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.

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.