(Picture: Getty Images/500px)
Standing straight, I straddle my client, my body facing his feet. Then I do something that quite frankly makes me feel a bit of an idiot: I begin to squat – and don’t stop until my buttocks firmly hit his nose.
As I sit there, my butt cheeks splayed across his face, I secretly wish I had my phone to play on rather than watch the clock slowly tick on the wall in front of me.
I always try to make my clients happy, but I knew when Norman asked me to break his nose by bouncing my bottom on it, it was going to be a long evening.
He first told me about his desire via a message on X.
Norman had collected every picture of my ass he could find – and reader, there are many – from Instagram, X, Onlyfans and assorted porn sites, and loved to comment obsessively on its juicy meatiness.
‘Look at the shape of that’, he wrote in one message.‘The size, the texture! Could you wear these leggings to bounce on me? Then take those leggings off after half an hour to reveal these pants….
‘Please, please?’ he begged.
Glancing at the pictures he’d unearthed, which included a thong I hadn’t seen for about 12 years, I fired back a reply: ‘Sure, Norman, whatever. That or something like it. Name the day.’
Although he’s the only client to ever ask me to do it, I know he’s not the only one to possess this kink. The act of squashing, which simply involves jumping or lying on someone in order to, well, squash them, is shared by a fair few men. Often plus size women specialise in it, but Norman prefers tall and stocky women.
I’ll be honest though, it’s not something I am a huge fan of as it makes me feel like a bit of a fool. However, if Norman is happy to pay £200 a session for it – and throw in a complimentary beer and chips – who am I to turn him down?
When we meet in the pub for our pre-session grub, Norman, who is now in his fifties, tells me that his fantasy began when he was a child and saw an article in his dad’s paper about female wrestling. The sight of the women in fishnets, their thighs wrapped round each other’s throats as they half strangled each other, became his first sexual awakening.
‘I started masturbating furiously to those pictures,’ he tells me over our chips. ‘Cut out the article and kept it under my mattress for years. I remember the nylon carpet chafing my cock as I lay on the living room floor, my face so close to the pictures I could smell the ink.’
I also learn that Norman was a small, scrawny, shy kid who was badly bullied at school. Often he’d be thrown to the floor when the teachers weren’t looking, then straddled and attacked, thumped, pinched and strangled.
‘It sounds crazy, but I had to learn to find it erotic to get through,’ he explains. ‘Often I’d get a stiffy while they were torturing me.’
I feel for him but I’m also glad he’s managed to eroticise his childhood misery – something men do all the time. They pay me to tell them they’re useless, ugly losers, with tiny penises, incapable of pleasing a woman. So I’m not particularly surprised Norman spends all his disposable income on custom films featuring female wrestling, and paying women to hurt him.
After our chips and beer, we head back to mine and I change into my tiniest green thong, shiny green leggings and a black t-shirt, vaguely reminiscent of a wrestler.
I already want the nonsense to be over.
Next, Noman lays down on the carpeted floor in my living room and I make a cursory effort to restrain him with an idiot-proof velcro spreader bar. We don’t bother with a safe word – I wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway – and instead we agree he will tap my thigh if there is a problem.
Facing away from him, I can feel my thighs burn slightly as I begin to squat until I reach his face.
I feel anxious about what might happen next. It’s bad enough having men limp away from my home clutching their backsides, but a man with a bloodied nose would surely make the whole street whisper.
I know Norman’s nose had been broken many times before. He’s shown me videos where many of my friends – including Alora Lux, or Bitch Cassidy, to use her wrestling name – have got busy on his conk. She must weigh half what I do, so I figure If she can do it, surely I can.
Gingerly I start to bounce up and down on his face, for perhaps thirty seconds, but then Norman taps my thigh – the sign to stop. I peeled my sweaty, damp bum from his face, worried I’ve hurt him badly.
But it’s the opposite. ‘You’re going to need to be much harder than that, I’m afraid,’ he says. ‘That’s – sorry – almost pleasant.’
I give it another go, but soon discover it’s tricky, hurting faces. I don’t even like slapping them much. It feels much more personal than a bottom, which is clearly designed to be beaten.
Despite being more vigorous in my bouncing I still never quite manage to break his nose, to my shame. I do manage to leave some bruising around his eye socket though, and also slap his cock quite hard with a fist and ruler – another request from him.
When his hour is up, I feel awkward – I hate the feeling of failing.
Despondent and apologetic, we traipse back to the pub, so I can buy Norman a conciliatory pint. I’m 6ft in my heels, while he’s 5ft 3 and clearly more bruised than he was before, and people can’t help but stare. I worry vaguely that the police might be even be called.
I ask Norman how his squashing fantasies usually end and he says that it’s never with an orgasm, just masses of blood. He adds that it’s really important that the woman enjoys it too, which makes me feel even worse at my incompetence.
I then ask him if he’s ever confessed to a girlfriend what he’s into. Norman’s been perpetually single since I’ve known him but there may have been women in the past.
‘Never, I’m too shy,’ he admits. ‘How would I explain? It would take a very special someone to understand and I’m not sure she exists.’
But he doesn’t seem too disheartened by our session and as he swallows the last of his pint he gleefully tells me he has a session with Bitch Cassidy next week.
‘There’ll be blood then, for sure,’ he says with a smile.
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