This was anthologized in one of The Big Mammoth Books of Erotica that Robinson did, some time in the Jurassic era.
Still available on Amazon as is my own Radical Desire which contains this story. The lady in question was pleased with this tribute.
Veins full of warm champagne. A warm, honey glow spreading
through the midriff. A reason to smile on a grey, winter
morning. I never leave Petra's place without fond memories,
and a presence that stays with me through the day. This
spirit double seems to be compounded of her big pussycat
smile, her scent, and her big, beautiful body. Her hour
glass figure was once thought to be the ideal female shape
– and still is in hotter parts of the world. (And why isn't
there a better ready-made expression for 'woman shaped'?
You still have to use 'hour glass'. Although we don't tend
to measure the time with sand any more). She has blonde
hair hanging in thick thatches down to a joyously deep and
full bosom. She's big. Weighty. Broadly luscious and amply
bountiful. Big-brained, big-hearted, big-chested and
big-mouthed – although she may prefer to be described as
assertive. She is a substantial presence, most especially
when sat on your face. And hard to miss anywhere else.
She is earthy, rich and mulchy. Fertile soil, which
responds well to diligent prodding. Something to dig your
fingers into. Real food for real men. Not so much comfort
food (the Magnificent Petra is never merely comfortable…)
more like the hottest chili on earth; a meal that
challenges you to finish it. Some prefer sushi (or pretend
to like it, or need to be seen eating it). But there are
times when warriors need to feast. And there is nobody
better to gorge upon than the pouting Petra. She is a ten
course banquet, washed down by tankards of foaming ale. She
is richly rewarding. And fortifying - if you have the
strength to take her on in the first place.
Petra and I used to be a guilty secret, then something my
join in with. And now we're inseparable. All of us. Cosy as
this is, it's not generally a good idea to try to praise
two Goddesses simultaneously. If you value your life. So we
will leave my wife and Petra snuggled up together for
another time. In the fervent hope they will still let me
in. It can't be too long before they start to wonder; what
do we need the shaven-headed guy for?
Despite her strength and magnificence even Petra has
occasional problems with self esteem. Anyone big has to
have a problem while too many men seek skeletal woman as
trophies. Hoping to enhance their status. Among other
drips. But real men feast on flesh. Well, that all sounds
bracingly manly; in the old sense of hale and hearty. We
just need the drunken cry of 'I am a Genius!', and we might
have the start of a Henry Miller pastiche. But it's hard to
resist trying to be epic when one is haunted by Madam
Petra. Maybe that's the secret; she is not merely human.
How else could a working lawyer learn sword-fighting, hand
to hand combat, spell-casting, accurate divination and the
extremely esoteric practice of High Art textile weaving?
As you enter her boudoir you will be awed by the large
loom, a rickety wooden structure that looks more dangerous
than the rack of teasers and tweakers hung next to her St
Andrew's Cross. Petra produces her art on this contraption,
(although most of the public, including me, is more
interested in what happens on the St Andrew's Cross). Her
textiles perform no useful purpose other than looking
interesting - if you know what to look for, and have done
a bit of weaving yourself. Even then you still might find
the viewing an uncomfortably intense and harrowing
experience. But I'd keep it yourself if I were you. She has
a bit of a temper. Which is not enhanced by the current
indifference of the world in general towards avant-garde
textile art. Your average skill-free conceptualist would
say, her work is 'merely decorative'. She is 'only' a
craftsperson. For whatever reason she never wanted to be a
foul mouthed drunk shooting cack-handed videos of nothing
much – a reliable indicator of genius in the art business,
as we speak.
Her day job is the law, practised for the good of the
people, most especially women who have suffered rape and
domestic violence at the hands of men. She's been doing it
for about twenty years. And a couple of decades watching
what happens in the courts and working with the abusers and
the abused...she is not short of righteous indignation.
Some of this gets taken out on submissive men and sometimes
it is her weaving loom which gets a sound thrashing. The
loom is right next to the bed; both wooden structures that
creak a lot. If her partners ever pall she swings her legs
out from under the duvet and seats herself in front of some
hapless fabric and proceeds to rattle out a challenging new
She mutters curses as she weaves - the loom clattering and
seething. Germanic magic does involve whispering spells
while knotting rope -sometimes around people's necks - but
it's best not to know too much about this. There's few
enough seekers on the path as it is, without accidental
fatalities further thinning out the flock. You may think
I'm a bit cowardly for refusing to sample oxygen-deprived
sex. I just keep remembering all those guys who get the
mathematics wrong – and there are only two seconds in which
you can decide whether you are experiencing the best rush
ever or is that the grim reaper knocking on the door? Maybe
it is. I'll just...Oh. Dear...
You may disagree. If so, why not contact the British
Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation society? They're usually looking
for new members. All you need is the annual subscription
and a suit that looks good at funerals.
As Petra weaves, her blonde hair dangles over the whining
wood, perilously close to becoming part of the woven
fabric. Somehow, she is never dragged into her threshing
machine. Perhaps it is because she is a witch - an
initiate into most current covens. She has danced with the
Druids and swung with the sorcerers. And once you've done
all that you are less likely to want to pretend that flower
remedies work. Or that your Native American spirit guide is
always watching you. Or that 'issues concerning power
caused your boiler to collapse' (advice, from a reputable
medium, during the cold snap of 2001). Let's face it, If
New Age remedies fixed anything, sweet Diana Spenser would
have been well. Instead of quite ill.
Some flowers get trodden underfoot but no-one is going to
step on Petra. She is a warrior - hot words and cold steel.
After a few years with Petra it was becoming clear that all
this crusading lawyer stuff is a just a cover story. She is
actually one of the three Germanic Goddesses. Petra is the
one who weaves the future. If ever your life seems to be
sabotaged by an unseen assailant you can always blame her –
Petra, the weaver. Your Viking warriors would sometimes
cite Odin as a trickster God - it came in handy when far
too many of the opposition turned up and overwhelmed the
lads with the horned helmets. But it's not him – grumpy old
blokes with beards are less in demand these days. You can
put sudden reversals of fate down to the Weaving Woman. The
loon with the loom. Her. The Goddess. Petra.
As a long-time playmate I was recently invited to watch her
favourite tranny slave serve tea. I was wearing a dark
Ozwald Boateng jacket with a thin red pinstripe, a shimmery
lilac houndstooth shirt by Thomas Pink and some charcoal
trousers that seemed to cost far too much at the time. I
mention this lest anyone suspect I had attempted to cross
dress. Not that I haven't tried. Who wouldn't want to be
dressed up in Madam's extensive theatrical wardrobe? But we
eventually gave up on the attempt to feminise me. I tend to
look like a biker's bitch or a rock chick who can't quite
kick Jack Daniels. It feels great. But it looks terrible.
So I leave all that to 'Tracy' these days, Madam Petra's
most faithful slave.
Mistress/slave relationships often crash and burn. Slaves
are usually far from slavish in their demeanour, often
demanding far more than they deserve – or offer in return.
“Do I really have to care about someone's emotional health
just to get my dishes done?” asked Ruby, another Domme who is
always looking for slaves to manage her domestic chaos.
Indeed so. You might as well be married, my dear. So this
must also be in praise of Tracy, a good looking bloke who
makes a better looking woman. And actually behaves like a
slave, instead of an Argentinian Dictator whose shoes don't
quite fit. As many of his rivals do. Tracy's thing is
forced feminisation. Punished in panties. But it is
doubtful whether we should use words like 'punishment' for
this process. It often appears to involve a greedy little
slut getting what he really wants. Or it may be having a
license to be a slut for a few hours. Even better, someone
else is forcing you to do it. So you get to do what you
want, except that it is someone else's fault. No more
decisions, or responsibility. A holiday from who you have
to be to cope with the outside world.
I first knew Tracy in the context of a five way exchange of
sexuality in a night club. She was on all on fours offering
herself to those approved by Madam Petra. It was hard to
ignore Tracy's immaculate rump, two peach halves
immaculately clad in flawlessly white panties. Tracy
arrives at clubs looking like a sixties pop goddess; thigh
boots, mini-skirts, hair reminiscent of Sandie Shaw. As a
French Maid, dressed for service, she is even more
attractive. It sometimes seems a shame that someone of
refined birth and exquisite manners should be lumbered with
'Tracy' (it's a tribute to a former Mistress). But perhaps
this humiliation is exquisitely painful for such a delicate
flower, a further way of revelling in being downtrodden.
Tracy managed to serve Petra and I tea, behaving impeccably
despite Madam Petra's lewd banter and wandering fingers.
But it wasn't long before her impossibly high standards
required that punishment be administered. Perhaps she
thought Tracy was flirting with her guest. The little minx
did seem to be over-hospitable with Madam's gentleman
caller. And Madam does not like being ignored, even for an
instant. There is only one God. And her name is Petra.
“It is obviously far too long since I have punished you,"
“You filthy little slut.”
"Yes, Madam. Thank you, Madam." Tracy leaned forward,
offering herself, big eyes imploring. Petra smiled, all too
familiar with her slave's little fads and fancies.
"I know you want to be over my knee," she said. “But this
is a punishment. Your head would be far too close to my
shiny black stockings. It would be far too easy to drink in
We were already gratefully aware that Madam was wearing
Angel by Thierry Mugler. And that it was floating around
the room on a cloud of sex hormones pulsing from her
gorgeously fleshy body. Tracy turned away from the face she
so adores and bent to touch her toes. Madam flipped Tracy's
skirt up and patted the seat of her knickers.
"I'm relieved to see you have grasped the concept of
whiteness at last. My arm ached for two days last time. Not
as much as your bottom hurt though, did it?"
Someone else was with us now. A firm but fair Matron who
will stand no nonsense. Petra can credibly impersonate
Marilyn Monroe, a stuck-up Duchess, a Victorian
streetwalker, wenches in general and teenage minxes in
particular (with choice of regional accents and accurate
period detail. Favoured epochs; Victorian, Restoration,
Dark Ages). And her bossy lady with slutty little slave is
absolutely flawless. But then so it should be, after all
She checked Tracy's posture, straightening one of her legs
before patting the seat of her knickers approvingly. She
reached for a wooden spoon, an implement chosen to
emphasise domestic servitude as well as an effective tool
for inflicting of bruising, scorching pain. She stood and
measured the spoon against her target, using it on each
cheek in turn, taking time out to examine her slave's
flushed face, to pinch her nipples. The punishment became
more intense. Soon there was a fierce red glow visible
through the thin white panties. Although Tracy was silent
her breath came thick and fast. There was an occasional
sigh as the spoon thrashed the same spot repeatedly.
“You may stand,” murmured Petra eventually. She was
flushed, a faint moist glow on her formidable cleavage.
“Thank you, mistress," said Tracy, sincerely. She curtsied
as Petra has taught her, although there was the occasional
unavoidable squirm as Madam's lecture continued. Finally
she held the spoon for her to kiss. Eyes downcast, Tracy
planted a long kiss on the implement before Petra took her
chin by its point and tilted it upwards. She stared down at
her slave for a while, imprinting her dominance deep inside
her. Then Petra clutched the bulging erection in Tracy's
knickers, kneading and massaging the throbbing mound. While
the sighing slave jiggled from foot to foot. We watched her
hop for a while. It was entirely cute.
“You may rub yourself,” granted Petra. Tracy mewled in
relief as she strived to lessen the harrowing sting in her
well-beaten bottom. It was some time before she recovered
her composure. She then needed considerable strength and
endurance to comply with the rest of Madam's most
unreasonable demands. Never able to forget that failure
meant another punishing session with the wooden spoon.
When Petra was satisfied she had pushed her slave just that
little bit further than last time, she gave Tracy some more
domestic tasks. And we were free to talk once more. Assam
tea arrived. A strong, full-bodied brew. Just right for a
strapping lass like Petra. It even sounds like s/m. As we
sipped at its dark strength I asked Petra if I could write
a story about her. "I thought you were burnt out," she said, with a smile
appropriate for this piece of self-pitying amateur
dramatics. "Why write 'another erotic story'?"
I let her mock me for a moment. Which is fair enough,
considering how much material there is to work with.
"It might be nice to bring a beautiful women alive," I
said, hoping that it would please her. She smiled. And
glowed. And we felt the space enclose us. Sometime,
somewhere, we are always together. Exchanging fragments of
dreams and whispered prayers. In the long, slow, sweet
dance of love. Warmed by a pussycat smile.