” So how does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?”

 My equally mouthy and statuesque  older sister and I left classes at Arizona State University, driving  all night to reach Los Angeles California dead set on a fun-filled spring break. It was cool, fresh and breezy as we approached San Diego, beat the hell out of the relentless heat that was quick approaching in Tempe.  Our destination was  the Travel Lodge motel in Encino, best rate we could find so we took it. Cruising down the  L.A. freeways towards the San Fernando valley was exhilarating.  Shortly after sunrise  we pulled into a local deli for breakfast. We ate like starved pilgrims.  Phyllis paid the check and I walked outside to buy a paper and check out the local happenings. A tall, in shape, handsome and friendly man started talking to me.  Phyllis came out and his eyes bulged ” Would the two of you like to have dinner tonight?” he casually asked. Free food to college students, the answer was yes.  He agreed to pick us up at our Motel.  What to wear was not an issue. Phyllis was living  on her own, supported by a work/study program with a job in Current Periodicals at the University library. I lived at home and a mountain bike was my only means of transpo.  We put on some clean jeans and t-shirts and hopped into his Sedan de Ville. “I decided to cook at my place, hope you don’t mind he offered with a polished and casual air.”  Who is this guy, I’m starting to think.  If he’d been a Rancher, Farmer, Cowboy, Professor or construction worker I could read him, but he wasn’t.  He was the Jay Leno of Australia. A bona-fide big time TV personality  and I was sitting next to him.  Phyllis still has an autographed copy of his black and white head shot.  We arrive at his swanky security controlled condo and go inside. It’s nice.  Big over stuffed couch, matching dishes on the dining table, European cookware on the stove.  A couple of bottles of wine with dinner and a visit from a Hollywood A lister to confirm their tennis match the following day added to the excitement  simmering inside my nineteen year old  psyche. Let’s play some games he suggested after dinner.  Phyllis was the Monopoly queen and many summers on my Grandfather’s  remote homestead ranch had allowed me to be a better than average poker player. Those weren’t the kind of games he had in mind.  It seems we reminded him of his ex-wife.  A tall, stunning, kinky Las Vegas showgirl who had introduced him to BDSM  and held him in her grasp.  They had parted ways on the recommendation of a major network.  If he wanted to stay, she had to go.  Out of the closet comes a helmet with horns and a breast-plate.  “I’ve got these for starters and there’s more. ” The Gilchrist Phyllis says.”  Her Major in English and double minor in Art History and Library Science make this historical type costume immediately recognizable to her.  I stayed quite, studied his facial expressions, tried to get a better look at the contents of the closet and knew nothing about the Gilchrist. “Put it on, it will fit , you are exactly her size.”  It ended up being a complex night.  Phyllis pooped out afer an hour but I was drawn into this whole big experience of emotion, texture, role play, physical force and make the fucker surrender under the heel of my boot ( his ex-wife’s boot).  It ended with some domestic potty play.  He sat on the toilet and I poured hot water from the faucet on his penis while he stroked it and promised mommy he would be a good boy.

The next morning found us at Venice beach. Skaters, bodybuilders, cyclists, panhandlers, street vendors.  It was like a carnival on the boardwalk.  Sure beat my usual Saturday job of mowing the lawn.  I kept thinking about the night before. It was like a combination of a Salvador Dali Painting, Karl Jung’s archetypes, A  David Lynch movie and an adult book store. “Nature favors the female”  my half Cherokee, half French Grandfather used to say as we surveyed  the horizon while both wild and domestic animals mated  on his remote Arizona Ranch.  I’d spent every summer with him there from age 8 thru 18 when he died in a truck accident. During the school year from age 5 thru 10 I attended night classes at ASU with my mother.  She was  studying Psychology.  I would draw or read or sometimes listen to the lecture.  Topics of  the day were Feminism, Gender Equality, Hypnosis, the unconscious mind, I’m ok you’re ok etc.  .  My life up untill now  all coalesce’s into the experience of the previous night.  It  makes sense in a way I can’t describe yet understand on a primal level, I am an Alpha Female.

Spent and sunburned we return to our Oasis, the Travel Lodge.  We immediately fall asleep on the cool crisp white sheets.  The phone rings, I answer, it’s him. “Do you guys want to come back over tonight?” He serenely asks.  “Phyllis, wake up, you wanna go back to the movie stars place tonight?” “For money, she  mumbles”, she says for money, “how much money he asks” how much ya want Phil ?” five hundred dollars each”  fine is his instant answer.  See you two at seven ok?”  “Ok, I reply”  I hang up and start whoohooing, Phyllis we just made five hundred bucks each! “  “No, you just made five hundred bucks cause I’m not going.   This guy wants us to tie him up, spank him, dress up in his ex-wifes clothes, pretend we are historical figures, dress him up in our clothes, kick him in the balls, pee and spit all over him and slap his face.  Are you crazy?   Never been saner Phyllis.

 

Tell me about the pain Mistress

There are two kinds of pain, the bad pain of being burned or betrayed by a confident, the good pain that purges your system, makes you more alive and leaves you free.  I deal in the good kind.

Sweet delicious eye-opening pain.  Just when you were lulled into your state of endorphin rich pleasure it wakes you up like a big bite of hot sauce. Never accidental, rather a calculated deliverance of just what’s needed to build excitement and arousal. Pain sluts always want more, momma’s boy’s are satisfied with having stuck their toe into the daring waters of erotic torment and surprised when they learn to swim and go back for more.

Corporal punishment is punctuation  pain, marking the body like a fine sheet of bonded paper. Leaving behind crayon hues of pink, blue, red, purple and black that fade to green and yellow. Memories of over the knee school boy experiences remain in the fading shades, savored as they slowly disappear.

CBT pain is the “test my manhood pain”, see if I can take more, give me all you got and watch me re-bound like a football player knocked down  but not out, a boxer who rises off the mat at the count of 10, the competitor who won’t let his fiercest rival know they have the upper hand.

NT pain seeps into the heart center.  Exquisitely rapturous in nature and  prone to induce  whimpering that sky-rockets like an Empire State Building elevator  to  primal crying and howling.  Provoking the touching of what’s been buried and left for dead in the emotional psyche.  Mummified fruit on  the un-resolved issues of  life tree that are buried in the chest.  A poison and explosive treasure trove of pent-up energies waiting for a crack in the veneer to escape.

Come see me when only good pain will answer the call.

Mercy- Part 2

During childhood, boys obey women; mother, nurse, teacher.  A strong woman serves as a source of guidance.  However, for mature men, conditioned to take charge and provide for a family, the dominant female figure becomes obscured or out of reach.  The male-ego takes over and if there is no feminine principle to temper it, an imbalance is created.  At this point the presence of a dominant woman takes on erotic proportions.  Here enters the shadow side of the personality: the wild unfettered longing that craves to be simultaneously expressed and controlled.

Society does not champion a man in Gloria Vanderbilt’s and sparkly pink heels, or kneeling head bowed, awaiting orders. A man has no haven in which to express these inner yearnings.  Mistress describes her work as an act of compassion.  She facilitates these expressions of these repressed aspects, allows him to channel the side of himself that needs a voice.  “These appetites, if stifled, otherwise would sublimate into something else, “  she says.  ” The dungeon is a place where he can constructively and safely express himself.”  Emphasizing her point, Mistress raises a hand, offers her palm.  “There is a popular misconception that you force them.  What they bring is their surrender.  It is an open giving that requires trust.  People crave intimacy;  to have a bond with a partner that allows them to be fully authentic.  It is an internal impulse, an intrinsic hard-wiring to serve and submit.”  Maybe that is why we worship.

Mercy: the word that a submissive will use when pushed to his limit.

Mistress does her homework.  Before a client walks into her lair, she has taken extensive notes during a thirty minute phone interview.  With a sexual personality profile of her own making she determines his experience level, nature of interest, and specific fantasies.  ” In my interview, I ask ” If this experience were to be rewarding to you emotionally, how would you feel?”  I get every possible answer: used, excited, objectified, nurtured, tormented, adored, obliterated.  When he enters my space, it is into an experience in motion.  I get an immediate felt sense-face to face, center to center.  When I touch, even an arm brush, I can see immediately by the reaction how much resistance is being carried.  If he is loose like a cooked noodle, he’s here.  Ready to go.   But if there is resistance, you go slowly.”

There is more to our sexuality than we give ourselves credit for.

“People ae very bright, very sharp.  They think ahead.  You have to keep them off-balance, so they don’t know what’s coming.  You lead them, guide them.”  Mistress has the capacity to be so tuned-in to individual consciousness that she can make seamless transitions.  It’s all in a moment.  With tremendous sensitivity, she walks the fine line so that an experience is surprising enough to be arousing, yet familiar enough that it does not generate anxiety.  Anxiety means fear, and fear means “game over”.

There are tricks.  External stimuli, language, position, apparatus.  She will remove a normal sense like vision by placing a blindfold, ask provocative questions, or strap wrists and ankles to a wooden crossbar.  Some sessions are complex, others are simpler.  Some people know their triggers.  For example a surgeon wants his hands bound, or a lawyer wants silence.  “I’m like a director, creating a scene.  But more than that I’m creating an emotion.”

I observe her ability to respond to such subtle nuances of the psyche is uncanny, and probably unmatched by the majority of human beings.  She looks at me with disarming frankness.  “It’s natural.  I read it and understand it.  But knowing what to do with it makes all the difference.”

                                                                       *          *          *          *         *          *          *          *          *

The second time I meet Dom Dominique, I tour her workspace.

Centrally located in San Diego, nestled on a hill with breezy views of Mission Valley, the condo sits with 1050 square feet of specific purpose.  It is on the ground floor, quiet, private, house plant at the entrance.

Release the limiting oppressive beliefs that our bodies are inferior; that anything besides missionary style between heterosexual  married adults is devious, wrong, bad, or naughty.  Come out and play.

I knock.  She opens the door.  The first thing I see is cleavage.  Towering in black heeled boots that climb thigh high, she wears a metallic blue mini-dress the size of a sock.  The sheer black jacket tied around her waist covers nothing, her already prominent breasts issue forth from the ensemble like prowling tigers.  A long pearl necklace dangles between them.  She is a Hollywood Starlet, pin-up girl, and sex goddess wrapped into one magnetic force of seduction.

It smells like a Buddhist temple.  I walk into the parlor, and at first glance it looks like any ordinary living room.  At second glance, however the particulars start to stand out.  The black cushioned bench sitting neatly in front of the fireplace has metal hooks on its legs that serve as attachment points.  The walls are covered with small female portraits and paintings, all nude, elegantly framed.  A mounted television screen facing the entrance is turned on, and naked women rhythmically rub themselves in time with the jazz music being piped throughout the house.  There are tracks on the ceiling: military-grade cables and cords for hoisting and suspending specially made chairs, harnesses and body holsters.  Flip a switch on the wall and the entire apparatus can be raised or lowered, depending on individual preference.  ” Everything is custom-made to fit the space,” Mistress explains.

self-expression is a wonderland. A multi-dimensional exercise: mental, spiritual, emotional, physical.

Behind me, a beautifully hand carved wooden structure stands between a counter top and the ceiling.  It is a Harem screen for voyeuristic play, a tribute to the sultanas of the Ottoman Empire who observed women in the harem.  Behind this screen there is a kitchen with a stove that has never been used.  A peeper can go into the dark kitchen, and watch through the ornate screen as a hapless slave is suspended upside down and flogged in the parlor.

“We’re in a residential neighborhood and our hours of operation are from 10am to 8pm.  No late night rampages.  It is strictly for business-there is nobody hanging out smoking pot here.”  Indeed, with fifty-thousand dollars in gear, this is a tightly run  ship.  Besides  the parlor, and the kitched-turned-voyer room, there is a bedroom, a dungeon, and two bathrooms.  My domination tour guide takes me into the bedroom next.

A king-sized bed takes up most of the space.  It is a bondage bed: the headboard is riddled with various attachment points and tie-downs.  Mistress lifts the black blanket on top to reveal a black rubber sheet beneath.  ” For golden showers and  when things get wet.”  Then she opens a mirrored cross-dressing closet, filled to the brim with fantasy outfits, frilly panties, and lacy brassieres.  There are high-heeled shoes from sizes 8-16.  Dresser drawers are stuffed with lube, clamps and the like, some of which I recognize, others I don’t.  Everything in the room has a function.  Another television is mounted to the wall. Mistress informs me that the best BDSM movies are German and Dutch.  dangling from hooks is a menagerie of whips, crops, ropes, and straps.  Against another wall is a custom-built wooden seat with extended head, arm and leg beams, for a seated crucifixion.  It is flanked with chains and hooks.  There are hoists in the ceiling here too, and spreader bars of varying lengths in the corner.

Give me something I can feel.  Out of the mind, into the body.

I ask her about the pain. Where is the reward in purple, throbbing balls ? What’s  the appeal of nipple clamping and ass paddling ?  Mistress considers briefly, then replies, “I’ve only known two real masochists.  Many people just have a higher threshold for stimuli.  In other venues, this is applauded;  for example, boxers or football players. Some people are more corporeal, more kinesthetic.  They give and receive information from the physical body.  Often these physically gifted individuals have poor verbal skills, and vice versa.”  It reminds me of the prototypical smart kid who can’t run the mile, or the star quarterback who can’t spell.  Everything Mistress says makes so much sense.

The Dungeon is a work of art.  It is completely sound-proofed and customized to Mistress’ exact specifications.  The walls are mostly black, with red accents and mirrors.  A body sling hangs from the ceiling in the dead center of the room.  I’d wager it has the capacity to hold a small whale.  Racks of hoods, ball gags, and handcuffs are within easy reach, along with an even more impressive collection of bullwhips, cat-o-nine whips, signal whips, cock whips, snake whips and lashes.  In one corner of the room a large wooden cross leans against the walls.  In another, the horse, a waist-high wooden bench with a black leather top, waits patiently for its next penitent mount. In the closet is a shoe organizer filled with dildos.

Suspended animation: out of time, into sacred space. Take me apart, so I can put it together.

“Afterward, some people are quite undone.  I will lay a hand on their chest.  If they are really shaken up I will lay my entire body down on top of them.  This serves to re-ground, re-compose.  Then they shower, dress and leave.”  Out the door and back into the real world, neighbors are driving by, mail is being delivered.

                                                                                   *         *          *          *          *         *          *          *

The third time I meet Dominique, we are not alone.  “Tammy is a sixty-one year old male who looks very much like Anthony Hopkins.  this session begins when he enters the parlor, as he is stripped of his polo shirt, Dockers and gold wristwatch.  He is wearing pink polka-dotted underwear, and not all of him fits inside.

He greets me Mistress’ guest, by kissing my patent leather boots, stammering his appreciation for the opportunity.  Then he is led into the bedroom.  Mistress, in a red dress, breasts blazing, tells him to hold still while she applies foundation to his face with an airbrush applicator.  When he flinches, she slaps him across the face.  He quivers with bliss.  I follow-up with blue eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick, transforming his thin hard lips into a red, puckering gob.  With make-up complete, Tammy is instructed to tilt his head back and open his mouth for a reward.  I spit into it. “Thank you Mistress.”

Selecting between several custom-made outfits, I begin to garnish Tammy like an overgrown, wrinkled doll.  Pink satin dress, lacy socks, silver heels, blonde wig, a blue sash.  When I am done he looks like Little Bo Peep.  I tell him so.  As he checks himself out in the mirror, I catch a look of amused satisfaction.  Then Mistress and I sit on the couch in the living room while Tammy performs for us.  Eyes shining, he recites nursery rhymes and curtesies while we laugh at him.  All three of us are having a genuinely good time.

On my knees kissing the sky.

“It gives me great comfort to serve,” Tammy tells me later.  He looks adoringly at Mistress.  “Thank goodness for her.  She does me so much good.  I can’t even tell you.”  In his seven-year relationship with Mistress Tammy has given up smoking and drinking.  She councils him on his diet, chats about politics, listens to his workday challenges.  She has a finger on his inner pulse, understands his internal workings. Unconventional yes, but it is as functional a relationship as I’ve ever seen.

Sit. Stay.

“I know this would seem wierd to a lot of people,” says Tammy, referring to his love for cross dressing and humiliation.  Yet having witnessed it, and the positive impact it has on his life, I am reminded that individual tastes and preferences are beyond judgement.  And when I look into the eyes of Dom Dominique, I see Mercy.

In my world it all starts with a phone call

A polite yet direct female voice answered back when I responded to my ringing phone

“My name is Gina. I’m a student at UCSD. I want to know more about female Domination. Can I interview you at your Dungeon?”

Gina, I pictured a round faced Italian beauty.  “What is the nature of your studies and how did you choose me?” I queried with a mix of caution and curiosity.

“I study writing and want to do a paper for my Women’s Studies class on Female Domination and you seem to be the most valid source of real life information here in San Diego.  The UC system has many Women’s Studies departments but none offer  classes on Female Domination, not even Berkley”.

I like this girl already.  She reminds me of myself.  No one gets a offical degree in Female Domination.  Mistress is a self-appointed title.

We met three times in three weeks: first  at her  place, second for  a tour of my Dungeon and third was a session at my place. The paper is what follows, divided into two parts. Her name is Gina Tang.  She is a tall, curvy, talented Asian with waist length dark hair, full lips and a sharp wit  who already has a variety of writing credits under her belt. I want to hug her every time we meet.

Mercy Part 1

The first time I meet Dom Dominique, I tell myself to go slowly, set a pace that is relaxed, open.  I wear jeans and a Pink Floyd t-shirt.  In the morning I vacuum, sweep, wash dishes.  Taking a quick mental inventory of the contents of my refrigerator, I wonder what a Dominatrix drinks. Water? Red wine? My house smells like butternut squash and incense.

Our appointment is for 2:00. At 2:05, a gentle knock at the door.

Dominatrix: A female individual who assumes an in-charge role in acting out sexual fantasies outside of commonly accepted behavior.

For fifteen years, Dom Dominique has been taking the reins. “It’s the natural order,” she says, if you have that sense of control. Nature favors the female.  Domination is part of my core personality.”

I believe her. She stands almost six feet tall, brunette, with ample breasts and flashing eyes. Even in a grey cotton tee, stretchy black pants and tennis shoes, she has an aura of royalty.  She is calm, steady, composed.  She could be anybody’s mother.

Other women come to Dom Dominique, addressed as Mistress, for training and instruction in the art of domination. They are looking to empower themselves, take control of their relationships, and increase their self advocacy in the workplace.  After centuries of conditioning, women are unconsciously submissive.  They avoid taking up space. Sitting on my couch, Mistress demonstrates a typical female posture.  She stands up and shifts her weight to one leg like a flamingo, shrinking into a little pillar. Arms folded, legs crossed.  Men on the other hand, stand with legs and arms akimbo.  They sprawl out, filling the space around them, claiming territory.  I am impressed with the sensitive intelligence she possesses, the subtle mastery of nuances in human behavior.  It’s hard to tell, but she looks to be about thirty-five or forty.  She’s easy on the eyes.  Her observant expression and deliberate gestures command attention.  Mistress makes herself clear.

“When greeting someone else, a dominant individual will use body language to assume a position that the other responds to.  Often this happens unconsciously, setting the tone for subsequent interaction: who asks the questions and who answers, who sets the protocol and who follows.”

I’m wondering about the mental mechanics of her clientele, and as Mistress speaks, she answers without my asking.  “With men, it is often those with a significant amount of power and control in their daily lives-CEO’S and admirals that seek domination.  Tow truck drivers and accounting clerks do not.  The CEO is expected to be in control at all times, a self-assured, competent individual who shows no weakness.  Since this is not a realistic expectation of any human being, it is the CEO who craves submission-but he must be selective about who to surrender to.  Who will he trust and believe in enough to have such rapport?” With her direct even gaze, Mistress exudes confidence.  The tone of her voice is almost musical; a pleasure to listen to.  “Crossdressers, for example, are usually masculine, heterosexual men.  The run a shipyard and love a satin skirt.”

The balance of masculine and feminine energies is sacred

Mercy – Part 2 to follow next month

Adventures in Dominiqueland, Part 2–Making Morai Talk

As you will recall, last week our hero (villain?) James was about to begin his interrogation of the lovely Morai.

Prior to James’s arrival, I laid out a varied assortment of persuasional devices that I thought might come in handy. Taking less than two blinks of an eye, James snatched up the Uber Vibe, a vibrating personal massager known to cure anyone of inorgasmia.

James straddled the bound and squirming Morai.

“Tell me what we want to know or you’ll suffer the horrors of unstoppable orgasms.” James pulled the gag from Morai’s mouth. “Are you going to talk?”

“No. Please. I can’t tell you. But, please, anything but the Uber Vibe. I can’t stand multiple orgasms!”

“Too bad. You had your chance to do this the easy way.”

James reached back and yanked down Morai’s pretty pink panties, revealing an even prettier, pinker (and rather moist) pussy.

“PREPARE TO COME!”

James wedged the vibrator between Morai’s legs and placed the buzzing head on her glistening pearl. Within seconds Morai was writhing in pleasured agony, moaning uncontrollably, and begging for mercy.

“Not until you tell us what we want to know. Mistress, do you think flogging this fine, bare ass would be added incentive for Morai to start talking?”

“I’m way ahead of you, James.”

I had already chosen my softest flogger–the one that starts out feeling like a nice massage and builds into a stinging burn from fiery fingers. I stood at the end of the bed, where I had the clearest shot at Morai’s bountiful booty, and James freed Morai’s feet from her hands. He used his own body to keep Morai’s body in place, the vibrator still buzzing away in muffled glory against Morai’s magnificent muff. I went to work on her behind.

It took some serious butt-whipping and more orgasms than we had fingers and toes to count on, but Morai finally told us what we wanted to hear.

Once she was freed and her body was functioning again beyond a gelatinous state, Morai took the Uber Vibe from James, I slapped the flogger menacingly against my thigh, and we both said to him, “Ok, James. Tell us what we want to hear.”

Roleplay Adventure in Dominiqueland (E Ticket Required)

Some men are experimenters. They dabble. Submission is not part of their psyche. Fetishes don’t guide their sex. They just like sampling a little of everything life has to offer. Especially if the sampling happens to involve beautiful women and nakedness.

James was bored. Work had been slow, the surf had been flat, and his friends were all busy with mundane pursuits. James needed to shake things up. He’d heard about Domination and submission and many things about it had sounded fun and challenging. He didn’t really identify with either “role” but many of the things he read about it got his motor going. James had a fertile imagination and an ever-growing fantasy list and he was beginning to think now would be a good time to check a few items off of the list.

He had heard about me and my playthings and read a few blog entries. He decided to take the plunge and give me a call. He said he wanted to be surprised. He wanted to walk into an adventure and be swept up into a story whose ending he didn’t know. His only clues for me to build a session around were that he loved roleplaying games and he wanted two women to be involved.

So, at the appointed time and day, James showed up at my door. I pulled him inside by the front of his shirt before he could finish “Hello” and I breathlessly filled him in.

“I got her! She’s in the bedroom. We need to get the information out of her, no matter what it takes.”

I pulled James to the bedroom and revealed the perfect damsel in distress victim. The lovely and innocent (looking) plaything Morai was on her side on the bed, hog-tied and gagged, wearing matching lacy pink panties and bra (one succulent breast was about to pop loose from all of her wriggling), her huge brown eyes wide, frightened and pleading.

“What should we try first, James?”

James did not look bored any more. James had a canary-bird-eating grin slapped across his face. James rubbed his hands together as he considered the possibilities.

Check back later for Part Two of ROLEPLAY ADVENTURE IN DOMINIQUELAND: Making Morai Talk

Bad Baby

Babies are cute and helpless. They thrive on the milk of Mother’s kindness. They depend on her loving care. She clothes them and diapers them and gives them their bottles. But Mother also disciplines them. She makes sure bad babies are punished for their sins. Tears will have no effect on a strict mother but once the discipline is administered, Mother comforts her chastised baby and all is right with the world again.

Adult babies. It’s not a common fetish but it’s as real as any other, and as deserving of acceptance as all the rest. I have beautiful gowns just right for the bad AB lurking inside. Come. Be cleansed. Mother knows what you need.

Baby loves to swing.

Bad babies should be seen and not heard.

Jewelry As Fetish

I don’t buy jewelry. I leave that thrill to my guests, who love to lavish their favorite fetish on me.

Take Hiram, for instance. He arrived one day with the most elegant strand of pearls I have ever seen. He requested that I put them on while wearing my highest, reddest heels, white gloves past my elbows and . . . well, that was it—pearl choker, red stilettos, and long satin gloves.

He had me undress him, too, very very slowly. I felt him shiver every time my satin fingers brushed his flesh. When the last shred of clothing was removed from his body, I turned my back to him. With quivering fingers, Hiram carefully undid the clasp on the pearls and removed them from my neck. Just as carefully, Hiram redid the clasp. He held the pearls high above his head, opened his mouth wide and slowly lowered the strand into his mouth. I smiled at Hiram, ran my gloved fingertips over his face, then kissed him. While we kissed, that naughty boy Hiram used his tongue to feed the strand, two pearls at a time, into my mouth. Once the last pearls had been transferred from him to me, I bent at the waist and delicately deposited the necklace from my mouth onto Hiram’s patient little soldier, standing straight and still at attention.

Hiram left happy.

*****************************************************************

Then there was Gorden. He arrived with a treasure chest. He had me tie him down onto my massage table, naked, and one piece at a time, I pulled baubles and gems from the treasure chest and laid them on Gorden’s body.

There were treasures of every kind in the chest—shiny metal pieces that almost sang as they clinked together; bright plastic marvels that belonged on movie goddesses from the 30’s and 40’s; and shimmering crystals that reflected magic onto everything else.

I arranged and rearranged the pieces like art, with Gorden’s body as my canvas. Once I was satisfied with the perfection of the arrangement, I picked each piece up and put it on myself—six bracelets each on my wrists, necklaces of every length around my neck, rings as big as ornaments on all my fingers, and spectacular dangling earrings for my lobes.

Gorden was ecstatic.

Extreme Watersports

Welcome to the EXTREME Athletic Event of Watersports, the only sport where showering is part of the competition. And win or lose, you still get the gold. Golden Showers, that is. It’s the wettest game in town.

Harold is a frequent visitor but Harold never alters his play list. It’s the same old tune, session after session. This year, however, Harold made himself a resolution; a resolution to fulfill that ever popular but rarely achieved Wildest Dream.

Harold called and announced that today was the day–he was going to shower with the nectar of Goddesses. He wanted to bask in the golden warmth of a Domme Woman. He wanted to get pissed on by a hot chick.

I was happy to oblige.

Crossdressers’ Sanctuary

Do you remember the first time you watched a woman put on a bra? The way she stretched back her arms to fasten the hooks behind her and the way she scooped her soft, full breasts with one hand and nestled them snugly into their lacy cups made you stretch in all the right places. Remember your first sight of a woman sliding silk stockings slowly and carefully up her freshly-shaven legs? You almost ached from wanting to know what that felt like.

How would it feel to be transformed? How liberating would it be to let the other side of you out once in a while? How utterly delicious would it be to disappear for a few hours?

My sanctuary is a safe place to be the other you. It’s a secret garden; a treasure chest spilling over with all things wicked and pretty. It’s a haven.

Whatever your fantasies, your needs or your reasons, my sanctuary gives you freedom. And trust me. You’re going to look DAMN hot in those heels you’ve been drooling over.

Meet Kyle. He’s a tall, strappin’ young guy in his 30′s. He is married, has two kids, and works in a manly job.

Meet Kyla. She’s a tall, healthy young woman in her 30′s. She likes to wear slinky, slutty clothes, be bound with red tape, and have vibrators strapped to various parts.

Kyle and Kyla are two people living in one body. Kyle gets to say when Kyla is allowed out to play. Kyle used to be ashamed of Kyla; afraid even. But Kyle needs Kyla. Setting Kyla loose on occasion does wonders for Kyle’s well-being. So Kyle couldn’t give a shit about what people might say if they knew he slips into skin tight dresses, teeters on sky-high heels, and carefully applies blood red lipstick to his manly lips. He deserves Kyla. And she looks damn hot in those thigh high boots.