He didn’t much like the idea of being a secretary. It didn’t seem the proper sort of job for a man. But the pay check was fat and he didn’t have any other comparable prospects at the moment. His first day on the job he met with his superior and she outlined the rules and restrictions of his position. He nodded and smiled, only half listening. His superior was wearing a pair of beautiful flesh colored stockings with seams up the back and charming black pumps with open toes, which made the dull, obligatory briefing so much more bearable.




“Are you paying attention?” she asked wearily.
“Of course, of course. I heard every word you said.” A few weeks later, he had to admit the job wasn’t so bad. It did feel horribly menial to make coffee and take down messages for his superior. But, on the other hand, there were her knockout legs and her shoes with peep toes or delicate straps. Things could be worse. Even his service jobs seemed more equal when he accompanied them with a suggestive smile or a flirty comment. When she gave him a memo to deliver to the boss, he was sure she had been flattered by his attentions and this was a sign of rise in his status.
Opening the door after a cursory knock, he found the boss lounging back in her office chair, looking out the window. Yes, her. In an impeccably tailored men’s suit and heels like blades. Never, until now, had he understood why that most feminine of garments, the stiletto, was named after a knife.
“You are Ms. Raymond’s secretary?” she asked, not bothering to look at him.
“I am that,” he replied, trying to sound confident and casual to mask how he was beginning to feel nervous.
Slowly, she turned back towards him and her eyes were hard. “You can’t even bother to address me properly, I see,” and the knife was in her voice, not just in her heels. “When I ask you a question, you are to say yes maam or no maam,”
“Is this a joke?”
She half rose at the affront, her lips pressed to a thin line. “Let me assure you, sir,” she spoke the word with contempt, “this is most assuredly not a joke. You are in some very serious trouble.” He glanced at her sharply in shock. “Don’t gape at me like that,” she said sternly. “Keep your eyes on the ground. It’s your roving eyes that are getting you in trouble, after all.” When he remained looking defiantly at her, she rose and came around the desk to stand in front of him. Although he was taller than her, the unshakable determination in her eyes made him feel small compared to her. “Let me remind you that I am the boss and that, if you want to keep you’re job, you need to do as I tell you. Do you understand?”
He struggled with his pride for a moment. But knew he needed to keep the job. “Yes, maam,” he whispered, casting down his eyes.
“Now, I have been receiving complaints from Ms. Raymond that you have been looking at her legs, making comments of an inappropriate nature to her and things of that nature. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry, maam. I know it’s not appropriate type of interaction in the work place but…”
Her hand lashed out, catching him a stinging blow on the cheek. “You just made your first mistake right there.” She grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back. The strength of her pull forced him to squat down so that he was below her looking up. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if he was too stupid to understand. “The fact that you are on the job is NOT what makes it inappropriate. It is the fact that you are using her for your own gratification without her permission. That is ALWAYS inappropriate, no matter where it happens.” Slowly and deliberately, she unbuttoned the front of her suit and, underneath, there was no shirt, only the black bra against her creamy flesh. Her lip curled in disgust. “Look at you,” she sneered. “Even after I just explained your faults to you, you still can’t stop staring at me. The only thing to do with you is to put you somewhere where you can’t look at any one without permission. Get under my desk.” When he hesitated, a sharp jab from her cruel shoes quickly set him in motion. “Now get on your knees and stay there. Don’t move until I say you can.” She sat back down in her chair and rested her feet on him and the sharp heels dug into him.





He thought it would be over soon. But an hour dragged by and, as the second began, he began to worry she had forgotten he was there. So he coughed and arched his back a little to remind her. This earned him a sharp dig from her heel and nothing else. Before too much longer, his legs began to cramp, his muscles started to twitch and he got another kick. He bit his lip and fought to hold himself still. By the end of the work day, when she finally let him get up, his knees and wrists were sore and aching in spite of the carpeting on the floor. His throat was dry as dust.
“Next time you look at me without permission, you know what will happen to you,” she reminded him as he staggered to the door.






The next day, he found things had become far worse. Now she had her jacket open with nothing under it, only the shadow of her cleavage between the sharp lines of the coat. It took every inch of control not to stare at her but he dared not because he knew he would be stuck back under the table again. He couldn’t see the look on her face but he thought he could hear her chuckle at his effort.
“Now, today, I want you to clean my office,” she said sternly. “I want the desk scrubbed, the carpet vacuumed, the computer flushed out with compressed air, and all the files in the cabinet put in perfect alphabetical order. If your task is not completed to my satisfaction, you will have to stay until it’s done.” As he prepared to go dashing off frantically to begin, she stopped him with a hand like iron on his arm. “Don’t forget,” she added in a cold hard voice. “You have not been relieved of your normal duties. I still expect you to fix my coffee, answer my phone, and everything else you normally do.”
If possible, this day was even more difficult that the previous one. In his haste, he could never seem to get things right. When he wiped down her desk, she came over and stood behind him. “Look at that,” she snapped, “Look at all the spots you missed. Are you blind? Have you ruined your eyes by looking at women’s legs like the little slut you are?” Her closed, claw like, on the back of his head, forcing it down to the desk. “You’ll have to get closer so that you can see better,” she said when the side of his face was crushed against the desk. “Now, lick!” As he wiped the surface up and down with his tongue, she kept her fingers in his hear, jerking his head back and forth from time to time, as if it was a sponge she was using. The bitter taste of the soap made him choke and feel sick. But any time he tried to pull back , she simply pushed his head down all the harder.
The delay caused by all his mistakes, such as re-cleaning the desk, meant that he had not even started organizing the filing cabinet. “What a pity,” she said with mock sympathy, her lip curling slightly, as he confessed his fault. “I guess there were just too many distractions. Don’t worry, you’ll have all night to finish with peace and quiet.” She pulled the door shut behind her and he heard the key click in the lock.

Black and White Pin-Up Pictures

Aren't I gorgeous?

A Poem

I wrote this poem a few years ago and recently found it again. I thought it might fit here because its about the ambiguous way many men in our society feel about powerful spirited women. Often they find them attractive when they first meet and the very fact that they are strong and independent is what makes them so attractive. But, once a steady relationship has been established, the man finds these qualities irritating and they may even make him feel rather emasculated, so he stops being attracted to her. The poem is a tribute to the woman who is a classic example of this (at least to a historian like me)

Anne Bolyne

I am a woman of fire
Of earthquake and of stone
You will forsake all others
And worship me alone

The passion that will scorch your sheets
Will immolate my foes
My gale force does not pick and choose
But feasts where e're it blows

Do you want me at your side?
Than I shall be your wife
You will feel me in your soul
For all your breathing life

Now that our vows are spoken
Can it be your heart runs dry?
The devotion that you promised me
I'll have it or know why

I should be patient, meek, and silent?
But that's not who I am
You knew me when you married me
An eagle not a lamb

I will bow down to no one
I stand up and defy
My spirit is what you lusted for
Though this you now deny

And so these attributes of mine
That in a lover you would desire
In a wife are but a burden
That makes your love expire

If I am to be like Anne
And unjustly lose my head
At least, I beg you, save my honor
And weep not when I'm dead

Henry Rex danced in yellow
On the day his wife was slain
I would have you do the like
And let no ghost remain

Of the love that was between us
Of the fire you now flee
If my heart must be in ashes
Let your pity not torment me

The Loser

This is the number one person I would want to session with. He is one of the only two people in the whole world who I have ever felt real sexual attraction for and, like the moron his is, he squandered it. In fact, he told me that we could not become involved because it would cut into his time playing on-line games too much, then proceeded to play then so much of the time that he failed out of school. See what I mean? Incredibly stupid. So what makes him sexually compelling? Other than the fact that he kept me in a constant state of being pissed off, I really can’t say. Maybe it was because he defied me and I wanted to break him, to prove my will was stronger.

I know I said my sessions aren’t sexual, but this would be the one exception. In essence, I would want to do a wide variety of things with him, and just completely immerse him in a range of BDSM activities. But it would be a very slow, sensual immersion. I imagine, because he’s rather closeted in his game world and also doesn’t get very much attention from women, that he would be ignorant, yet slightly curious about BDSM, his main image of a dominatrix the generic stereotype found in porn. My role would be as his teacher, his mentor, the one who initiates his into the dark side.

Of course, I would be all glamed up in my most extravagant fetish wear and most shocking make-up. I would be HOT and he would be so sorry he hadn’t seized the opportunity when he could have had me. I would start just by showing him some of the toys, letting him touch them and telling him about their uses while he wonders if I would use them on him and if he will be able to take it. Then, I would begin with some simple wrist bondage. I would gently drape the rope across his arms and execute the tie slowly, so he could follow each and every step.

Now, the corporal part of the session would begin. I would have him kneel on a raised surface like a bed or even just lie flat because it’s his first time and he probably can’t handle a real flogging. Perhaps I might tie his wrist binding to the front of the bed too, just to make sure he didn’t go anywhere. I would use at least four implements: a fur flogger, a flat leather one, a braided cat, and a crop. I would spend a long time running each one over his skin first, stroking him slowly with it while describing what it’s made of, how it works, and the sensations it will deliver. When I got to the braided cat, I would be sure to grind the tails hard against his skin so that he could feel the shape of the braids.

Starting very slowly and gently, I would gradually build up the intensity, my intention not necessarily to cause a great deal of pain but, definitely, to leave some mark. Not a visual one perhaps, but something he could feel with every movement to make him think of me always afterwards. In addition to the instruments themselves, I would have a bowl of ice cubes handy as well, to periodically run across his hot, reddened skin and I would take great enjoyment in watching them melt and seeing the beads of cold water trickle down his skin.

The next part would involve foot worship with him kneeling on the floor and I now seated comfortably on the bed. Again, my role would be as a trainer. “Now listen carefully because I know you are none too bright.” I would explain very slowly, using small words, how he should remove my shoes and stockings and give me a foot and leg massage. My attitude would be one of exaggerated patience and boredom, as if I was doing him a huge favor by showing him how to treat a lady, since he is far too dumb/lazy to figure it out himself (which is true enough). While he was worshiping one foot, I would take the other foot and play with his hair, letting the strands slide between my toes, then clamping them down hard and giving it a yank.

I’d show him some more things too, including a number of CBT toys. After all, he, obviously, doesn’t have the slightest clue about what to do with his penis, since he didn’t even attempt to please me with it before. So, I might as well use it to amuse myself. At least it serves some purpose that way and I would make this fact abundantly clear to him as I slowly and carefully threaded his anatomy through the ball stretcher or vice. Again, I would be very slow about my work, taking long pauses between each turn of the screw. As his bits and pieces became more stretched, flattened, distended, I would mock him for how ridiculous they look and how fitting this is since his use of them has been equally ridiculous. I might repeat the same procedure with a parachute, gradually hanging weights with the same slow languidness.

Of course, he would also have to be punished for his insult in abandoning me for a game. So, I would lock him up in a cage and make him watch as I went on line and deleted all his accounts. Or, even better, I could be like Guinevere and order him to “do his worst.” I would make him go online and act like a total fool in front of the other people he knows, deliberately sabotage any groups he joins and get himself kicked out of his guilds, until he would be so totally humiliated he would never WANT to play again. Now don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing inherently wrong with playing video games, even playing them a lot. I do it myself. But, when it reaches the point where you can’t sustain normal functions, like a job or a relationship, then it’s gone too far.

After that, he would have a lot of free time on his hands, that he had formerly spent playing games. Of course, I wouldn’t want him always sitting around doing nothing, so I would provide him with something to do and, being generous like I am, it would also be something that would make him a better person. I find some (very long) works of classic literature I could assign him to read. He would also have the honor of escorting me to the ballet, the opera, art museums, and other high culture events, all the while listening to me lecture him on the material we were viewing , liberally spiced with commentary about what a pathetic looser he would be without my generosity. Afterwards, there would be quizzes and, if he didn’t do well, it would be back to the dungeon for some “memory sharpening.”

The Withdrawn Artist

The guy I admired in high school was a shy, silent, artist, very anti-social but with the most gorgeous long curls you ever saw. His session would be very service oriented for two reasons. First, I spent many years of my life putting him up on a pedestal so I would enjoy turning the tables and having him put me on a pedestal and treat me like a great lady. Second, since I enjoy the behavior modification aspect of dominance and pruning away people’s bad habits, I hope, through service, to make inroads in his anti-social behavior.

I would want to start out with an in-depth foot bath and massage. I would be very insistent that he handle my feet with extreme reverence. He would have to handle them as if they were sacred relics made of fragile glass and the beautiful hair which I was never allowed to touch would be used like a towel to wash and dry my feet. His treatment of me would be similarly reverential. While kneeling at my feet, he must never raise his eyes to mine and he must always address me as “My Lady.”

The next part of the session would be where I would teach him the proper way to treat a lady. He would need to learn useful tasks like how to correctly greet a lady, including bowing and kissing her hand, helping her into and out of her coat and shoes, and making sure she is always adequately provided with drinks and nibbles. Then, would either go out to a nice restaurant or have dinner in but, either way, he would have to dish up my salad, slice my bread, refill my glass, and pull of my chair for me.

But it would be worse than that. He would have to do the thing he fears most: talk. While teaching him these physical skills I would also instruct him in the proper way to carry on a polite conversation and expect him to follow my lead to the best of his ability. There could be no silence at the dinner table or while we were sitting together before. I would expect him to keep the talk flowing at all times, regardless of how foolish he felt the things he was saying were. Although he might not turn into a charming conversationalist on the first night, this would merely be another excuse to see him again and continue his training.

If he messed up or failed at the tasks I set him, I would not become angry, would not yell at him or strike him. I would be sad. I would be disappointed. At least, when a slave is punished, it allows him to release some of the guilt of having let his mistress down. But this one would get no such thing. He would simply have to bear the burden on his own shoulders of knowing that he failed me, that he was unworthy of my expectations.

The Ex-Boyfried

This is one of the two most hated people in my world (the other is my college creative writing teacher who felt that he was justified in criticizing and grading down my work based on the moral valued expressed therein). Why do I hate him? I mean I didn’t even like him. I started dating him so I could use him, essentially as a sex toy, and, no, he wasn’t even good in bed. I hate him for the same reason that wives of kings (think Henry VII) had to be killed or sent to a nunnery. The person of the king was sacred and he couldn’t have a woman he’d slept with at large, sleeping with other men and comparing his performance, possibly unfavorably to theirs. He also couldn’t have other men sleeping with those women and thinking it made them more equal to him. It damaged his majesty. Likewise, I am a Goddess and my sexuality is sacred. By leaving me and sharing the body I had claimed with others, he has harmed the majesty and exclusivity of my sexual power.

I have two words for this scene: heavy corporal. It would not be sensual at all. I don’t have feeling like that for this guy, nor do I want him getting any enjoyment out of it. There would be no warm up. I WANT it to hurt. But that doesn’t mean I would randomly flail away at him, losing all control. No, I would be very much in control, to make him feel helpless before me, the way he once made me feel helpless to influence my own fate. More, it would show him that he is so far beneath me that he can’t even manage to unleash the full fury of my rage. So, although using my most brutal whip strokes, each one would be aimed precisely and snapped back crisply at the end to give it that added sting. I would use as many different implements as I could get my hands on, floggers, crops, canes, straps, to impress upon him my mastery of each. I have the skill. I have the power. I can deal him pain in so many ways that it breaks his mind.

And the final way would be the most horrifying of all: needle play. It would very much please me to pierce his body, to penetrate him, as a kind of sexual role reversal of what I felt in the past put me at a disadvantage with him. I would enjoy putting him in predicament bondage, using strings to connect the needles to things so he couldn’t move without pulling on them. Or maybe even put needles all down his arms and legs and lace him up like a giant corset. He put me in a painful no-win situation so it would give me great delight to do the same for him.

The crowing glory of the scene would be a piece of scrotal butterfly boarding. But I wouldn’t just pin his skin down any old way. I would make some kind of nice design, like a star or a pinwheel, something that involves a lot of stretching. And, since, he is rather small in the balls department, the stretching would be particularly awkward for him. This would be a time I would want to make sure to use a mirror, so he could see exactly what I had done to him. I would let the reality of his situation sink in and then begin plucking the needles out with the same clinical precision with which I had conducted the whole session.

And then…I would let him go. I would simply turn him loose, to show that he means so little to me that he’s not even worth making the effort to keep around. But, in my heart, I would know I had overwhelmed his spirit with my dominating presence and it would only be a matter of time before he came crawling back to beg me to torture him all over again. That is what I want most of all. Not just to deal him pain but to have him actively solicit the pain, whether out of a sense of guilt or simply because he craves my presence so badly he’ll take anything he can get. I want him to want me to hurt him. This concept fills me with a grim, sadistic pleasure.

Three Fantasy Sessions

If I could pick anyone in the world to session with, these three people would be at the top of my list. They are all figures from my past. In high school they were the one I dated, the one worshiped, and the one I lusted after. Perhaps needless to say, things did not end up very happily with them and me being unhappy, that’s a bad thing. All three of them are part of my nerd background. I met them playing Magic: the Gathering in the hallways during lunch and got to know them better by adding them to my dungeons and dragons campaign (As a side note, I was always Dungeon Master because I enjoyed being in charge. I got to call the shots and play God. I loved creating frustrating situations for my players and mocking them as they struggled to puzzle their way through. I find a delightful irony in the fact that I am both a Dungeon Master and a “dungeon mistress”.)

These guys are the type I was speaking of, who don’t understand how to appreciate real women. So, I would be most pleased to show them women, especially myself, must be respected and treated properly. To some I would be gentle and to others cruel. With some I would be sensual and with others brutal, but for each I would shape the session to target his personal weaknesses, his faults to be corrected, his crimes to be punished. The three scenes that follow are very different in tone and style but they represent my desire to tailor each scene to the individual and give him, not what he thinks he wants, but what I feel he needs.

Check back for further details over the next few days...