Even though there's still hope for April, I was so annoyed by that first date in the park that I wanted to get into trouble. Since I don't drink or do drugs that leaves gambling, eating and fucking. I didn't feel like chocolate or the Mets over Philly and this Equinox gym advertisement on a bus stop had me thinking. It's this whole dominatrix/workout campaign they got going on? I had never been with a dominatrix but that got me hard. I don't even remember what it was, I just remember it was dirty and she had a whip. If I weren't already a member I would have signed up then and there if that Chinese chick in the poster would beat me after my workout. I don't know, it was hot.
So I went home and booted up Eros.Com, the whore website. I figured they would have the best selection ... and I was right. There are all shapes and sizes of girls working both independently and through dungeons. I like the look of the dungeons with their theme rooms done up very professionally, with great care and attention to detail. The medieval room which looks like a torture chamber, with dark stone walls, whips, chains, scary looking metal implements on the wall, an Iron Cross and a table with ropes on big round pulleys on either side to stretch you. A medical room for medical scenes; enemas, cutting, penis mutilation, piercing and a classroom for the teacher/student scenes.
My pick would be the torture chamber. I like my dick just the way it is and do not want it butterflied. I enjoy a certain kind of pain, but no abuse to the cock or balls please. I want to maintain my lineage, thank you. The classroom thing is fine but not terribly interesting to me. It's so wonderful and mysterious, human sexuality. What turns some on and disgusts others. It's fascinating.
If I were going to use a dungeon I would go to Pandora's Box. They have one of the hottest looking dominatrixes except that no matter how clean they keep it, this germaphobe doesn't want to go anywhere anyone else has ever been. It totally grosses me out so I must have an "incall" session as my first.
As I scroll down the "independent Doms" Mistress Fiera catches my eye. She looks like a young Charlotte Rampling. Deep, searing eyes and a soulful expression. 5'8, dirty blonde shoulder length hair and a slim frame. Her interests included:
Prolonged teasing, CBT, and Denial
Foot, Leg, Boot and Heel Worship
Corporal Punishment and Discipline
Humiliation both verbal and physical
Sensual to Severe Flogging, Caning, Paddling and Spanking
Mental and Physical Bondage
Sensory Deprivation
Slut Training and Forced Feminization
Nipple Torment
Smoking Scenarios and cigarette torture
Elaborate Rope Bondage specializing in Japanese Bondage
Candle Wax and Ice Treatment
Breath Control, Mummification and Asphyxiation
Enemas
Trampling
Electro Play
Knife Play, Needle Play, Branding, Piercing (Don't be afraid, I have trained under a professional body piercer and use only sterile techniques)
Golden Showers
Face Slapping
Spitting
Dildo Training
Sounds
She was my girl. I was like a kid in a candy store with her tawdry menu. I didn't know what half the things were but they sounded fucking great.
"Yes, hi, I'll take the trampling to start, then have the electro play for the main course and for dessert...? Let... me... see... Ah yes. The choking. Thank you." I dialed her number. I felt like I was back in seventh grade calling a girl whose number I got from her best friend and was told to call after dinner.
"Hello?" She had the perfect voice for her face and my fantasy of what she would sound like. Deep, sultry, sexy and smart.
"Mistress Fiera?" I felt a bit stupid calling her that but had a feeling that it was part of the game.
"Yes?" I was right. She seamlessly flowed into her alter ego with a subtle change in tone. She was the boss.
"I was looking at your ad on Eros?"
"Uh-huh?" She was perfect. Not "acting" the part, just seeming like a regular nice, cool, chick ... who was deviant as fuck all and would kick the living shit out of you for fun.
"I've never been with a dominatrix before." I wasn't jerking off to her. This was not my shemale - masturbate - while - talking - but - never - meet script. This was for real. I was going to have her over to my house.
"That's okay. What are you interested in?"
"Um ..." I was scared to say it out loud. As if this woman hadn't heard everything in the book. But what if she laughed at me? Judged me. Cuckolded me. I took the leap.
"Strap-on play?" I've had chick's fingers in my ass and it felt nice, I figured why not try it. If I was going to be dirty, I might as well be dirty. And since guys and shemales were out, this would be as close as I would ever get.
"One of my specialties. What else." Oh my God!
"Breath play? Is that you strangling me?"
"Yes. I love that. What else."
"Um, just like, abuse me? Verbally? Like say mean things to me about how pathetic and ..."
"I understand. Anything else?"
"Golden showers?"
"Okay. I think I have a clear understanding of what kind of session you want. Is there anything you specifically don't want to do?"
"Um ..." I quickly perused the list.
"I don't want to be electrocuted"
"Okay."
"Or have my balls abused."
"Okay."
"Or have my penis mutilated in any way."
"Okay."
"And I don't want any smoking in my house."
"I don't smoke."
"Okay but you listed smoking as..."
"I understand. No problem. Anything else?"
"What are "Sounds???"
"Oh. Sounds are my absolute favorite. They're long, thin steel rods that are inserted into the flaccid penis at the tip of the head and drop down until stopping at the sphincter. They're divine."
"Yeah, no. I specifically don't want to do that please, if that's okay. But everything else we talked about sounds great."
"Whatever you want. What time do you want to see me?"
I don't think I've ever had more excited anticipation. Everything was heightened. Hyper real. Like the night before Christmas as a kid. Like at the seventh game of the 1986 World Series at Shea. Opening night for My Life's In Turnaround, my first movie, in New York. That indescribable pure joy. When you feel perfect. You love everyone and everyone loves you.
I worked out so I would have a glow and be as thin as possible and then went to a spiritual meeting so I would be grounded and as present as I could be. Sitting in the pews in the massive church on 60th and Park surrounded by 300 people, mostly dressed Republican, I couldn't help but smile. I wasn't raised any religion and couldn't tell you what sect this church was, they're all the same to me. From the little I do know, I had a feeling if I were a member of their belief system, I wasn't supposed to be feeling giddy about what I was about to do 30 minutes after this little get together. But we were a non secular group of people who just rent this church to hold our meetings, all gathered to help one another lead a happier, more spiritual, empathic and helpful life. Few of them would judge me. And it's my belief that God doesn't judge me for exploring my sexuality as long as it isn't hurting anyone else. Still, having the secret knowledge of what was about to transpire in my apartment, imagining the tidal wave of repentance I would be chastised to seek were this church filled with its normal congregation, made me laugh. And for a brief moment I adopted the sin/guilt paradigm of Catholicism so I could get really turned on and understood the whole repressed Catholic school girl/slut thing viscerally for the first time. It was lovely. And very hot. The one thing the idea of a punishing God is good for I guess. The feeling you get when defying Him. The ultimate power. Playing God yourself.
I didn't hear a word that was being said in the church, my eyes were focused on the clock on my cell phone. 7:34... 7:37. 7:41. Fuck it. 8 was too far away and I wasn't listening anyway so I left early. I jumped in a cab and flew up Madison. I was dressed in my favorite outfit, like for a first date. We drove through the park heading for the west side. I was having her come to my house of course; infinitely less afraid of her knowing where I lived than having to touch anything in a dungeon where anyone else had ever been. She was arriving at 8:30. It was 8:17. I lit some candles and put a Portishead disk in the CD player. I pressed pause so it wouldn't start playing until the doorman called up to announce her arrival. Portishead was what I played whenever any purely sexual event was occurring in my house, deviant or otherwise.
What Tom Waits was to shooting heroin, Portishead was to sex.
All of my credit cards were safely stashed in my "If Lucy Fell" lunch pail behind my computer, my little safe. I keep a couple props from each movie as art work. Some of it functional art. I put the 200 bucks on the glass table that used to be my desk before I had an office but now the TV sits on, then thought it still might be a little out of sight so I put it on the Crate and Barrel distressed wood coffee table in front of the couch. No, too obvious. I put it on the speaker next to the tall thin black mettle IKEA CD rack in the foyer and placed a rubber water bug on top for a cute aesthetic touch. I love this water bug. My lesbian priest best friend, Patty gave it to me. She loves that I do crazy things like this so she would love that the incredibly life-like, disgusting rubber water bug was the marker on top of the dominatrix's money. Naaaa, too cute. The dominatrix might think I'm an idiot. I took the water bug off the cash.
I straightened my outfit, smelled my armpits and checked myself in the mirror. I was in good shape and smelled okay. I get concerned because that nervous sweat is always the smelliest sweat. I was squeaky clean. Or was I? I had luffa-d myself from head to toe, concentrating on the areas she would be dealing with so I would be immaculate but I had run a round a bit to the meeting and back. I still had 6 minutes so I stripped, jumped into the shower and gave myself a man whore's sponge bath. Underarms and ass and dick and balls. I redressed and sprayed a bit too much CK ONE on just in time for the phone to ring. They were little short rings, different from the long rings that occur when a regular outside call is coming in. These rings only happen when it's the doorman calling. She was here.
"You can let her up Jake."
"Okay."
"Jake, wait. Is she alone?"
"Yeah, she's alone." Just making sure I wasn't going to get murdered. I trusted her implicitly, she sounded cool on the phone but obviously always need to double check. A few minutes (which seemed like hours) later, the doorbell rang. I pressed play on the CD and Portishead came on loud. I turned it down, sure she was laughing on the other side of the door, mocking my virgin move of just putting on the sexy music for her arrival, and clumsily doing it conspicuously at that. I looked through the peephole. Fuck, she looked hot, even through a blurry, fish eye lens. I opened the door. She was outrageously stunning. A young Jacqueline Bisset in a fall palate. She was straight out of a Madison Avenue Advertising firm that her grandfather owned; Senior VP at 28, not because of nepotism or her Yale schooling but because of her innate brilliance.
"Hi."
"Get on your knees."
to be continued ...
Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 3:29 PM