“Are You All Mine?” The Tactics of a Professional Seductress

Sitting on my Virgin America airplane ride on my third work trip to New York. I always enjoy it when people ask me why I’m going to New York. I always reply with the simple words,

“To work.”

And then they ask “What do you do?

“I’m a dominatrix.” I’ve started to embrace this term more and more.

Yes I am going to New York to get paid; to get paid for my powers to deeply seduce men into submission. I have never had so much fun in my life as I’ve had in this work.

I wasn’t sure that I could do this, welcome strangers into my tiny rented studios, and be the glamorous girl in my ad; to live up to the expectation to put them under my spell where they completely release into euphoria. To make men behave and do as they’re told. But two weeks and many clients later, I think I’ve succeeded.

The Empire State Building was lit up in the colors of the Lust Angel; Lauviah’s favorite color; a luminous fuscia pink, that made the tip of the building look like a glowing neon tit. It turned the entire city into a Freudian euphemism of desire; we all yearned to suck on our mother’s tit. We all yearned for romance; that special someone to wine and dine. I, on the other hand wasn’t looking for that someone to fulfill that need; I am just more in the spirit of love, of being the Romancer. I, in the demeanor of the Angel of Lust herself, acted to be the object of desire for all those unfulfilled and hungry sexual desires which are attached to men’s groins. Yes I could just say cock…but anyone can please a cock. I aim to romance a man, seduce him completely, to have him quivering in my presence.

My second client in NY was George, a traveling businessman from Illinois. He seemed normal on the phone, and thought he was just coming in for a 90 minute massage. If only he knew when he called me he would be helpless in my presence. He was the perfect subject for all of my weapons of seduction.

George arrived on time, in a tan jacket, business suit and suitcase. After walking in my door and meeting eyes, he was under the enchanting powers of his mistress. With knees buckling beneath him, I embraced his 5 foot 9 inch and built frame. George was in great shape; every inch of him was muscle. Yet he was completely helpless against me. A sensual sadist, I greatly enjoy this sexual power exchange.

We moved to the bedroom, and now he was just down to his business shirt and pants, his shoes removed. My hands instinctively reached for the back of his neck, and I felt like how a cat grabs a cub; once he was in my grip, he might as well have been a 2 pound kitten; every single muscle in his body loosened up, and he collapsed onto the bed.

This was going to be fun. Rarely do I find someone who is in complete submission so immediately, who is utterly and completely mine, and now all I have to do is play him like Bach or Beethoven plays the piano; depending on my mood in the moment. George received my complete artistry, and wasn’t playing a role; the best seductions are authentic; we aren’t acting, and he couldn’t reverse his emotions if he tried.

The rest of the scene involved slowly unbuttoning his business shirt, one button at a time. After removing the shirt, I enjoy testing the nipples to see how sensitive they are; biting, sucking, slapping. I command my submissive into complete stillness, creating an energetic bondage, imaginary ropes, and if my subject moves their hands or touches their cock without permission they are punished; usually with a little strap of leather called the “slut slapper” a surprisingly simple yet effective tool which doesn’t require much skill and removes any room for error in the aim of the blow.

Another tactic of this love Mistress (I enjoy more contact than most Dommes) is to pin my subject down with my body. So with my knees pressing into his shoulders, pussy hovering above his mouth, teasing his face, spitting in his mouth, then reaching around and tapping his cock. Asking questions like

“Are you all mine, George?”

“Yes Mistress”

“Is your body mine?”

“Yes Mistress”

“Is your heart mine?”

“Yes Mistress it’s all yours.”

“Is your cock mine?”

“Yes you can do anything you want with me, use me any way you please.”

Most men want to be used as my pleasure toy. Rarely do I take full advantage of the situation because just the temptation of fucking me alone often holds much more power than satisfying their every desire; I always want to leave them wanting more.

After digging my hands into George, slapping him thoroughly and testing his pain threshold, I stood him up, business pants at his ankles, and pulled down his boxer shorts. I love the slight humiliation of pulling down their underpants and not completely undressing them all the way; the awkwardness makes them feel insecure and helpless.

His firm and round ass facing me, his hands are on the massage table, his body once again an offering to my pleasure tactics. The palms of my hands swing to make contact with his firm buttocks. I slap him until he’s red, his body shaking, his psyche reduced. Yes part of BDSM is a power exchange; he agrees to give me the seat of control, and through this increased weakness, this helpless state of service to my pleasure, a good submissive will fall into a state of surrender, similar to a feeling of lightly falling, which becomes deeply Euphoric; there are no thoughts, only sensation, mostly the sensation of pleasure and a heightened state of awareness.

After giving him a good slap around, I tell George that I must feel what it’s like to be inside him. I don’t believe that he’s been penetrated in the ass before, but I wanted him to KNOW viscerally that when my finger is deep inside me, how completely mine he was.

Gloves on, lubed up, I tease and titillate the outside of his anus to warm up to the ever so slow and slightest pressure inside his anus. He quivers and shakes, squirms. I go in deeper, exploring more of this unexposed part of him. Nothing is more satisfying as a Domme than to have a man in this way; if I had a cock, it would be fucking him in the ass, but since my finger is the closet penetrative object with nerve endings , it is the next best thing. I feel his warm, orgasmic pulsating insides. The experience isn’t completely pleasurable to him; it’s slightly awkward and painful. I coax my finger slowly in and out with a “come hither” motion, similar to how a man would coax a woman’s G-spot.  With his ass facing me, I have to turn my finger downward facing to make adequate contact with his Prostate. I don’t have a prostate, but according to Yogic anatomy of the body, this point is the “X marks the spot” of the pleasure response super energetic highway. There are 72,000 Nadis or energetic pathways in the body, your Central Channel in the spinal column being the major one. When stimulated properly, the Prostate has the potential to open up all of these channels. I coax him into his sweet spot, he’s writhing in orgasmic pleasure, while my other hands reach around and pulls at his cock. Slap, pull, push, penetrate. He’s blissfully helpless against me.

I can’t exactly recall how I finished him off, how long the teasing went on, nor how long I prolonged his experience. But one thing is for sure, that when he did finally come, I told him to give it to me. That I wanted it, that his cum juice was mine. All mine. Give it to me. That it was a sign of his devotion to his Mistress, a signal of how much he desires me and wants to please me.

This wasn’t quite enough for him. George needed and wanted more. I took him to the shower, still not allowing him to touch me. Bowing down before me in the water, the drops running down my naked frame, his mouth at a perfect height to lick my perfect flower.  

I still don’t let him have it. He must jerk off bowing down before me staring at my pussy lips. So close, dangling the crown jewel before him in the shower while he agonizingly strokes himself off again.

George is in love with me. The spell was never broken since he walked in the door. He doesn’t want to leave, but I can’t hang out with him all day.

He dries himself off, reluctantly gets dressed and asks me,

“When am I going to see you again?”

The honest answer to this question is probably never. He lives in Illinois, I live in California and his work only takes him to the East Coast. I suppose peak experiences can’t happen every day. I give George a heartfelt hug good-bye and this businessman is sent back out into the world.

Hurt, Rage and Processing Through Sadistic Desires

And of course it’s over but I have to continuously remind myself WHY the fuck he’s an insanely insensitive egotistical self involved asshole.

Bunny invites me to a couple things over the last few weeks. We have repeatedly said to each other “stop contacting me.” And somehow we keep talking. It never ends well.

He called to invite me to the Edwardian ball. I declined, I was going to SF for a different party. I could feel myself falling back in love with the sweetness of his voice. My cells are trying to let this go. I cannot allow myself another heroin fix. No. Just so he can break my heart again. No.

Then he texts the next day and invites me over to his Malibu hang out with his two Domme’s to come and fuck them with a strap on and come sit on his cock. No. Once again the answer is a fuck no. I respond with a much more violent proposition that I cut his dick off and make him suck it. That would please my evil sadistic side. I tell him that I can’t believe that he even has a cock still, that his ex should have cut it off and taken it with her to Italy. He doesn’t even deserve to have one.

I go to SF, I party, I dance, I shop, I fuck. All in the day’s life of a seductress…

Bunny hates denial. He starts texting me again with these stupid bullshit words like

“I gave you my soul!”

Ha. He gave me his soul yet he can’t give me the time of day. Well take your soul back bunny. I don’t want it anymore.

After all this soul talk, and talk that “we are going to see each other” which actually means I’m going to make fake plans with you and then disappear and not answer your phone calls or texts. I know this game all too well.

I find myself at the Chateau Marmot Monday night with some clients, just days after this soul talk. So I’m thinking he wants to see me. I smell him, faintly the entire time I’m there. I know I’m going to see him. My intuition is always much stronger than his….

And for some fucked up reason I need to hurt myself again. I text him.

“I’m at the Chateau Marmont, you?”

“I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

Oh so he doesn’t respond to me in days but he’s meeting someone else at the Chateau and apparently forgot that he told me he would meet up with me at some point.

“Are you meeting someone else?”

“yes.”

“Ok well I guess that means we aren’t seeing each other then.”

“No problem.”

“Actually it is a problem. You give me your soul but you can’t have a conversation?!”

No response. That’s it . I don’t see him walk in, like all too many times he tells me he’s coming somewhere and never does.

I text him “It’s done. It’s over. For good. I’m blocking your number.”

No response. From a human who doesn’t feel things, who can so easily cut people he cares about out of his life. Just as good. I’m over it.

I never get around to calling at and t to block his number.

A week goes by.

I do a kinky photo shoot on Saturday with a friend of mine, and take very naughty nude fetish photos. I know the way to get attention from bunny is through kinky shit.

I send him a photo at three in the morning. He calls me, pretending it’s all good between us.

“so why are you sending me this picture? What do you want me to do with this picture of your pussy?”

“It’s just art.”

He thought it was a booty call proposition. He really is just in response to his bodily desires. Drugs and pussy.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in venice with a friend of mine.”

“do you have mdma?”

“yes.”

“ok well let’s meet up and party.”

“I can’t do that right now.”

I hang up the phone slightly thereafter. He calls back twice. I don’t answer because I’m hanging with my photographer friend who I owe my undivided presence to since he just shot these brilliant and kinky photos of me for free.

Bunny texts a few more times and says

“you win. Bravo!”

and then a few moments later decides that I don’t win. That I am shit. That because I didn’t give him what he wanted in that moment, that he has the right to diss me, my art, that my photos are shit and that I am somehow beneath him.

“Why don’t you tie yourself to a piano and take a picture of that. Let me see that!”

One final call on Sunday. We begin the conversation civilly, like what am I doing, do I want to meet up on Melrose or something like that. I tell him I can’t meet up right now (wow that’s like 5 or 6 No’s in a row!) and he’s pissed. He’s yelling and screaming into the phone that he’s totally sick of this. Well I am too. Sick of someone saying sweet things to me and having absolutely no follow through with any of it. No intention of actually loving me. He can’t offer me anything. Just twisted fucked up heart games and he doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s a player.

“no more roses, no more ‘I love you’s’ nothing. Don’t sweet talk me anymore, understand?!”

He’s not used to a strong woman telling him to fuck off.

We both commence that It’s over.

I tell him I want nothing from him. He wants nothing from me.

Done deal. Finally over.

I take out the pain on my submissive.

I meet with him last night (a story that will be posted soon.)

We smoke pot and I am lying in his bed, and all of my feelings finally come to the surface. I’m kind of just over men. I’m over men wanting women for their sexuality. Even though my Wolfie says that he loves me, that he cares for me, and does, he still wants inside my pussy.

Why can’t men get their dicks under control??

I’m just over it. I burst into tears. I’m convulsing in pain. I feel like my insides are being ripped apart, ripped open, that I have an open wound that is being stretched and contorted out of my chest. That tears and pain are shredding me. Even though I want sex, pleasure and love, I’m just fucking over it.

Wolfie, the man next to me who is supposed to be there for me, for my every desire still wants me to please his is trying to comfort me, trying to justify things. Every word drives my pain deeper. I don’t want an explanation or justification for anything. I just want to be able to feel this pain to the end. Sometimes a man just needs to shut up and hold a woman.  It’s just not the way it fucking works.

Once I am done crying I want to scream. I want to yell and punch something.

My submissive says that I can take it out on his balls.

Ok.

I twist them, contort them, slap his ass and some kind of erotic cathartic release starts to happen. I get turned on in my rage. I writhe all over him.

I’ve had him in cock control for over a month now. He hasn’t come in two weeks. I don’t really care. He’s going to wait longer. I don’t feel like helping him out in that department. I tell him he can pick one of his slaves (he’s used to being in charge) can suck him off.

“but my Queen, I haven’t come in two weeks.”

I raise my voice. “have you slave suck you off on Friday. It’s an order.”

“Ok that was pretty clear.”

We go to sleep, hand in hand. I feel Wolfie’s love for me. I feel the support. I just can’t be everything to everybody all the time. Sometimes I have to be the little girl with all the loose strings and have someone else hold it all together for me.

I’m moving slowly today. Taking care of the bare minimum. I feel like I should yell and scream and shout, that I have this huge gaping pain in my chest. Like I could burst into tears and rage at any moment. And I still feel like If I could see him that somehow we would lock eyes and fall in love and laugh at ourselves. But that can’t happen. Maybe I would just kick him in the balls and spit on his face. But he might like that too much. 

Returning Bunny's Scarf

          

      My immune system has been weakened this entire month, partly because of what I’m fighting off in Mexico, and partly because I’m consciously trying to cut HIM out of my heart; I feel healthy, vitality, strength and inspiration when I think of him warmly. I feel connected to a higher source, love, The Infinite light of expansion. Our souls are oddly linked in all of this, yet his body cannot tend to my womanly needs, his phone cannot call me, nor does he say the right words. He always says just enough to not kill our connection entirely. And this will always be the game. He will never be mine. Ever. And I don’t want to be his little side-show toy he can pick up and put down whenever he pleases. Every cell in my body is trying to break free of this pointless pattern. I literally have to kick him out of my heart, my body, my cellular memory. 

I call him one last time, because I’m sad, almost immobilized by my trauma, by pushing him out of my cellular memory of him. If he can’t be mine I certainly can’t make room for a new Man until he is out of my body and psyche. So that process of lost hope, of giving up and letting go has begun.

“I’m sad,” I say in my voice which barely has enough energy to emote the words from my mouth.

“Why are you sad?” he asks me.

“Because I miss you,” I reply honestly.

“That’s understandable, what else?”

I may have come up with some other bullshit excuse, but mainly I’m sad because he is no longer in my life, nor does he have the capacity to be.

We small talk for a while, he’s in a decent mood, but his words fly over and under my heart, and I don’t’ really care to understand his words in this moment. Eventually we get to weekend talk, and he asks me if I know of anything going on this weekend.

“Do you know of any parties?” he asks a seemingly harmless question in his Croatian accent.

My heart drops, because even though I know of a party and would love to play with him there, the end result is always the same. He comes close only to leave, he flirts only to keep the tie going, but he never comes quite close enough. I am always dissatisfied, and disappointed by the lack of his desire to have me. He would just be a disruption in my night, a distraction to being in my center and just being myself.

“Yes I know of a party.”

“Where is it?”

“My roommate is having a birthday party at her new house. But I can’t tell you where that is because you’re not coming anyway.” I reply in a dry voice. If I invited him I would spend the entire night in expectation that he arrives, and he never will. I ‘m tired of playing this game. I don’t want to provide him social entertainment for a night.

He’s pissed, “It’s just a fucking party hAhA.”

Well to me it’s not just a party. It’s another opportunity for him to hurt me, to measure up short, to dance in and out of my life, but never does he stay. Or kiss me, or really touch me.

The conversation goes downhill from here. He thinks I’m being territorial, or that I’m not inviting him because my friends don’t like him. I’m not inviting him over the sheer fact of self-preservation. I can no longer be destroyed by his insanity if I don’t play the game anymore.

We hang up the phone in an awkward moment. I ask him plainly if  he will ever be mine. We have a text war that ends in harsh words, and him asking me to never contact him again.

I send one last text that shows a picture of two kittens cuddling, and that I will always remember him in this way; soft, pure, full of love and light, just like the first cuddle we had where he filled me with his soul and he never let me go. I will remember his love like precious kitten and bunny love.

Hours go by and my body feels freed. Freed of this dynamic, this constant push and pull.

Then a text comes in. from him.

“I will never be yours. Sorry. Love you. D.”

Huh. Words that frighten and delight me, that feed my need to be connected with him even though he’s not right for me; addicted to a drug that will never satisfy, that always fades out. He will never be mine. I’ll focus on that. He will never be mine. Never.

I reply, “I can see that, feel that and know and completely understand that you will never be mine. And I unconditionally love you for who you ARE and who you ARE NOT. “

We joke back and forth for a while. He tells me he hates me, that I’m a slut. Which is his way of saying “ I see you, accept all of you, and I love you.” Those are our code words for love. I tell him I’m not a slut,  that I’m becoming a nun and moving to Mexico so I can be God’s lover.

“You are like my sister. Fuck. Why? Why? I hate you.”

I make a few other jokes. It’s much more effective on him than being upset at him. Lightheartedness is always the way back into him.

And then the honesty breaks through.

“fuck haha. I really don’t know what is happening inside my head… I think I’m loosing all prospects of being human. Every day I see my soul dispiriting…fuck it’s so fucked up.”

“Sorry you’re so fucked. Wish I could UN-FUCK you.”

The conversation ends. But there is one last piece of him remaining with me; his scarf that he gave to me when he dropped me off at the airport last July; my first New York trip, of which before I left he said that we had “crossed the line.” That this wasn’t ordinary love. This was something different. We almost had a relationship, and then it was destroyed. The scarf was filled with his lovely scent and I wore it every day in New York to feel close to HIM. Little did I know that when I returned it would all be over.

I somehow kept this piece of plaid and beige fabric all of these months. And I don’t want it anymore. I want to return it. I don’t want any remnants of him in my soul, my psyche, my heart. If I am really to let him go I have to let go of any chance of hope that someday he will change and love me the way that I want to be loved.

I must return this scarf, and calling and planning with him is pointless, so I make a plan to stop by his house and tie it to something on his entrance where he will see it.

Last night I made a trip to West Hollywood to meet a friend for dinner. Then I killed some more time and grabbed a beer at a bar. My heart was racing when I ordered the beer because on some level I KNEW that I would see him, and I needed some alcohol to soothe the edge of my heart; to brave him. I finish my beer and my conversation with a Comedian who has always been obsessed about cock size and made a documentary about his cock enlargement operation. We laugh, but he is much too drunk and annoying, and I walk to my car, knowing I am making one last trip to HIS house, to return any last hope, to let him go, to end this crazy story.

I drive, my mind focusing on my end goal, James Blake playing on my stereo “Limit to your Love” and I drive to his street, the entrance to Runyon Canyon and park my car, my heart racing, body vibrating. I sit in my car and perfume up the scarf. If I’m going to return it, I still secretly want to seduce him back to me, for him to smell it and think of me. I walk out of my car, my mind in a confused blur as to where to put this thing. I think I decided I was going to tie it to his garage door, and UP DRIVES HIS BLACK LAND ROVER, HE OPENS THE GARAGE AND I FOLLOW HIM IN.  What the fuck? What are the chances…and yet somehow I knew. I always know with him.

He skids into the garage and slams on the breaks. Someone is in his parking spot and he’s upset. He gets out of the car, he still doesn’t see my 5 foot 8 frame standing to the side. I’m not sure how  it’s possible to miss a woman staring at you in your garage, but hey he’s always been extremely self absorbed. He speaks with his neighbor for a while, they are working out details of some kind. I wait patiently, yet perturbed that I don’t have him alone; there is a disruption to our closure and I won’t get his full attention.

Finally he turns around and I speak because he still doesn’t recognize me in my sideways golfer hat and glasses.

“I’ve come to return something to you.”

He walks towards me and I place the scarf around his neck. It doesn’t have as much meaning to him as it does to me. He almost laughs at my gesture of closure.

“Haha I gave this to you as a gift, not as a promise of my love.”

“That’s fine. I don’t want it anymore, I want you to have it back.”

“You can try to say good-bye to me, but it’s not about who you can live with. It’s more about Who you can’t live without.” He’s trying to hook me back in, to reel me into this dynamic. To me it’s about treating those you care about with dignity and respect, and to be in integrity with your words. A breach of integrity kills love to me.

“I don’t share the same philosophy.” I can’t give him ANYTHING, or invest my soul into not being able to live without him.

“It’s not about philosophy.” He replied passionately, like he has stated the law of gravity or something.

“You have other things of mine.” As if I’m going to go run and get them and leave them on his doorstep.

“Sorry they’re in storage.” He’s trying to create another reason as to why we would meet up again. I don’t really want to create that opportunity.

We hug and say goodbye. He holds me for as long as I want, but it’s still somewhat awkward. His man smell rubs off on me and carries me all the way home.

“I guess I’ll see you at Burningman, or on the dance floor. But I don’t know which one!” He’s jokingly buoyant, light. This does not affect him emotionally like it does me.

And I walk away. I walk away from the man in black, the man in which every part of him is a seduction to my soul; his posture, his tight Euro-Tribal pants, his eyes, his demeanor, his words, even his forearms make me weak in the knees.

I drive home to Venice, in a daze, just focusing on my music, on my power, on this release. How we’ve always been fun and playful even in the hard times. Perhaps we will always be friends, just not now.

Exiting the 1- highways to Venice, I am filled with words of satiracle heart-break. I text him.

“Apparently we can live without each other.”

“Love you and…???” He’s not buying into my rejection.

“And nothing. The end.” I reply dryly.

“No…and

 I will always love You.”

His words have his soul behind them and they dance inside my phone, carry the vibration of his Heart. They are words that I feel for a moment, but I don’t allow myself to get so lost in them.

“If you love it set it free.”

Sitting on my Virgin America airplane ride on my third work trip to New York. I always enjoy it when people ask me why I’m going to New York. I always reply with the simple words,

“To work.”

And then they ask “what do you do?

“I’m a dominatrix.” I’ve started to embrace this term more and more.

Yes I am going to New York to get paid. To get paid for my powers to deeply seduce men into submission. I have never had so much fun in my life as I’ve had in this work.