The Laughing Mistress

2011-08-05T19:36:00.000-07:00

Questionable Morals

The room was bathed in burnt umber late afternoon light. It illuminated my two friends like a shaft of sun from a Renaissance painting. Bunny had made a platter of stuffed mushrooms and they were crispy on the top, just the way I liked them. We sat on my long leather sofa smoking a communal bowl as I weighed their well considered advice. I had filled in both Bunny and Sebastian regarding my terror tussle with Wayne and like good friends they exclaimed and cooed comforting noises in all the right places.

Gordon, however, was no where to be found. I had tried contacting him and to no avail. I had wanted his insight into this latest predicament. It had gone way past a colorful cocktail party story. I had considered it a near death experience. Like any New Englander worth their salt, any North Eastern born and bred- we were true to form in being loath to get involved. By this, I do not mean our mostly well deserved accolades for being a bastion of liberal, progressive,level headed and innovative people. Best of all, we mind our own business.I am speaking of the chilly, aloof and distant side of our regional reputation. The one we have for being harsh, edgy and as changeable as the weather. Which we all seemed compelled to address ad nauseum from cradle to grave. This is an insiders joke to all my homies.I am letting us off lightly as I am one of them.

"I'm no real fan of the coppers" remarked Sebastian as he stroked my lilac dipped cat Monti.

"Because you are gay"? asked Bunny politely. Her curls skimmed the mushroom caps gaily as she ate them off the blue china plate.

"As a queer man I am always a sexual suspect but no it's cause I like to smoke the green."

"It's not the police that make the laws though" I protested, trying to talk myself into making that call to the cops. Would it make me a rat somehow?

I had flash backs of uneasy allegiances which were not exactly friendships. They were more like hostage situations where I had suffered from a kind of Stockholm syndrome growing up. I was at one point raised in a gated community so you had to take what was given as a child regarding your associates. The only way we could escape was on bicycle. The tide of progeny from divorced homes came in and out in transitory waves, washing over me in fleeting companionship at best. One minute you were blowing out the candles of little Lisa's store bought birthday cake in Apartment 23C across the hall, the next minute you were watching another moving truck pull away from the curb. However even though most of the children were really just uneasy strangers, we still kept our mouths shut about another kid's transgression.

A rat, a tattle tale had a special circle in hell and as I remembered, I regressed. I balked at the idea (especially as a fledgling Domina of nine months or so) of turning anyone into the police and I dreaded a possible retaliation on Wayne's part. I was also rather stunned at the acuity of purpose I had displayed as I whaled on Wayne's ass. I was ready to stomp that mother fucker to death and my fingers curled in remembrance, like a werewolf at sunset. It was both unseemly as well as unfeminine. My Mother would have been horrified and my father proud. I suspected neither would be proud if I did not make that call but of course I could not ask them.

"True but didn't you also just find out that professional Domination is illegal? If you DO call the police how are you going to tell them the truth without implicating yourself?" asked Bunny hesitantly.

"Don't get me wrong Ava, I think you should call them, absolutely no question about it. I know through my being a councilor that the police department have devices that unscramble a blocked number. So if you call you should do it on a pay phone".

"Are you sure about that?" What a pain in the ass it would be to find a working pay phone in this country never mind the state. They were quaint, inoperable sign posts of the past like barber poles or cobble stones.

"Pretty sure.' nodded Bunny emphatically.

"What did I hear you say? Domination is illegal?" asked Sebastian astonished "WHY"?

"Yup. I just found that out. Can you believe it? From what I can gather it is the strap on part that makes it an act of prostitution but the law is maddeningly vague. It makes me furious actually. Even the act of spanking can constitute prostitution. Can you imagine? What you and I did with Sissy Maid could actually trigger an investigation! It probably wouldn't go anywhere in a court of law but the powers to be seem to count on the fact that we don't want a hassle. And they are right." I finished glumly.

2011-06-15T13:59:00.000-07:00

Every Dog Has It's Day

In Wayne's world, apparently Dominating the Dominatrix was some sort of rite of passage. As evidenced by his increasingly sinister and greasy behavior. In all the movies I've seen or the thousand of books that I have read, the villainous degenerate that got inside the walled garden always worked themselves up into a fever pitch before they struck. I saw no reason why I would be any exception to history. To my best recollection as soon as the protagonist asks the inevitable question of WHY ME, the anguished cry of the baffled victim is soon answered by torture and death. So I chose to break with tradition and instead threw out a wild card. I behaved as though it had hardly registered that Wayne had me on the hunt.

"So do you have any animals"? I asked offhandedly as though we were on a blind date. His black, wiry eyebrows ruched together in scorn.

"Yeah. Why?"

"I have two cats, though you seem like a dog man. Am I right?"

"Yeah I had a dog. So what?"

"So what happened to it?" I pressed my back to the wall, stretching my legs straight in front of me running my hands along my own legs as though admiring them. His eyes followed along avidly, tracking the length of them. Then he looked straight at me. Oh how he hated me. Although I sensed it was in the abstract and nothing personal. Maybe in another time and place when he got off his chemical ride and purged himself we could have even been friends. I bet that would be the sort of thoughts he would coach himself with, as he wiped the blood from the blade. Regretfully he would shake his head as he came down with a crash and would flee the scene sloppily. He took all this trouble to set me up with the phone scam but what about the ISP on the computer and the e-mails? They would find him but a fat lot it would do me. I'd be splayed on the floor, long dead.

"I think my neighbors took it." Wayne answered sullenly filling his glass to the brim again. He stared petulantly into his wine and continued with his whining parade of injustices that a jealous world was inflicting upon him. A world that deeply envied his many trucks and all his special social charms.

"Yeah. They called the animal control on me before cause they are fuckin nosy and they have no idea what they are talkin about. I work all day and I leave the dog out in the kennel. They complained said I wasn't giving it water, said it was to hot to be left out there alone all the time. Animal control came but there was nothin they could do. It's not like I beat it or anything, they just came out and gave me a verbal warning. I told them to get off my fucking property or I'd blast their yammering heads off and they left quick quick."

"So how did it get taken away?" I asked shifting on the tall stool. I was trying to discreetly feel for the bulge in my boot as I wanted to have the mace near at hand. He was still agitated but for a moment less focused on me.

"Well this time it was Winter and I came home from work sat in front of the TV and had some drinks. I fell asleep and when I woke up it was pretty late around four am. It was cold and had snowed allot. It was hard to open up the kennel gate but the dog wasn't there. The dog was smart and everything but not that smart it could get itself out the kennel. Course the snow covered up any prints. I called some places and lodged some complaints but nobody owned up of course. I still look for that dog when I drive into town sometimes but its long gone." After this unexpected monologue Wayne stared mournfully through me. Inwardly I cheered for the dogs escape and the good souls who moved it along the under ground railroad of sanity. They are out there. I sometimes forget. This was a sweet reminder although I was still afraid I might die. I wrapped my hand around the mace and pulled it upward from the inside of the boot until it was waiting at the lip of the opening, still hidden.

With all the moving around, pouring wine and plotting feverishly, I noticed about fifty minutes had already passed. I openly checked the cell phone for the time and announced matter-of-factly that our time together was almost over. As I said this I stood up and pulled the mace from my boot palming it in my hand in case I really needed to use it. My heart was racing and the muscles in my legs were tensed to kick, the coppery taste of adrenaline swimming in my mouth. Wayne's eyes narrowed dangerously as he considered what I had said with visible contempt.

"I'm sorry Wayne, I feel like we just didn't click. I did explain to you what I did and didn't do, but perhaps as a novice you were just to nervous to make note of it. Maybe another time. However, I'd be happy to give you half of your money back. I think that is fair, don't you?" I was trying to casually move toward the door as I said this. Wayne stood stubbornly with his bearded chin stuck out.

"No I don't think so. I want all of it back. I work hard for my money and I didn't get nuthin. I didn't get kinky sex, I didn't get shit but some wine and I don't even like wine." He dumped the rest of the liquid into the sink and let the glass drop. I heard the delicate tinkle as it broke. The sound seemed to set Wayne free as he raggedly made his way toward me. I flung the front door to my apartment wide open so it crashed against the wall.

"Get out." I said steadily, trying to stare him down. I circled around edging him toward the door. At this point I was holding the can of mace in front of me, like a vampire hunter clutching a cross. He was heedlessly high, perhaps near sighted as well because he took no notice as he moved toward me hissing "You dumb, dumb bitch. Are you kicking me out?"

He stood planted in front of the open door, his back facing the hallway and glass front foyer that was street level. I saw with dawning dread a very thin person about getting ready to step inside my apartment building. I was hit with waves of ambivalence as I was relieved to have a witness and possible help yet did not want any of my neighbors being dragged into this for obvious reasons.

Although I did not recognize the cadaverous young man fumbling at the door, I was getting ready to call to him if need be. I hoped he had a flicker of humanity and would at least dial 911. I gave Wayne one more chance, still loath to make a scene and said evenly.

"Wayne get out now or I will spray this mace in your face. If you want your money, send me an e-mail with your address and I will send it in full. Right now I want you out."

He snickered and made as though to move closer. Just then, the neighbor stepped inside his apartment glancing over noncommittally. He was as stooped as a comma and looked like a pen and ink drawing, all black and white with one long dark bang that obscured one inscrutable eye.

I realized that finally I was seeing who Bunny and I called the the X Factor. We had never laid eyes on him although he was said to have lived here for years. He did not drive a car, not so unusual in the city. He had no name on the mailbox but we could often hear faint sounds of industrial sounding music playing somewhere in his apartment and the familiar scent of killer bud wafting around his door. When I took out the trash around back, I could see light from the slanted blinds so I knew someone lived there. They didn't bother anyone and no one bothered them as far as I could tell. The best sort of neighbors to have, the invisible ones. The X Factor slipped silently into his apartment, shutting the door softly behind him. Wayne made a sudden lunge toward me. I wished suddenly for friendlier neighbors.

I went with my instincts, over riding the insipid good girl voice. The one that was wheedling maybe I could talk him out of this craziness - somehow appease it. Well sometimes appeasing was really feeding the problem so I did what I felt was right and shoved him as hard as I could out the door. He fell and landed half in and half out of my apartment, kicking at me as he crabbed his way back inside. I sprayed him straight in his face and he hesitated a split second before he laughed. Nothing had come out. It had been so long since I had it, it must have dried up. I threw the empty can at his head and braced against the door jam with both arms and began to stomp him with my boots in earnest. The reptilian part of my brain must have taken over as I felt no fear as I aimed at his throat with my metal edged heels. I would have preferred that he left on his own accord but some people just can't take a hint.

We both stopped suddenly, hearing the same unmistakable sound. Even if you didn't know what it was, you would know what it was, almost on a cellular level.It was a twelve gauge shot gun being pumped and it cut through the cloud of blood lust that was gathering over us. I looked up sharply as did Wayne who had managed to flip over on his stomach. My laconic and mysterious neighbor, The X Factor was leaning casually against his door jam, the shot gun trained on Wayne.

"Get out and don't come back. You drive a red 2002 Ford Harley-Davidson F-150 pick up truck. Your license plate is from New Hampshire, I wrote it down. If something happens to this building or anyone in it you will have a world of trouble. Believe that. Now get up".

I believed him and so did Wayne as he got to his feet, returning to his early posture of cringing submission. If he had a cap he would have been wringing it in his hands as he he carefully edged past The X Factor who was nonchalantly tracking him with the gun. Wayne hastened out the door never looking back. I sighed in relief as I turned toward my neighbor who had lowered the gun and was moving back inside his apartment.

"Wait!Thank you and I'm so sorry. I can't begin to explain but it will never happen again. Thank you so much! You were amazing!" I gushed. The X factor gazed at me dispassionately for a moment and shrugged.

"Cool" He answered, went inside and shut the door.

I double checked the locks and sat on the sofa. I realized my legs were trembling. Cool indeed. I could not believe what had just happened. My first thought was to immediately call the police and tell them everything. But of course I couldn't. I had just recently found out that I was dabbling in ( innocent ways in the great scheme of things, but there ya go. That's why some are friend and some are foe.)was considered illegal in the vaguest of ways.

Life was odd, I mused. I was paid well to have my feet kissed and fondled or to spank a repressed man all wound up over something. I also really listened to these people and wished them well. I truly did feel I was a fantasy facilitator but how can you qualify such a thing? And why should we have to?

I struggled because although cheerfully cynical about most things, I felt with every fiber of my being that it would be the right thing, perhaps the cosmic thing, to contact the authority's and give them Wayne's information. He was a very dangerous man, I had no doubt of that. Now that I was dwelling in the land of the demi-monde, I found I had little legal recourse. My toe hold in society was precarious at best and although I seemed to be on the upswing, something like a vengeful killer or rapist on my ass would be a HUGE inconvenience. Then again I could be helping other women (and animals for that matter)in the future, dodge the freak. Ideals are so easy to have until they are tested.

I was in a quandary and until I thought on it further, I wanted to somehow thank the X factor. He was my paper thin hero, my sliver of ice rescuer and like all lone cow boys I knew he wanted to be left alone. Still I had to acknowledge his act of courage so I flattened a very generous amount of smoke and sealed it in a sky blue envelope. I laid on my belly, carefully wedging it under the old door. I continued this practice more or less, for as long as I lived there but I never saw him again. However, my tribute was always silently accepted. Last I heard, he was living there still.

2011-03-27T19:38:00.000-07:00

Erin Go Bragh

Wayne's body language was just plain freaking me out. He was wigged and squirrely. If he was a cartoon his whole being would be emitting jagged waves of distressed dark energy. I had him walk in front of me as I pointed him to my backroom which was dimly lit by candles. Wayne kept furtively looking over his shoulder at me. He stopped abruptly at the threshold and I bumped into him getting another whiff of what seemed to be his signature scent, l'urine de chat. His lack of hygiene had to be deliberate. Being a single woman in the city, of course I had a cat. I was well acquainted with the stink of a kitty litter box. It seemed he had bathed liberally from one before our little visit. How thoughtful.

I had sobered up rather quickly and made a note to myself to never, ever be so nonchalant again regarding my own safety. My cat needed me, so I formulated a plan. I would get Wayne in restraints, a ball gag if possible in his piss hole of a mouth and a blindfold. I noticed with distaste that his black hair was lank with oil and flaked with dandruff. I could restrain him on the bed so he would be comfortable and then leave him there in a state of benign horizontal suspension for at least 45 minutes. Wayne had not specified anything in particular, in fact he had adapted a pose of the adamantly clueless so I would provide the firm hand he so desperately desired. I would tell him, once I had him down, that he seemed high strung and I was enlisting him in a self improvement program for his own good. I would claim I was teaching him to get into the moment,that he needed to experience the feeling of nothingness or some such shite. Then when his time was up, I would get him the hell out of my apartment.

I approached him confidentially, black leather cuffs and silken black cords in my hands. His reaction was unexpectedly violent. His limbs stiffened as he flung all four of them outward and simultaneously, like a an old timey vaudeville tap dancer. He snarled "Don't you fucking touch me."

Well... "Man makes plans as God laughs" I thought grimly as he took a half step toward me. I soothed "Of course not Wayne" and lowered the cuffs casually, moving toward the bed that Casper, my first real slave, had customized for me.

Not only had Casper outfitted the frame so it could be used as a bed of restraints, but underneath it he had made a long, shallow shelf where I could tuck things under it, hidden from view. During a session I would slip my cell phone out and check the time(although I often used music I had downloaded to pace the length of my sessions, the last song indicating the end of the hour. No one likes a clock watcher. A term often used in this industry)or I would use it to hide away my "tribute". I had the machete and can of pepper spray stored there as well. I casually sat on the bed above where I THOUGHT I had hid the pepper spray. I had it mentally marked beneath my ass and between my legs where at this point, I was hoping to distract him with both.

I pulled a Basic Instinct move and drew my booted legs inward, closer to my chest and crossed my legs lightly at the knee providing him with a spectacular upshot. He was momentarily transfixed by what must have been only a shadow, a promise of what he wanted to see. What they all wanted to see, this slice of life, this secret fold that drives them to distraction. If only they understood the great burden and upkeep of having a vagina, it might make them more humane. I wish I could really TELL them the legend of the Golden Fleece is just that. A legend, but they never listen to reason.

"Wayne"? He tore his eyes away with great effort looking befuddled. I took advantage of this as I heedlessly spread my knees a bit more and pointed at the ceiling.

"Ummmm....yeah?" He seemed both dazed and irritated.

"I have an idea. Be a pet and reach up and turn on the light above you." He gave me a suspicious look but did as I asked. As he turned I stealthily felt for the pepper spray and palmed it in to the top of my boot. I stood up, blew out the candles and told him to follow me into the kitchen where I gestured to a chair. He sat reluctantly while I poured us both a glass of wine. I held the home court advantage by perching on a long legged stool near the front door so I was looking slightly down at him and poised for a quick exit.

"Do you have a girlfriend Wayne?" I asked idly, swinging a leg, sipping my wine. I leaned backwards. The mixed signals seemed to confuse him which temporarily gave me control.

"No!Girls are mean!" He burst out vehemently. Girls? I thought, is he kidding? He had to be at least thirty eight. I nodded sympathetically.

"The operative word is girls, Wayne. Grown women don't have to be mean. You can be strong and confident and still be a nice person right?" He shrugged and nodded begrudgingly.

"They just want a guy for his money. Take me for instance." Yes please, I thought.

"What about you?" I took a fake sip of wine from my glass and he visibly relaxed taking a swig from his own.

"Well I'm a young guy and I do pretty good for myself. I own a house with some land and a few trucks. People get jealous that a young guy like me does so good. They are all users. WOMEN are users." He emphasized the word just in case I was missing the fact that he thought all women were the devil. He was grimacing strangely.

"What do you do Wayne?" If I recalled he was a contractor of some sort, self employed.

"Why does it matter. YOU don't care.You are only seeing me because I am paying you.Right?" He said savagely. Oh here we go...the real crux of the matter. Why oh why can't they be good sports about it? That way we would all have so much more fun. Before I could answer he said "Besides, stop saying Wayne. It isn't even my real name. Like Ava is really your name...." He trailed off insinuatingly as he watched for a reaction.

"Really? How clever of you. But your work number checked out when I called you back at what...ABC Plumbing or something like that?" I mused out loud. He refused the bait,running his long nailed hands through his greasy hair which upon closer inspection resembled a plate of black squid ink linguine,his dandruff scattered throughout like finely minced garlic.

"Nah. Wayne scoffed at my gullibility. "I knew about this shop that shut down but they didn't turn the phone off right away. I was in there when I called you and you ASSUMED I owned the place". He said this triumphantly like he just learned the word. He tossed it out like a bright new penny. But he was right. I had surmised the situation poorly.

I nodded in admiration while modestly acknowledging his superior intellect, simpering and widening my eyes, leaning forward so the V of my cat suit deepened and he could see the swell of my breasts. Again he was thrown off stride as he jittered around, scratching absently at his arms. He had trouble keeping eye contact as his unfocused gaze kept jumping around the apartment and on whatever parts of myself that I was displaying at the moment. He paced back and forth, edging closer to me and I got another whiff of him. Aside from the scent of feline urine, I now could detect something like rotten eggs. What the hell, did he roll around in something dead? I suppressed a shiver. I was also suppressing the urge to spring from my stool and wildly spraying the mace in his face. I still had hope that I could ease my way out of this one graciously but I had one eye on the door. As they say, pray but row for the shore.

"Yup.Then I got a throw away phone and I set up a fake outgoing vm message. Get it!" I got it all right, I just might be fucked and not in a good way. Wayne's haunting fragrance fell suddenly into place.

Once, a long time ago, in a very different time and very boring place we shall call Idaho I had the misfortune of smelling the stench in question while visiting far flung friends. They were a couple I had known since high school, MollyAndPeter, brilliant chess club nerds who were coupled for life and quite satisfactorily it appeared. Except they were terribly miscast in this one horse state, having been dropped there by the Corporation that currently owned their souls.

Their home was outstanding and would have mustered a cool four hundred thousand to start in some tasteful suburb of New England. It had a pool and a serene veranda with spacious views of nothing for as far as my eye could see except for the ramshackle home next door. It had a long, lopsided front porch with a weather beaten shed adjacent to it which bustled with activity at all hours of the night. Very young women with dyed skunk like hair,florescent cropped tanks,tongue rings and unnaturally concave stomachs darted around the parameters like shy and vivid lizards.I was watching them one evening, through the slit of a curtain and I asked my friends who the neighbors were.

"Oh them." answered Molly with contempt. "We hate them. They are one of the main reasons why we want to get out of here. Meth heads." If she had been outside she would have spat on the ground in disgust. Peter had nodded in the affirmative.

"They cook that shit day and night. That's why those skanks are always hanging out over there. Bunch of freaks, I'm afraid they are going to wander over here one night and rape and rob us. Or rather rape Molly". He qualified hastily. He strode over to the window and opened it telling me to breath in. I smelled a mixture of ammonia (or cat urine)and the sulfurous scent of hard boiled eggs.

"So that's how I did it" Wayne was wrapping up his narration and I was bought back to the more unpleasant present.

I was certain that Wayne had not only been smoking meth before he decided to take the plunge to stalk me, but he had also been cooking it. Lots of it to smell like this. His twitchiness, strange erratic conversation and the fact that he had taken some time and trouble to deceive me hit me sharply with focused horror. I was gobsmacked. Torn between flight or fight. I had a woman hating tweaker in my kitchen who was possibly setting me up for ...what? A home invasion? A little combo of rape and robbery if I got off lucky and a violent death if I did not? Outside I heard a crowd of people passing by my building, laughing and sounding uproariously drunk. I remembered it was St.Patrick's Day weekend and I suddenly felt terribly alone.

Oh the luck of the Irish...

2011-01-30T17:26:00.000-08:00

Hidden Voices

I should have hung up as soon as I heard him speak. Dear Readers, never discount the voice of council when it comes from within. When Wayne realized that it was I that was calling, he ratcheted up his already whiny and petulant voice. It was maddening as he dragged out everything he had to say and all of his sentences trailed off reproachfully. It was like he already thought I owed him something.

As I listened to his aimless and redundant pleadings, I realized that he was attempting to sound like a young, bratty boy. Yuck. Why this would skeeve me out more than some of the freaky carnage, mind melding and psychologically elaborate operettas that I had both orchestrated and bore silence witness to, I could not say. Maybe it was because I felt he was manipulating me by pissing me off so much from the onset. Later I found out this type of approach from a submissive is called topping from the bottom. This is when the submissive, slave etc...attempts to seize psychological control from the Dominant by means of indirect defiance, questioning the Dominants role and so forth. They are really looking to be "broken" but of course they can never really yield to that need because that is one hell of a commitment for most subbies who have jobs and families. Submissives so often speak of "testing their limits" which in reality would takes months of dedication, money and time on their part.It's just talk for most, as the lot of them could never explain hour long absences where they return whipped, with marks and wallets emptied. Like most people in general they are reluctant to put their money where there mouth is.

"Mistress I wrote to you so many times but you didn't write back." Wayne sniveled on the other end of the line. My back stiffened.

"No I didn't." I answered coldly and took a deep slug of my cognac.

"Why Mistress? I just want to talk to you, to hold you and be near you."

"I do not feel the same. I haven't even met you. You already aggravate me." I loved this job as speaking my mind eloquently seemed to actually be appreciated. I was always sincere in my dressing downs. No filter needed.

"Mistress PLEAAAASE!"

"Please what? Communicate in full sentences-you will get farther in life that way and certainly farther with me. Don't snivel and don't whine when you speak to me. I only want to dominate those that are my equal. I don't fuck with children so stop speaking as though you are one."

"I just want to HOLD you Mistress and SERVE you!" Wayne had the whiny bitch role deeply ingrained into his psyche. He was determined to play it to the hilt like a tired old queen in some self indulgent off Broadway show.

"Wayne. Listen to me. I don't like being held, it makes me antsy and irritable. More so than usual. I'm a Pro Domina so I give discomfort, not comfort. Get the idea of holding me right out of your head. Also what do you mean by serving exactly? I have received about 10 e-mails from you and as many calls on my cell phone. Not once have you defined what it is you think serving me means"

"I don't know...just serving you."

"What do you want? When you contacted me what were you thinking of? What do you see on the internet or read that excites you?"

"Mistress I don't know." Wayne mewled at me in that ridiculous put upon little boy's intonation. I had the uncharitable vision of his Mother beating him viciously in order to silence that somehow indignant, mosquito like unwavering delivery. My sympathy was with the Mother. I made an intuitive leap and realized that was exactly what he was doing. Assigning me the role of the scolding all powerful vagina and so forth. I was suddenly indignant. I was in my mid thirties more or less and already cast in the role of the crone?

"How old are you"? There was a quick silence on his end and I could hear him considering my question.

"Why"? He asked his voice suddenly flat.

I listened closely my intuition poised like a ballerina on tip toe. He sounded as though he could fall within the range of twenty to mid thirties but it was hard to say and even harder to shake him from his little boy delusional tap dance. At the exact same moment I had this thought, it seemed to manifest itself by an audible tapping I could hear at my window. I looked up with sudden dread almost expecting a smudged looking raven or a bony finger beckoning. A meaningless synchronicity. Evidently I was drunk and scolded myself for being an ass as I realized the insistent sound was only the branch of a tree being tossed against my window by the ever aggressive wind. A March storm was picking up. I waited silently on the other end ( he who speaks first loses.)of the phone as I wandered over and opened the window wider. A sudden plume of sullen, smoky wet complex wind blew in, snapping the curtains and alarming the cat. I had nothing in my fridge but I was sipping fine cognac. However my cupboard was bare. Typical these hazy crazy days. To eat or not to eat. That was the question. I was exaggerating but not by much. Some months I was in the red and others black. There were days when I ate buttered toast and caviar and others just toast.

"I'm thirty four. I'm old enough." I supposed that he was and asked him my usual questions about verifiable work numbers and profiling him in general. He gave me more personal information than many other subbies had that I had dealt with.

Still...I did not want to see him. So I decided to price myself out. I name a sum that I am almost certain that they won't part with. Aghast they drop me or they covet me all the more for having the balls to ask for it. I worked on a sliding scale based on need, opportunity, skill set and interest. It's never a ridiculous sum but its always one that I judge they would hold dear based on their circumstances or frugality. Or of course level of interest.

He accepted. Luck of the Irish.

We agreed to meet that very evening as he seemed so hot for it and I needed the appointment as metaphorically the wolf was outside the door. We agreed to meet at eight, a civilized hour and I could be snug in my bed by no later than ten with an encouraging amount to start out the month.

By the time my buzzer rang I was outfitted like cat woman but I wore low heeled boots in case I had to either kick some ass or run. This was the first time in the eight months that I had been doing this that I felt truly uneasy with a submissive client. I wanted to think like was drawn to like which was why I advertised the way that I did. I chose my words and photos carefully being ever mindful of my marketing image. I kept the hours that I did ( basically 10 am until 8pm with some exceptions) because I wanted family men, company men, men who had something to lose if they invested to heavily in me. Men who had a reality that kept their fantasies in check.

I peered through the peep hole and saw a smallish, black haired and fidgety man, who seemed to be deliberately keeping his head down. I stepped back and opened the door to Wayne. I watched him as he silently ducked past me as though he was waiting for me to cuff him on the ears. I immediately fought the urge to do so. My nostrils flared unpleasantly as he sidled by me, leaving behind a faint scent of cat piss, as though he had been rolling in it.

He was now standing in the light so I could get a good look at him. His gaze flicked up at me with jittery blue eyed hatred. My heart skipped a beat. He jerked his glance away hastily and kept his head down. His posture was cringing and defensive but I knew as with certain nasty tempered dogs, he was just looking for a reason to turn on me. He had done nothing for which I could turn him out but as he reeked of cat piss, so did he of hostility. Perhaps I could defuse it.If not I had an authentic machete my Parents had bought home from a holiday in the Dominican Republic. It was one of those odd things everyone has growing up that they tug along behind them for years.It was an object of my childhood but the blade was still sharp and I kept in hidden in my back room along with a BB gun and pepper spray.

Damn. I really needed to step up my employment search and get on that resume.

2010-09-11T17:59:00.000-07:00

It Was Bound To Happen

Into every life some creeps must fall. At least this is the way I rationalize it to myself. I suppose a farmer from Idaho would live a simpler life. One absent of stalkers, blackmailers, sociopaths and deviants.Although by some reports the good citizens of say,Idaho,had their own secrets just like anywhere else. They are just a bigger boned people.

It's true that I had chosen this way when I could have gone another way, but which way? There are only so many probable outcomes in any given situation. I was born with only so many gifts and talents. Some I squandered to my deep regret, some I was just discovering. I fancied that I now carried myself differently. I somehow felt more predatory and self aware as well as self reliant. And undoubtedly more selfish.

As Ava I took, schemed and wove my way through almost every level of society. A "girl" pirate who swaggered her way in and out of adventures with beauties half her age, just because she still can and tweaking the psyches of paying and largely older patrons. At first it was marvelous. I've always loved beginnings.

I was born with an indecent amount of self confidence. Many would say to an almost self delusional level. If I were not intrinsically introverted I would be unbearable. Of course I could be wrong in over estimating my own appeal but I didn't think so. I wasn't a perfect beauty, and older than some but I possessed an undeniable je ne sais quoi and I meant to capitalize on it. It was 2005 and I was rebounding rather nicely in a time when my more well heeled friends were beginning to feel bewildered and vaguely uneasy. Where the fuck was all their hard earned money GOING?

I wasn't alone in being laid off or in losing my benefits. As taxes crept up, so did utilities. Owning a car in the city was costing me a small ransom and I noticed a dull ache in my back tooth. Most unfortunate as I had also lost my dental insurance. Like Scarlett O'Hara I kept shoving away the voice of panic to be addressed another day. The sure footed and advancing reverberations of 9/11 and other nefarious national shake ups yet to be realized were circling us patiently. We seemed only dimly aware.

I also shoved another voice from my busy, busy cranium which was my intuition. Stupid. So stupid and I did it out of greed. I had just returned from Miami and was tanned and well rested having visiting friends out there. I needed some quick pick up cash when I came home to Boston. This new supplicant Wayne was badgering me via e-mail while I had been away sipping Mai Tais, rolling along with the techno and the sun addicts down in the dirty, dirty South. All play and no work makes Ava a broke ass bitch.

I unpacked and loved up Monti who had been cared for by Bunny while I was away. His plush, lush, grey fur shimmered like the blue Tahitian pearl bracelet an admirer had given me. I was wearing it now and I absently stroked them both as I checked my Mistress e-mail.

I recalled when I first received it as an unexpected gift from a man who was not even a submissive. He was a frequent contributor to another board that I posted on, having to do with super courtesans, high end personalities and so forth. This was one of the first of many gifts to come from generous strangers. I asked and therefore I received. Maybe there was something to this catholic thing. I had some modest suggestions that I had added onto my site like the perfumes that I loved or boxed book sets. Sometimes expensive jewelry or shoes but nothing improbable like a car. I thought that was tacky. So this gentle man of refinement had sent me this thoughtful present. For no apparent reason. As of yet anyway.

I put on a Tribe Called Quest and sipped some Meukow X.O and listened to the March wind and rain nagging at the trees outside the porch. I noticed with growing annoyance, that Wayne had continued to write me incessantly, pleading that I call him while I was away in Miami. I thought this was a gross misuse of my boundaries and this was after I had told him to knock it off. At least ten e-mails were lined up demanding my attention-all from this idiot. I had yet to even MEET Wayne and wasn't sure that I should in light of this flagrant disregard for my stated boundaries. But a girl's gotta eat and other sessions had been scheduled farther out. The rent would be paid but I wanted sushi so I called Wayne from a blocked number.

Big mistake.

2010-05-09T18:18:00.000-07:00

B.J's And M.I.L.Fs

I was meandering behind my friend Dawn who was engrossed in hunting and gathering within the cavernous walls of B.J's Warehouse. The isles stretched out before us, a highway of commerce and modern day consumption. The florescent lights beat down on us mercilessly like an artificial and chilly sun.

Dawn was scrutinizing every label on the back of every box with the critical eye of an icy C.F.O. On occasion, she tossed fretful admonishments toward her bickering twins who were strapped into a giant grocery cart that we were wheeling around. Dawn navigated the cart the same way she navigated her lumbering S.U.V -with cheerful disregard for the rest of humanity. Her near misses seemed purposeful as though she were only testing her own reflexes.

Her twin boys were two years old. One was clearly in love with me. The other just as obviously loathed me. On all other things they seemed to agree. The lover was Oliver and my mini nemesis was Nick. As Dawn distractedly reached for super sized, discounted food stuffs one child cooed and stretched toward me fetchingly as the other fingered his tiny nostrils in contempt. Nick's gaze flicked over me with the practiced and jaundiced eye of a misogynist. As a nursing baby, when finished, Nick would shove away his mother's breast like it was an empty beer stein. Creature.

In contrast, Oliver was filled with gratitude and jubilation. He seemed to possess deep sympathies and acute observations yet to be articulated.I sensed his polite disapproval when I mouthed obscenities at his twin when no one was looking. Nick took every opportunity to pinch or kick me in passing and he did this only to me. Initially I did everything that I could to win him over. Now I didn't give a shit.

"All bets are off kid." I said to him menacingly. He responded with a petulant kick in my direction. I blew Oliver a kiss and he wiggled with delight.

"What'? Asked Dawn.

"I asked if you were able to refinance the house yet."

"We are still waiting on it. Derek thinks it will go through. God I hope so. Things have been tighter then usual. I don't know why. We are cutting cost, budgeting everything to the last dime and I got a big increase. Did I tell you that?"

She turned toward me brightly smiling and for a moment I was reminded of her pre husband and baby days. I grinned ruefully. She had been buck wild, with multiple piercings and a cadre of diverse lovers. Now she hid her tattoos under long sleeves, cut coupons and was working her way up the corporate ladder after she dropped her kids off at day care. Derek had no idea of who she had been or how wildly promiscuous she was then. Now she had made herself into the perfect wife and mother and she seemed happy. Observing this transformation over the years had been fascinating.

"Yes you did. It sounds like you are getting what you deserve." I said lightly. I meant it as I admired her greatly for her perfectionism and resourcefulness. Like her son Oliver, Dawn also had great powers of observation and had been eye balling my purchases with unspoken suspicion. I had thrown in a giant super industrial roll of Saran Wrap along with other sundry and questionable items.

I had recently read about a trick where I could wrap a subbie in plastic wrap and therefore immobilizing him naked with his arms strapped to his sides. It was called mummification and I thought it sounded hilarious. It was also an excellent method to heighten the sensation of hot wax without the mess and red marks. Men are often so hairy. I picked up mega sized baby wipes, oil, vanilla scented candles, lighters and threw that in as well. Dawn had assigned me a corner in the tub sized cart and I was careful to keep to my territory. As she had gotten older she seemed to value order more than she had in the past.

I hadn't yet told her about my foray into the dark side and I wasn't sure why I hadn't. I suppose I knew intuitively that she would disapprove. Now that she had married and produced she was a fierce proponent of monogamy and I knew she would think that I was a temptation to the family unit. I knew this wasn't true but the thought of my having to defend my present life style to an incredulous suburban Star Bucks swilling hot mommy was a formidable notion.

Since when had one of my oldest friends become one of "them"- as in The Vanillas? I was beginning to divide people in my life into different groups. There were my new kink loving friends, mostly women but some men, who were my current contemporaries in my foray into BDSM culture. I thought of them as kinksters and co conspirators of sorts. Like a a member of some elite special force, I simply couldn't share my war stories with any but my own comrades. Most of the "civilians" ( or Vanillas) just wouldn't understand my new life style. They didn't need to as it was not in my best interest to share. I only told them as much as I though each could handle. I figured this was a temporary albeit fascinating and lucrative gig.

"Why are you getting this stuff?" Dawn pointed at my growing arsenal. I knew the question was coming and I was at the fork at the road of ethics. Should I give my friend the opportunity to rise to the occasion and be supportive and understanding? Or should I continue to lie and wear protective camouflage? Maybe it would be prudent to keep "Ava" far away from the light side of the moon.

As I waffled at the finishing line of my own little morality crisis I noticed Dawn's sudden expression of distaste. I followed her flat stare and saw a very young, nubile woman swishing past us. Her tits were large and lively and seemed to bounce along like healthy puppies. Oliver trilled appreciatively as she neared and Nick grunted in frustration, pursing his lips and lunging toward her as she passed, oblivious and unencumbered by a bra or at this point in her life, gravity.

"Husband fucker" muttered Dawn as the bodacious blond disappeared out of sight, the twins still craning their fat little necks trying to keep her in their vision. With that comment I made my decision and kept my mouth shut.

"Wow, it starts early." I said to Dawn, gesturing toward her ogling boy toddlers, hoping to distract her.

"Christ. The pigs." She said wearily and fondly.

"So why the baby wipes and baby oil? Are you expecting?" she snickered at me sharp eyed as a harem eunuch.

I vaguely alluded to a casual (and non existent)lover who was also a practicing massage therapist. To head off her pointed questions I told Dawn I was strictly in it for the massage as his penis was exceptionally small and his personality almost smaller. My boring answers soon bored her and we moved onto safer, less controversial territory. Like what constitutes the perfect vanilla latte, how parking is virtually impossible in Boston and the rising costs of day care. It occurred to me with some irony, that our separate shopping lists were rather similar, what with the baby wipes and what not. However our lives and interest were subtly diverging. Lately we seemed to have less in common and even less to talk about. When we spoke, I was often on cruise control and only half listening and I caught her doing the same. I felt badly about it and like a guilty lover was often overly attentive in spurts. Like now, as I accompanied her on her errands to this warehouse of plenty which I loathed. Next stop- Walmart.

We wheeled the gargantuan plastic shopping cart, stuffed with children and other necessary items, across the parking lot toward her tank of a vehicle. As we loaded up the SUV I saw the blond flash by in a red convertible seemingly unencumbered by baggage or a worry in the world.

Just you wait, I thought, not unsympathetically.

2010-01-02T15:28:00.000-08:00

"What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stranger"

The letter was a hand written invitation, a rarity these days and the lettering was as artful as the message.

"You have been selected as a witness to a unique and powerful event. Only twenty guests have been invited to this private viewing. If you choose to decline, please give this invitation back to the bearer of this letter.If you choose to attend simply keep this invite on your person and follow the attendant to the Red Room."

Without hesitation I stood up and kept the envelope. I gave a quick and regal nod to the Baby Waiter and said "All right then, let's go." Baby Waiter got up off of bended knee gave another deep bow and started away. Gordon was at my side in an instant.

"What is going on? What is happening? Are we leaving the apartment?" He hissed at me as he followed. Some of the guest were still watching us with curiosity as we made our way across the oceanic "apartment". Referring to this palatial residence was like calling The Breakers a cottage. Still some people do and these people were the ones that did. Understatement and restraint were the earmarks of good breeding and although a part of me appreciated this, the coarser and more honest part of myself wanted to give a big Bronx cheer at Gordon's unconscious phoniness.

"Did you get an invitation?" We hurried after the messenger, a set of ornate and gilded doors at the very end of the room his obvious target. On either side were flanked two granite faced guards. Although they were deceptively dressed in crisp tuxedos there was nothing of the servant about them. They exuded a blank faced, sinister and simmering power. One nodded cordially and silently held out his hand for the envelope. His hand was the size of a ham hock.

"What are you talking about"? demanded Gordon the look of confusion on his face a now constant companion. I stifled my amusement. I love secrets and felt giddy with excitement as the guards swung open the doors in unison. Did they practice?

"I don't know yet but I will soon. And I'll be sure to tell you."

I stepped into a darkened room leaving a perplexed Gordon behind. There were others in the room, their backs turned to me and facing a small raised stage. A few glanced behind them as they heard my arrival but they expectantly turned their attentions back toward the platform. Not a chair was empty. The seats were french antiques, impossibly delicate and uncomfortable. I imagined all the asses before me, a long line of long suffering and long ago dead people shifting as I was on this plank of aristocratic wood. The thought was oddly comforting.

I was diverted from my own musings as the stage lights suddenly sharpened into a blinding flare of white. As one sense temporarily left me the other, my hearing, sharpened. I heard only silence. Not a rustle or a whisper. The lights dimmed again and the rich burgundy curtains smoothly pulled open to reveal the other half of the stage which was empty. The audience sensed movement at the same moment and we all looked up. From the ceiling a figure was being lowered, arms outstretched and legs straight behind them looking a bit like a figure on a cross being lowered face down. It was a woman and she was NOT on a cross. She seemed to be suspended by chains. Or...hooks? I was very close to the stage and had an intimate view of this strange ceremony. The woman was suspended from silver chains as though she were a jewel.

The foot lights illuminated her as ahe descended over us, hovering slim and nude. She was pale and had one long black braid coiled over her shoulder like a cozy black snake. I knew immediately that it was Queenie and stood up with the rest of the audience who began to applaud spontaneously. As my eyes adjusted I could see four strapping young slaves manipulating the ropes. Queenie swayed gently above us like a mote of dust. I moved closer so I could watch her face which was as smooth and tranquil as a stone angel. Indeed, she was hanging by hooks which had been inserted through the back of her upper arms, through the flesh of her shoulders and both of her calves.

And so she hung. And hung. And hung. I surreptitiously checked the time on my cell phone. Fifteen minutes had already passed and nothing else was happening. Why had I been invited? What was Queenie trying to say? That she was more daring, worthy of worship or more dedicated than myself? But dedicated to what? If this made her more superior than myself then so be it. She and I were clearly motivated by different things. Let her keep the glory, the mystique of her own legend. I was more interested in survival, adventure and to follow my own curiosity to see where it would lead me. It lead me here as just another member of her audience. I shifted restlessly in my seat. I knew if I left now that I would be noticed and it would be considered rude. I had already committed an earlier faux paux. So I resentfully stayed seated.

Another ten minutes before the curtains closed and the lights were raised.
Queenie received a standing ovation which she deserved because after all it WAS an amazing feat of self discipline and theatrics. But I no more understood the desire for this pain and self mutilation that I did those who put in grueling hours and suffering to run the marathon. I admired it all from afar and only for a moment. I had no need to emulate it.

Suddenly I was struck by a sense of mischief. As the audience rose and filed out I rummaged through my evening bag to find a pen a few other items. I flipped over the invitation and wrote BRAVO! Then I left behind a bottle of Advil and a small sewing kit that I had found earlier in my hotel room.

I figured she would need them more than I did.

2009-11-16T13:13:00.000-08:00

Woman's Virtue Is Man's Greatest Invention

Up close, Queenie was even more perfect. It was astonishing really. How could she not already be famous? Clearly she had the over sized yet shaky ego of any performer. She assumed that everyone was watching her and she was right. A beauty to cause madness, no soul to speak of and a size two.Every straight man's secret desire, every gay man's muse and the natural enemy of all women.

I knew instinctively she just sucked when I first met her. Thank the fates that I was born without a cock for surely I would have been ruthlessly manipulated by her. But still... to have a penis and to sacrifice it to this self absorbed, freak of superior symmetry was one of the saddest things that I had seen. I felt her powers were greatly over stated and she probably did much to perpetuate her own legend. Not that I blamed her. I could learn allot from her.

"Why?" I sipped my drink ignoring the constant stares and the busy body hum of the other guests murmured conversations.

"Why not?." Queenie asked archly. She smirked like a cartoon villainous. Aw shucks..so trite. I was hoping for more. I just waited. Finally she answered.

"Well he wanted it". She said almost defensively. "I make him happy and he is going to die anyway. He has terrible diabetes." Queenie was looking at her subbie with a expression that aped affection. He watched her, obviously yearning for her in a way that made him more nude than his physical nakedness. Blood was still smeared on his chest. To icky for words. Yet I was compelled to look despite myself.

"Believe me, the man could not get it up. It was useless anyway-hadn't worked right for years. He hardly misses it at all. It was not the sacrifice that people think it was. " Queenie was as off hand about her slave's castration as she would have been about choosing her own lobster from a tank for dinner.

"Oh...well if you are sure he wasn't going to miss it...but it wasn't really done with a dull knife, was it?"

Queenie scoffed.

"Of course not. We flew to a private clinic in Mexico. Very state of the art. I know you think it is sick and maybe it would have been if he was a sexual being in the true sense. But he internalized his condition in a healthy way and I admire that. He could have hated women out of frustration. His true sexual nature is that of a submissive although in business he is a shark. Do you know who he is? I can't imagine that you do". I shrugged. I didn't.

"Just as well. How did you get here?"

I gestured toward to Gordon who was glancing at us frequently, a bemused expression on his face. Both Gordon and Queenie's slave were on point like retrievers and ready to dash over the second one of us beckoned them. We ignored them.

"Hmmm. Are you new? I asked who you were but no one has heard of you." She looked at me this time with indulgent contempt.

"Yes I am and no they have not heard of me. Yet." I smiled in a roguish way. She did not smile back.

"Do you love it?" she asked pointedly.

"Do you"? I countered.

"Yes I do. I enjoy upsetting the power dynamic. Men are weak and I like proving it." I nodded thoughtfully at this.

"So...do you hate men?"

"Of course. I like women even less.You?" A misanthrope, a girl after my own heart.

"Interesting question. I don't see things in such a black and white way. I agree that men are often weak, however, women are as well. I'm not trying to be wishy washy -it is just a complex question. I think being human is synonymous with being weak in general. More often than not they disappoint me, but then again they were not put here to serve my needs."

"That is where you are wrong. They are here to serve you and to bend to your will. If you know how. Some are born servants and others are masters" Queenie finished her champagne off with a flourish.

"Very Ayn Rand of you. Ever hear of this quote? " I don't wish to lead or to follow. I wish only to go my own way."

Queenie stood up and I could tell that I had been dismissed.

"You may be on your way to becoming an evolved ( she pronounced evolved with sarcasm) human being but with a motto like that, I can't see you becoming a great Domina. Good-bye." She sauntered away like a lean flanked alley cat. Bitch.

She did have a point. I had much to absorb and ruminate. I also had the uneasy suspicion that in some ways Queenie and I were very similar. I fluttered my fingers at Gordon who made his way across the room toward me. In the back ground I could hear the mingled cries of pain and ecstasy entwined and rising in the air. Sounded like things were heating up in the other rooms.

Before Gordon had reached my side, another person approached me. It was the naked baby waiter. This time he was holding a silver tray and on it was a thick cream colored envelope. He knelt before me and presented the sealed letter. On the front and hand printed in calligraphy was my Domina name, Ava The Laughing Mistress. I reached for it and as I did I asked

"Who gave this to you?" He shrugged shyly.

"Was it a man or a woman?" I asked impatiently.

"I'm not sure Mistress" He whispered with eyes down cast.

I sighed. Oh the weirdness of it all.

I tore the envelope open and began to read.

2009-08-30T17:35:00.000-07:00

Ladies Don't Bite

"So...you don't like other women? That is a shame as there are more of us". Queenie actually curled her lip at me. One side of her mouth tugged suddenly upwards like a crimson shade in an empty window. I saw a quick glimpse of disturbingly wet gums and a white incisor.

"Not at all. I like some women very much." I then popped the olive from the martini into my mouth and chewed insolently as I waited for her to speak. She stared at me some more and when she realized that tactic had been tapped out she tried another. Determined little bugger.

The watching party seemed entranced by our interaction. The violins were still being played by invisible musicians from another room-the music as melancholy as an Irishman. I could sense Gordon nervously shifting from one foot to another. I ignored his apologetic shuffling and stared at Queenie with cool amusement. Inwardly I was seething as she had hit a hot button.

The fact is, I DO like women very much. It may be an unpopular and arrogant position but I truly feel that women for the most part, are far superior to men. Of course unlike men, what makes us more vulnerable is our forgiving nature. We always forgive those we should punish and that makes us weak-not merciful. We understand, therefore we pardon.However, paradoxically it is this inability to forgive that also makes men intolerant and able to rationalize great evil. So you see-no matter what, morally, women almost always come out a head.

I think I say with great confidence that the ills of the world typically start and end with men. Women seldom abuse, rape, enslave, molest or torture (and if they do you can bet she inherited this dark legacy through the hands of her father. Or someones son.)but men have been known to do it for fun and profit. Why some have even been known to build dynasties based on their special gift for dehumanizing "the other"! Their lust makes them unfaithful even to themselves and many use their lust as a measurement for their manhood. Of course most men are not well endowed.

"Perhaps you are intimidated by me." Her eyes watched me flatly with as much humanity as a Kabuki mask.

"Perhaps you care too much what I think." I shrugged in my best Gaelic fashion.

"Who are you anyway and why are you here?" She flexed her steel tipped claws as though she were just twitching to scratch my eyes out with them. I glanced at her hands deliberately and gave her an even look rich with unspoken threats. They say most human interaction is 98% subconsciously guided by our body language. If this is true then our respective bodies were shrieking obscenities at one another.

As I am not a man, I am not susceptible to a woman's beauty in the same way. Her extraordinary looks had already lost her power over me and it was obvious that she was a narcissistic sociopath. I was not afraid of her yet but her kind could give me reason to be. I think humans are drawn to this double whammy because they think these predators are unknowable, therefore profound. At the risk of going too heavy on the zen thang', I think they seem unknowable because there is nothing to know.I have often puzzled over these sorts as I have been glamored by them once or twice. They will cannibalize you with out a thought-don't waste your energy wondering why. It's like what that famous bank robber once said when asked why he robbed banks. "Because that is where the money is". Same thing with the truly evil-they see you as a resource and if they don't you are safer.

"See? You do care what I think." I said not bothering to answer her demand. I tipped back my glass and drained it. I caught a look of Gordon's mortified face and suddenly felt contrite. After all these people were important to him and probably should be to me as well. For now. Any way, it seemed time to pull this scene off the ledge and bring it inside. Every narcissist needs an admiring throng and this crowd was no doubt owned by Queenie. The best way to defuse this was to try and cut her out of the herd. This game was important to her and Gordon was important to me so I needed to turn this in my favor and quickly. The best way? Why flattery of course. It had to seem begrudging, therefore more sincere. As SunTzu said "Those whose words are humble while they increase war preparations are going to advance. Those whose words are strong and who advance aggressively are going to retreat." Good old, old Sun Tzu.

"I will say this...I have heard something extraordinary about you and I think it might be true... " letting my voice trail off as I noted Queenie's reaction of haughty curiosity.

"Yes"? she spat imperiously. I looked around the room at our silent audience. I felt like Marie Antoinette supping at Versailles with the whole village gaping on hungrily.

"From my lips to your ears." I whispered theatrically and turned making my way through the chilly rooms toward a purple velvet settee. I swiped a glass of champagne ( it must be said-it was excellent. ) from a shockingly young and naked waiter who shyly met my eyes with a smile. I smiled back and arranged myself carefully on the sofa and sipped my sparkling wine and waited only moments. As I knew it would, her ego drew her irresistibly toward me. I watched Queenie approach until she stood before me, clawed hands on her ballerina hips.

"OK I'll bite."

"Oh I know you will." I smiled and she looked uncertain for a moment and laughed. It cut off suddenly and ended on a sharp bark. Yikes. The only thing not beautiful about her was the dying rasp of her desert, dog like laugh.

"Well...I heard that you had a sense of humor." I smirked as she barked at me again. With one long step, she sat herself near me and waved the baby waiter over. That was easy. I guess the girl was dying to talk.

"So...I have to admit, I am very intrigued yet repelled by your slave's dedication to you. How was this sacrifice made?"

Queenie pressed her lips together for a split second and I thought perhaps I got to chummy to quickly. However, she could not resist the opportunity to at least hint at her greatness.

"In Mexico. With a dull knife." She giggled horribly and I found myself giggling right along with her.

Ouch.

2009-06-07T18:07:00.000-07:00

Queens In Manhattan

As it so often happens, I didn't know what to think. So I remained impassive as I scanned the room.

It was a beautiful room, the sort where only the well to do could afford to heat completely but so seldom do. This is a particular peeve of mine. I've got to express just how awfully grubby the filthy rich can be about unimportant things. Like comfort. Perhaps this is only the New England or North Eastern tribe but they really take great pride in denying themselves and so often those around them. Although more often than not, the truly eccentric ones seemed to be the most generous in erratic and unexpected ways. Like sending me a two thousand dollar gift certificate to Dean And Deluca.

The rooms stretched on into a vast apartment-true New York Salon style. The windows were long and looked out onto the East River. We were so high up the host did not even bother with drapery. This neighborhood mansion had many rooms and peppered with fire places. The guest were huddled nonchalantly around each of the five or six of them for warmth as well as for the flattering glow.

Gordon had taken me to a very private, hush hush gathering of people- most being listed in the social register. Then there were the others like myself and the other Mistresses and slaves who had been invited. We were the entertainment. Gordon had received the invitation by phone and we had been asked to attend an elaborate fetish party on the upper east side. We arrived suitably costumed.

It doesn't matter what Gordon was wearing as men have the misfortune of sporting a rather drab and uninteresting wardrobe. I however, was wearing a long, black, Vera Wang gown that had been marked down from a thousand to a mere three hundred. Over it, I wore my favorite authentic Japanese corset (at this point in my story, my only corset)and in hand my red nylon snake of a whip. I wore shiny black open toed boots and I towered over the general population in the room. The only people that I could look in the eye were the other Dominas.

We were a proud and haughty group. The Dominas were tall and striking and the submissives were mostly short, fat, oldish and obscenely wealthy. The few beautiful men at the party were naked slaves who were there for the taking by either sex. A significant number of the male guest were wearing black leather hoods and masks. Some of the Dominas,like myself, wore a more subtle disguise. I had on a well made wig of real human hair. It had long chestnut finger waves and was parted deeply to the side like a 1940's glamor girl. My eyes were smudgy and feline and instead of my own green ones, I was wearing violet colored contacts. Gordon nudged me sharply. I bent discreetly and from a great distance so I could hear him.

"Look over there." He jerked his head to the left and began to edge over to a room where yet another cluster of people were warming themselves in front of the biggest fire place of all. They were focused and courting one woman who was one of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And I was in a city filled with some of the most astonishing people in the world.

"Holy moley. Who IS that?" I asked.

"Queenie. Her slave and benefactor is from one of the wealthiest families in New York. She is a expensive self indulgence. I heard she wrangled an apartment out of him that over looks The Park. She also managed to wrangle something else from him. Look closely. Notice anything?"

Frankly, I was to busy noticing Queenie. She looked Eurasian and was naturally tall. In fact she was the only Domina in the room not wearing heels. She was barefoot and her toe nails were painted scarlet. On each of her fingers, she wore long and delicate finger sheaths. They were ornate pieces of jewelry, very old, with hinges and looked quite authentic, sharp and sinister. She was wearing a sheer swath of black silk that was twined carelessly around her taunt body, mysteriously staying in place as she moved. You could see she wore nothing underneath but seemed more dressed than the rest of us. Her dead black, slippery hair was in a loose tumble atop her head and pinned here and there with large pearls. Her eyes were huge and almond shaped, exaggerated like an anime character. But instead of housing an expression of blank and terrified innocence her black eyes sparkled with malice and boredom. She was alien like in her absolute perfection. Queenie could have been eighteen or thirty. She reeked of refined insanity

"Well I've noticed the obvious if that is what you are asking. Queenie is smokin' hot. But can she dance?"

Gordon snickered.

"I'm sure that she can and very well I expect. She speaks five languages fluently and is rumored to have graduated from Yale at sixteen. When she still accepts sessions she gets no less than ten grand an hour."

I turned and looked at him in shock. He laughed at my expression of disbelief. Gordon shrugged.

"Who knows...some of it could be exaggerated. Not by much."

Queenie was holding her sacrifice lightly by the back of the neck. She would occasionally and savagely twist his nipples with the tips of her elegant and silver claws. He stared up at her raptly as a thin thread of blood ran from his nipples. I watched as she had him write Queenie in his blood across his own paunch. I was both fascinated and faintly amused.

"However I want you to really look at her slave. Let's test your powers of observation". I gave him an eye roll but did as he asked.

I looked more closely at Queenie's willing captive. OK...another fat, old man with a leather hood. I inched my way toward the group until I had a better vantage point. My eyes dropped with disinterest to his patch of old man pubic hair. I expected to see the usual- an unremarkable tube of meat. Instead...I saw nothing. Nothing at all. I squinted, I blinked, I damned near got down on my hands and knees to get a closer look.

"He gave his penis to her as a tribute. The ultimate tribute. She owns him completely now and I bet eventually she will own most of New York."

"WHAT"? I nearly shouted. Gordon gave me a sharp look in warning. I would not be silenced

"That is disgusting. I have never heard of anything so sick in all my life."

Gordon frowned at me.

"You don't get it Ava. For some that could be considered the ultimate prize for a powerful Domina. It has made her a legend within a very small and influencial group of people".

"The symbolism does not escape me. I would have to be obtuse if I did not pick up on it. I simply find it horrifying. Fun and games are one thing, Gordon. But this... at the risk of sounding provincial-it's evil". I had made an effort to subdue my own reactions and had lowered my voice.

"For her slave it was an act of love. If you are going to be a Domina you really need to suspend your judgments".

"Bullshit. I AM judging this. I think it is wrong and I don't care if she got an apartment on Mount Olympus for enabling it. That man may be richer than God but he is obviously mentally ill and she is taking advantage of it." Gordon looked stricken, as though he was desperately trying to send me a telepathic message.

Suddenly I felt aware that I was being closely observed. I turned slowly as though I was in a horror movie and there was Queenie standing right behind me. Her expression was one of cold curiosity. She stared at me silently waiting for me to mumble out an apology. She who speaks first loses so I looked right back at her, my lips sewn tight like a voodoo doll.

We stared at one another in a silent battle of wills. In fact the entire room had fallen silent. Only the murmuring strains of a classic violin could be heard. It only heightened the surrealistic feeling of the moment. I'm not easily intimidated and I actually enjoy the absurd. She narrowed her eyes at me and I narrowed mine right back. Queenie crossed her arms and threw back her head staring icily at me. I mirrored her every move.

Bring it on bitch.

2009-02-24T04:38:00.000-08:00

Cheese

Samuel is Bunny's boyfriend. He is a talented amateur photographer. He looks like a lanky, old moneyed WASP, but he is actually a lanky middle class Jew. He was patiently arranging me under his lights as I arched my back unnaturally in front of Bunny's white Chinese screen. Her five orange cats crouched and stared unblinking at my contortions. I was wearing a black rubber girdle dress with attached nude,sheer thigh highs and black pumps. My breast were thrust to the heavens and my waist was the size of a Wasp Queen. I looked hot. I WAS hot and uncomfortable. One must suffer for beauty.

"OK Ava, I want you to stretch your toes toward the ceiling, turn your head back over your shoulder and arch your back even more".

I struggled to do as he asked but I had been posing for hours.

"Turn my head back over my shoulder? What is this the exorcist'? Samuel chuckled indulgently but was insistent.

"Come on Mistress you still have a little life in you yet. This natural light is outstanding." As he spoke he fussed with my props, wrapping my Nana's black pearls around my leg. I nodded enthusiastically.

"Sexy!"

I had always hated being photographed as I felt like I was cursed by some quirk of faulty symmetry. I never looked as pretty as I felt. In the past, loved ones would thoughtfully examine candid photos of me, make a non committal sound and pass them on. They thought they were being diplomatic. I knew that my head looked over sized and somehow shaggy, like an Native American ceremonial buffalo mask.

If Samuel were a doctor, he could be described as having an excellent bedside manner. He put me at ease with his grandfatherly and sanitized touch. Under his calm directives I preened and soldiered on but
my mind wandered. I was thinking about the website that I was having designed. I had a friend who was creating it for me on the pay for it later plan. She did the technical work as I have no aptitude for that sort of thing. I did take a keen interest and closely supervised the creative outlay. In fact I gradually wrestled control from my poor friend who didn't really give a damn as she is a good sport.

For months I had been studying not only the websites of well known Dommes, but also those of super exclusive, very high end calls girls. I had been directed to a particular internet board by a client. It catered to this insular and chi chi group of educated beauties who had their own cult of personality, which they marketed to "patrons" or "suitors" as the clients were called. It wasn't Fee who showed me the way, as she shunned the more traditional path of the paid companion. She had no website, just some private referrals shared amongst friends and a few stunning photos by a well known and very popular photographer used in those circles. The man's ego was as big as his talent as he insisted on branding his photos with a giant water mark of his name. Still, he was a genius and totally out of my league. Fee made most of these girls look sick and within four or five long week ends cleared over one hundred thousand a year. And then some. But she was a lone wolf and jealous of her spoils so I couldn't look to her often for private introductions. Besides we did not play the same way.

I had a client (I was quickly getting some private referrals of my own) who liked to explore his dual sexual natural with unflagging curiosity. Sometimes he liked it vanilla, meaning conventional sex. When he did he turned to an absolutely mesmerizing, sleek little red headed courtesan named Jean. He seemed bewitched by her and I wondered if he rhapsodized to Jean about me. I looked at her site and sure enough she had the same wonderful photographer that Fee had used. Unlike most of the Domme sites that I had studied, her website was elegant and mysterious. She never showed her face and it was evident by her text that she was bright and unusually charming. Also uncommonly beautiful. Her rates unflinchingly stated a three hour minimum and she saw no one for less than three thousand to start. According to our mutual client, Jean was worth every penny. He went to Jean when he wanted to feel good and came to me when he wanted to feel bad.

Her site was linked to a treasure trove website of information about the business. Not the business of Domination per say, but the business of marketing and selling sexual promise -not blatant sex itself. I decided to model my own site against type and more on this high end escorting model. I was becoming a Professional Dominatrix and was not a call girl, but I was beginning to consider myself a sort of hybrid. I had begun accompanying my clients to fine restaurants and wine tastings. For some, I was becoming a trusted confidant who was capable of speaking compellingly on a number of topics. A sexy and entertaining business companion who would also inflict great pain. Who could resist?

"Please hold still Ava" Samuel said mildly, interrupting my schemes and dreams to take over the world.

"I've had enough." I stood up, brushing cat hair off my ass and started gathering all my props and pretty things together.

"All right. We have been shooting for almost four hours. I feel really good about this, I think we got some real classic stuff here. I agree with you about the black and white film. I'm going to play around with them in photoshop a little".

"Sure, just try and keep them flattering but realistic, ok? I don't want to raise unrealistic expectations."

"Don't worry-it will be all you Ava. You really hung in there. Good job" Samuel extended his hand for me to shake, smiling wryly, all teeth and sandy hair. I took it and grinned back.

The five orange cats turned their five heads in perfect unison toward the door. A moment later, we heard the key in the lock and the sound of Bunny's weary tread ascending.

"Hi guys." she said as she flopped into the room in an almost palpable fog of exhaustion. Bunny threw herself onto her sofa and was immediately surrounded by a circle of solicitous cats. Samuel offered to make tea which I thought was mighty sensitive of him.

"Long day huh?" I asked sympathetically. She didn't look good, she was pale and under her eyes were purple and gray shadows caused by the daily tedium of survival.

"Oh you don't even know Ava. I've worked fifteen hours today, up at five am
but I missed my train anyway by a minute. I still have about three hours worth of case paper work to do before I can sleep. How did the shoot go?"

Samuel and I interpreted one another with our enthusiastic report of the day, like eager children. Bunny seemed to wilt in front of us as though our high spirits were taking what energy she had left. I pulled her boots off as she slipped sideways and unresisting. I felt a twinge of guilt. Lately I had been sleeping in on expensive linen, carelessly eating in bed and drinking endless cups of coffee from a chic French press that a client bought me. I wasn't exactly rolling in dough yet, having been at the Domina gig for barely six months. But I had been paying the rent by myself with ease in a very expensive city in a hip part of town. I had many clients buy me what I both needed and wanted. After all, money not spent is money saved right? One client took me to Traders Joes, a specialty grocery store where I loved to shop. I had another sub, a more practical sort, who would bring me industrial sized cans of coffee and bags of kitty litter big enough to crush a toddler to death. Other submissives were more romantic and bought me surprisingly expensive jewelry. I looked at Bunny's wan face and recalled my own not so long ago days of being a wage slave without sentiment.

As she relayed her grueling day of appeasing virulent and ego driven office emperors, I suddenly felt even guiltier. I felt freer than I had in years despite the insecurity of not having a corporate safety net. I had lost my dental and health insurance, a bad relationship, a good roommate (something as valuable and rare as a gold artifact) and a well paying but senseless job all in the last six months or so. I was often drowning in my own anxiety and thoughts of an uncertain future haunted me. Yet for the first time in awhile, I was intrigued with my own life again. I was deliberately reinventing myself and in a weird way...I was having fun. I was feeling survivors guilt, because I felt like I was escaping the machine of benign corporate servitude. First a refuge, then a revoked promise, corporate America was an Indian giver.

So turn and smile for the camera.

2008-12-15T19:31:00.000-08:00

Jesus Was A Carpenter.

I was flat on my ass broke and my unemployment had run out, time
was running out and for the first time in my life I was panicking. I
even thought about marrying for money, but I shuddered at the thought.
Wasn't marrying for security just another form of slavery? Or maybe it
was the smart thing to do. Yet, as my mind skimmed over the likely
prospects, I groaned out loud in dismay. I had a roster of hopefuls
(actually about three candidates) that if I schemed hard enough and
acted my ass off, I could be walking down the isle within the year. The
only thing that stopped me? I didn't love them. I just didn't love
them, no matter how hard I had tried or wanted to and they were
excellent men. The thought of lying under one of them, compliant and
distant like a mail order bride, made me feel like Lilith, Adam's first
wife. The bad one. My personal favorite.

I just can't say I Do-when I know I won't. Oh, for a couple of years, if
that, I might not stray but eventually something would catch my eye and
imagination. I would be compelled to act on it. It's my nature. After
all, monogamy is a HUGE sacrifice if you know what you are doing
because the skilled are always in demand.. Why should I squander my
experiences, sensations and brief time in this body for a sub par life
with a convenient stranger? They would only grow to hate me. I would
make sure of it. I love deeply, but seldom and I am suspicious of those
who seemed to have the ability to dip in and out of love affairs like
loopy dragon flies. All lovers are collectors and when you find that
perfect specimen of course you want to trap it under a bell jar. I
want to own what I love. Yet I don't want to be owned and there lies
the rub. I suspect that I am not alone in this dichotomy. However, I was finding that there was a population that craved deeply, to be owned, for their every move to bo controlled and monitored. Truly my idea of hell.

I've always thought that Jesus seemed to have more than a whiff of the submissive about him. The drooping head, the supplicating curve of the neck, the bloody crucifixion.The endless sacrifice for a beautiful and seemingly indifferent deity. He made suffering horribly sexy,Jesus was a tortured artist with the androgynous glamor of a seventies rock star. He was also a carpenter and competence is sexy in my eyes. A blue collar scholar, he was one of our first enduring voices of reason. Empathy is also a sexy quality in a man. Yet I never fantasize about having sex with Jesus and I don't typically think about having sex with my clients.

My first bonafide slave was a gifted carpenter and like Jesus he answered my prayers just in the nick of time. After doing over a dozen out calls to
various high end hotels and assorted private homes I realized that my
income would expeditiously rise if I turned my ex roommate's room into a
little dungeon. I had it all figured out, I just had no idea on how to
actually make the equipment. My aspirations exceeded my abilities, but
I was resourceful and determined. Maybe I was just plain lucky because
Casper ( the name of my first slave)answered my ad with a direct yet respectful e-mail.

I was his first Mistress and his last and he came to me skittish and mumbling. Although not a cracker, he was proudly country and somehow authentically New England in his sensibilities. He had a strong work ethic and wasn't afraid to put his shoulder into a project. He is a red haired, lashless man with a ruddy, pre cancerous farmer's tan. Casper was an absolute genius as he could make or fix almost anything. From repairing vintage cars, to building working electric chairs,the man can do it all and with an Amish like competence. He is a rough neck Renaissance man who designed his own house on a remote hill, in a quaint witch burning
town.His home runs on solar energy and a back up generator. Casper was
a hidden gem.One of the few people that I initially misread and
underestimated. His sterling qualities of loyalty, simple wisdom and
awe inspiring skill sets are valued in any capacity, be it employee,
husband, brother, never mind as a willing slave. He was every Dominas
magical find. Casper was the big score.

I was strengthening my bond with Casper. We grew closer over our shared enthusiasm in the creation of my little nightmare of a back room. I designed my equipment and Casper refined it and made it.

At first glance the room looked like a pretty if bland guest room. There was a single bed covered in a lavender quilt,with a wooden headboard. It could be stripped down in seconds and transformed into a bed of restraints, as Casper had drilled four eye hooks into each corner of the frame. I could handcuff the clients spread eagled to the bed. There was a stockade that had been designed to unscrew and put away in a closet in under 3 minutes. It was covered by a matching quilt and looked like a quilt stand. Next to the bed was a round marble table and on top of that a glass globe lamp that cast a cozy glow. The main light had a purple bulb purple bulb that shed a lurid haze on the room. In the other corner was a slip covered chair in gold brocade. Hidden underneath was a wooden guillotine chair. The submissive would straddle it so his stomach was pressed up against the back of a high backed chair. He would then pull his own package through a hole that had been cut into the back. Not unlike a glory hole. I would then slide down a slat of wood that trapped the cock in a wooden circle, and tighten the screws. After handcuffing his feet and legs to the chair with more eye hooks and metal clips, he would be helpless and exposed. Trusting souls, ain't they? There were large, leafy ferns hanging from two hooks in the ceiling. I would use these same hooks to hang a bound and hapless client, his arms cuffed over his head and clipped to the plant holders. Casper installed locks on the closet door, as it was there that I stored my sparse collection of fetish wear and equipment.

It took about three weeks to finish building the fetish furniture. Black, silken ropes (purchased at Home Depot-a virtual treasure trove for BDSM enthusiasts)dangled from the ceiling. The new wood gleamed with a fresh walnut stain. It was inviting yet impersonal. Perfect. We both stood, like beaming, proud parents in their new nursery. As the crowning touch, I pinned festive, red holiday lights to the window frame. Christmas was right around the corner. I raised the shade and sat on the edge of the bed, Casper at my feet. We watched the snow fall as we sipped our heavily spiked egg nog.

"Where does your wife think you are Casper"? I asked.

"She knows I am with you Mistress." Oh? A very confident woman. Or a disinterested one.

"And where is your wife now Casper?"

"She is with her Dom. He is a professional Dom"

"Why don't you discover your emerging interests together? " I asked carefully.

There was an awkward silence and he answered

"Because she does not want to Mistress"

I sipped my drink and stroked Casper's hair with compassion. My friend was in for a bumpy ride and I would bet, a divorce very soon. After all, open the door to the Devil and he might take you up on your invite. I know...as a Domina I suppose I should advocate the open life style, swinging and all that. But I believe in old fashioned relationships, the sort where people actually care enough about one another to lie.

I had sunk most of what I had left in my account on this last stand, a gamble with odds that I optimistically felt were stacked in my favor.

After all, it was the season of miracles.

2008-10-08T14:32:00.000-07:00

Turning out Bunny

It was a snowy Thanksgiving Night. Bunny and I shared a blunt as we stood together, looking out over our slice of the city. Some day, the third floor porch ( the porch railings had been cozily twined with colored lights by Bunny) was bound to break off the tilted house, like an ice floe. But for now we ignored the obvious and watched the flakes come down to cover the hushed roads. The cars were creeping cautiously down the narrow, sparkling streets, their head lights illuminating the way like a string of Christmas tree lights. We could hear the trains pulling in and out, over at Forrest Hills T stop. They squealed horribly, like tar caught dinosaurs. The night air smelled dry and cold as a delicious martini.

Bunny turned to me, her nose scrunched up and perplexed. She reminded me of a simple drawing in a children's book. She has coarse, curly hair that springs around her round face in a moving mass of peachiness. Her slow blinking eyes, behind round frames, belied a fierce, all encompassing but modest brilliance. She knows which way the wind blows.

"So pervy guys pay you an obnoxious sum of money to play with your feet? Is that all? I won't judge you. You know that." Bunny beamed her non judgment beneficence in my direction. She is a fabulous therapist and had heard worse than this.

"Well...yeah. But there is more to it than that. Believe it or not, despite all the props and oddities, the guys are really pretty cool. So far anyway. Seriously, I am not having sex with any of them. It's a great gig-all very theatrical and really quite psychological" Bunny looked at me askance for a moment as she drew on the blunt and then nodded quickly.

"I suppose I can see that. It actually makes sense. I bet there is lots of shame around these activities. They must have a deep need to act it out, especially if their early sexuality was imprinted and linked to some humiliating event." Bunny clenched the fragrant cigar in one bright red knit mitten.

"There does seem to be some of that. Sexy, older, stronger babysitters sitting on little boy faces...you know, lots of smothering, feet and tickling stuff. I don't know if it is quite that simple.Some subs might be born and not made."

"So how do I get in on this? I have really sweet feet." said Bunny proudly and abruptly.

"Really? You want me to pimp your feet mama?" I hooted at the thought of earnest, feminist, vegan, cat worshiping Bunny, whoring out her tootsies. She nodded her head sharply, her curls quivering

"Are you kidding? If what you say is true, then I basically get paid (bleep) to get a foot massage? If I did ten a month it would pay my rent. Where the hell do I sign up? I owe seventy thousand in student loans. I was thinking about begging for a job down at Starbucks,so I can stand on my feet for 20 more hours a week and bring home an embarrassing check. I'm exhausted." I nodded sympathetically.

"All right...let me think about it. I've just started myself. Let me see how I do.If I work it, then I'll include you." She nodded and put out the blunt, pulling up her faux fur collar around her face. She turned toward her apartment where she was cooking a vegan Thanksgiving feast. I knew I would have to choke down tofu flavored products so I could get at what Bunny makes best. She is a wonderful baker and concocts a peerless banana bread, as well as rich, vegan chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies

The scent of Tofu turkey wafted through the screen door. My stomach rumbled despite
myself.I am a animal loving carnivore who grapples with my meat eating, weak hypocritical self.If I had to, I would throw down on my own cats. Fuck it-they would do it to me. And I adore my cats. Each,guilt ridden morning, I start my day with a prosciutto and swiss cheese omelet and a pot of strong black coffee.

"Do you think what I am doing is wrong"? I was going to do it anyway, but her opinion did matter to me, so I was willing to look attentive and as though I was deeply considering her position.

"Absolutely not. I can't tell you why now, because I'm to messed up. I just want to eat. But later, I promise I will analyze this with you. Did you choose a name?"

"I've decided to call myself Mistress Ava, The Laughing Mistress". I explained to Bunny how I came by my previously, private moniker and my earlier bloody debacle back at the hotel. When she stopped giggling I went on.

"I chose Ava because I love the name and it is my tribute to the actress Ava Gardner,(Our generation's Angeline Jolie I believe)and alphabetically it starts with an A.Top of the list.It is hard to screw up and easy to spell and remember. Spare, sexy,elegant and vaguely European without being pretentious." I followed Bunny back inside her apartment, where we shed our winter gear. I shook out my perfectly broken in, quarter length black leather blazer, opera length black velvet gloves and a sea green, knitted fisher mans hat and a roughly woven scarf that matched. So cute. I bought them at a fair in Nova Scotia.

"I like it. I think it's going to work for you."

I nodded silently and we both changed the subject when the door bell began ringing with the arrival of our friends. We lived in the city so our families were elsewhere.

Already we were learning to keep secrets.

2008-09-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

Through The Eye Of A Needle

I knew I was going to change Bansi's life but I had only an hour to do it. I was going to sit him down and explain to him that I've seen more penises than he ever would. They were as varied and infinite as snowflakes. Because of this, I knew his to be a bit peculiar. Should I plunge into the first half hour and give him what he wants? A bout of suffocation and guilty masturbation? Then engage him in a informal and unsolicited adult education consultation?

It was a sensitive topic to broach-with anyone, but never mind a religious virgin who was already conflicted by his desires, a paying client who was from a alien culture. He might misconstrue my words of concern and advice and feel that I was criticizing or making fun of his most precious possession-every man's most treasured possession-his cock. I must tread delicately. I decided to play with Bansi first and change his fate later.I figured that I would have his full attention AFTER he had his "release". Because we all know how difficult it is for them to think of two things at the same time. Submissives are still men.

We played a game of lassoing his head for awhile as I laughed uncontrollably. He seemed to sincerely enjoy my unbridled mirth. I caught him making warm, bovine brown eyed looks in my direction, as shy as a milk maid. I liked him greatly. I enjoyed his open enthusiasm, his natural and frank character and above all-corrupting his innocence. He wouldn't need it anymore. It was a useless commodity for which no one had any use for. Innocence is a quality that unless you were a child, our culture had only contempt. We were a nation of Elmer Gantry like hustlers. If Bansi stupidly clung to his innocence, he would be devoured alive by my country. However, he seemed as eager as I, to help him shake off his cloak of repression. One he wore lightly already, on his shoulders.

I decided after all, to feed into his need. At first I stood astride him on the floor. I clenched a pillow in my hand and both my fist on my corset clad hips. I locked eyes with Bansi and spoke of a wondrous island where splendid Amazon, lesbian women lived. I crouched above his whimpering face and slowly, with deliberate malice, pressed the pillow over his face. He was touching himself as he thrashed about wildly, like the receiver on the other end of a mercy killing. I couldn't get my breath for laughing.

We had a half hour to go.

"How do you clean it?" I asked after we collected ourselves.

"I take a q-tip and did in alcohol, of course". I winced. He looked at me like I was an idiot.

"Listen Bansi, I want to tell you something and I need for you to listen to me. What I'm about to say is very serious".

He looked up at at me with some alarm as he slipped on his sandles and nodded.

"I think that you would have to agree that I have seen more penis than you. Yours is the only one that I've ever seen that has this tight foreskin. Do you know what that is'? He shook his head. Fuck. I pointed it out to him and explained how he shouldn't HAVE to clean his cock out with burning rubbing alcohol.

"I urge you to fix this. I promise you, your whole sexual life will change". I elaborated on the joys of his future, uninhibited explosive orgasms, how he could embrace a sting free method of hygiene and the lack of shame he would feel regarding his own sexual desires. He listened wide eyed as a boy listening to a bed time story. I made him promise to google photos of different male genitalia and to research tight foreskins and to study the relatively quick and painless procedure that would allow him to un-muffle the joys of his own cock.

"Do you really think this...fantasy, this thing will stop in my head?" He burst out in miserable urgency. "I feel so guilty all the time. It is very strange and soon I will be married. I am fearful that she will be disgusted by my wanting her to sit of my face or for her to smother me."

"I bet she knows less than you do. Many women would give anything to have a husband that wants that. It's called oral sex. Google that, while you are at it. That is a skill that every man should have in order to encourage a happy marriage. Do it right and you will make a slave of your own. You might not lose the compulsion, but it may lessen. If you don't make a big deal out of it, she won't think twice about it".

He saw me to the door and we exchanged a heart felt hug. I drew back, clasped his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

"Promise me you will call a Doctor. Have him look at it. I know he will see the same thing that I do and with one simple office visit he can help you." He nodded.

I thought about him often and when I finally heard from him, it was later, when I was about nine months into my new career. His e-mail read as follows:

My Dear Miss,

I did as you suggested and made an appointment with my new Doctor, once I started my job and got insurance. He agreed that I would have much sensitivity as well as having an easier time with hygiene. I did go through the procedure and although not painless it was well worth it. You were right Miss. I experience sensations I never have before. I still fantasize about suffocation, but I have been reading about techniques for oral sex, at your suggestion. I am engaged and will be married in three months, so please forgive me I ask you not to respond to this e-mail. I hope life finds you well. You are a wonderful person and you have changed my life."

I knew it.

Ironic that I can't use this testimony in a resume. Ironic also, that Bansi had insurance and I didn't.

But I had cable and he didn't even own a television.

2008-07-31T18:15:00.000-07:00

Like A Lamb.

Bansi and his roommate lived modestly. Spartan even. He had a single bed, sheathed in white, the sheets pulled taunt. It looked like a boy's cot at summer camp. There was no decor in his bedroom, except a magazine picture of Wonder Woman taped to the wall. He graciously offered me a plate of lentils and rice. I declined. In his bathroom I saw only a sliver of soap, like the thin curve of a new moon. He had no shower curtain, just a liner. His surroundings were pristine. Christ, he was so poor. My heart twisted in pity for him. I was determined to knock his socks off.

I came out of the bathroom holding my red and elegant whip in a loose lasso. I had transformed my hair into a close approximation of Linda Carter's smooth and heightened flip. I always carry an extra pair of black stockings (doesn't everyone?) in my attache of torment. I cut a leg off the extra pair( I also carry a Swiss army knife,even in a evening bag if it fits ) and wrapped it around my hair like Wonder Woman's head band. I had on shiny, thigh high boots, black leggings and a purple leather corset. The look worked as I could tell by Bansi's rapidly fluttering eye lids and worshipful expression. He got it when I swung my red whip- makeshift lasso in circles over my head. He actually clapped his hands together in delight. This heightened my own determination to whip him into a frenzy. I disregarded the black dress and pantie upshot fantasy as being trite. This just felt right.

"Wonder Woman! I have always loved you!"

I nodded curtly but pleasantly, as crisp and cheerful as a head nurse. I had him stand still, his neck out stretched helpfully. The goose. I got him on the second try and tightened the nylon circle around his neck. I made sure that I could fit two fingers underneath, like a pet's collar. No accidental asphyxiation on my watch. I don't own a chain saw.

"On your knees." I said with sinister flatness. I tightened the noose ever so slightly to punctuate my request and he dropped to position like a native giving birth. I ordered him to lick my boots with his tongue and then to buff them with a clean hand towel. He was reveling in this debasement and was writhing like a vampire dragged out into the sunlight.

"Clasp your hands over your head". I laid down on my back in front of him.

I silkily slid my boots up underneath his loose boxers and tugged them down with my feet. He gasped and crossed his hands over his man bits. I snickered as I stood back up. At first all seemed normal. However, I peered more closely at his genitalia which he was warily guarding. I slapped his hands away and commanded that he keep them over his head.

Bansai was wildly excited, that much was evident. I made him touch himself, with little urging needed. I noted he could only pull the foreskin a bare fraction of an inch over the head of his penis. It seemed he had been born with an abnormally tight foreskin. Being from a small village I guess the doctors over there were not thinking of either hygiene nor atheistics. A quick clip early on, would have freed him. I grasped instinctively one of the reasons why he wanted to be suffocated while excited. His very own physiology had conspired against him to muffle his sexuality. I know it sounds like dime store psychology, but I also knew that I was right about this.

As I was processing and accessing the situation, Bansai interrupted my scrutiny with his self conscious questions.

"Do you see? Do you see now? I still have my...hymen."

"Are you messing with me?" I was truly astonished. Then again, he was wearing sandals and it was about to snow at any moment. November in New England is a beautiful and sharp warning of things to come but Bansai seemed oblivious and ill equipped for his new terrain.

"What? No Mistress no! What do you mean? Look at my penis! I am a virgin.Can't you tell?"

We stared at one another, our heads cocked in naked and mutual bafflement,like dumb dogs. It dawned on me that Bansai was passionately telling me the truth. He was so untutored in the ways of his own body. How could this be, I marveled, in these days of instant, lascivious Internet porn? Was his village really THAT remote? Bansai really thought he had a hymen. AWWWW so sweet!

He didn't know it yet, but I was about to change his life.

2008-05-31T16:33:00.000-07:00

I Want To Live In America

Foreigners always have my sympathy. I have a weakness for them. Maybe it is the false innocence that they seem to project because they don't know what the hell is going on or what anyone is saying. They remind me of kindergarten children who have been dropped off for their first day of school.

Although I know legions of them have light eyes, I always think of foreigners as having large, liquid brown eyes, like pleading dogs at the tables edge. I admire their courage and I know these humans have worked harder on any given day than I ever have. I am embarrassed when my own people rebuke them for not understanding English, when they themselves hardly have a passing acquaintance with their own language. I'm describing those who are practically straight off the boat. I just don't like the ones who work three times harder and take all our jobs. If it were not for these people our fine and eminent colleges halls would be almost shrouded in silence.

Some of these strangers in a strange land, have way more dough than I do and they are ready to spend it on the splendors that we call entertainment. Sometimes I am that entertainment and I am flattered to be so. These men actually budget me into their lives. I am their luxury item and I do my best to return full value.

My seventh client came from some forgettable village in India. He was an engineer (gasp)and had made his way to my schizophrenic country through sheer intelligence, relentless diligence and more than a dollop of luck. His name was Bansi. Later he told me the name meant flute, an irony that was lost on him and was to subtle for me to explain. Humor does not always translate.

Bansi was another virgin ( I'm not sure why but I seem to attract the newbies, the foreigners and the freakishly intelligent as clients. I'm not complaining. Its just an observation.)and a absolute powder keg of repressed sexual energy. He could have supplied electricity to his village if it was properly harnessed. When I first met him I saw that he fairly glowed with horniness. Not a bad looking guy but he was still wearing sandals in the middle of November. He had been here for merely 6 months and already he had found his way to me. Like a salmon swimming upstream. I was touched.

Bansi was tormented by his fetish which seemed fairly innocuous to me. While he touched himself he wanted me to hold a pillow over his face. He also wanted me to wear a dress ( a black velvet Donna Karan wrap dress)
and white cotton panties. He insisted on this point.

Although many of my foreign clients are well off, Bansi was not. He was truly a simple village boy with a pocket full of hard earned cash, filled with confusion and guilt and a determined ram rod. He was a man with a dream and while he was in America, the land of frivolous choice, he would explore the terrain of his dark impulses. I would to be his guide, leading him out of the wilderness. I was happy to do so, as the only color that really registers with me is green. I am an equal opportunity Domina, capitalist and American to my very core.

After to many e-mails, a halting phone conversation where I had to cajole, jolly- bully and tease Bansi's smothering fantasy out of him, we set the time and place. He shared an apartment with a roommate who was away for the weekend. As the conversation wound down we
shared this puzzling exchange.

"You will be able to tell that I am a virgin when you are with me." said Bansi hesitantly. I was alarmed thinking he still hadn't grasped the nature of what I do.

"You realize that I am NOT a prostitute, right? I told you that in my e-mail. That includes receiving or giving oral" In my circles this was referred to as "body worship", a coy euphemism. Like pigs at the trough.

"Oh no Miss no! I realize this. I simply wish to be muffled with a pillow while..I touch myself. And to see up your skirt." I did not find this request to be all that taxing so I was glad to see that we understood each other.

"Then why do you think I will notice your inexperience?" I was taking notes as he spoke. Details are important.

"Well Miss, you can tell when you see my penis"

"What are you talking about? And by the way, address me as Mistress. Not Miss."

"Sorry Mistress. You know...my penis" he emphasized the word penis urgently. I ended the call impatiently
after making the appointment. No I didn't know but I suppose I would find out soon enough.

It seemed that men were the same all over. They really thought that their penis was the maypole of the universe and all the muses in their various guises, be it Dominatrix, whore-Madonna and the like, lived to dance in eager attendance around it.

Well thank the universe that they do.

2008-04-20T14:28:00.000-07:00

Immaculate Rejection

My landlord's expression was his usual one of barely contained suspicion. He was Irish and his his red face always reminded me of a tightly clenched fist. Angry. He was such an angry man. He had been born and raised in this Boston neighborhood and deeply resented the influx of immigrants, loose hipped ballers and the sexually ambiguous wave of new comers that had changed the complexion of his childhood home. For anonymitys sake (I have a weakness for heavy handed symbolism) I will call him Mr.White.

I had about two minutes to hide Sissy away from the prying eyes or Mr. White. I picked him up and tucked him under my arm like a foot ball and ran down the length of the apartment. I was filled with a brief surge of adrenaline, the kind produced by fear and basic survival instincts. He kicked his well shod feet fitfully and then relaxed, giving in to his fate. I flung open the heavy door of a family armoire that I had inherited. I used it to store my extra blankets. I plopped him on top of the pile where he landed crossed legged. As I shut the door on him, I got a last glimpse of Sissy as he peered up at me, his eyes magnified by his thick glasses. His wig had fallen off somewhere during our head long flight but he was still wearing his customized French maid out fit.

Sebastian had already thrown the tarp over the roll away clothing rack and had tucked it into my bedroom. He was flushed but composed, reclining on my sofa like a courtesan in an oil painting. I scanned the room quickly but there was nothing to indicate anything untoward going on. In fact the apartment never looked better. I steeled myself before opening the door to Mr. White. What could he possibly want? I was suddenly filled with righteous indignation, my annoyance escalating at this untimely intrusion. I opened the door a begrudging crack and peered out like a paranoid shut in.

"Hello Mr. White. How can I help you"?

Mr. White shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and looked down bashfully like one of my clients.

"Um. I'm sorry to bother you, but I am working on the outside of the building. I need to use the bathroom and saw your car in the lot. Could I use your bathroom? I'd never ask but it is kind of an emergency" He looked away in embarrassment. Shit. Literally.

"Sure. Come on in". He stepped inside and gave Sebastian a curious look but I didn't feel I needed to make an introduction. He knew the way but I trailed along behind him. As he closed the bathroom door behind him, I spotted Sissy's limp gray wig in the hallway. I scooped it up and dashed over to the armoire and threw it inside without looking. I then hovered around the kitchen area while Mr.White did his thing. I heard the toilet flush, then running water. I also heard him open up my medicine cabinet, the nosy bastard. Well now he knew that I used condoms and had allergies. What he didn't need to know was that I had a minuscule, cross dressing stow away in my cabinet.

I walked him out and bolted the door behind him and exchanged looks of relief with Sebastien who was obviously enjoying this. I then walked over to the armoire and opened it. Sissy was still sitting obediently atop of my quilts.

"Come on out Sissy. My landlord is gone now." He clambered out and shook out his petticoats, holding his wig in his fist.

"Why don't we wrap things up. You did well and I was most impressed with your efforts". He nodded but I could tell he was visibly shaken. As was I. That was to close for comfort.

Sebastien and I watched him wordlessly as he gathered his things together. I saw him out and told him I would be in touch. But I knew I would never see him again and already I was mourning his loss. My apartment would never be so clean again.

The smell of Murphy's Oil lingered for hours in the air like a beloved's perfume.

2008-03-31T18:05:00.000-07:00

When Trouble Comes Knocking.

Sissy was a diminutive man, as dainty and timid as a African deer. He was tiny as his friend Little Mary was gargantuan. I could only imagine the stares and sniggers that trailed after the freakish duo when they were hobnobbing out in society. I was suddenly amused.I felt a begrudging admiration for these strange and immensely wealthy men who seemed to suffer from an inverted case of class self loathing. I was certain that neither one had done a lick of real physical labor in their privileged reign-so why the fixation on the whole maid thing? They must have an interesting friendship. Secretive as an affair, I would wager, based on their mutual interest.

Sebastien sat on the sofa, coolly surveying Sissy Maid's entrance. He gleamed like Grace Kelly in her early blond debutante days. Sissy wheeled in a covered clothing rack. He unloaded his pedicure equipment, foot tubs and the like as we watched. Sebastien suddenly elbowed me with unseemly glee.

"Ouch! What the fuck?!" I demanded loudly. He pointed to the white stacked boxes that Sissy was placing on the coffee table. The unmistakable purple script of Mikes Pastries was printed on the side of the boxes. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Boston, Mike Pastries is a tradition in fine eating. The cannolis, were to die for and my estimation of Sissy sky rocketed. I was even more impressed when he silently handed over 6 pounds of very fine gourmet coffee and a armful of fresh and fragrant Irises. I took them and went off to find a vase as Sissy set his stage.

Sissy set the session up silently. We were to haughtily ignore him-I had gestured carelessly toward an alcove where he could change into his many ensembles. He had a rack of mini hausfrau dresses. All tiny and all terrible made to fit a wee maid such as Sissy. He came out wearing a fuchsia and brown dress and a white apron. He had on thick black stockings and tidy black boots. He must have gone to the same wig store as Little Mary, for he was also wearing a straggly wig, with a lace square pinned to the top of it.

Sebastian smirked as I gestured grandly toward our feet and ordered Sissy to attend to our needs, such as they were. He put before us a plate full of pastries and poured some of the delicious strong coffee which one should only drink black. The flowers were splayed out before us in a fan of purple and they scented the room deliciously. Our feet were soaking in a hot and frothy plug in whirl pool foot bath. Sebastian and I sat beside one another in luxurious silence like self satisfied monks in the sun.

Earlier I had checked on Sissy Maid's progress and was deeply gratified to see he truly was a domestic genius. The air was filled with the golden smell of Murphy's Oil. He was scrubbing the grout between the tiles in my bathroom with a tooth brush. He fearfully looked away as I peered around the door at him. I took the gleaming room in at a glance and gave him a a icy nod of approval. He blushed. I gently trailed my nail down his cheek and left the room. Before I joined Sebastian, I had to collect myself. I was trembling with excitement. Sissy was an incredible find.

"You should see the bathroom and kitchen. It has never been this clean. This man is amazing! I have to keep him. I'll do anything to have him" I told Sebastien in a passionate undertone. He nodded sympathetically as he made love to his fourth cannoli. Hours passed in lazy bliss. Sissy toiled and the more he scrubbed the more aware I became of the sound of distant tinkling.

"Sissy Maid! Come here now"! I heard him drop his scrub brush, almost flying into the room like Tinker Bell.

"What is that noise?" I demanded. Sissy hesitated,then pulled up his dreadful little dress. Under it was a pair of frilly girl panties. Under those lurked an obscene bulge. Sebastien sat up, suddenly attentive as the hound on a hunt.

"Pull them down",ordered Sebastien, getting into the swing of things. Sissy gave me a quick look and I nodded in assent. He pulled his panties down to his feet and his man root sprung free. I told him to step out of them and to hold his dress up higher. He was very large. Not as large as Nazz, but Mother Nature had been kind in one regard. At the end of his penis was a large and heavy bell. That explained the tinkling sound that I was hearing. We laughed and I could tell that Sissy was modestly gratified.

He asked to be excused so I dismissed him. He went to the alcove. When he came out, he was dressed in a French maid outfit. His skirt was puffed out by a stiff petticoat and he was wearing a pair of precious Mary Janes. He knelt at our feet, tenderly drying them like Mary Magdalene. He then guided them into tubs of very warm wax. Sebastian and I moaned aloud and smiled dreamily at one another as we sunk back into my leather sofa.

Our tranquility was ripped asunder by the raucous, parrot like peel of my doorbell. We froze, a troubling trio, staring at each other goggled eyed with guilt. It was highly unusual for my door bell to ring unexpectedly in the middle of the day.

"Who is it?' Sebastien hissed at me. I shrugged and stood up quickly, my feet encased in warm wax. Sissy watched me anxiously, rearing back on his heels like a hamster. I ignored them both as I gingerly stepped out of the tub, my feet dripping. I ran over to my door and looked out the peephole. A man's head loomed into focus. Somehow this person had gotten through the locked front lobby entrance and was standing in the hall way, directly in front of my apartment! I gasped. Sebastian was now standing in his tub o' wax and Sissy was twisting his doll like hands in his apron.

There was a sharp rap at the door and a man called out my name. I realized then who he was.

"Sweet Jesus on a stick!" I softly exclaimed.

"Who IS it?" mouthed Sebastien as he stood on one foot while frantically scraping wax off the other with clawed fingers.

It was my landlord.

2008-02-18T18:19:00.000-08:00

Am I Evil?

I never even entertained the thought until Sebastian posed the question. I have been accused of being amoral but never immoral or evil. Maybe willful, self centered... but who is not unless you have no ego? Blessed is the annihilation of the self. For some anyway. They want to rid themselves of the numbing fetters of every day life. If I can do that for them-TO them, does it make me evil? I thought of myself as a liberator of repression.

"Do you feel as though you may be taking advantage of a type of mental illness?" asked Sebastian. We were sitting around my kitchen table, sipping coffee in our pajamas. Sebastian was impeccable in a pair of pale blue Brooks Brothers PJ's, his lank blond hair hanging foppishly over one instigative eye. I was wearing a white wife beater t-shirt and a pair of Sebastian's boxers as I had delayed in doing laundry. At this point in my story, I had not yet acquired a house slave. Something I would highly recommend. Believe me, they are out there. These people have a calling and they need the world to recognize their gifts.

"No." I answered shortly, not being a morning person. Sebastian was and so he pressed on.

"It's just the pin session...it sounded so extreme." His voice trailed off as he looked at me slyly.

"Are you bored"? I asked idly as I turned the pages of "BUST" magazine. The kitchen was filled with the buttery smell of breakfast and sunlight. It was dreadful. We both had hangovers. So much for the myth that expensive champagne does not cause headaches. A gift from Boris.

"Not at all. The day has just started. Really, I want to know, do you feel as though this job has changed you"?

"To soon for that. I haven't immersed myself completely yet. I am a work in progress. It hasn't changed me, but it is beginning to change my perception of things." I sipped my black coffee and leaned back in the chair.

"Such as"? Sebastian asked politely.

"It has made me very aware of the duplicity of men. And I mean that as a particular discredit toward your sex. They have a completely different side to them, that their families know nothing about. A whole construct is dedicated around what ever their particular scene is. It is one of the things that I find so fascinating about this job".

"Yeah, yeah, men are pigs, but how did you FEEL when you drove the needles into that guy's nipples?" He had the watchful greediness of the Paparazzi. His unwholesome curiosity was making me uncomfortable.

"It was hard to do. At first." I answered finally. "I was freaked out and I had a difficult time holding the needle. But then I got the hang of it and let my mind go blank. A part of me felt very detached but I was observing everything closely. Then I never thought of it again. Until now." I shrugged. I knew what he wanted to ask me. Was I turned on sexually. So I made it easy for him.

"No it does not turn me on sexually. I am very caught up with my effect on them and their reactions. I seem to be limited only by my own imagination when it comes to fucking with the submissives. The things they allow...Maybe I just have not met the right one." I looked up at him and grinned. "I am not evil. I am a catalyst for change, like a deviant life coach".

Sebastian laughed and glanced at the kitchen clock.

"Say, isn't Sissy coming soon? What time are the pedicures"?

"He should be here in about an hour and a half. I'm going to shower and get ready. Now remember, he likes to be verbally taunted. His fantasy is extremely detailed and scripted. I printed out a copy of his notes so you can review them."

"I'm reviewing a copy of Sissy Maid's jerk off script?" Sebastian scoffed and tossed his head, his hair slipping around expensively.

"Don't scoff. Sissy is dead serious. He has an extensive domestic wardrobe with at least ten change of outfits. He is expert in giving manicures and pedicures. He is going to start us off by placing our feet in tubs of warm wax. Then we get a pedicure, in between him cleaning the bathroom and kitchen. He is even going to wash the floor and vacuum."

"My god. Where can I get one"? Sebastien was suitably awed.

"If things work out, I'll loan him to you. Now remember,when you get out of the shower, leave your towels on the floor. I bet he will love that"

See? I do care.

2008-02-08T11:55:00.000-08:00

An Excellent View

I went back to observing Mr.HaHa thru the peep hole. He was hunched into a ball, his arms clasped around his knees, like a modest Victorian maiden. He kept looking over his shoulder while he knocked rapidly at the door. The novelty had worn off already and so I let him in. I unlocked the door and he looked up, his face awash with relief and chocolate. I laughed out loud and told him to come in and clean up, but to leave the bouquet intact.

Once he was done, I guided him over to the windowsill and had him climb up onto it, still naked. He fidgeted nervously, his eyes rolling in his head like an unbroken horse. To calm him, like a horse, I put a pillow case over his head and told him to turn and face the city skyline. I secured his hands behind his back with his own belt. Just then room service arrived with a sharp rap at the door. Mr .HaHa flinched and crouched half way down in the fetus like fashion he seemed to favor, as I went and answered the door. I behaved nonchalantly and the waiter, being a consummate pro like myself, took my lead. He did not even take a second look at Mr. Ha Ha who was cringing with a pillow case over his head, hands tied behind his and the flowers still gamely in place. The waiter set up my table and with a flourish, removed the silver dome cover and revealed the cake that I had such a craving for. I gave him a handsome tip and bid him adieu.

As I ate my cake and sipped at my glass of frothy, cold milk, I had Mr. Ha Ha stand up and face the city. I undid his hands and told him to begin stroking himself in plain view of anyone who happened to glance up at the hotel. And there were quite a few who did a double take. One Asian couple ( Tourist, I assumed) paused and laughingly and took a photo. I narrated the pedestrian's reactions to Mr.Ha Ha who was at this point, breathing heavily and visibly excited. Before I got him in any real trouble, I told him to finish himself off as I finished my snack-I wanted to time it just so. He exploded all over the pristine window as I swallowed my last drop of milk. I daintily wiped my lips and helped him down from the sill. I told him to keep the pillow case on until I let myself out of the room. I collected my tribute, kissed him on the top of his covered head and made my exit.

In the cab, on the way home, I dialed McFee-or Fee as her friend's called her. Although she didn't have friends, as much as she had clients, associates and admirers. Let me tell you a little about Fee.

Unlike most people, who I can figure out in about ten minutes, she remains inscrutable. She is perhaps, one of the most effortlessly beautiful woman I have ever seen. Picture a tiny, darker version of Angelina Jolie with a scowl. Fee is also one of the most disagreeable people I have ever met,virtually silent and devoid of any charm what so ever. She speaks mostly in monosyllables, like an mafioso bookie, has no original observations, has no humor, no pets, no family and visibly loathes children. She seldom wears make up, jewelry (although she only owns the good stuff which she hoards-I just know it) or perfume. I have never seen her eat or drink. I have known her for six years. She is one of the few people that I tell all to, because she never gossips as she seldom speaks. It is like confessing to an animal. I was in her apartment once and the only thing she had in it was a bed on the floor. She did have a closet full of outrageously expensive clothing that I have never seen her wear. Knowing her as well as anyone did, I surmised that they were all gifts. She is the cheapest person I have ever met. I worked with her back in the day, when we were both bartending. She is an excellent bartender, never missed a beat and had an unbelievable memory. In fact, when she was not working the cups or blandly breaking hearts, dating famous athletes and Captains Of Industry, she was a semi professional card player. Talk about a poker face...she seemed to need nothing and no one. I envied her complete self possession. She seemed inhuman. I suspected she was a secret millionaire.

As usual, Fee picked up the phone without saying anything.

"Hello? Fee? It's me, Ava" I said tentatively

"Yeah. I know."

"How's life"?

"What do you want?" OK...so much for small talk.

"I just wanted to thank you for introducing me to Mr.HaHa. I had a great session. He was lots of fun and very generous."

More silence.

"Hello? Fee?"

"Yeah"? She said impatiently.

"Um..that's it. I was just calling to thank you. Are you busy?"

"No. I've gotta go." And then she hung up abruptly.

I snapped my phone shut and shrugged. So much for social niceties. Beauty has it's own laws I suppose. Maybe McFee didn't give me the warm and fuzzies, but the thick envelope that I received as payment sure did the trick.

Once I returned home and shed my finery, I checked my e-mail. My in box contained a referral from Little Mary. I was surprised, as I thought we had disliked one another in equal measure. Fetish makes for strange bed fellows. His e-mail read as follows:

Dear Mistress,

I have a close friend who shares my interest. He enjoys nothing more than being a sissy maid to a beautiful Domina, such as yourself. However, his fetish involves serving you at your HOME. He far surpasses me in this area. He is most discreet and I can vouch for his sincerity as well as his domestic skills. He eagerly awaits hearing from you.

The thought of having someone come in to clean my apartment from top to bottom, was most tempting. I hesitated for only a moment, then dashed off a quick note, urging Little Mary to pass on my contact information to "Sissy". I do my best to avoid all physical labor and so I embraced this opportunity fully.

I shut off the light and curled up in my bed. In a moment I was joined by Monti, his purring close to my ear. We slept.

2008-02-05T20:04:00.000-08:00

Have Your Cake And Eat It Too.

I met Mr.Ha Ha at The Copley, in The Oak Room. Best raw bar in town. He was already waiting for me, along with the raw sampler I had requested and a Grey Goose on ice with freshly ground pepper and lemon. I was wearing my smartest early 1980's black Norma Kamali two piece suit-very fitted and 40's girl detective. Shiny, licorice black peek a boo pumps, black stockings with a seam up the back and a long strand of black pearls. Damn I looked good. I floated in on my customary cloud of Joy and quickly adjusted the yellow daffodil that I had pinned to my hair, as I paused in the doorway. I saw a man rise from a table at the back. I was to vain to wear my glasses and too careless for contacts so I had no idea what he looked like until I was almost on top of him. Not that I wouldn't have minded. Once I had him in focus I could see he was uncommonly attractive in a dapper, calculated fashion. We were a matched set! He smiled in a wry kind of way and drew out my chair.

Mr. HaHa was a comedy writer for a very well known, almost cult like show. He was a private referral and had been passed onto to me by a super high end "Professional Girlfriend" named Fee. Mr. HaHa was one of her steadies but she flipped him over to me because he liked to mix it up on occasion. He spread his fingers and made an expansive gesture with his hands toward the sumptuous spread. I took to him immediately. I knew I was being charmed and I liked it very much. I dug in with relish and he watched me with obvious enjoyment as I tongued the oysters out of their salty beds.

The first half of the evening went by quickly, in the way that it does when you are having an uncommonly good time. Mr. Ha Ha told wonderful stories of Hollywood insider observations, snide and hilarious tales of egos and vicious grudges. It seemed the Kings and Queens of comedy were not so funny when they were off camera. He made them out to be a competitive lot, with a no rest for the weary, dreary Yankee work ethic.

I found myself flirting with Mr. HaHa when I should have been slowly turning up the Dominant Power. I sensed he knew this,as he was a little to playful. Bordering on disrespectful. As our waiter walked by, I abruptly waved him down. He sidled up to the table, hunched shouldered and timid. Christ, I thought, another submissive. I asked for the check, glanced at it and slid it toward Mr. HaHa without looking at him. He paid while I took the elevator up alone, so I could be in the room ahead of him.

My challenge was to create a scene only with what was on hand at the Copley. I arrived with no props and I was to remain fully dressed. As I walked down the elegant hallway to his room, I noticed a tray that had been left outside a door for room service. On it was a huge slice of beautiful chocolate cake, hardly touched. There was also a small white vase filled with a handful of daisy's. I bent down and took it. As soon as Mr.Ha Ha entered the room, I dimmed the lights and ordered him to strip and to bend over the arm of the big over stuffed chair.

He seemed a bit taken aback and his easy smile faltered for a moment but he did as I asked. I took a towel and held it under the bath tub spigot until it was almost sopping-then I twisted it semi dry. I wound it up tightly as any sexually repressed homosexual athlete in the locker room could do, and bought it down with a resounding crack across his ass. I did it again and again, until red welts were rising up on his buttocks like a tequila sun rise. He stalwartly withstood it all, legs braced and his head hanging. Finally, I could lift my arm no more.

Instead, I turned my attention to the vase of mixed daisies and chuckled to myself. I told him to hold his cheeks open. He did so while glancing over his shoulder at me and biting his lower lip. I took one daisy and probed until it slid into his ass. I did it with a second, then a third. I did not stop until he had a blooming bouquet of flowers, in a festive burst, clenched between his cheeks. I was delighted and I told him so. I walked over to the door and held it wide open after I made a great show of checking the area to make sure it was empty. I told him to crawl out into the hotel hallway. He scrambled eagerly toward his own self destructive tendencies as I pointed him toward the slab on chocolate cake, still on the floor on a tray. I strode behind him and used my new trick of shoving a head into food. I had taken Mr.Ha Ha's devastatingly appealing face and ground it deep into the desert until his nostrils must have been filled.

While he was collecting himself and wiping cake from his eyes, I almost skipped back to the room. I turned and saw Mr. Ha Ha' stricken expression so before I closed the door on the poor bastard and locked him out, I blew him a kiss.

"Good night"!

I shut the door and pressed my back against it and cackled wildly. Seldom have I seen anything so ridiculous-his image was stenciled into my mind. A fit naked man,his face a mask of cake,contorted with horror,his back a testimony to kink and his ass stuffed with wild flowers.

In a New York minute, he was scratching at the door and whispering frantically. At this point Mr.Ha Ha was trying to rein in his rising hysteria. I watched him silently through the peep hole and I was elated because I knew I was making him feel something-an extreme of emotion.

"Mistress, Mistress please let me in! Mistress please!" he kept hissing over and over. Instead of answering him, I dialed room service and loudly placed an order for a piece of that excellent chocolate cake and a glass of cold milk. Mr. Ha Ha began slapping the door with the flat of his hand in earnest and his begging escalated.

It was just a fear of discovery and public humiliation. He would get over it.

2008-01-13T17:47:00.001-08:00

Call Me Mistress Do Little

I delight in wreaking havoc. I always have. This new career gave me the perfect opportunity for this natural bent of mine. This business suits me-where else can you force "The Man" who is paying you, to his knees? Of course I've had bosses where, metaphorically speaking, I lead around on a leash ( I count a earnest bull dyke among them)but not literally as I was doing now.

I noticed that the cats by silent agreement had made a mass exodus from the room, so I half led, half tugged Little Mary along toward the doorway where they had gone. He mulishly pulled at his leash, but I was steadfast in my resolve to both annoy him and to explore this mausoleum as well as his masochism. I cuffed his hands behind him and created an impromptu slip knot to a ball gag that I had inserted in his mouth, making a sort of pulley. He could not move his arms without further embedding the rubber ball into his mouth. I never liked a whiner. Sink or swim. In my family we spoke of Darwinism as though it were a religion. Except I came from a family of atheist. The only way to rebel was to say you believed in God. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

I entered a large and brightly lit kitchen. It was immaculate, yet dingy. Seldom used, organized and absolutely frigid. It made me long for The Big Room which seemed like an Indian sweat lodge by comparison. The forty or so Russian Blues were crouched over a customized cat trough and daintily and furiously eating their stinking heaps of animal product. I crinkled my nose at the smell and then had a brilliant idea.

"Come along! I bet you must be hungry. I know these rich bastards are notoriously tight fisted with the help." I looked back at him sympathetically as I dragged him to his knees and then removed the ball gag. He looked at me in disbelief. "Are you balking'? I demanded. "You told me you would do anything for me! This is NOTHING"! I shrieked the last word as I pushed his face into the plate. The cats momentarily scattered, but quickly regained their aplomb and returned to the feast. I straddled his back and I urged him to eat faster as I laughed aloud. I then led him to another trough filled with clear, fresh water and had him drink. He did so gratefully, in great gulps and kept his eyes to himself like I had instructed. I had chosen to ignore his reproachful looks. I thought I saw tears in his eyes. Little Mary wanted extreme verbal and psychological humiliation, was paying me well to do this and by God I would do it! I wasn't sure if I should feel a level of professional pride or profound guilt.

After taking a meandering stroll through mostly empty and uninspiring rooms (except for the architecture-another aristocrat down on their luck?)we ended back at the fire place with the oppressive portrait of Mama De Winter and the cast off, nearly doomed kitten in the box.

"Bring me my cigarettes and a light." He left the room at a trot and returned with the items. I took it from him and placed a ciggy to my lips and leaned slightly forward. He lit the end deferentially, eyes still on the flag stone floor. "You forgot the ashtray. So incompetent. I don't know why this family keeps you on. Mrs De Winter must be a saint". I told him to get on his hands and knees and to open his mouth and extend his tongue. I then flicked the excess ashes onto it and he blissfully consumed them. I repeated this action many times until I had smoked about a half pack and I was light headed and nauseous. I checked the time on my cell phone and glanced at my open purse, where my envelope was half sticking out. My work was done here. I told Little Mary to stay as he was until I was gone. By prearrangement a car was outside waiting for me, black and discreet. I collected my new pet and left without a word.

I had the driver drop me at a different apartment building and waved him off until he drove away. Once I was assured that he was gone, I doubled back and walked home, cooing at the kitten. I was unable to determine it's sex ( much like it's previous owner)so I decided to call it Monti because it sounded androgynous and hip. And also after my favorite card game, three card monte. Some call the game Follow The Lady or Find the Lady.

It just seemed like kismet.

2007-12-29T18:11:00.002-08:00

It All Begins With Mommy.

Little Mary hastily complied and straightened his laughable wig. Except I wasn't laughing. Underneath his put on servile manner I sensed a current of contempt.

He was a condescending elitist, a smug WASP and social vampire that fed off of a bottomless trust fund and somehow thought he was deserving of it. Chip on my shoulder? Perhaps. But I knew his type and the only thing they respect is either a fortune bigger than their own or someone who could not be swayed by it. I would take his fat stack of money and I would count it aloud while he was under the heel of my boot. But before I did, I would toy mercilessly with him and for my own silent amusement. Fuck the script that he wanted me to adhere to. I was going to get inside his head and crawl around. What can I say? This is my idea of a good time.

I pointed one well manicured finger toward the old family china and he passed me a brimming cup of tea and a cookie. It was stale. I gestured toward the portrait of the oil painting above the fire place.

"Your Mother?" I asked casually.

Little Mary started as though I had slapped him. Good. I was on the right tack then.

"No. I told you-that is the painting of the beloved lady of the house. Mrs. De Winter".

"Really'? I asked with feigned interest "She so strongly resembles you. Same fine features, pinched nostrils and disapproving lips. Uncanny."

"I am honored that you would think that I could possibly be related to such a splendid woman. Alas, I had only the privilege of serving her." He ducked modestly at the waist, like a long necked crane.

"As you are serving me now. So...do you have a theory as to what happened to her"? I took a sip of the tea. It was cold. I sighed and put the cup down.

"Oh I have theories." He said darkly.

"Well what then"? I asked irritably.

"Her husband." Little Mary paused dramatically "He was insanely jealous of her. Possessive of her charm and beauty. No one could possess her!" He declared passionately. He began to pace, agitated, back and forth in front on the fire place.

Suddenly it all fell into place. I knew now why this all seemed so familiar. He was more or less playing out the plot line of the classic novel Rebbecca. I had read it of course, but he assumed that I had not. Bad move on his part. I straightened up in my uncomfortable chair with renewed vigor and enthusiasm. As I studied him, the words of Sun Tzu from "The Art Of War" returned to me. "When opponents present openings, you should penetrate them immediately. Get to what they want first,subtly anticipate them. Maintain discipline and adapt to the enemy in order to determine the outcome of the war. Thus, at first you are like a maiden, so the enemy opens his door;then you are like a rabbit on the loose, so the enemy cannot keep you out."

"Have you read The Art Of War?" I asked idly as I stretched my long legs toward the fire.

"No Mistress, I have not. Why do you ask"? He paused and stared at me, puzzled. Of course he hadn't. He only read what was expected of him.

"Shut your pie hole" I snapped. I had to bite back a wolfish grin as he winced at my crassness. Like I gave a fiddler's fuck about offending his tender sensibilities. He was a ripping snob, his cookies were stale and his tea was cold. He was going to coldly dispose of a beautiful animal because it did not meet his standards. If it was not perfect and he could not profit from it, it had no value.

This was going to be fun.

2007-12-01T16:47:00.000-08:00

2007-12-01T14:13:00.000-08:00

All Cats Are Gray In The Dark.

Little Mary did not spare a glance toward me, nor made a welcoming gesture, until after he waved me into a cavernous room. He shut the door behind me and gave a deep curtsy. He took my coat and click clacked across the floor in a pair of old, fashioned ankle high black boots. They were meant to be utilitarian, not stylish.

I took advantage of his absence and took stock of my surroundings. Yup-thread bare carpets and dark ancient furniture loomed over me like a nightmare forest of sinister trees. There was a fire blazing in a huge fire place and the opening looked a gaping maw into hell. Cold AND creepy. I thought I saw something dark from the corner of my eye, darting by. I spun quickly but saw nothing. There! I saw it again! What the hell was it...rats? I shifted uneasily from one high heeled boot to the other and clasped my elbows. I looked up and studied a life sized oil portrait of a severe, humorless and whippet thin woman. I knew immediately this was Little Mary's mother.

In the distance, I heard the strains of what sounded like a warbling opera. Over that, I could discern the tapping of Little Mary's black boots, signaling his return. I straighted my shoulders and turned to meet him. He was walking toward me in mincing steps, carrying a very old, heavy looking silver serving tray loaded with pastries, delicate sandwiches,china and a coffee urn. He was ushered in and surrounded by what appeared to be a seething gray sea of rats. I took a step back before I recognized the frantic mewings were those of cats. There had to be forty of them, some small kittens and some were full grown. I relaxed. I like cats.

I seated myself in a high back chair, with a tattered leather seat. Little Mary bent on one knee in front of me, placing the tray on a long slab of a coffee table. It looked like something a gathering of knights should have been seated around. He stood in front of me, wig askew and said

"Madame do you need anything else? May I pour your coffee and serve you some biscuits"? I nodded, slightly imperious and bent down to stroke the beautiful cats that were winding themselves around my ankles.

"Madame I could not help but notice how you were studying the portrait of our former Mistress. She was very lovely, was she not"? Not, I thought. I nodded and made a non committal noise. I noticed the past tense. I was meant to.

"Yes...everyone loved her. This house used to be ablaze with parties and the finest people of quality spent many nights of gaiety under this roof.' He sighed wistfully and stared at the painting of the very constipated looking woman.

"What happened to her"? I asked as I shook off one of the tiny kittens which was attempting to clamor up my very expensive stockings.

"No one knows...one night after a party she simply disappeared. They searched the grounds and of course the authorities were called in, but it has remained a mystery to this day. Mrs.De Winter, or Rebbecca as she allowed me to call her (at this, he looked down bashfully) was never found." I looked at him sharply.
This story sounded hauntingly familiar. I glanced over at the corner, momentarily distracted by more movement from the corner of the room. I got up and walked over to a low, small box. Inside, a lone gray kitten was scratching madly at the sides. I scooped it up and stared straight into its wide set, innocent green eyes.

"Why is this one all alone?" I held it to my chest where it relaxed instantly and began to purr.

He looked at it distastefully and answered shortly.

'It is inferior. It will never show. It was born with a protruding rib an it will ruin the lines".

"Show'? I echoed

"Yes. They are Russian Blues and are bred to show in cat shows. Not that one, it's useless. You couldn't give it away. They can go up to a thousand dollars." He actually sniffed.

"I'll take it." I held it a little tighter to my breast and kissed the top of it's tiny head.It stared up at me as though I were it's entire world.

"Madame'? He actually arched a nearly invisible brow in polite and disdainful inquiry.

"I said, I want it". I handed him the squirming kitten and pointed at the box. He took it hesitantly from me and did as I commanded.

"Now pour and tell me more about the late Mrs. De Winter. And fix your wig. It's crooked."

2007-11-25T13:13:00.000-08:00

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2007-10-31T19:28:00.000-07:00

Little Mary Was A Giant

And like a giant, he lived on a palatial estate, buttressed behind black, wrought iron gates and surrounded by a foreboding wall of some native stone, no doubt.

He had the unaccented accent of the very privileged. The sort that took pride in anonymous charitable donations. The wives wore diamond studs as understated as trust funds and in every room of their under heated "family homes" were fashionably shabby and ancient oriental rugs.

They were of a certain type. They were over bred,deliberately underfed (even the males had eating disorders) and were restlessly and relentlessly discontented. Boring people really. I never understood our society's fascination with this languid, dissolute and useless class. I knew them well, due to a cruel trick of fate. I had been forced to rub elbows with them all my life, in a peripheral sort of way.

Little Mary being a punctilious man, presented me with my first confidentiality agreement. Personally, I thought it was over kill, but with the typical arrogance of his enclave, he assumed he had more to lose than I did. I signed it, he signed it. His people talked to my people and so on until the evening was arranged and I was deposited by cab, outside his home.

I rang the intercom as instructed and waited patiently. I knew I was being observed as an outside camera had been tracking my arrival and every move since, with a dispassionate, insectile scrutiny. I ignored it and stared straight ahead. No words had been exchanged, but the gates slowly swung inward,with silent consent. I stepped through and began walking down a long, tree lined path. It was lit dimly by the moonlight. I saw what appeared to be a bobbing lantern, coming down the path toward me.

It was held aloft by one of the tallest humans I have ever seen. This figure was dressed from head to toe, in what appeared to be a historically accurate Victorian maid outfit. I realized that I was looking at a painfully gaunt man, in a dishwater grey haired wig, with a lace square pinned to the crown of it. His cheeks were hectically rouged. He smiled distantly at me and signaled that I was to follow. I was instantly drawn in by the over the top theatrics of it all. I just had to know what was next.

So I followed.

2007-09-24T11:54:00.000-07:00

The Modern Touch

It was a surreal moment, what with my looming over Chuck, needle in hand. He nodded encouragingly, even sympathetically, like a Rabbi.I felt like a fledgling bird of prey and Chuck was my tender white rabbit. I circled his nipples with the long and silver needle, seeking out just the right angle to plunge it into his flesh.

I'll begrudgingly admit, at first it seemed impossible. As soon as I tried to shove the tip of the needle into Chuck, my fingers literally lost their strength. The needle would slip from my fingers and I would grope for it, trying to mask my escalating frustration. Chuck remained poised, still, like a marble sarcophagus. His lips were slightly pursed, as though waiting for a kiss. I averted my eyes and determinedly focused on the target in front of me. The whole world had narrowed down to this little pink bulls eye.

I tightened my grip and my forearm, took a deep breath and leaned forward with almost all my might. There was some initial resistance,then his skin sort of...snapped as I pushed the needle through. The image of bubble wrap, came into my head. I had the memory of myself as a child, pressing my thumbs deep into the bubble of air and feeling the satisfying yielding pop as I crushed it. It was in. Deeply. I had begun to perspire and a bead of sweat hit Chuck on his neck. His eyes fluttered open briefly and he smiled up at me as trusting as The Fool painted on the back of a Tarot card.

Like with all things, it got easier with repetition. I went into a zen like, contemplative state as I drove each needle into what was becoming the crowded real estate of his nipple area. By the time I moved to his second nipple, I had stumbled onto the most effective technique. I would pull the skin tautly before I zeroed in. I was still sweating, but my heart had regained it's normal rhythm. Chuck was lying perfectly still, almost rigid. The clock on the digital alarm read 10:00 pm. Almost 45 minutes had passed by unaccounted for. What seemed like minutes had
almost been an hour.

I sat back on my heels and admired my handiwork. His chest was a quiver with about forty shiny pins. I had discreetly taken note that he did not have an erection. I sensed this had less to do about sex than it had to do about some internal conflict. Later, over a second beer, my suspicions were confirmed.

Chuck was not divorced, but was separated. He was a chronic cheater who was a lapsed Catholic ( not a Rabbi)and still desperately in love with his wife. The needles had less to do with a fetish than it did with repentance. I stayed for about two hours, absolutely fascinated by his psychology. I had to remind myself that I was there as a vehicle of punishment and as a witness. I was not there to "cure" him or to talk him out of his need. I was learning to suspend judgment as well as my empathy. It was liberating.

By the time I reached home I was exhausted. For the first time in a session, I felt as though I had really connected with a client in a very authentic way. I had given a piece of myself to him in some way that I had not yet fully analyzed.

I also felt that I had deserved every red cent. There was nothing easy about being a Dominatrix and it was more complex than I had realized.

This insight was solidified after I met my first UBER rich,cross dressing client.

Introducing...Little Mary.

2007-08-12T20:30:00.000-07:00

2007-08-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

That 70's Day

I suppose it isn't such an original observation anymore, when noting the hypocrisy and just plain weirdness that lurks behind America's white picket fence. Soccer moms who run chic escort agencies on the side, white collar dads who stop off for a quickie at the truck stop with a trucker and of course the Valium stealing teenagers that lead double lives almost as complicated as those of their parents.

On my fourth session, I found myself traveling up the lit walk way of a lovingly tended lawn, complete with a Volvo station wagon in the driveway. The lay out had the flatness of a Monopoly game and the house looked like a game piece. The bark brown sprawling ranch home reminded me of a 70's middle school. Before school shootings took root in our popular culture. You know. During a more innocent time of key swapping, swinger parties.

The man that answered the door ( the chimes rang to the obligatory and dreary tune of Big Ben)blended seamlessly into the avocado green & harvest gold tones of his plaid home. He had a beard & it wasn't one of those little, frenchified, self conscious chin patches. This was an honest to god, tied dyed & color me blue sort of beard. The kind that food gets caught in and the possessor never seems to notice. Well...it wasn't like I was going to kiss him. He was a divorced and week end dad. I could tell he was lonely.

His name was Chuck and his little peccadillo was to have needles, push pins to be exact, driven right through his man nipples. The long ones. He supplied our session with his own (Later, he gave me a plump, red pin cushion as a memento. I still use it to this day.)preferred brand.

He had e-mailed me a rather scripted request. I was to wear a nurses outfit with white platform shoes. Now if you recall, I was just starting out and there was no way that I was going to drop about three hundred dollars on an outfit for a POTENTIAL client. So instead, I put together an ensemble that I thought had a certain elan of its own. I wore white cotton boy shorts and a matching sheer & severe bra. Luckily due to Boris's earlier generosity, I was also sporting a gleaming pair of white, opaque stockings. I borrowed a pair of white go-go boots from my manic, club kid neighbor down the hall. Off the net, I bought blue hospital scrubs, a jaunty paper nurses hat & long see through plastic gloves. It came to a whopping investment of $14.99. Over it all, I had worn my trusty trench coat. I pulled my hair in a high, harem girl pony tail and put on a dash of shiny, space age pink lipstick. Bye, Bye Miss American Pie.

Chuck had thoughtfully laid a clean sheet on the floor of his living room and piled the plaid sofa cushions in careless heaps. It looked like a child's sleep over and he had put out a bowl of noxious, orange cheese puffs. Which I adore above all things. He had me at the Cheetos. As I came to know Chuck, I found that he was a great aficionado of jazz. He helped flesh out my collection with obscure performers like Georgie Fame, Kimiko Kasai and Bud Shank. He played a vinyl record of a performer called Professor Soul. We cracked open a Heineken and got down to business.

He stretched himself out on the sheet, wearing only his
tidy whiteys. When I had removed my trench coat, I saw a flicker of disappointment in his kind, baggy brown eyes. I knew he was expecting a nurses outfit. I slowly untied my scrubs and let it drop to the floor. My little sail boat of a nurses hat, was pinned at a coquettish angle. I pulled on the elbow length, plastic gloves with my teeth as I smiled at him side ways. His face suddenly flared with enthusiasm and he laid himself out on the sheet. He crossed his arms gently across his stomach and waited patiently. He knew I was a virgin to this.

I pinched one of the long pins between my suddenly nerveless fingers and knelt before him like a sadistic Geisha.

2007-07-25T19:33:00.000-07:00

2007-07-21T16:06:00.000-07:00

The Lure Of Easy Money...

In the cab, on the way home, I thoughtfully thumbed my green. Until recent events, although I had done well enough in my vanilla career, I had never known the illicit rush of clutching a fist full of Benjamin's. And it was a thrill. I felt if I were part of a lush and devious guild of insouciance scoundrels, seducers and miscreants. Typically, I was never a joiner. Inwardly I shrugged. I was all right with it.

I happened to glance up and caught the cabbie watching me in his mirror. He gave me a knowing little smirk under his bushy, barber shop quartet mustache. I didn't like it. I didn't like it at all. I narrowed my eyes and stared right back at him, till he flicked his gaze away uneasily. I won. Then I looked out the window at the Boston sky line. My beautiful, expensive city. She was like a tasteful whore. Which was, of course, what the cabbie thought I was.

I wondered why. I knew he hadn't seen the money as I had carefully checked it behind the raised flap of my purse. The hour was late, but it was hardly unusual to see a woman out at night. I was wearing my London Fog trench coat, cinched at the waist. Even so, what was underneath it was sexy and not scandalous. My nails were on the short side and painted a sheer beigey-pink. My make up was at a minimum although I was wearing a single sweep of black eye liner on my upper lid. I had smoothed my dark red hair before I stepped outside and reapplied my scent. Maybe spraying perfume late at night was the universal badge of naughty girls every where.

It wasn't the outfit. Boris had seen me out, but for all the cabbie knew, I was his girl friend. I realized that I didn't care what the driver's pedestrian thoughts were. The exceptional should always be above censor.

I reflected upon what had just occurred. What I had done wasn't sex, but I could not deny it was sexual in nature. The scene had resided in the twilight zone of tame and permissible acts, but it had been highly charged for Boris. I had watched him with a sort of detached empathy.

It was the ultimate tease as I was sitting fully dressed in front of him, and he was on his back. I allowed him the occasional glance up my long skirt as he held my feet and tenderly licked them. I had giggled and squirmed and he had moaned and ejaculated. As we finished the wine, Boris spoke of the essential humanity of Albert Einstein, loaned me a book and called a cab. It wasn't sex but it wasn't being a Dominatrix either. Although the foot stuff was lovely, I realized I wanted to experience something a little more...hard core.

I discovered what I was looking for through session number three with Chuck.

The human pin cushion.

2007-06-11T12:13:00.000-07:00

Ask & You Shall Receive

Sometimes, although rarely, I feel like the open eye of God is upon me. Which is curious because I have been called an atheist many times. If I were more energetic, I would refute this vehemently. I am a deeply, deeply spiritual person.

Just because I like to spend my money ( or other people's money) on ephemeral pleasures like a fine meal, fresh flowers & perfume does not make me shallow. Maybe just the opposite. I am all too aware of the transitory nature of life.

Through the course of my third session, I came to meet & befriend Boris, a Russian physicist who lived in Cambridge. By his own admission, he was a bit of an elitist regarding his own self indulgences. He was an erotic aesthetic & civilized atheist. As so many of them are. Soft spoken and a connoisseur of fine furniture,food and art, Boris taught me many things. He was the one who stressed the importance between real silk stockings & mere nylons. Because of him I own a modest but careful array of rare silk hosiery & vintage fripperies. He was a godsend. You can't imagine how costly these things can be.

He also had a passionate desire for a woman's foot. What can I say? It's a niche. He had stressed to me however, that he was NOT a submissive but simply a man with a sexual focus on the foot. This would call for a different energy altogether. This particular scene seemed more sexual to me, than the others had and I wasn't sure why yet. I figured that I would just play it by ear.

I met him at his ivy covered brownstone. There were slabs of stone steps leading up to a glass & wood vestibule. His apartment contained very little but what he had was superb. There was a very large, 200 year old Italian desk that he worked off of & well worn Persian rugs. His coffee table was an ancient marble door laid across the top of an old trunk. On it he had laid out with great precision a bottle of Taylor's 30 year old tawny Port, room temperature Stilton cheese & pepper crackers. The glasses were squat & gleamed dully in the low over head lights. He even had some & sexy house music playing in the background.

He nodded toward the sofa. I took a seat carefully as I was wearing one of the most elegant, erotic, unusual & uncomfortable things that I owned. While I was at the fair I had selected a hand made corset. It had been created out of old textile fabric & the print was of geisha's bathing. Under it I had on a sheer black long sleeved jersey. The corset cupped my breast from underneath. I wore a black wrap skirt(bare legged upon request)& sexy suede boots. On our first meeting, he knew that I was wearing the scent Joy. After speaking with him on the phone several times, it was evident he was a man who would appreciate such things. No point casting pearls before swine.

Boris handed me a cracker slathered with cheese & a tumbler full of port. He told me it would taste of butterscotch & it did. He had a gift for me. They were a pair of Falke thigh highs of the twenties series. Boris told me this breathlessly as he leaned forward. He was intently watching as I unwrapped the stockings. They were really fine fishnets. They were filmy as spider webs & sooty black. Beautiful. Boris asked if he could unzip my boots. I nodded silently as I sipped my port. He did so reverently & kissed the inside of my ankles. He then with great skill & delicacy pulled the stockings up & over my leg. They went as high as my thigh, where he lingered as he fastidiously straightened them.

We both stared admiringly at my leg. It was encased in the finest of silk & it just looked so....right. Boris sighed in pleasure, lost in some private & sensual reverie of his own. My own heart quickened when I glanced over at the side table. On it were three more luxurious packages. I could tell they were also Falke stockings. I had quickly acquired a taste for both the silk pretties & the port.

Still, I was nothing if not a quick study. I arched my foot in sheer delight & ran my toes softly across his lips.

He looked up & smiled.

2007-05-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

"I'm going to burn you now".

I announced this smoothly as I lit a cigarette. I inhaled & sauntered loose hipped toward Nazz, who was still bound & laced liberally with white wax. I blew a Bettie Davis stream of smoke upwards. God, I thought, this really tastes like shit. Why do people do this?

"Are you ready"? He mumbled something incoherent & edged in fear. I grabbed his chin & jerked it up so he was looking into my eyes. Wow, he really looked scared.

"What did you say you sniveling hall monitor?" He shook his head & loudly said no.

I was nonplussed. Was he testing me? Should I go ahead with our original plan? My gut was telling me Nazz was not ready for this level of pain. Or maybe I wasn't. That decided me.

"I'm sorry pet but you said you wanted this. I'm going to do it. you might even thank me later. No use invoking the safe word ( I went with the traditional RED as the word) it has no power here". I noticed when I was "Ava" I slipped into a formal, almost prophetic tone of voice. Like a I was a cast member from Lord Of The Rings. This was never planned on my part, it just naturally happened.

He began silently thrashing about in his seat, his biceps tight & veined. I watched him thoughtfully for a moment & then made a sudden darting movement toward his face with the glowing end of the nasty cancer stick. He literally started yelling or praying in another language. He was not making this easy for me.

"Please Mistress, no I'm begging you! Red! Red! Red!" he howled. In answer, I reached down between his thighs where despite all the ruckus, he was still admirably aloft, & crushed the cigarette on the metal seat. He yelled in a strange bird like shriek until I slapped him on the side of the head.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? I didn't even burn you! Shut up before I shove my boot in your mouth." I demanded. I was disgusted by this absurd display of theatrics. I started undoing his hands & feet as he fell silent. He kept his head hung down so I clenched him by the back of his neck like a kitten. I hissed in his ear to get down on all fours & keep his eyes on the floor. He complied, but to slowly for my taste so I nudged him encouragingly in his ass. I sat on the sleek & modern couch & spread my arms along the back of it.

"Take off my shoes. Do it with respect & admiration." Nazz nodded enthusiastically & did as I asked. This was more his speed & what he really wanted all along. I told him to get me some oil & a clean towel. I wanted a foot massage. I commanded that he crawl & was no longer amazed when he did so. Already I was becoming jaded.

"If you do a good job, I'll let you touch yourself as you rub my feet."

I sighed in pleasure as he began expertly kneading & rubbing my feet. With the view & the brown boy kneeling in front of me, I felt like I was in some decadent third world salon.

A girl could get used to this.

2007-04-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

2007-04-12T10:45:00.000-07:00

He was hung like a merry pony.

He was so enormous, I thought at first he was wearing some sort of prosthesis. Not unlike one of the scary toys that I now owned. Initially, I was speechless. He was wearing white silk boxers, but nothing could disguise the fact that he was a freak of nature. I approached him with a mixture of fascination, detached excitement & curiosity. I felt like a scientist who had stumbled across a new species of man.

"Is it real?" I whispered almost inaudibly. Nazz nodded shyly, glancing at me quickly & then away.

"Take off your shorts. I want to inspect this a little more closely." He hesitated then slowly pulled down his underwear until they were puddled around his feet. I crooked my finger at him & he shuffled toward me. His penis seemed as long as the arm of some pagan god. He had to be at least thirteen inches. I tore my eyes away & gave him an order. When in doubt, play the bitch.

"Where is my tribute? I want it." He turned & went to a glass coffee table where my envelope was waiting.

"Put it between your teeth & crawl back to me." Nazz kept his eyes down & did as I commanded. I was displeased with his awkward scrambling so I gave him more direction. He had the ass of a prince.

"No. Start over. I want you to move with more grace than that. Think of yourself as a magnificent jungle beast. Keep your eyes on my feet & follow them. Right now, my feet should be your whole world. Just think about finally getting them between your lips & fingers."

I began casually strolling around his apartment, not sparing a glance behind me. I was confident he was crawling after me because I could see our images reflected in the glass walls. He was gamely stretching & prowling, the envelope still between his teeth. I smirked & turned around, taking the envelope out of his mouth. I checked & the money was all there. I put it in my bag & withdrew a package of cigarettes, a lighter, a set of hand cuffs & a length of black silk rope. Hey. It was his fantasy.

"Sit". I pointed at a metal chair that was perfect for what I had in mind. Nazz had told me during our phone conversation that he wanted to play with my feet, but he also wanted to see how it would feel to be burned with a cigarette. I suspected I already knew the answer, but some people just have to find out the hard way.

I cuffed his hands behind the back of the chair & bound his feet to the legs of the chair. He was trembling & I felt a pang of empathy which I quickly squelched. I was trembling as well, which I also ignored. However, I was intrigued with my own reaction. How would I overcome my own natural inclination regarding not inflicting pain on my fellow man? I reached for the lighter & heard his quick intake of breath.

I decided to take it slowly & raise the stakes as the session progressed. More for my benefit, than for his. Instead of lighting a cigarette, I lit a candle & stood over him holding it aloft. We both watched silently as the wax gathered at the lip of the candle. We both watched silently as it spilled over the edge, onto Nazz's smooth, brown chest & hard flat belly.

He threw back his head & screamed like a bitch. I noticed however, his freak flag was still flying at full mast. Whimsically, I decided to see if I could press the advantage. What would AVA do? I asked myself. Ava would throw herself fully into the spirit of things.

He was whimpering & begging me to stop. Instead, I straddled his legs & raised the candle much higher & shushed him. I bent forward & lightly licked his tears & whispered " We are going to do this together Nazz. You are to weak for me to really burn. Look how you are crying now. I am making you stronger. You may cry, but you cannot whimper. It disgusts me." He nodded, his chin dropped to his chest. He looked like a man who had been interrogated for hours. Really, I thought, he is being a bit dramatic.

I tilted the candle & once again the wax spilled against his taunt skin. It looked like vanilla icing on a rich slab of caramel cake. This time he flinched only a little.

"Shall we continue"? I asked with a raised brow. Although it was raised theoretically. It was a facial gesture I wished I was capable of, but had never mastered. He nodded again.

Suddenly I was really feeling it & not pretending at all. What was it? What was I feeling?

It was power.

2007-03-17T11:41:00.000-07:00

Silk And Plether

I made a decision to give myself seven sessions. The number seven tilts the balance & I just like it. I would know by then, if I was indeed " a natural" or a smirking poseur.

I sifted through the seemingly endless, out pouring of need, the pleading & groveling requests sent to me via e-mail. It was their slavering greediness, their insular self indulgent fingering of their private & morbid obsessions that I found off putting. Oddly, the nude photos so many of them insisted on sending left me unfazed. Their optimistic, bashful faces & shyly displayed bodies moved me more than the fervid, over heated words.

I chose to meet with a young Muslim named Nazz. He was a wealthy, international student & was living with his brother in a expensive high rise apartment. He sent his photo ( He was simply beautiful. Dark skin, smooth, with long lidded Egyptian eyes. Just a baby really)& we also spoke on the phone. He sounded charming & refreshingly naive. He was a good person to experiment with since he knew even less than I did. He said he was a virgin who was trying to save himself for marriage. How...quaint! I thought. He also had a fierce foot fetish. My feet are exceptional. I really should have them insured.

I called a cab & I arrived a little early so I could get acquainted with the lay out. I then gave Nazz a ring to let him know I had arrived. He had the concierge send me up.

"Very good Mistress. I eagerly await having your beautiful feet beneath my teeth." He enthused.

"Beneath my teeth?" I puzzled in the elevator as I fussed with my outfit. Nazz wanted the whole enchilada, so I looked like I had just stepped out of The Matrix. Except I could not afford the leather stuff. I was in the patent leather stage of my career. I wore a long over coat that cloaked me, at a glance,in respectability.

Nazz answered the door in a white silk robe. Yes, a white silk robe. He looked like a Calvin Klein model. We smiled. I think I even gasped. He stepped backwards while gesturing into the candle lit apartment. I stepped inside, shrugging off my coat. I silently held it out & Nazz stepped up smartly to retrieve it.

I looked out the wall of windows that overlooked the city. I could not believe my good fortune.

I turned toward the glowing Nazz. He actually seemed to shimmer. His robe had "slipped" open. I could not help but look down.

"Oh." I said aloud.

2007-01-22T17:55:00.000-08:00

Risk V.S Reward

I was still on the couch, when Sebastian came rolling in, rosy & redolent with some fresh encounter no doubt. I love him like a brother, so the mind rebels. We usually skim over such adventures.

"Why so sad, fag hag?" He asked dropping onto the leather couch.

"Why so glum chum? What's the plan Stan..."

"All right, all right". I interrupted him irritably.

"Tell me me all your troubles. I'll tell you mine." Said Sebastian, mock earnestly.

"I don't think I'm very good at this Domme thing." I blurted.

"Did Gordon tell you that, or a client? By the way, what happened? That's right! How did the appointment go? Not so good?"

I shook my head miserably.

"Not so good. " I started at the beginning. By the end, I was warming to my story, playing off of Sebastan's reaction which was one of unrestrained hilarity.

"Beware of any endeavor that involves new clothes, or something like that." Answered Seb sagely.

"So, thats it? That is the feedback that you are offering me? I didn't pay for any of my outfits. Gordon set me up in that regard. Anyway that is not the point."

"What is? That you are afraid you are getting older? You are. Embrace it because unless you can afford cosmetic surgery you better make the acquaintance of your inner crone. But you look great!" He finished brightly.

"Actually that was NOT my point you flaming asshole. My point is can I really do this & make money. Do I have it in me to do this? It's just so weird..yet potentially lucrative." I shrugged, grimacing, feeling my mud mask cracking as I did so.

"Do I really look great?" I asked meekly.

"Oh yes. Absolutely. Ava, you are only 36 & you are sexy as hell. Even I know that. You make 36 work for you as you will every age. We were both blessed with good genetics."

"Yeah. Thanks. I noticed you managed to slip yourself into that sentence. But the fact is Seb, if that appointment had gone as planned, I would have had half my rent paid. For an hours worth of play acting in a luxury hotel suite, frolicking around in lace panties & throwing out idle threats & no sex? I mean what's the down side?"

"Beats me. Hey, get it? Beats me!" Seb chuckled wildly as he bent down to slip off his boots. He sat back up, thoughtfully palming an old & shriveled grape that had rolled under the couch. I waited for a remark of disdain, but instead he said "Ava I think you should do it. Balls to the wall. You have a strong corporate & entrepreneurial back ground to bring to this. Study the psychology, the lingo & the process. Approach it as you would any other venture capital opportunity. Market yourself right & with Gordon's help & connections...well oddly enough I see a future here. Make a business plan with goals, get a great web page & build a clientele. Build a dungeon & they will come crawling." I laughed & felt a chunk of clay dislodge itself from my face. It fell onto Seb's lap where he flicked it off absently & continued talking.

"There would be no overhead & you are not even paying for the cell phone. Even if it does not end up being a career, it will certainly see you thru until you land a more conventional job. With benefits." He was rolling the grape gently between his fingers as he spoke. "You have the confidence & if these guys want the psychological engagement & stimulation, you can provide that. AND you are easy on the eyes. Fuck it. I say go for it."

"Really? You think so? You do have some good points. None of which I haven't already considered... Since I can't find a roommate, maybe I can make that back room into a cell."

"Ah yes. Just what every Domme needs. A cell of her own."

"Or a hell of my own making. This could be dangerous. But I have to admit it's all very intriguing. I'll never make any real money working for someone else. I think you might be right. But what about what happened tonight? That was just awful."

"That was a fluke. That will never happen again. Disasters always happen when a person tries something new. That is why people are so afraid of change, right? They don't want an audience to witness their failure. I think you did the right thing by the way, regarding not taking that money. I bet he thought so to. Keep applying common sense & honorable business practices like you have always done & make it happen. Create the myth."

I nodded.

"Create the myth." I repeated

"I'm going to take a shower. I really need one" Seb leered as he unfolded his patrician self from my couch.

"Please." I held up my hand & turned my head away.

"Oh please. Like you are so particular. This grape is so old, we could make wine from it. Disgusting." He flung it at my head as he moved toward the bathroom, where it splattered against the wall. I left it there.

I was thinking.

2006-12-13T07:41:00.000-08:00

Tag I'm It. Yeah.

Alice has tagged me to play a game. I was instructed to list 6 little known oddities about myself. I don't typically take instructions, but I will make an exception for the lovely boho, cat loving blond named Alice & long legged, whiskey voiced, British Camille. I think the object is to tag new people. If not, sorry Alice & Camille!

1) Ever see the movie Carrie? That was my experience in high school. Without the telekinesis & pig blood. It didn't kill me...you know the rest.
2) I am very claustrophobic & crowds agitate me.
3) Deliberate cruelty makes me want to kill.
4) I love animals. I feel guilty when I eat them.
5) Drinking alcohol makes me weird. Not in a fun way.
6) I have a birthmark that looks like a red 4 leaf clover.

Tag your it:
http://thelilipages.livejournal.com/
http://ladyjulia.net/blog/
newageharlot.com
http://theotherhand65.blogspot.com/
http://earthacatslair.blogspot.com/
http://www.sensualsadist.com/

2006-11-07T17:57:00.000-08:00

Gordon stared stoically ahead.

His lovely eyes and his expression were lost behind the smeared lens of his glasses. I gave him a quick and dry summary of "The Hotel Event" as we later referred to it, while we walked toward his car.

"So...you DIDN'T take the money? Is that what you are saying?" As I am eternally grateful to those who know how to speak concisely, I answered in kind.

"No. I did not."

We sat in silence as he mulled this over.

"Why"? He asked calmly.

"Well...I didn't actually do anything to him except, well, actually HURT him. Not in the way he wanted. His face was BLEEDING Gordon. He was pissed. It just didn't seem sportsman like."

"Ava, you should have taken the money. Or at least half of it. This is all about the money. It took time for both of us to drive here and back. If he decided not to go through with the session that is his problem.'

'It just didn't feel right. Besides, you said the SM community in Boston is small and people talk. I don't want potential clients to think I am a two bit gypsy hustler, right?"

"Time is money. That is one of the major rules of commerce. You are a commodity that is marketing itself. Don't ever forget that. Your every action should be aimed at making a profit. Your every thought should be focused on how to advance your opportunity to make money. You could be a very successful entrepreneur, but you don't have a lot of time to fuck around."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you are beautiful and sexy but you are no longer young. There are always newer and younger talent coming up. If you are serious about this, you better get cracking. You have the advantage of being smart and Dommes have a longer shelf life than escorts, if they are intelligent. As you know, most of this is psychological."

"Jesus." I muttered, feeling thoroughly chastised yet insulted.

"Well, it's true." He shrugged and started the car.

"I understand what you are saying and I'll make a note of it" I answered finally. `

We drove back to my apartment, more or less in silence.

As we pulled up & I was getting out of the car, Gordon said "Hey don't feel that bad about it. Stick with it. You'll see, you are a natural at this."

I shot him a look of disbelief & slammed the door shut, feeling like a failure. Apparently a rapidly aging failure.

I immediately got into my pajamas and applied an anti aging face mask. While it dried, I rolled a big fattie and sat on the couch, contemplating my dwindling options.

2006-09-29T13:16:00.000-07:00

TAKE THE MONEY & RUN?

"Stand up sweetmeat" I commanded.

He scrambled to get to his feet, eyes down cast with his hands clasped behind his back in the classic posture of subservience.

"Turn around & let me see what I'm working with."

He turned around in a little circle of coyness, his face bright red with embarrassment. I nodded thoughtfully as I sipped from my glass of high end whiskey. What the FUCK am I going to do with him? I thought. I slowly extended one leg toward his cock & lazily prodded his bobbing penis with my high heeled foot. He moaned. So I did it again with the same result.

"Kneel & keep your hands behind your back. Move it!" I barked. He awkwardly went to his knees again, as I opened up my bag of tricks. Inside I had lube, gloves, condoms, a GIANT dildo that I had chosen deliberately for it's intimidating size. I was hoping that it would scare my clients so I would never have to use it. I also had a braided whip, clothes pins, needles & 4 sets of handcuffs. I dumped my treasure trove onto the bed, spread everything out & told him to take a good look. His eyes widened in fear & he actually whimpered. This emboldened me so I swaggered around the room like a James Bond villainous, cuffs in one hand & my red whip in the other. I stood behind him & put the hand cuffs on. I ran my nails up & down his back, leaving long, light red scratches behind. He shivered. I bent down & slowly nibbled at his neck, pressing my breasts against his back.

"Oh Mistress" he murmured. Oh brother, I thought.

"Shh. Don't speak unless you are spoken to".

I bit him lightly on his shoulder & he shuddered. I shifted position & in that moment & to my great horror, he pitched forward directly onto his face. All pretense of submission dropped instantly as he writhed on the floor, face down, his hands still locked behind his back.

"What the fuck'! He roared

"Get these fucking things off me!"

His erection had disappeared & now his banker's face was red with outrage & not desire. I then did the worst thing possible. I laughed. I tried to stuff down the impulse. I felt my lips twitch involuntarily, a smile snaking all over my face. He then flipped over onto his back, caught sight of my expression & indignantly screeched

"What the fuck are you laughing at you stupid bitch"! That was all I needed. I threw my hands over my face, shook my head helplessly & gave into it. I desperatly tried to get control of myself. I was making little, half gestures intent on helping him, but every time I reached down to undo the cuffs, he wiggled & swore some more. WHERE is Gordon? I kept thinking over & over. Finally I calmed down & undid his hands. He shot me a disgusted look & bolted to the bathroom to inspect the damage in the mirror. His lip was bleeding profusely & I hovered helplessly in the doorway, extending him a white towel. His blood looked very red against it. He kept saying "Oh my god. I have a business dinner in two hours. How the fuck am I going to explain this?"

I continued to apologize which he ignored.

"Listen" I said, "Suspicion haunts the guilty mind."

"Yeah? What the hell is THAT supposed to mean? You sound like a fucking fortune cookie".

"Actually it's Shakespeare, but I mean only YOU know what has just transpired. Another words, no one will ever leap to the conclusion that you had a Dominatrix up in your room, that you had your hands cuffed behind your back or that you fell flat on your face. Just calm down. Face wounds always bleed crazily at first.I'm sure that it is not as bad as it looks. Let me look."

I moved toward him & he cringed fearfully.

"No! I think you should leave. I'm sorry. I know it was an accident & you are new, but the mood has been blown."

I nodded in agreement & backed away. As "Jim" cleaned himself up, swearing & muttering to himself all the while, I went into the suite & swept all my toys off the bed, back into my bag. I pulled my outer clothing back on, tided my hair & glanced down at the envelope, stuffed w/ money at the bottom of my bag. I bit my lower lip & took it back out & laid it on the nightstand.

" Um mm. Jim? I'm going to leave the money here on the nightstand."

He had come out of the bathroom, still naked & pressing the towel to his thin, angry lips.

"I don't think that is fair that I take it. I have only been here for about 15 minutes & well...things haven't gone as planned. I really am very sorry. Once I get a little more practice under my belt, I hope you reconsider contacting me in the future."

His eyes softened a bit & he nodded.

"Well then, I'm off. Good luck." I turned & walked out the door & down the long, anonymous hallway toward the elevator. At that moment, the doors slid open & Gordon stepped out.

"Hold the door. It's not going to happen. Let's go. I'll tell you what happened when we get to the car." Gordon looked at me questioningly but did as I asked. We stepped in & the doors shut as we went from the penthouse to street level. The two of us stared straight ahead, silent as strangers until we stepped out into the lobby.

"What happened"? Gordon asked once we were outside & heading toward his car.

"Oh Gordon".

I shook my head miserably.

"I don't know if I'm cut out for this."

2006-08-02T16:32:00.000-07:00

Practice makes perfect...

My first session was a disaster. A true embarrassment. I laugh now & I laughed then & that was part of the problem.

A gentleman responded to my practice dummies post. We exchanged many e-mails, some akin to a novella in length. I grew impatient figuring he was just another jerk off at the key board. Finally, we arrived at a time & place for our session. Initially I felt pleased about the fact that I would be meeting him at the Park Plaza in the Garden Suite. Promising, I thought. Gordon drove me to meet "Jim" ( Kevin,Jim & Dave seems to have replaced John re: anonymous encounters)at the plaza. I was nervous, but not as much as I had expected to be. I wore a purple velvet riding jacket & a long, black skirt with a thigh high slit & black strappy heels. My dark red hair was pulled up into a careless top knot. Jim requested that I wear expensive, french looking lingerie. I complied. I had on sheer black thigh highs & black lace boy shorts w/ a push up bra. I glittered with a kind of low key expensiveness that I thought he would approve of.

It was agreed that Gordon would watch & mentor our session & Jim was cooperative, even eager regarding being watched.Gordon dropped me off and he went to find parking. I walked through the lobby & was terribly self conscious. I carried a bag of tricks & a cultivated, haughty attitude. No one looked twice-at least not with suspicion. I took the elevator up. I had instructed Jim to leave the door ajar & to be naked & kneeling in the middle of the room. I wanted my envelope in plain site. I nudged the door open w/ my foot & there he was in all his naked splendor. I a nodded at him and then I searched the room. I was in a heightened state of paranoia & checked behind the shower curtain & in the closets in the unlikely event that this was a costly sting. Once I was reassured, I put my bag down & put away the envelope & studied Jim a little more closely. He was about 55, a thin white man with a receding hairline. The room reeked of his fear. Literally. Later I would become accustomed to this scent but at that point it was unnerving & his unease was infecting my sense of self confidence. Being the narcissist that I am, I turned to what gave me comfort. My own reflection in the long & elegant mirror. I told him to watch me as I slowly removed my clothing. He was still kneeling with his hands behind his back. I wandered around the suite in my seductive ensemble & was gratified to see his cock was swelling. I pretended to ignore it while I helped myself to a drink, one ear cocked toward the door for Gordon's arrival. Ten minutes had already passed & I had no idea what to do with this skinny, petrified and naked man at my feet.

So I bluffed it.

2006-07-12T14:44:00.000-07:00

I wore pink defiantly.

My sleeveless pink sweater, grey pencil skirt & open toed sandals drew more stares than the nearly naked woman on ( no lie) 6 foot stacked platform shoes. The slave men slunk by, covertly & hungrily eying me as their Mistress tugged them irritably along on their leashes. So typical of men. People in general I suppose. The closet subs desire a life of unrestricted depravity ( not realizing that living with a Mistress is still living with a woman. Except shes a bigger bitch than most)& being bullied in public. The submissives who have actually caught the brass ring, look longingly back at the vanilla women wearing the skirts( the pants are hidden underneath)-go figure.

It was hot. So hot. The air conditioner was broken. Leather and sweat made for a heady and stomach churning cocktail. I had a headache that felt like an enemy had shoved a live baby mouse up my nostril. I was lethargic. I was joyless & Gordon was irritated by my lack of enthusiasm. I kept trying to work up an interest for the giant glass dildos, the hand made whips & latex corsets.But it was just so fucking hot. I saw another couple go by. The woman had a grizzled salt & pepper crew cut. I knew it was a female because she had no shirt on. Only her nipples were covered by small crosses of black electrical tape(which you could barely see unless you were lying, like a mechanic, in front of her)& her breast looked as though she had nursed nations. She had on stretch pants. She had drawn an angry red gash over her suggestion of a mouth. Her lips looked like a mail slot. Her partner was a short, fat & TOTALLY shaved man ( No eyebrows. It was horrifying) who was sporting a pink, ruffled, adult diaper. He was attached to his cruel Mistress by his balls & his nipples. She was leading him by a series of three chains, which were attached to three hoops that had been pierced thru his nethers. He had so much cellulite he looked like a squat dripping candle. Now you may not believe me, but I am not one to look at my fellow humans with a critical eye. I am quite capable of both seeing & appreciating inner beauty. But come on.

Oh no. I thought, oh no oh no. This will be my first & last visit to the freak fair. I felt..superior. I mention this because later in this strange career I have often felt humbled. I have met some fascinating & talented individuals through the SM arena. But that was then & this is now.

I wanted to leave, call it an evening, but I knew it would be rude. Gordon had taken me to the fair & had bought me my first set ( 4 in total) of hand made leather cuffs, a red braided whip & some floggers. I guess I felt I owed him. And I still do, but I digress. We had made plans for Gordon to introduce me to some players in the scene (I actually SAY things like that now) at Dicks Last Resort. Barbecues & deviants. Yum Yum. As soon as we stepped outside & I could breath through my nose again, I felt instantly revived. I decided to just go with it and went to dinner. The ribs were great & the company was better. A silver haired WASP who just screamed country club, had been watching me all evening. He didn't fit my idea of a submissive & certainly did not resemble the crowd that we had left behind. He looked poised & distinctly British. His name was Peter & he had a proposition for me. Sounded a bit like the start of a dirty joke. In a way, I guess it was. He had a fetish of his own. He liked to be the first submissive with a new Domme. Peter knew that Gordon was taking me under his wing. He told me if he could see me alone, without Gordon being a witness or knowing, he would give me $800.00 for two hours. I could keep the whole amount. I hesitated. I finally told him that although I was flattered, I didn't feel right cutting Gordon out. He had been very good to me, I explained earnestly. Peter seemed a little disappointed but said he understood.

Gordon drove me home. I had been a success and there had already been requests to session with me. Before Gordon dropped me off he handed me a check for a thousand. He told me that my interaction with dapper Peter had been a set up. He told me that before he invested anymore time & money in me he had to know that I was trustworthy. He only confirmed what I had already suspected. I deposited the check the next morning.

I was in.

-A

2006-07-03T13:30:00.000-07:00

SM Finishing School

So I found myself seated amongst brick a brack & forgotten treasures. Gordon was eyeing me up & down like a horse trainer. I dressed in my interpretation of what a Domme would wear. Kind of, since I owned no leather,being a cashmere sort of girl. I had on tight black pants, a turtleneck & boots. He said I had the look (um mm.thanks?) and confidence. The role could be cultivated & he would show me how. He claimed to have launched a few well known Dommes (later I found this to be true.) and would be willing to do the same for a cut of the action. Gordon had been in the scene as a Dom for over 20 years and was VERY well connected. I believe he also enjoys the cache that it brings when he is associated with a successful protege. I found out later how lucky I was really was regarding his tutelage & influence. Through him, I was able to move in some very rarefied circles of society. These people are moneyed, privileged , highly educated and fiercely private. They have allot to lose, as do I if I am not discreet. They are not my only clients of course, but the high rollers are my bread and butter. The rich don't mind paying well for their pleasures.

The first step was to set me up with a cell phone. Before he exposed me to his associates he thought it would be a good idea for me to get some live experience. Back to Craig's List. We posted an ad looking for "Practice Dummies" at a reduced rate. A surprising amount of people answered. I was to learn how tedious it could be weeding out the sincere VS the time wasters. This is half the challenge. The other half is in attracting the right sort of clientele. Chiefly the sane, professional, educated & lets be frank. Those with disposable income to indulge their dark perversity's. I carefully crafted an ad & a protocol e-mail with a few rules. One which is, I NEVER give out my work cell number unless I get theirs first. If they are not willing to pony up, then it's onto the next prospect. I created a simple page on geocities with a photo. My face was averted of course. All this helped, but a few rabid women haters, wackos & insincere always manage to slip through. More on that later.

Next would be outfitting me with the appropriate ensemble & toys. Kind of like a Barbie Domme. Gordon escorted me to my first fetish fair. I was not impressed. I seemed to be surrounded by a horde of unwashed & pasty people, squeezed into ill fitting & unflattering leather, latex & vinyl outfits. Couples were promenading the expo center. The most common sight being grim faced, grossly over weight and preternaturally pale females in ludicrous outfits, leading dejected & painfully thin mates around by a leash. Surely you jest, I said to Gordon. I was repulsed. It seemed silly & they stunk. He assured me that these people would not be my clients. The clients that I would be going after were a whole other breed & would never show their faces here.

I was skeptical.

2006-06-25T12:50:00.000-07:00

I had my suspicions regarding Gordon.

On a whim ( An old friend once pointed out that this is how I lived much of my life. Live on a whim, out on a limb. I found this observation disturbing & since then have gone about trying to curb my tendencies regarding poor impulse control. It's jarring when a person you respect challenges your self image. I always thought of myself as rather calculating) I answered an ad that was blunt & concise. An experienced Dom was looking for a potential Dominatrix to train. This Dom was adamant in the ad that there was no actual sex involved. Apparently there was potential for boat loads of money to be made by all.

Since my ship seemed to be sinking & not sailing, I thought that I would investigate. I was egged on by my above mentioned childhood friend. I'll call him Sebastian, who had been staying with me for perhaps to long. Going on four months and getting a bit desperate for entertainment, we found it in the form (or forum) of C.L. Sebastian is what I call a man of the world-he is possibly the most well traveled person I have ever met. He would bristle at the suggestion that he was a kept man, since he has married his long term lover . Let's just say he landed in an enviable position with a lovely husband and they richly deserve one another. They do good even while they sleep. However, Sebastian had a lot of free time as did I since I had been laid off. We were spending that time as we had so often done growing up. Sitting stoned on a sofa & amusing one another.

It was Sebastian who pointed out Gordon's post on Craig's List. It was all his fault Mom! I responded with what I thought was a well crafted, tongue in cheek post. Gordon, although truly brilliant, often misses my attempts at irony & did then as well. Sensing an opportunity to fuck with my fellow man, I drew out our dialog and grew more seriously intrigued w/ the concept. It was true that in a prior & somewhat unorthodox relationship,I had some modest experience in the realm of SM. We still had not met after months of e-mailing & phone conversations (my number always being blocked when I called him. How the world has changed since *69) but Gordon was weaving a seductive web of big bucks & adventure & I'll admit it. I was bored. I had been laid off for months & I saw every thing there was to see on cable. I was tired of reading, which was a rarity for me. Broke & restless, a lethal cocktail. So we agreed to meet.

Sebastian drove me to Gordon's place of business & waited in the car. Gordon sold antiques. More like a collection of eclectic junk in haphazard dusty & grimy groupings that made sense only to Gordon. I found out later that it attracted some serious collectors who indulged in amassing stamps, coins & old erotica. But what did I know? Very little it turned out.

-A

2006-06-23T14:06:00.000-07:00

Down the hole, Alice goes....

Actually, my name is Ava. At least here it is. I'm in Boston & it's raining. Again. I don't mind, I've always liked the rain, the cars splashing by. The sound of urban waves and kids outside yelling at each other in Spanish. I definitely recognized the word punta. It's about all of the language I know. For me, the first sign of Spring, is the sound of a basketball being lazily handled outside my window. Lanky brown boys, spitting & whistling. It's a lively neighborhood.

N.P.R is playing in the background. Fresh flowers, simple white tulips are opening, placed in a tall cobalt blue vase. I just finished a warm biscuit drizzled w/ honey & butter & I'm sipping English tea. My client left a little while ago. He was the one who gave me the flowers. I usually expect & get them. I think fresh flowers are the height of luxury, right along with expensive sheets & linen spray. Having free time is one of the reasons why I do what I do and of course, it is insanely lucrative. Sometime I even feel a little guilty about it. But I shake it off real quick, cause the fact is I work hard for the money. Most of the time.

I am an Erotic Domme & Courtesan to the best & brightest. At least that is what my website says. I used to be a Business Betty sitting in a cubicle like a fatted calf. Sales. I believe that says it all? Anyway, I wasn't fat and I was good at what I did. Then 911 came, stock market scandals an a assortment of other troubles. I was laid off & starting going down...no not THAT silly. That activity is reserved for my private life. Besides, a good Domme never goes down. It simply isn't done.

I'll fast forward through some dead end interviews, a dead end job and some meaningless temp "placements".

Then I met Gordon thru the wild, wild west that we call Craig's List. No, this isn't a love story; we have a unique business relationship. Call him my mentor, teacher & guide. He is neither lover nor pimp, but a detached instigator that reaps the benefits of what I do. He ought to-he was the one who launched me into this sub culture in the first place. Pun intended. Brilliant & disheveled he asks for little. He pays for my cell phone and we engage in the occasional session. When I first started as a Domme, I simply could not comprehend that there were men who would pay me NOT to have sex with them. If only I had discovered this earlier...

Ava