My
dungeon is better-equipped than most dungeons out there.
It's a high-tech, state-of-the-art, classy dungeon
with a beautiful doggy cage and a wonderful set of vintage
stirrups. A lot of care and thought went into my dungeon.
And although I might charge more for sessions in my
dungeon than other doms in other dungeons do,
no one else delivers more bang for your buck in terms
of torture, pain, and ritual humiliation. You want a shoddy
dungeon, go ahead and pay shoddy dungeon prices and get
a half-assed domination session which doesn't even come
close to destroying your self-esteem--just go ahead
and see if I care.
I'm
a Pro Domme Top Double-Down Contortionist Butch Femme,
and I have been so for over fourteen years now. In my
platform stiletto heels, I'm nearly eight feet tall and
don't look nearly as chubby. I am bold, sexy, and, um,
intellectual. The painful fact is that I'm superior, and
I'll keep telling you that until we both believe it.
My
most recent client was a Gothic bottom-feeding femboy
with a shaved chest and a scrotum wonderfully patterned
with steel rivets. A disgusting, dirty little boy. A bad
little piggly-wiggly. He had seen my website and knew
about my extensive background in Asian spanking techniques.
He kept up to date on my weblog with its frequent reports
about my latest dental work.
It
was our first meeting. He was a bit disappointed to see
me in the flesh, not knowing that I photograph really
well.
I
was dressed as a Greek Orthodox bishop. He was clad in
a diaper and was hovering motionless in my elaborate Suspension
Device™.
I
had read his application form where he listed his kinks,
which mainly involved fresh produce and former Israeli
Prime Minister Golda Meir. We agreed on a safety word,
which was "nougat."
I
removed the acupuncture needles from my autoclaving device
and jammed them into his armpits while forcing him to
recite Mother Goose rhymes.
He
shrieked loudly as I proceeded to clip the battery cables
onto his weak little rosebud nips. His screams only drove
me toward loftier sadistic delights. His face was red
with shame as I applied the cock ring and butt plug, tightening
them to maximum tension. The butt plug was in his ass
so deep, I was certain its shit-encrusted tip would pop
out of his mouth.
I
fetched him a bowl of fresh water and a can of Alpo.
He barked appreciatively and lapped it up. I then spanked
him, called him a bad pony, and refused to give him
his candy cane.
"'Would you
eat my farts?'" I asked him.
'Oh,
yes, I'd gobble 'em up, Goddess,' he slobbered."
I
had severely bruised his body with a plethora of pretty
little lumps, bruises, and scratch marks. I felt pleased
and oh-so-full-of-myself.
Werner
Klemperer-style, I took a long tug from my cigarette holder
and proceeded to interrogate him.
"Would
you eat my farts?" I asked him.
"Oh,
yes, I'd gobble 'em up, Goddess," he slobbered.
"Would
you eat my fragrant farts right as they billow from my
muscular ass?"
"Yes,
I would, Goddess--you already asked me that."
"Don't
get snippy with ME!" I yelled at him. "Get me a sandwich,"
I commanded.
"What
kind of sandwich, Goddess?" came his meek inquiry.
"Turkey
on rye," I snapped.
The
pathetic slug, that groveling human worm-boy, fetched
me a surprisingly tasty turkey-on-rye sandwich with a
frosty beverage on the side.
I
grinned. He cowered. My grin grew wider.
"I
will sever your wiener," I told him sternly.
"Oh,
do it, Goddess! Sever my wiener!"
"Call
me Goddess Sever Your Wiener."
"You
are in command, oh lovely Goddess Sever Your Wiener."
When
he had reached his credit-card limit, I informed him that
our session was over, and my lovely Slavic boyfriend escorted
him out.
I
went upstairs, popped some food in the microwave, checked
my e-mail, and prepared myself a warm bath.
I
am so glad to have this sort of danger in my life.
*
