New York City Dominatrix
For the last few weeks, I’ve really enjoyed filming scenes with Ethnic Kink, a great BDSM production company based in New York. Of course, clips are becoming available on each of their related sites, but I thought it would be fun to share film stills of my favorite scenes.
Enjoy!
I’ve been thinking a great deal about bondage lately. Random musings keep popping up in my head about the best way to put these ideas into motion. The visions include lovely, spacious hotel rooms, my pretty pink ropes, a game bondage bottom and multiple hours to explore all ways the human body can be restrained. Dreamy, right?
The newest component to these daydreams: Pilates positions! I’ve been a devotee of this exercise regime for many years. A certain amount of strictness is needed to properly execute each particular component of core enhancing workouts. Because of this, it’s a wonder that I haven’t thought to combine the two sooner.
What a perfect opportunity; bondage play and slave-exercise training all in one! How it would work: once each position was assumed (i.e., the hundred, roll up, mermaid, double leg stretch, etc.), I would apply ropes both as a way to fully illustrate proper Pilates form and for my personal amusement, of course.
I can see it now. Ropes steadily tightening and locking my subject into position. Instructions about how to regulate the breath and surrender to the position. My delighted laugh filling the space with each new assumed posture…
Who’s game?
I was in 10th grade when I discovered stockings. Not “pantyhose” (which is what most people think of, completely confusing the descriptors). Stockings. Fully-fashioned, nylon or silk, toe/heel reinforced, garter belt required stockings. This discovery was almost more earth shattering than having sex for the first time a couple of years later.
Jenny was my inspiration. A senior at the parochial school I attended on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, she was the most sophisticated girl I knew. My affair with cigarettes began after countless times watching her smoke Benson and Hedges 100s while sucking on cinnamon Life-Savers.
There was something subversive about the way Jenny’s legs looked to my still innocent eyes, so smooth in her nylons, garter belt clipped to the tops stopping mid thigh concealed under our winter uniform of gray wool. I began to imagine what it would feel like, slippery, silky fabric against my own skin. Eventually, my thoughts and curiosity brought me to a small lingerie shop not too far away from the high school I attended.
Regardless of what the ladies staffing the shop thought about this wide-eyed girl with knee socks and book bag tentatively drinking in her surroundings, they graciously shared all manner of knowledge about legwear: stay ups or garter fastened? silk or nylon? seamed or plain? I was completely hooked; the majority of my allowance expended on an ever growing collection of retro glam intimates.
To this day, those early lessons hold firm. I still drool over a perfectly stitched seam trailing from the point of a French heel. The lack of availability for good silk stockings is a constant irritation. 3 garters per side on a belt are always better than two. And, most important, no dress or skirt set is complete without my special secret underneath, decorating my legs.
I adore being a girl.
Call me on Niteflirt:
I love my friends. They certainly know how to facilitate an interesting evening! As a birthday present to my new favorite kitten; I was asked to make a nice package of some absolutely gorgeous rope to surprise her. Of course, plain bundles of rope have no spice, so I took it upon myself to enliven the presentation.
6 of us stood on the corner of Houston and First Avenue, old friends and new on the way back from a low key SM meet and greet a few blocks downtown. The air had the feel one experiences during late August when New York’s heat hangs like a blanket over the sidewalks and parks with a rich velvet quality. It was a relief after the previous days of rain. r looked so adorable standing across from me; 5 foot nothing, curvy, juicy with the loveliest laugh and smile. Earlier at the bar, I had taken the opportunity to feel her out; locking her arms behind her head, I molded her back to my front, tickled her mercilessly and thoroughly enjoyed her squeals, giggles and (half-hearted) attempts to get away.
I couldn’t help myself, standing on that street corner, cars and people passing by. r pulled down the top of her dress a little to show everyone her pretty, lacy bra. I pounced and reached out to draw her closer by the lacing holding the front closed. My hands wandered down the front of her dress and over her breasts, while I said something unconvincing to our companions about not wanting to cause a scene. An idea struck me and I bade everyone to move closer until her face was pushed into my cleavage and she was firmly sandwiched among us all, my hands still stroking and pinching her tits. I murmured something into her hair about not quite finding what I wanted when my fingers struck gold. They clamped down on her nipples, drawing her even closer to me, eliciting a simultaneous gasp and moan from this pretty toy.
“…and what do you say, little girl?” I asked.
“thank you.” she whispered while melting into me.
I released her with a quick kiss on the top of her head and promised myself this wouldn’t be the last time…
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.
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.
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.
I’ve always been drawn to comic books; there’s something about the mythology which is very appealing. Without exception, every superhero (or villain, for that matter) is an outsider who either
Both choices accurately describe My path into the business and the lifestyle. It is a psychically powerful thing to start taking professional appointments and/or begin to introduce kink into your personal life. The opportunity to fulfill your fantasies, as well as those of any particular partner, makes the interior life becomes so strong, so outsize, comic book comparisons aren’t completely out of order. At times, My life feels like it exists in a parallel universe far removed from that of most members of My family and everyone I met before the age of 25.
I read from My previous (handwritten) journals from time to time; life on paper seems to be a great deal more integrated than the realities of My everyday existence. I feel like 2 people inhabiting the same body, constantly switching from D/s to vanilla persona during the course of a day (depending on the level of stress I occasionally contend with, the number rises to 3). I feel very close to My X-men namesake, Jean Grey/Phoenix. For everyone who isn’t familiar with her, quick rundown: ridiculously powerful telepath and all-round good girl who happens to be possessed by all-encompassing universal force with a habit of destroying worlds.
I chose My name with some accuracy.
Feeling so powerful, invincible and, on occasion, possessed when I play always makes Me wonder if people coming in contact during the course of an average day sense the alternate person not very far from My surface. Or, that it wouldn’t take long for Me to reduce surroundings to ash when confronted with a particularly vexing problem.
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?