Sexy Ebony Domina takes Toronto!

Sounds like a great news headline, right?

I’m pleased to announce my first stop on the Mistress Martine Phoenix World Domination Tour: Toronto!  All you lucky Ontario subs, fetishists and slaves will have the chance to make my acquaintance from December 21-24.

Curious about who I am?  Read the “About Me” section.  Want to know more about the type of play that interests me?  Read “Session Information”.

See you in the Great White North!

My daily (not so) grind – or, why I love my occupations

After spending very many years in the corporate world, shuttling through the fields of law, advertising, and fashion, I am very appreciative of my current autonomy. To this day, I still don’t know how I was able to muster the enthusiasm needed to devote a huge percentage of my time contributing to someone else’s bottom line; being fulfilled in life is something that has become more and more important as I get older. There is a great deal of responsibility in being self-employed (quarterly taxes, anyone?) but I wouldn’t trade the peace of having full control of my day-to-day schedule for anything. Without a doubt, my lifestyle is not for everyone or even something 80% of the population would even understand. Regardless, the feeling of standing back and viewing a favourite toy in tight bondage, gagged, plugged and clamped in certain tender places affords me a deep sense of peace and serenity.

As well as amusement and amazement at the havoc I create.

Studio memories

I was suddenly struck by memories of the dressing room at Arena Blaze. It was a small, oddly shaped space, holding floor to ceiling racks of trunks, television, couch and always slightly too many people, adding to the cozy vibe. During the summer, the front dungeons were icy oasis of constantly running air conditioners and drawn velvet curtains, all the better to keep the room comfortable for clients, at least initially. It was in the dressing room where all my best memories of working in a studio began. Dead phone evenings with 4 other girls on shift, back door open to a canyon of buildings in midtown Manhattan, funky R&B slipping quietly from the staff radio. Games initiated in fun in-between sessions, riding high off the heavy dose of scene adrenaline, involving crops, floggers, hands and vibrators. The sheer concentration that can only be emitted from a woman completely intent on drawing the perfect eyebrow line.

Maintenance

Saddle soap, leather protectant and rags for single tails and floggers in need of a little love and care. A cane or two could stand to be replaced; they’ve been loved a bit too much. Oh look, I’m in need of new clothespins! Should wood or plastic be the new choice? No rips, holes or runs glaringly evident in the ever-growing nylon collection (always on the look-out for new and exciting legwear). Maybe I should treat myself to a pair (or three) of sexy heels…

Acquiring equipment and outfits is always enjoyable. However, maintaining my acquisitions is a lovely way to spend a cool, grey Sunday afternoon.

Back in the game.

It’s been some time since I have posted in this blog or even had any substantial online presence for quite a while now. Without going into too much detail, time was necessary to begin to put my various houses back in order. Now, the itch to immerse myself in play and see clients has grown stronger, leading me to offer sessions again in the great city of Manhattan. A slow and steady prowl of fetish and BSDM catalogues is yielding a few fun toys and wicked ideas of how to use them. The first order should be arriving any day now; who’s ready to be my guinea pig?

Remembrances

Going through boxes of papers and old Vault magazines filled with ads of Mistresses from long past, I happily stumbled upon a nondescript, black envelope. Within in were 40 poems, each individually printed on delicate transparent stock, written as an odd mixture of declaration, barely veiled plea and love note from a slave client lover man who, once upon a time, was very special to Me. As soon as I pulled the seal open, removing the unexpectedly heavy bundle, I was struck by a wave of remembrance of our time together.

C. was a large part of My life during the years 1999-2001; someone who managed to move past professional relations and learned defenses right into My romantic considerations. Scary thing, that. I ended up pushing him away and, by omission, into the arms of someone else. He got married not too long before dropping off the radar (which definitely signaled the end of our relationship) and is probably married still. The two of us are lives away from those countless hours spent in quiet, mutual contemplation of his bound self within The Pit in Arena Blaze’s Byzantine Room. However, reading his words so many years later brings Me back to an almost sensual remembering of C. How he looked at Me in a certain way, with open anticipation and many unformed questions in the back of his eyes. The wave and scent of his hair. His skin under My fingers. The rush I felt giving him pain. My delight in his humiliation.

As I sift through each page, I sense Myself sinking deep into his always unspoken feelings for me. I realize I was never very far away from the center of his thoughts.

#1

I am resigned to loving what she has left behind. As space, a phrase, discarded mannerisms. I will populate her absences, and weep for the scent that trails her. This is how I get used to her with another. I, too, am what she has forgotten, at home in areas she has passed through. There is so much country to occupy. Of course others see her as I do, and spend their nights speaking of new goddesses.

#3

Mine is a contained affair. Framed by walls of another’s choice, and a decor of so many timed screams. Can my love ever be equal here, more than local, and meant for every spot you once were. If my intentions have been improved, by better men, and in this same place. Perhaps it’s time to accept an impossible struggle, and a love too ferocious to forget by morning.

#6

This was planned for centuries, give me permission to believe. My blessings mean more if they were thought of through time. A final expression of an emotion, too old now, that waited for generations to rest at your feet. I am comfortable as something inevitable. Let me adjust to this sudden swarming of grace.

Maybe I’ll share more selections as a quiet remembrance of all that transpired between us. Or, am I just longing to see him again?

e-relationships

Just thinking about how relationships move at light speed here on the “interwebs”. Seems like a great deal of energy is expended to try and get to know someone one day, then, more energy is expended ignoring them the next. Call Me old fashioned, but if I take the time to give you a virtual tap on the shoulder, it usually means that I want our interaction to go further than a flurry of emails followed by deafening silence.

As My beloved dad would say, “that’s just rude”.