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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.