaks held a convention this year in a Manhattan hotel, two slaves were so savagely beaten during a demonstration by overenthusiastic masters that they had to be hospitalized.

There are those like the Cucumber Kid who come to my house wanting all kinds of damage done to them.

This man, who had just been released from the hospital after another girl shoved a cucumber up his ass and split him in a thousand pieces, wants you to impale him on a hatpin, drip hot wax on his balls, or do anything else that will cause him unbearable pain.

This kind of treatment does more than cause pain, and I refuse to do anything that might cause anyone real damage, although I myself was almost murdered in my own house in a freak scene gone haywire.

It began innocently enough when a man named Larry Lerner called up late one night with a reference from Madeleine Henry, and he wanted to come by. I honestly didn’t want any more business, because it was three A.M. I had shut up shop and was relaxing over a fruit juice with a girl named Sarah, my roommate and also a working girl. But I had promised Madeleine I would take good care of her customers, and to stick to my word, I let him come up.

Lerner was skunk drunk when he arrived, and at once I regretted letting him come. If I’d had my radar working properly, I would have realized he was trouble and told him to come back tomorrow. I hate drunks at any time, let alone at three in the morning.

They are slow in their sexual activity, and altogether they are a pain in the neck. I figured with Lerner normal sex would be impossible, bur I couldn’t quite figure the man’s number. There was something kind of sinister about his eyes. They were alternately harsh and dreamy. As I’ve said, I usually can tell a lot by a man’s eyes, but this night I really got the signals crossed. I decided he was a masochist.

“Why don’t we do something really weird,” I suggested. “You are going to be my slave, and I’m going to be your master, and I want you to do exactly what I say.”

“No,” he said, “I’m gonna be the sadist.”

“Maybe you didn’t understand what I mean,” I said. “I will be the domineering one.”

In general you don’t try to talk people into freak scenes. You can mention the subject and see their reaction, but with a drunk you’ve got to be careful; because he can react exactly the opposite of what he feels.

At that point, however, Lerner had become quite passive, so I figured he was going to play my game, although he insisted on Sarah watching, even though he paid up front only for me. In Lerner’s case I had to bend standard procedure, because he was so drunk and erratic, and accept his money beforehand.

We decided to use the living room and pushed the nearby furniture to one side while he undressed. Then I got out my goodie bag and put him in bondage with rawhide, ties, handcuffs, and everything. I also put him in a blindfold, but I did it all very gently and did not beat him at all.

We laid him down in the middle of the floor while Sarah sat swiveling herself in the chair teasing him and saying how ridiculous he looked.

During the fifteen or twenty minutes Lerner showed little life and was altogether a very boring slave, so in order to hurry this thing along I whispered to Sarah I was going to the kitchen to get some amyl nitrate to freak him out fast.

And this reckless gesture was the worst thing I could have done, but I was then naive about the lethal combination of alcohol and drugs.

Immediately after I popped the amyl nitrate under his nose, he stiffened. “What is that you’re giving me?” he choked.

“I’m just giving you a harmless popper,” I told him, “so don’t worry about it. Inhale, inhale.”

But Lerner was momentarily panicked. “Everything has gone completely black,” he bellowed; “get me out of here.”

“It can’t last more than thirty seconds,” I assured him, but he was impossible to placate. So Sarah and I spent the next ten minutes removing the blindfold and the bonds, by which time we supposed he had calmed down and was over his experience.

But we couldn’t have been more wrong.

As he reached toward me on the pretext of getting a cigarette from the coffee table, I saw the sadistic look in his eyes too late. Before I could jump out of the way, his huge hamfist had landed me a vicious blow to the jaw and sent me reeling.

The madman pounced on me, grabbed my long hair, and started hammering violently at the back of my neck, my chest, and my groin. He had gone stark mad, berserk.

Sarah was screaming and made a few attempts to pull him off me, but he sent her running with a karate blow to the head. She vanished, and I didn’t know where, because I was too busy trying to save my skin.

The savage beating went on for about fifteen minutes, blood was coming from my nose and lips, and it was a wonder I was not already dead. Any other woman would have crumpled already, but luckily I have a really hard head.

To show you how hard it is, once I was riding my bicycle along the canal in Holland when the car in front braked suddenly and threw me forward onto its roof, then down to the ground. When I stood up and felt my head, it was a little bit sore, but no bruises. There was a big, deep hole in the car.

After what seemed an eternity, the telephone mercifully rang, and I grabbed it, and Sarah was at the other end saying, “Hang in there, Xaviera, I’m coming up with the police.” This to me was the worst she could do, because you don’t call the police up to a whorehouse! But on the other hand, to just let me get killed was no good, either.

At that point Lerner said: “I’m going to kill you.” And with murder in his eyes he picked up the heavy wooden coffee table with the big brass feet and had it held over my head.

Just then the doorbell rang, and Lerner dropped the table and suddenly calmed down. But he still had hold of what was left of my hair and was still threatening to kill me, although he was rational enough to try to put on his underpants with the other hand.