Looks like this video was heavily influenced by Gil Elvgren. No objections to seeing some very cute girls striking some poses.
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 25, 2010
She taps her pen against the palm of her hand. Not nervous. Expectant. She waits for an answer. I stand in front of her, my eyes downcast. She's leaning on the edge of her desk, legs crossed. Yes, I'm staring at her legs. They're too beautiful to ignore. Even while I'm here in her office, in trouble, I can't help but get turned on by her beauty. It makes me ache.
Log files can be a bitch. I'm finding that out the hard way as my eyes go from her legs to the ream of paper she's shoved into my hands, pages with columns of numbers interrupted by a highlighted row. Each row represents a time that my computer has logged one particular website. It's a site I shouldn't know about. I never should have gone digging into her life but I did. And here's the evidence right in front of me in black, white, and highlighter yellow.
I'm at a loss for words. I'm even at a loss for making any kind of grunts that might act as communication. I've been caught and I feel a hot flush centered on my spine and rushing over my back, up my neck, bringing the blood to my cheeks. I lick my lips, feeling how dry my mouth has become. The world takes on a bit of an aura, as if I'm watching everything via an old tube television set. I'm surprised that I can even stand because my legs feel like they've turned to water.
The pen keeps tapping. Has it been ten seconds or ten minutes since she asked me to explain myself? What could I say? The truth?
As if this word pulled an emergency release lever in my head, I start speaking. The words are mine, yes, but I don't even realize that I'm saying them. Out the pour.
"I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have, I couldn't help myself, I was looking at your facebook page and then started poking around and found that site, that site with your pictures on them..." On and on I went, free from punctuation, just one unending string of stammered apologies.
And the pen kept tapping, as if she were directing this symphony of excuses. Finally I empty the well, running dry of lame reasons for doing what I did.
"Are you finished?" she asks coldly. "What kind of man are you that you can't tell me the truth?"
I force myself to look at her face. I see the hard line of her mouth, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses, her ebony hair wrapped in a tight bun and held in place with what looks like a chopstick. Is that racist? Should I not think that about Heather? But, really, it looks like a chopstick.
She clears her throat, bringing me back to her eyes. There's a look there I've never seen before.
"I asked what kind of man you are and I think I know," she says, crossing her arms across her chest. I can't help but notice the way this enhances the cleavage as her shirt opens just a bit more. "You're not a man at all," she announces, standing up from her desk where she leaned and walking towards me. She moves around me and I debate whether I'm supposed to crane my neck around to watch her or just listen as she lectures.
I hear her behind me but keep looking at the space she had occupied. I take in her desk, seeing her Matrix screensaver, a few stuffed animals, the framed picture of she and her sister (the owner of the company) and...
Something passes in front of my face so quickly that it doesn't register. Before I know it I've got something wrapped around my throat and it's being pulled tightly. I hear her growl, "You're a dog."
I reach up to feel around my neck, studs of metal line the strap and I know it's a dog collar that she's buckling onto me. I'm shocked into speechlessness.
"Get down here," she says, looping a finger into the collar and pulls me down onto my knees. She moves back in front of me, keeping her hand on the collar, and bending over to keep her face close to mine. My heart is beating out of my chest with fear while my mind is awash with confusion. I'm still thinking that I need to find words to apologize, to explain away my growing obsession with looking at pictures of Heather when I should be working. I'm not comprehending that she's got me on my knees with a collar around my neck.
"Get down and kiss my feet," she commands. Normally I'd have laughed at such an absurd suggestion but I know she's deadly serious. Knowing that my behavior will determine if I keep or lose my job, I do what she says, getting down onto my elbows and showering her stocking feet with kisses. I've never been this close to her before. I can smell her skin mixed with the leather of her shoes and the odor is intoxicating.
"If you want to keep your job and your reputation you're doing to do exactly what I say," she begins. "Every morning you will bring me a medium non-fat latte with two sugars. When you come into my office you'll close the door behind you and get onto your knees to deliver my cup, is that understood?"
I pause to look up at her, "Yes, Heather," I say. I can't see her face as she's silhouetted by the overly bright neon lights above her.
"That's another thing," she continues. "When we're alone you will refer to me as 'Your Majesty.' You won't speak unless you're spoken to. Are we clear?"
"Yes, your Majesty," I said, putting my head down.
"Did I say you could stop kissing my feet? Are you really that bad at following directions?"
Immediately I begin kissing her feet again.
Ten years my junior (and looking twenty), Heather and I don't work together. She's the company's Human Resources director. Apart from a few conversations around the coffee maker and saying hello when she comes in in the morning, we haven't exchanged many words in the four years I've been working for her sister.
Seeing Heather always brought a smile to my face. Her bubbling personality was only matched by her beauty. I'd never seen her upset, much less angry, and this shook me to the core. But, what she says disturbs me even more.
"You need to stand up, now, and get undressed."
I stop kissing her feet and look up at her again, as if half-expecting to see her smiling and to say, "Just kidding." I can't discern her facial expression but there's no mirth when she puts her shoe on my shoulder and digs her heel into me saying, "Did I fucking stutter? Get your ass up."
Indeed, she's nothing but serious. My hands falter as I reach for the top button of my shirt. She sees this and doesn't hesitate to reach up and tear my shirt open; buttons flying everywhere. She cocks an eyebrow, challenging me, as if to ask if she needs to do the same thing to my pants. I shuck the tatters of my shirt and undo my pants. When I'm standing there in my underwear she gives a slight shake of her head, letting me know I'm not done. Off go the underwear, leaving me bereft of clothes and feeling completely vulnerable. The only thing on me is the dog collar.
"Back on your knees," she says. "Your hands and knees."
Once there, she sits on the corner of her desk and puts her feet up onto my back.
"You have a new role in the company. You're to be my pet whenever I require it. I think I'm going to call you 'Mookie.' Does that sound good, Mookie?"
"Yes, your Majesty," I respond, still numb to the world.
"Good Mookie. You'll be my dog since you're not a man. Like a dog I may have to keep you in a cage. When I scratch your belly your leg will jerk. When you're bad I'll punish you and when you're good I may reward you. And, since you're such a big doggy, you'll give me rides whenever I want... and I want one now." Before I know it, she's sitting side saddle on my back, holding onto my collar and telling me to move.
I crawl carefully around her desk, trying to keep her flat, knowing that I'll be in trouble if she were to fall off of my back. I'm thankful that she's just a slip of a girl, especially when she announces that she wants a second trip around her desk.
"That was good, Mookie. A very smooth ride. Like a Cadillac," she says, standing.
I look up at her again, seeing her in a new light. "Keep your eyes, down, Mookie. You're not worth looking at me," she says.
I cast my eyes down, her feet and legs are still visible and I admire the curves of her ankles and calves. I wonder to myself how I got into this situation.
As if she's reading my mind she asks, "How did you find the pictures, Mookie?"
I tell her about looking at her facebook profile and the photos of her on stage and seeing the comment about her stage name. I searched this name and found a gallery buried deep on her personal website. Rather than looking at the photos the way she presented them I went to the root of the directory and browsed it. That's also where I found a folder with a few folders buried deep within. Here I found pictures of her from a local theater production of "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas." Another folder contained more risque photos, each subsequent folder getting more daring, like a trip down a rabbit hole of
"And what did you think when you looked at those?" she insisted.
I couldn't answer her. I had spent hours masturbating to those images. My mouth worked, again, trying to find an excuse. She wasn't having it.
"Tell me, Mookie. Now!" she yelled.
"Ah-um-I wondered what it would be like to touch you; to feel your skin. I imagined how soft and warm your breasts are and..." I trailed off.
"And, what, Mookie?" she chided.
"And... nothing, your Majesty."
"Aw, don't you want to say, Mookie? Don't you want to tell me everything I want to know? Are you being headstrong?"
"No, your Majesty. I'm... I..."
"Let's see if we can do something to loosen your tongue a bit, Mookie. Lay down on your back." She moves to her desk and retrieves something out of a drawer.
The overhead lights make it impossible for me to see what she's doing. Before I know it, she's got her hand on my manhood, sending shivers through my body and blood rushing to my cock. She's doing something to my balls, there's a slight pinch and then a vibration. I wonder if she's got a sex toy on me but the pleasant hum is replaced by a more insistent sensation. It begins to throb and, quickly, it feels as if someone is flicking my balls with their forefinger and, just as fast, its like they've changed from their finger to a small hammer.
I cry out. Instinctively, I try to sit up. Her foot comes down on my chest, pushing me back. Rather than being between my legs, she's back up, holding something in her hands with wires that run down between my legs.
"Too much, Mookie?" she asks with a laugh. "How about this?"
The hammering changes to what feels like a pin pricking my nuts before spreading out into what I can only describe as a clamp coming down around my entire groin. I gasp as the pain blossoms through me.
"Now," she says, "what else did you think of when you were looking at my pictures?"
I groan and with that it seems that my inhibitions escape me. "I wanted to know what your pussy tastes like," I blurt.
"Ahhh, that's more like it," she says. The pressure on my crotch eases to a dull throbbing ache.
She stands and moves around me, the wires tugging at my balls. She moves around me to stand over me. Blocking the light, I can see straight up her dress and at her very sheer panties. She squats down, her skirt encircling my face. Her sex is closer to me. I swear that I can feel the heat of it. And, it may be wishful thinking, but I imagine I can smell the scent of it.
"Is this what you've dreamed of? My pussy in your face? Is this what you thought about while you masturbated?"
"Yes, your Majesty, yes," I say beneath her.
"Show me, Mookie. Jerk that prick for me."
Without hesitation I grab onto my cock. Instead of pleasure, it's pain that confronts me. The electricity Heather's sent through my balls make masturbation nearly impossible. She knows. She laughs. "Poor Mookie," she mocks. "Tell you what; I'll turn down the power for thirty seconds and if you can cum in that time, I'll allow it. Do you think you can, Mookie?"
I breathlessly answer, "Yes, your Majesty."
The electrical sensation fades and I begin to masturbate in earnest, keeping my eyes locked on her crotch, breathing in deep in hopes to capture her scent. She begins to sing the "Jeopardy" theme song. I work past this distraction and give in to my lust, putting my left hand under my balls (and feeling the electrodes there) while my right worked the shaft of my cock.
As she sings the seconds away I reach my climax. As I orgasm I'm overcome with a sense of gratitude mixed with the horror of knowing I'm doing a very bad thing, doing this at work beneath the Human Resources Manager. And just as fast. my moral compass comes swinging back around as Heather reaches beneath her skirt, pulls aside her underwear, and slides a finger into her well kempt pussy. She removes it, turns, and drops down onto my chest. She smiles at me and holds the wet finger out above my face. She nods her head and I open my mouth, excited to taste her.
She leans over me as the finger comes closer. At the last second I look from the finger to her face, just in time to see the spittle drop from her mouth into mind. I gag and she laughs at me, putting her finger in her own mouth. "No, Mookie. No," she says simply, standing back up.
She returns to her desk. I lay there, waiting for her return. Instead, I hear the clicking of nails on a keyboard. She's not coming back. I sit up, the spunk on my belly running down to my crotch. My nakedness may have embarrassed me before but now I'm completely mortified.
Heather sits at her desk, just as I see her every day when I pass by her office on the way to the water cooler. Without looking up she puts her tissue box at the edge of her desk. I take a handful and clean myself up before getting dressed. She acts as if I'm not even in the room as I hunt around for my buttons and thank the stars that I have a spare shirt in my car.
It's only as I'm ready to grab the doorknob that I realize I still have the collar around my neck.
I reach up take it off but something stops me. I turn and return to her desk, moving to the side, and get down on my knees at the edge. A smile blossoms on her face and she wheels her chair to me. She reaches around my neck and undoes the collar. "That's a good Mookie," she says, putting the collar back in her top drawer.
I've been dismissed. I get up to go again. As I turn the knob to her office door I hear her ask behind me, "And what will you be bringing me in the morning?"
Without looking back I say, "A medium non-fat latte with two sugars."
"Good Mookie," she says as the door closes behind me.
I already look forward to the following morning's trip to Starbucks.
Mar 24, 2010
I'm tickled pink that my story, Dollar Store Domme, made it to the top three of this edition of eLust. Thanks to everyone who voted for me!
Welcome to e[lust] - The 10th edition! Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you're looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you're going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #11? Start with the rules, check out the schedule in the site's sidebar and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ This Week's Top Three Posts ~
Negotiation – Not Nearly As Awkward As Having a Breakdown in Public – All the worries about getting to know a new person ("Am I dressed ok? Are they gonna like my stories about my grandma?") get exaggerated when you're talking about sex and desire…
Dollar Store Domme – He definitely can’t elude the dollops of toothpaste I dab onto his nipples. It takes a delicious second before he feels the cool burn penetrate his flesh. By that time I’m already up and selecting a plastic spatula from the credenza.
The Best of Both Worlds or Lost in Limbo? – Whether intentional or unthinking, bisexual denial is a frustrating thing for bisexual, pansexual or 'fluid' people to have to deal with.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
Navigating Genderqueer in Suburbia – But pray tell how do the rest of us navigate it? How the hell am I supposed to know if you identify as male or just like dressing like one?
~ Featured Post (Lilly's Pick) ~
The Daddy Issue: Sexualizing Abuse – I needed to walk through this fear, and turn it into pleasure. I needed to prove to myself that he hadn't broken me. That he hadn't changed who I was to become. That I was not affected by what he did. That he didn't abuse me.
15 minute phone sex
…And Orgasms On Demand
A Neighbor In Need #7
Desperation & Dominance
Evening Home, Part 3
First Asleep Loses
I am a keeper of secrets
I Got Fucked
I am Coming for You: A Letter to Scin
Late Night Satisfaction
Making M Squirt
Sir ~ intro
The Flash Fiction Friday FAQ!
We fucked, they applauded
Where there is a libido, there is a way
Wicked Wednesday: Idyll
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
20 Reasons Why Sex Is Good
Hurt me, Pet
I Was Raped
Red Flags of an Abusive Partner, Part 2
Restrictions and Satisfaction
Someone Else’s Shoes
Sex Isn’t Everything
The Art of Sensual Touching-Caressing for You and Your Partner
The STI You Haven’t Heard of: Molluscum contagiosum
Vibrant Woman or Live Masturbation Sleeve
What I Don’t Need
Kink & Fetish
A Little Girl’s Need for Submission
Are You Done Yet?
A Reformatory Punishment
BDSM Advice Series: Floggers
Determined to bind
I Really Wasn’t In The Mood
Pain and Healing
Questions From DH About These Things We Do
Sub Drop: Fact or Fiction?
Tiiu Ashcraft – Fetish Artist and Beauty
The Eroticism of Tattoos
Wanting to want
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
A History of Violence
Asshat of the Day Award
Awesome Mentoring Work and Upcoming Apprenticeship
Mar 19, 2010
It's not often that I kick back and reflect on my writing as I often say that I'm not a "writer". "I just put words down on paper and sometimes they make sentences," is how I tend to think of my "skills" in that area.
Regardless, on Publish and Be Damned, the blog for authors of Republica Press, I contributed to this month's topic about point of view. Please take a few minutes and check out my musings. Thanks!
Mar 18, 2010
A friend of mine made this observation about me today.
You are living outside of your needs. You are living with your true desires unfulfilled. You've accepted a marriage where you need to hide your true self (playing with pros on the side) or live without them (not getting emotional support about your projects, etc). And you've accepted a job that exhausts you too much to explore writing with all the energy you can. You've basically landed yourself in a NORMAL life 'accidentally.' It's crept up on you and now you spend 90% of your time trying desperately to hide who you are (brilliant, kinky, and DIFFERENT) and just how needy, depressed and lonely you really are.
If I had to take a stab, I would guess that you had some real unhealthy habits in real life -- at the very least, the depression. And at the most, perhaps escapism and addictions. And until you can find a way to get some integrity in your life, which is, a way to be true to your REAL self, you will be depressed no matter how much therapy you go through.
By addictions I meant... compulsive shopping, video gaming, eating, perhaps an eating DISORDER, who knows. But something that distracts you from how bad you feel.
I can't say how much I agree with this. That is, she's really captured exactly what's going on. The last time I felt truly in touch with myself; my needs, my emotions, I managed to take control of my life and lose 100 pounds, change careers, and get myself happy. Not it's just a matter of changing...
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 15, 2010
I felt like a bomb went off in my head.
I could only blame myself.
I've been so afraid of being "greedy" in a scene that I don't always say every little thing that I like or dislike before a scene. Sometimes I can't even put voice to these things until I come across them.
I decided to see Ms. N, a new Domme in town, because she seemed to have a good head on her shoulders and because she was gorgeous -- the latter mattering naught if the former isn't there.
After some online chats and emails I made an appointment.
When I got inside her flat there was no chit-chat. She cut to the chase, counting my tribute and telling me to strip down to my underwear.
She was lovelier in person than in her pictures. She wore a beautiful red patent leather outfit that accentuated her curves. From my vantage point on my knees on her living room rug I mostly saw her fishnet stockings and impossibly high red heels.
The scene consisted of Ms. N circling me, her heels clomping on the hardwood floors, while she interrogated me, lightly flogging me all the while.
She began simply enough, asking when I had last hurt someone's feelings.
This isn't something I like to do, of course, but I had actually hurt a coworker's feelings that day. She had been occasionally coming to work in a horrendous pink jumpsuit that gave her a wicked camel toe. Rather than confront her about this, I shot her an anonymous email. She didn't take it in stride. Instead, it really upset her. I felt pretty awful about this, doubly so as I confessed this tale to Ms. N, a relative stranger who didn't know that I don't get off on insulting people.
She got her hooks into me fairly quickly and easily. She took the tack of female superiority. I should not have hurt anyone's feelings, especially a woman. From here she began her interrogation in earnest. I wasn't sure if we were playing a game or not. I took a chance and answered all of her questions honestly.
This took me into some territory with which I'm very uncomfortable including my dishonesty with my wife and my reliance on escorts for sexual release (and human connection). She asked me what my wife would think if she knew what kind of pervert she was married to, or what if my coworkers knew that I enjoy sucking dick?
This whole scene played into humiliation and, I'll admit, that's exactly what I asked for. I just didn't expect a true humiliation session, I suppose. I don't know if I shouldn't have been honest and started scripting more of a "character" as we went along or if I should have stopped the scene to explain that I wasn't comfortable discussing truly personal issues. I mean, at points Ms. N had me talking about my former Domme getting ill, my father dying, and my job boring me.
This session was rawer than a lot of therapy sessions I've had but with therapy there's little to no judgment. Here, Ms. N played into the humiliation angle by degrading me; talking about what a dirty pervert I was.
I've never said my safe word when I wasn't being beaten to within an inch of my life but I almost said it to her.
I've talked in the past about how hard it is for me to cry and/or cum when I'm on my meds. I purposefully didn't take my pills that day in hopes of some release at the end of the session. Instead of cumming, I was taken to the verge of crying.
At one point Ms. N blindfolded me and had me get onto my hands and knees. I thought that maybe she'd shift from interrogation to punishment. She gave me some pain via some candle wax poured onto my back and some deep scratching to get it off but that was all.
Again, I think that I was to blame here as I had warned Ms. N that I'm a wuss when it comes to pain. I had hoped that she'd start slowly and take me to subspace via her flogger but I think I had warned her away from this.
After walking around me for nearly an hour, Ms. N sat down and had me take off her shoes to rub her feet. As I massaged them she discussed the possibility of me seeing her again, telling me that it'd be better if I did so that she wouldn't share my secrets with anyone. This made me really uncomfortable. Had I not been so honest and answered every question completely, I would know that this was all part of the fantasy.
For someone into confession their sins and being denigrated for it, along with the possibility of being blackmailed, this would have been an ideal scene.
As if a timer went off, Ms. N told me, "That's enough. We're done." She had me get dressed again and left. No hug, no handshake, no words, and barely a goodbye. I was stunned and not necessarily in a good way. I went out to my car and broke down. Once the tears had slowed, I turned my car around and went home.
The question became whether to tell Ms. N my feelings about things. I feel that I set us up for failure by not being more honest before the session began. When I gave her limits on humiliation (please don't make fun of me being fat, bald, or hairy), I should have established that my "real life" was barred as well. She "went there" and I didn't know how devastating a journey it would be.
It took a while to come to grips with my feelings. I vacillated between sad to anxious to gratitude for the catharsis. Overall I think I needed exactly what she gave me. And, I shared my thoughts with Ms. N and felt better for it.
This is a site for my fantasies, right? Well, I've got a crazy one for you. It has nothing to do with sex and nothing to do with the site but I feel that I need to write this down, as if writing it down may help it come true; might help me focus.
I have another book in the works. It's what I call my "clean" book. I handed it over to my publisher, a small company out of Baltimore, back in January 2009 for a September/October 2009 release. Obviously, it's well past that. The second date they gave me was April/May 2010. There's no chance in hell that's going to happen either. As of January, 2010 they were crying poor; the bad economy and winter storms of 2009 have kept their coffers empty with no "spare" $10K around with which to fund my book.
Part of the problem is that once my publisher sends out books to distributors that they won't be paid for a few months. That's the name of the game with distro.
That said, I've tried to be helpful and offer some suggestions to my publisher. I posited that they should find out how much the book is going to cost consumers and start taking pre-orders to get that cash rolling in early.
I've already volunteered to do a postcard campaign to all of my old subscribers and friends. I don't want to send out anything, though, until there's a way for people to pre-order or buy the book. No sense sending people to a URL where they can just say, "Wow, sounds interesting. I'll have to remember to come back some day." If I know anything about marketing, it's to present the customer with the option to buy as often and as loudly as you can.
I even offered my publisher $5K up front to help them out, despite my desire that this book cost me no money. My saying going into this is, "I don't care about making any money, I just don't want to lose money on it." That's already been blown with the fees I've payed for photos and with the charges I'm sure to incur for the aforementioned post cards. I'll probably also be spotting the money for ads in various magazines and for postage to send out review copies to others.
But here's the fantasy part. Here are the wild and crazy ideas that I want to put down on paper to help crystallize them happening in real life.
The book comes out with enough notice for me to start the ball rolling on pre-publicity. I get the word out there and get interest.
My publisher helps set up several engagements across the country including Boston, Chicago, and Wisconsin, and Portland where I do book signings as well as host screenings of a few movies that play really well with the material covered in the book.
My friend in Baltimore sets up a screening that also plays well with the book material and this helps promote the heck out of it.
I pay for the flights and even the hotel stays but my publisher sets up all of the dates and engagements.
I get invited to a couple of "cons" where I can promote and sell some copies.
I send out copies of my book to relatives at Xmas time, thus saving me the expense of getting them gifts.
Oh, and maybe I finally get some notice here in my own hometown of Detroit, MI. It'd be nice to have some of the local film festivals/events know that I'm around and maybe extend some invitations to be a part of them the same way that other festivals around the country have. It's so strange to not be known in one's hometown.
The first print run (1,000 copies) sells out and a second run is needed within six months.
My publisher agrees to do my follow up book in 2011.
That's my fantasy. Crazy, right?
Mar 11, 2010
This girl likes her toys. I've spent two decades amassing a very respectable collection. I keep several suitcases and duffel bags packed and waiting at all times. I've got them at home, in my car, even one at work; each stocked with basic tools of my trade along with some personal favorites. I supplement these with additional toys depending on the client, of course.
Imagine my dismay when I arrive in Detroit for a special session with one of my old regulars only to find that the airline sent my bags back to Philadelphia, giving them a round trip without a stop in between. If you can't imagine it, you'll just have to trust me. I'm freaking out.
No matter how much I want to lose my shit, I swear I'll keep my cool. As I stand in line for a taxi after reading the airline the Riot Act, I mentally trace the route from the airport to my hotel. Detroit is lousy with nail salons, liquor stores, and Coney Island restaurants. They also have more than their fair share of dollar stores. With my carry-on bag over my shoulder (thank goodness I have makeup and spare pair of underwear) I hail a taxi and tell the driver to stop at the first dollar store he sees.
Within minutes we pull into a strip mall and I fill my basket with implements I can reuse in a scene. $27.56 lighter and I'm on track to my appointment.
I'll admit, I feel like a scrub showing up to the hotel with a big plastic bag under my arm rather than luggage but the hotel staff aren't the ones paying who paid for my airfare and room; that responsibility falls to my precious boy.
He's got the room checked out and ready for his Mistress. I pick up the key at the front desk and find the room set up to my exacting standards. "Good boy," I think, mentally checking off all the tasks I gave him that morning while I snoozed in First Class. Tribute envelope on the desk, wine chilling, candles set up around the room, red scarves over the lamps, three bottles of water in the mini fridge, and a cup of tea ready to steep.
I freshen up, glad that I had extra dainties in my carry-on. I still end up looking like what I am--a business woman on a business trip--albeit one wearing $80 underwear.
I unpack my dollar store delights, making a few adjustments before spreading them across the credenza. Looking over everything I still feel a little silly with so many household items standing in for my regular selection of toys. As a professional dominatrix I try to reinvest at least 20% of my profits into my supplies -- from lube and rubber gloves to new implements of torture. I feel like a fraud seeing what treasures I culled from the dollar store rather than my fine selection of toys. But, also, I experience a bit of a rush -- remembering when I first started out, making due when I was just a wee Domina. I pick up a wooden spoon, thinking about the first time I reddened an ass with one, and smile.
A knock at the door interrupts my trip down memory lane. My client: on time and prepared the way I want him. Good boy.
He's not the most stunning man in the world but he's far from repulsive. More than his looks, he's one of the kinkiest buggers I've had the pleasure of meeting.
Without words he steps into the room, kneeling before me. It's been six months since he's served (if he's been faithful to me). His desperation comes through as he showers my shoes with kisses. When I tire of this I tell him to show some me some respect and get out of his clothes. He jumps up so fast I fear he'll get a nosebleed from the dramatic change in altitude.
I watch him force himself to calm down and carefully fold his clothes as he removes them. He knows I won't tolerate sloppy behavior.
He resumes kneeling. I tell him to get on all fours and, after retrieving a few items, straddle his back. I rest my butt against the back of his head giving me a great angle.
"Have you been a good boy since last I saw you?" I ask, running a feather (from a feather duster) along his back. I watch a shiver roll along his spine.
"I've tried to be good, Mistress," he whines, "I really have."
"I feel that there's something you're not telling me," I say, keeping the feather moving along his sides.
"I've had a lot of... of nasty thoughts, Mistress," he says with a shaking voice.
"And when you think these nasty thoughts," I pause, "Do you touch yourself?"
With as much guilt as he can muster I feel him nod his head and hear him barely whisper, "Yes, Mistress."
"I'm glad that you admitted this indiscretion, slut, as I always feel that it's my duty to you, to myself, and to the world to help correct such bad behavior. Are you ready to be corrected?"
I feel him nodding again but hear no words.
"I said," I growl, "Are you ready to be corrected?"
He quickly clears his throat and says, "Yes, yes, Mistress!"
I strike quickly and harshly, wanting him to experience a shock of pain to remind him that I'm truly in charge. He flinches under me. I hear him suck his breath through his teeth and grunt, "Thank you, Mistress" through the pain.
Now that I've got his attention I begin patting the spoon back and forth from one cheek to the other. Much lighter, yes, but I know how the smaller taps build up in sensation. I'm getting the blood flowing to his butt and I watch redness flushing his skin. Each little tap sends a jolt through him making me rock just a little bit on his back.
He's breathless, holding me up, thanking me for each blow, and trying to work through the pain. I don't want to mark him... yet... and stop once his backside is shines a wonderful shade of crimson.
I tell him to crawl to the credenza, still balanced on his back, where I grab a few more items before telling him to get onto the room's king size bed face up.
I go to each of the bed's corners and secure a length of clothesline around the feet of the bed to his wrists and ankles. I wrap a length of ACE bandage around his head, blindfolding him. I stand back and admire my handiwork, watching adjust to his bondage. I soak him in, thinking about where I need to take him; how I'm going to break him and build him back up again as a better man.
I step closer to him, unscrewing the cap of a small jar as I do. I place my two fingers on his leg, relaxing him with my touch before moving my hand between his spread legs and wiping what's on my other fingers along the crack of his shaved ass. It takes just a second before the sensation begins. I return the credenza to set down the jar of mentholated ointment. I wipe off the remainder of the ointment and my fingers tingle just a bit. I know how much it will burn and cool him at the same time. If he's a good boy maybe I'll put a touch right on the underside of his cock.
His cock waves around as he thrashes on the bed as much as his bonds will allow. I grab hold of it, yanking on it roughly as if I could rip it out by the root. This settles him down. His whimpers turn to screams as I begin to decorate his cock and balls with tiny clothespins. They bite into him like insistent teeth. The multicolored clothespins soon make his crotch look like an absurd lite brite version of a cock and balls. I step back to admire my handiwork and snap a few photos with my phone.
He hears the click of my shutter and shudders. I'd never take any compromising pictures of him without his permission and he knows this but the idea of being blackmailed plays into some of his favorite fantasies. I know this from the countless letters he's sent me over the years documenting all of his hopes and scenes.
"Oh, that's good," I say. "Yes, that will look perfect on my website. The look on your face is priceless." He moans in response and I watch his cock twitch.
I pull up a chair next to the bed and rake my nails across his chest, being sure to hit his nipples as I do. I return to those sensitive nubs and apply my nails to them, squeezing, pinching. He can't help but cry out. He squeals through gritting teeth, his body raising off the bed as much as it can. I can't tell if he's trying to meet my nails or escape them.
He can't elude the dollops of toothpaste I dab onto his nipples. It takes a delicious second before he feels the cool burn penetrate his flesh. By then, I'm already up and selecting a plastic spatula from the credenza. Back at the bed, I undo the restraints from the bottom and bring them up, his legs with them, to tie them to his ankles, exposing his rump.
Throwing one leg over him, I straddle his face, his legs on either side of me and his breath warming my bottom. I go to work on his backside, slapping with the spatula and rubbing with my hand, giving pain and pleasure at my whim. At one point the crack of the spatula on the bottom seems to unseat what's been restraining him mentally. It's the payoff moment for me. It's when I know that someone has given themselves over to me completely. For some people it's a light that comes on in their eyes, for others it's a sigh; it's when I know a submissive well enough to spot the change that I truly click with them. It's when they really become my property--none of this namby pamby "I'll do anything for you, Mistress," bullshit. This is the real deal.
Now he's mine.
This is what makes my pussy purr.
I continue to push his pain levels, flooding him with endorphins, taking him to a happy place. Up and down his ass I go with the spatula; from his inner thighs down to the fleshiest curves. He's not crying out anymore.
He murmurs his thanks to me after each blow and it sounds like he's a Bodhisattva monk, chanting his mantra, "Thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress, thank you, Mistress." His breath warms my thighs as I continue slapping his ass, the flesh radiating heat. Sweat starts to bead across my forehead as I smack his ass with the spatula.
His flesh shades from red to almost purple and I slow down, and eventually stop, my assault. I don't give him a chance to catch his breath before I reach down and begin plucking the clothespins off of his cock and balls. As the blood rushes to the tiny bites he cries out, the sound muffled between my thighs.
I lean back onto him, silencing him with my ass, not allowing him to breathe in anything but me for a few seconds. I count it out; one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi... ten-Mississippi... I know that it feels much longer than the few seconds before the panic seeps through him as his need to breathe increases. I lean up and allow him to suck in some air before moving back again to block him. I wonder if he can smell my excitement or is my scent masked by the burning odor of the mentholated ointment on his asshole?
As I lean forward I slide a finger inside of him, lubricated by the ointment, and his gasp for breath takes on a new flavor from the surprise of the invading finger and the cool burn of the ointment in his tender rectum. I see his cock jump as my finger continues to probe him.
I settle back down and grab onto his cock. Now my counting takes on a new meaning as each second without breath equates to a stroke of his cock. one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi... ten-Mississippi... He begins making noise beneath me. I know he's not begging for breath; to take. He's begging for release; to give. I allow him to struggle and to cry. He's panicked. He's past the point of no return and doesn't know if he is allowed to orgasm without permission. Will I kick his ass for doing so? Will I forgive him? Fifteen-Mississippi... He stops his groaning and whining just for a second and before I can count sixteen-Mississippi, his cock spurts onto my wrist.
I lean up and he gasps, his orgasm still going. He's filling his lungs as his balls empty. I just hold onto him as he his cock spurts, like a creature in the throes of death. He moans out under me, a shade of worry in it.
I won't punish him... yet. But I won't let him know that. He'll be living in anticipation of this retribution for cumming without permission for quite a while. The suspense will thrill him.
I climb off him and clean up, bringing him back a warm, wet towel for his crotch. I set him loose and open up two bottles of water, lifting one to his lips and telling him to drink as he lay in darkness, the bandage still around his eyes. I remove that last, welcoming him back and enjoying the dazed, dreamy look in eyes.
I smooth his hair, smiling down at him and enjoying his re-entrance into the world. I managed to take him out of his skin. Once he's back I have him get dressed and we go out for dinner where I tell him about my luggage mishap. He gets quite a chuckle out of this and dubs me the "Dollar Store Domme." I like it. Maybe I need to get away from my toys more often.
Mar 5, 2010
Reading my blog, you'd think I'd be happy about this but I ended up freaked out.
When making my plans to come into NYC I posted on Facebook that I needed a place to stay. I got two offers - one from an old friend in Brooklyn and another from a writer/film geek in Manhattan. The Brooklyn Friend could offer me a couch for free while the Manhattan Film Geek offered up his queen sized bed for $50 a night. I opted for the bed.
The Manhattan Film Geek (MFG) was slated to be out of town the days I was in town so he'd have his roommate let me in and give me a spare set of keys. His roommate would take the couch while I took the bed. Sounded like a bargain to me.
As the weeks went on, things started to change as more notes came in via Facebook.
MFG told me that he would be back for the dates I was in town. Jokingly I asked if we'd be sharing a bed and told him that I'd love to be cuddled.
He wrote back and asked me if I'd enjoy a long, luxurious blowjob.
I wrote back and told him that in the parlance I'd be considered a "bear."
He wrote back and told me how much he loves bears.
My last comment was that this trip was looking better and better.
If you listened to my conversations with most of my guy friends you'd think that we were raging queens. We're always throwing shade about sucking dick or getting buttfucked. Little did I know that MFG wasn't joking around.
I found this out when I got to his Manhattan apartment and he greeted me with a tight hug and warm kiss on the cheek.
If MFG had been a different guy or if I was in a different headspace I might have been happy about this development but, instead, it was a predicament. I suddenly felt the age-old excuse on my lips, "I'm not in the mood."
It's not that MFG wasn't attractive - he's a nice looking guy. It's just that he exuded an air of insanity; a manic energy that just put me off of him immediately as both a potential lover as well as a friend.
After the hug, MFG got a phone call from a film producer in Italy and, suddenly, we were off to the races. I sat on his couch, cooling off from my long walk from the subway station, and watched him make a series of phone calls and send email and Facebook updates all afternoon. As time ticked by I realized that he was far more into setting up a screening of some films in Los Angeles for this Italian producer than into doing anything with me. I was grateful. I was also hungry. He kept saying, "Just one more email and we can go to lunch." Four hours later I finally got my coat on and left.
I headed downtown to meet with a fellow writer and attend the Cinekink film festival. After a few hours of films and a day of travel I looked forward to going back to MFG's pad and getting some sleep. I started to leave the Anthology Film Archives only to find MFG waiting for me in the lobby. Oh, shit.
He and a friend were hanging out, waiting for me. We shot the shit for a bit before MFG finally agreed to leave. That began what I have since referred to as "Mr. Toad's Wild Walk." We went from Second Ave and Second St over to Avenue A back over to Fourth Avenue back to Second back to Fourth and up to Fourteenth Street where MFG's friend too the "L" to go home while we took a train up to 42nd Street.
As we went down the stairs to the station I managed to twist my ankle fairly well. When we stopped at 42nd street I didn't realize that we had a mile to go before I could sleep. We walked from 42nd and Park (Grand Central) all the way to 51st and 10th with MFG talking and acting as a manic tour guide the entire time -- pointing out what nearly every building is and what the past five businesses to own it had been. He especially discussed the former movie houses of old, even dipping into the lobbies of numerous buildings to show me entrances and architecture, waxing about the glory days of skuzzy NYC before the Giuliani clean-up.
Limping along; one ankle twisted, both feet blistered, I finally had to yell at MFG saying, "Listen, son, I'm from Detroit. We don't walk. We drive everywhere. Now, get me back to your place so I can get some fucking sleep."
That slowed (but didn't stop) the tour.
I ended up bunking on MFG's couch while he and his roommate shared the queen-sized bed. As soon as the lights went out the noise started -- not the expected New York city noise of sirens and honking horns but the scratch scratch scratch of their pet chinchilla running mad circles in his wall-sized cage. I'm glad that the chinchilla was at least in a cage as it could easily get lost and die in the mess of the apartment.
I don't know why I was so surprised the next morning when I got up to shower only to find that the bathtub was a nightmare of mold and mildew. I felt far more dirty after my shower than before it. That's when I vowed to find a new place. Somewhere without an amorous, manic host, somewhere with a bed, and somewhere with a clean shower.
I hopped onto Hotwire.com and scored a four-star hotel down in Soho. It was more than $50 a night but my sanity was worth it.