Tom Cantrell

It Takes a Perv

I first met Dolores when she answered my personals ad in a San Francisco weekly newspaper. My headline was, “Submissive Man, Calling All Dominatrixes!” Dolores was a middle-aged woman who specialized in spanking and fucking men with a strap-on dildo. She told me on our first phone call that she’d been a single mom, had raised three sons and two daughters to adulthood, and now that the kids had all fled the nest, she’d been using the privacy of her home as a means to earn some extra cash. She said she’d not participated socially in the San Francisco s/m scene, but she had plenty of experience giving real spankings, and the dildoing was something she’d fantasized about and wanted to try ever since she’d seen a video of a woman fucking a man in the ass.

“I really am a disciplinarian. I don’t have to play at it,” she said, closing the deal for me. We made a date for the following day. “Bring me a strap-on rig and a hundred dollars,” she added before we hung up.

“Yes ma’am,” I replied.

I went to Good Vibrations, a lesbian co-op that sold sex toys on Mission St., and bought an adjustable leather harness and a small dildo. I was at Dolores’s house out in the Sunset District at 1:00 p.m. sharp the next afternoon. Dolores was a big-boned, buxom woman wearing a red, form-fitting dress that displayed a generous amount of bulging cleavage. She held out her hand and without a word I put the C-note in it. She ushered me into her kitchen and I marveled at the size and shape of her ass as she bent over, opened the dishwasher and pulled out a big black dildo. “It’s silicon and dishwasher safe,” she said. She then took a large spanking paddle from a hook on the wall and led the way down to her basement. 

“Let’s see the harness you brought,” she said. I removed it from the plastic bag and handed it to her as she gave me her dildo and paddle to hold. Stepping into the harness, she pulled her dress up over her waist and tightened the straps. “Snug,” she said, looking pleased. I handed the big black dildo back to her and she inserted it through the metal ring in the front panel of the harness. Gripping the base of the dildo’s thick shaft, she gave it a shake that made its massive head bob up and down in intimidating fashion.

Stepping out of her dress entirely, she stood before me then, cutting an imposing figure in her black lacy bra and panties.

“Undress and hug the pole,” she ordered, referring to the weight-bearing column that had been padded with a full-length body pillow. She used a length of rope to tie my wrists round the pole in front of me, wrapping the rope around me several times before it knotting it tightly round my ankles. She then started paddling my ass in a slow, steady rhythm, each lick slightly harder than the last. Before I knew it, I was hollering, then screaming in pain. 

“I’m going to keep paddling you until you stop making a fuss,” she scolded. “This basement is soundproofed but my ears aren’t.”

It took a couple of minutes and a dozen more smacks before I was able to quiet down, and true to her word she untied me. I slid down the pole onto my knees.

“That’s right, now get on all fours for me.”

I did as instructed as she pulled the little dildo I’d brought, thinking that’s what she’d fuck me with, and put it in my mouth. I looked up to see her squeeze just a few drops of lube onto the head of her giant dildo. Moving behind me, she squatted down low enough to touch my asshole with it and slowly buried it in to the hilt. She kept me stuffed like that for a few moments before starting in with long, sure strokes that filled my gut and tickled my prostate. It wasn’t long before I exploded and she withdrew completely.

I had to grab the pole to pull myself back upright and get dressed. It was a struggle climbing back up the basement stairs. 

“You behave yourself, boy,” she said as she let me out her front door.

“I’d like to come back when I’m able,” I said.

She smiled and nodded her assent.

I never got that second session, but two days later I got something much more painful when I read an article in the Chronicle that Dolores Johnson had been found tied to a pole in her basement, beaten to death with a wooden paddle. Her daughter had been unable to contact her and when she went to investigate, she made the grisly discovery and called the police. A homicide investigation was underway and police requested anyone who’d seen the victim recently to call the homicide tip line.

I thought about going in and telling my story but I was afraid they’d pin it on me, a likely pervert. If I’d had money for a good criminal defense attorney to accompany me, I’d have gone in, but my dominatrix habit had a habit of eating up my discretionary cash, so I sat tight on my sore ass instead. When no cops had called by the end of the week, I started to relax.

My sore ass had healed up enough that I’d begun craving another dominatrix session, even more than usual, as that was my way of dealing with stress. I booked one with Tasha the Thrasher, sad that it couldn’t be with Dolores. Arriving at her home at the appointed time, she greeted me at the door and led me to a little cottage out back.

Once inside, she gave me her specialty, an over the knee spanking with a big wooden hairbrush. After I’d had enough, I pulled my pants back up over my red, smarting ass, and she led me back out through the door.

“I love the gardening you’ve done,” I said, admiring the flowers planted outside. “Do you mind if I linger a while?”

“Sure, enjoy,” she said, leaving me to it.

Surrounding the cottage were a variety of colorful flowers, daffodils and tulips mostly. Circling round behind the cottage, I noticed some fresh footprints and a daffodil crushed into the dirt outside the window. Had someone been spying on our little play session?

As I drove back across the Golden Gate Bridge, I spotted a red Honda Civic with dark windows that had been following behind me for a while. At first I thought I was only being paranoid, but even as I took the exit into San Francisco and made a series of random turns, I just couldn’t seem to shake it. I got the license plate number memorized and made a U-turn at the next intersection, running the light but losing my tail in the process. On my way back home, I called Tasha on my cell and left her a voicemail explaining what had just happened.

I had no way of tracing a California license plate, so I looked for nearly half an hour before I found one of the few remaining payphones in the city from which I anonymously gave the police tip line a call. I gave them the license plate number and told them to check it for a possible suspect in the recent case of the woman murdered in the Sunset District.

I needed a drink so I went to an AA meeting, specifically one for alcoholics who were also into s/m that I’d attended frequently enough to know some of the regulars there. I noticed that Lady LaRue, an organizer of the Domme Guild, was present in attendance. I approached her afterwards and unburdened myself of my secrets. She got the license plate number I’d given the cops and thanked me, reassuring me that she’d keep my info confidential. 

I didn’t book any more dominatrix sessions that week. I went back to another s/m AA meeting where I saw Mistress LaRue again. She said the license plate I’d given her had been stolen the day before I’d seen it. She’d talked with Mistress Tasha about her security, and Tasha assured her she kept a pistol handy and hadn’t seen anybody lurking around.

The next afternoon Tasha was taking a walk around Lake Merrit after her morning spanking session when she was killed by a kamikaze drone attack. This got the local, state, and federal investigators involved as well as a pack of journalists and bloggers. The San Francisco homicide detail located Tasha’s list of submissive clients on her laptop and started checking their police records, and to see if any had a background that lent itself to drone warfare. The Feds used some terrorist investigators to see what they could determine about the flight path of the drone. Neither approach yielded a good suspect.

I had an idea that the two dominatrix murders weren’t necessarily the result of a personal revenge motive but might stem from a hate-group on the increasingly active political fringe. I decided to investigate the Incels in San Francisco after I read a report on domestic terror groups that included them and showed a timeline of several violent, sometimes fatal attacks Incels had committed against women. Some online searches located men who identified as Incels in the Bay Area but no organizations. I created an Incel persona online and became active in chat rooms. I attended an Incel meeting at a dive bar on the edge of the Tenderloin District that I was told about by one of my new online “friends.” They’d picked the particular bar we met at, The Goats Head, because the only women who came in were streetwalkers taking a break from the pavement on a barstool where they might happen to find a guy who’d be their next trick.

“All women are whores, at least these bitches don’t have any pretensions about it,” one of my companions offered. 

“I won’t pay for what should be rightfully mine,” another one added.

“I wish I had all the money I’ve spent on dominatrixes,” I said, trying to sound like the alcohol had affected me more than it had.

“You pay women to mistreat you when they mistreat us for free every day?” one Incel hissed at me.

“I know, but it’s always turned me on,” I said.

“Taking a rod to those alpha bitches would be my turn-on,” he replied, glaring at me. 

“Believe me, I’ve thought about turning the tables on them,” I said, “If I just knew how to do it without getting caught up in the feminazi legal system.”

“It appears somebody has,” he said. I gave him a puzzled, I’m interested to hear more sort of look, and took a long swig of my beer.

Suddenly he tightened up and looked the other way.

“The drone murder in Oakland by the lake, she was an alpha whore,” our other companion said. “So was the bitch tied to the pole in her basement a couple weeks ago.”

Another two Incels they knew walked in and headed for our booth. One of them, a stocky blonde guy caught the tail end of that last remark of our conversation. At the moment he laid eyes on me, he abruptly turned around and left. A couple minutes later the guy who’d been talking about the two murders took a call on his cell, looked freaked out, and said he had an emergency and had to go. I stayed a while, had another beer and some less pointed discussion on the sad state of sexual affairs our kind was heir to now that patriarchy was overrun.

When I got in my car and left, it wasn’t long before I noticed the red Honda Civic following me yet again, this time with a different license plate. I strongly suspected it wasn’t because he’d taken off the stolen one and put his own plate back on his car, but I wrote it down anyway. I had a strong hunch that the recent attacks had been the work of an Incel, quite possibly this guy who’d been following me. 

I saw Mistress LaRue at the s/m AA meeting that evening and gave her the new license number and an update on my talks with the local Incels.

“We need to ID the guy tailing me,” I said.

“I’ll follow you in my car, from a distance, and if this dude starts following you again, we’ll box him in and confront him. We’ll get his photo.”

“He could be dangerous,” I said.

“That’s why we’ve got to get him,” she said. “I know just who to get to ride shotgun with me.”

After the meeting, I saw Mistress LaRue and Bam-Bam Becky Riley, one of the top women in MMA, getting into LaRue’s car. I got in my own car and drove off, letting them follow me a few cars back as I headed in the direction of my apartment.

Soon enough, the red Honda Civic popped up in my rear view mirror.

I started looking for a good opportunity to stop in front of him where he couldn’t get around me.  Eventually I turned onto a narrow lane with cars parked on both sides of the street. When I saw LaRue’s car approach behind him, I slowed down until he was closing in and then I stopped at such an angle as to form a blockade. The red Honda Civic came to a stop and LaRue pulled up fast behind him, she and Bam-Bam getting out of their car as I got out of mine.

“Why have you been following me?” I shouted, getting his attention as Bam-Bam darted in from behind, yoking his neck through the window. Meanwhile, LaRue had pepper spray pointed at his eyes that were bugging out of his head from Bam-Bam’s chokehold.

“You can’t…” he gasped as LaRue pulled the door open and Bam-Bam jerked him out of the car so hard he sprawled out across the pavement. Gasping and speechless, the dude looked like he was about to shit his pants.

I reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and took a picture of his California drivers license and a couple more of his face and car. LaRue motioned with her head that we should leave, which we did, fast. Left the guy lying there in a puddle of piss.

The suspect was a 28-year-old named Carl Wilson who had been dishonorably discharged from the Air Force for sexual abuse of a woman under his command. After his arrest, he was booked and SFPD, Homeland Defense, and Air Force Intelligence all had questioned him thoroughly before dawn. Apparently, he’d sourced his military-grade drones on the dark web, buying them with crypto.

A day later, the police called to inform me that his phone records showed he’d called my personals ad seeking new women to whip my ass. It was then that I remembered a woman with a husky-sounding voice who’d responded. We’d set up a date for them to pay me a house call, but no one had ever shown up. It wasn’t long after that I’d got the call from Dolores.

The detectives concluded that Wilson had tried using me to bird-dog dominatrixes, hoping to frame me for his murders. Ultimately he confessed to make a deal and avoid the death penalty, giving info on other Incels as well.

Mistress LaRue gave me a free domination session the next day, as reward for helping the Domme Guild stop a predator.