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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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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.

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.

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.