Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Ball-crushing table!

Unexpectedly, one of my Max Fischers made this for me. Isn't it cute?


Thursday, September 24, 2009


I am often struck by how BDSM seems to have some sort of therapeutic effect on people. Sometimes it's obvious in session, sometimes moreso afterward.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Just another day...

I met him at the diner on the corner. I was surprised at how handsome he was. Dutch- blond and blue-eyed. Goofy. Straight nose. There was a clarity and a clearness in his eyes which betrayed a kindness which is rare in this city. A sincere kindness. His manner was affable and chatty- although not selfishly so. We talked about Europe, driving in Paris vs. driving in Rome. How young everything is here, vs. how blase people are toward something that is 1,000 years old is in Europe. He told me he had read my blog and website thoroughly and wanted to be abused as I saw fit. He had never experienced electrics, so was curious. I said, "What did you like about my blog?" Testing him. Wanting to know if he was full of shit. "I read about a party you'd been to, and about the sex reading." "Really? What did you like about them?" "I like your writing style, and think you are very funny." The look on his face told me he was sincere, but was not used to describing such things. I could tell he was searching for something to say that would impress me. He clearly was not an English major, although said he'd lived in London for 14 years. How cute. I ordered tea, then cut the conversation abruptly, and gave him the address to my dungeon. He should meet me there in 10 min- give me enough time to change.

I went back and slithered into my black latex dress which zips up the front. I put on my high heels with spikes on the side, adjusted the lighting, and chose a CD to listen to.

He came in, and I told him to get undressed, and to go in the back room. I pressed play on the CD player and watched him undress, my arms folded. "Hurry up," I clapped my hands. He stood in front of me, his eyes cast down. I notices while he was undressing, the very shapely contour of his ass. Hairless, pale, not a blemish. It was round like tow beautifully summetrical orbs. Like two very fleshy orbs suspended in mid-air. Perfect. HIs body was very boyish- although he seemed to be in his mid to late 30's.

It was like he'd never passed puberty. Cute.

I walked up to him, immediately taking his nipples between my fingers. I gave his face a slap. He took it, a little shocked, giving me a look as though he understood why I did it. He looked down. I took his face in my hands. He didn't dare look at me. I slapped him again. I walked him over to the wall. Chained his wrists and his ankles. I put the full weight of my body against his, pinning him, grinding my hips against his ass. Slowly, I ran my hand down the small of his back, between his legs, to grab his balls. "Why are you here, Stefan?" "To obey you, Miss. Mistress." I pressed my pussy against his ass, and he pressed back. "You have a wonderful ass. Don't let it go to your head." I smacked him once more. "I won't, Mistress."

I grabbed the inner part of his thigh. A "ginny pinch". The fleshy part just below the balls. I ran my fingernails down his back and ass. I began grabbing and smacking his ass. Grabbing his thighs, his balls, running my nails up and down the insides of his legs. I felt his little hip-bone, his balls. He stuck his ass out for me, and I was inspired to take out my flogger. I draped it over his shoulders, so that he could smell the leather. Such a soft feeling. Until it's pounding you. I slap his back, in rhythm with the music. His ass. He gets pink. I rub his ass between every few blows, not because I want to go easy on him, but that I am drawn to it, animalistically. I watch the striations of pink form on his ass and back. Pretty little flesh. I then felt he was ready for my single-tail. I create welts on his ass, and he takes it, I can tell, there is no resistance. He knows he deserves it. I take shots at his ass, careful to only hit his "sweet spots" at the bottom- also the part I can't help but grab. Squeeze.

That's it, I've had it. I need to put a finger in his ass. It's just. I can't help myself. I walk to the closet and put on a rubber glove, humming along to the music. I put some lube on my finger. "Oh Mistress, please take my asshole" Well, this is new. He never said he wanted that, but I did it out of sheer wanting to, out of sheer animalistic drive to incur my will on him. Out of sheer desire to own every part of his ass. To have the inside as well as the pretty little cheeks. I wanted to feel how tight he was (I was not disappointed) and somehow, I knew he would love it.

I strapped on my pretty pink and black harness, rubber gloves, and my turquiose cock. I stroked it as I walked toward him. It eased in so nicely. I could feel the tightness of his ass as I thrust back and forth. Romantic. Then I banged him, then I went slow so I could watch my cock go in and out of his ass. Fluctuating between straight fuckin, and then needing to see my cock thrusting in and out- slowly. My harness rubbing my pussy with every go. I made him shcange position till he was over the bondage bed with both hands locked down. I didn't even think aboutg it, I just wanted a better view. I slammed him more. He moaned. I felt his hips, banged them. Felt his nikpples, his little hips, squeezed his balls- all while I banged him so hard. Then- I decided he needed to be electrocuted. I broke out my Relaxacizor. Wrapped his balls and his thighs. "Tell me when you begin to feel something." He felt it. I put a vibrating eghg up his ass. I love doing that while electrocuting people- sensory overload is key. I grabbe his thighs, whispered to him, had him grab his beuatiful cock. Uncircumsized- long, pink cock. I told him to suffer and I turned up the electricity. "Does it hurt?" " Yes, Mistress." I turned it up more. I wanted to watch him suffer. God, I was so wet.

Before, I made him lick the sweat rolling down my leg- or was it cum? Latex is hot. He kissed my feet so passionaltely. I made him do it for a long time so I knew he was sincere. He was so grateful. I smiled. My pussy got wetter. God, he was the perfect combination of hotness and submission. He jerked off so hard as I swhispered in his ear. I told him he would take the pain he would take it for me. I increased the voltage as he came.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Interesting Quote...

"Eroticism differs from animal sexuality in that human sexuality is limited by taboos and the domain of eroticism is that of the transgression of these taboos. Desire in eroticism is the desire that triumphs over the taboo. It presupposes man in conflict with himself."

- Georges Bataille

Hmm... seems familiar, no?

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Rant # 1,467...

Who am I kidding? The number is much higher than that. I just don't want to come off as the utter curmudgeon that I am. Wait- yes I do.

Okay. So, I go to some sex worker events where published people get up and read their stories.

I'm standing there at an event, talking to a relatively well-known blogger who recently had some stories published, and she is pissed out of her mind. She asks me how my business is going, and I say it's pretty feast or famine right now, as all business seems to be. I tell her, no, I'm not a dungeon Domme, I'm an independent with my own place. Suddenly, her ears perk up, and I get her card and an, "Oh, we need to hang out some time!" Yeah, right. She used to be a Domme, and she liked it, but then she did some porn and won some award, and now she is a darling of the sex worker writing scene. She wants to get back into Domming. It was so much fun!


She got up to read and fumbled through her story- a giggly little, "tee hee, I did an infantalist scene! wasn't it funny and quirky, yet poignant and sad at the same time?" kind of piece. No one was laughing. She slurred through in an oblivious, cutesie sort of way anyway, revealing that she was actually a phone sex Domme, not a real one. A scattered round of applause followed.

Whenever I go to these events, I see a lot of people I am acquainted with, and we chat (but have nothing to talk about). I buy their comic book, their book of short stories, or their video (I want to show my support), but ultimately always leave thinking that I've just been to a big schmooze-a-thon, where everyone is desperately trying to become the next Tracy Quan. The events are usually quite crowded, which is great. There is a certain amount of solidarity.

But. I can't shake the feeling that many of these people "dabbled" in sex work in order to have something interesting to write about. Or to focus their "art" around. This blogger woman, at least while she was drunk, was so transparent about her reasons for wanting to Domme (hint: cha-ching). I have no problem with people wanting to make money- there is a market of clients out there for everyone. However, I do have a problem with people taking what I consider to be my chosen profession, and packaging it in such a way as to gain notoriety for their bad writing. Many of these people went to ivy league schools (or close), and use that as a way to legitimize their perspective on their little "stint" as a sex worker. Oooh, you went to Yale, majored in performance art, and can't pay back your loans, so you decided to give hand jobs for three months... So what???

There are, however, a few people who show up who completely blow me away. One woman, who was a stripper in the 80's, was basically like, "Hey, when I was a 'sex worker', that term didn't even exist, everyone was a junkie- myself included. No one was saving to go to college, and most of us who are still alive are surprised we made it this far." She told a story about a fifteen year old girl who worked at her club and couldn't dance, because she had been shooting heroin between her toes so much she couldn't wear her platforms anymore. That basically shut everyone the fuck up. It seems like a stereotype that everyone is trying very desperately nowadays to shake off. Which I understand. And can get behind. But stereotypes exist for a reason.

Sex worker fiction contains subject matter that the majority of the public finds scandalous- but that alone does not make you a good writer. Granted, most people are probably going to look twice in order to be titillated (which sells books), but it pisses me off that these floozies are getting signed essentially for exploiting the very same "scene" to which they claim to be a dedicated member.

Ah, but who said life was fair, right? I'm probably just jealous, anyway. Maybe in exchange for Domming experience, the blogger chick will give me a few lessons on being a shameless self-promoter.

There was an error in this gadget