Photo HelenTOG

Hey slaves! Great news. I’m back in New York for the fall starting September 5. Looking forward to reconnecting with all of you who have missed me so much since I’ve been away.

I’ll be back in my private studio doing sessions with a special emphasis on intense, extreme activities (e.g. forced toilet training, edge play, psychological takeover, no safeword singletail) and group scenes. If you are ready for a truly extraordinary experience of submission, contact me at my booking form.

For all you newbies…don’t worry. We can go light the first few sessions. I guarantee you’ll be begging to do more than you ever imagined possible by the third time we meet.

Photo HelenTOG

I am perhaps something of a controversial figure because of my strong fetishization of, and talent for, mindfucking. While mindfucking can backfire in an astonishing burst of emotional fireworks and debris, I must admit I respect it for its sheer metric force. This should be everyone’s approach when dealing with a potential weapon of mass destruction: respect and a comprehensive understanding of its power. No matter your “opinion” on this fetish, or any others, the bottom line is that a good mindfuck can be a brain-meltingly hot experience that leaves a strong, positive fetish impression for years, for both Dom/me AND sub.

Click here for more of my writing on Emotional BDSM and Mindfucking / Psychological Edgeplay.

You essentially build yourself into the perfect D/s compliment for the other person, Weird Science-style from the inside out, complete with every personality trait necessary for the rejection D/s roleplay to work. Then you form an intense and convincing emotional bond with the other person, which is totally possible even in as little as 10 minutes. Finally, you slowly break yourself down around them (or build yourself up if you’re the Dom/me) bit by bit until you are in such different leagues that anything can be used in service of the power disparity. The chasm between you becomes insurmountable. Yet you’re tethered together. Yet you’re apart. Yet you’re together. It’s a sickening kind of invisible bondage-humiliation-torture all in one.

The key is for both parties to be incredibly clear about what they are getting into from the start and continue to be overly clear about the nature of the roleplay even after it’s “over” (even when the delicious pain is still lingering). You don’t want to incur net negative repercussions from someone who can’t decipher between fantasy and reality. Rejection play can be INCREDIBLY hot, but don’t do it with someone who isn’t totally prepared for a roleplay of this nature. You will hurt them and get a reputation for being an asshole.

Of course, sometimes someone claims to want to be involved in mindfucking and emotional masochism, but then changes their mind at the last second or in a way that is confusing to the dominant. On one hand, if you volunteered to be there knowing full well that there were risks, you had better try to figure a way to exit the scenario with your psychological health intact. Submissive have a responsibility to know themselves well enough to say yes or no responsibly to a dynamic that they take part in initiating. But if the dominant senses that a submissive doesn’t know how to say yes or no responsibly, is naively in over his or her head, or will be incurring a net negative from the interaction, then the Dom/me should put a stop to it. Both Dom/me and sub share a responsibility for mental and emotional safety, and to blame it all on the Dom/me if things go wrong is shitty and incomplete.

Fortunately the vast majority of people I have ever mindfucked have taken enormous responsibility for their portion of things, and we have had incredible experiences that will stay with me for the rest of my life and vice versa. These roleplays are some of the defining moments of my life as a Domme. They have sometimes changed my submissives’ entire lives, for the better. But these roleplays were also just roleplays, and they need a deft and nimble mind and an iron-core of confidence for the submissive to distinguish fantasy from reality. So if you’re into receiving mindfucking like this on a regular basis, good job: chances are you’re both smart AND super comfortable with who you are.

I remember one session I did with a sub male client that was particularly cruel. He wanted an hour at my studio one night after work for a small penis humiliation scene. We met for a consultation a few days beforehand so that I could vet him, and immediately I had a pretty clear idea of his interests and type. Although he said he “didn’t like to control things,” before the consultation he had emailed me a long and detailed list of his interests and triggers including specific names he liked to be called, words to use for his dick, roleplay scenarios, etc. He was about as bad at giving up power as I am, so I made sure to craft the interactions from the beginning in a way that would leave him off kilter and disoriented in the session and in an authentic position of being mentally and emotionally out of control.

The first method was to dismiss him when he mentioned (again) that he liked roleplay. I told him that while I was well known for it, it was not something I actually enjoyed that much. It takes a lot of energy and planning, and in general is less rewarding than just connecting with someone on a “real life level.” This was all false, but he believed me and, although disappointed, agreed to go along with whatever I said.

The thing that made the next part of my scheme work was that he was semi-attractive and was well aware of it. He had a pretty good personality (in spite of his topping from the bottom), and we had great chemistry in our consultation. In a moment of irony, he displayed his fatal flaw of hubris by admitting that his dick was “not actually as small as he liked to say.” He had exposed a crack in this own small-dicked fantasy and in the process claimed that he would happily go along with anything I said, no matter how cruel or cutting. I used all of this to my advantage and lowered his guard by telling him in the consult that I totally understood his small penis humiliation fetish, and although I knew he was exaggerating about its small size, that I knew just what to say to him to make sure we “both had a hot, fun time together.”

From then on I downplayed my dominance over email: I called him by his first name instead of “slave,” cracked jokes with him, asked questions instead of giving commands, etc. This lasted for about three or four emails leading up to the session. By the end of it his fondness for me had increased, and his respect for me had decreased. I had successfully humanized myself for him, voluntarily stepping down off the pedestal he had built for me. Little did he know I would be climbing back up on it soon enough. At the time, however, I had lowered his expectations. I was now a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

When he walked in the door I didn’t have him undress, and instead gave him a quick cheek kiss and had him sit on the couch next to me and “chat” for a few minutes. Most people who have sessioned with a traditional independent Domme know this is pretty unusual. We talked for about 10-15 minutes about his day, my day, etc, and I humanized myself even more. At about the 15-minute mark, he tried to give me my tribute and asked to start the session. I looked at him meaningfully and let a coy smile play on my lips, then told him in a frank tone that I was having too much fun to session. He gazed at me, confounded and delighted at the same time, and again shoved the money towards me. I reached for it, looked at it, and then handed it back to him. It was that moment, seeing a ProDomme hand his money back, that he became submerged in the ruse. He would believe anything I said.

I draped my hand across his leg and trailed my fingers up towards his crotch. With another smile, I teased my hand up his chest and rubbed his neck a little. Gazing lovingly into his eyes, I swore to him “you’re not like my other clients. You’re not really like a client at all. I would actually go on a real date with you.” The cognitive dissonance on his face was priceless.

The lower half of his body overpowered the upper half, and he continued to blithely believe every word I said. He scooched closer, clearly dying to kiss me. I kept rambling on about how I had gone on a date with someone a lot like him a few weeks back, but that the guy I was on the date with had a terrible personality. This client, on the other hand, well he’d kept me laughing all night long so far. I shifted subtly, just out of reach from his hands and mouth. I kept my eye contact throughout, giving him all the signs of a woman on a date that is “DTF.”

Finally, after about 10 minutes of this slow teasing and seducing, I asked him to stand up and started fondling his crotch and whispering in his ear. Did he want to go in the other room? I had a spare bed in there, and although I vowed to him that I never, ever dated my clients, he hadn’t actually given me money yet, so technically he wasn’t a client?

The poor sap got his pants off so fast that it actually knocked me off balance and back onto the couch. I sat there watching him, pretending to be captivated and sexually ecstatic, touching my body just enough to feign arousal and goad him into taking off his underwear.

That was when I dropped the first nuke.

I let my eyes fall slowly from his face down to his erection. Reality: it was average. Maybe 5.5 or 6. Roleplay: I pretended it was 2.5. I didn’t go into “fake-Domme-your-dick-is-so-small-holding-up-my-pinky” mode though. That’s shitty and dumb. I actually just in my mind made myself really attracted to this guy, and simultaneously in my mind saw his dick as being 2.5 inches. I had spent the first half of the session convincing BOTH him and myself that I wanted more than anything in the world to fuck him. This average looking guy with the average sized dick had become my paragon of sexiness and beauty. The true artistry and skill in a good roleplay revolves around getting BOTH people to buy into it. Once we established that, the rest was easy. In that horrible moment when he dropped his gray briefs onto the floor, all I had to do was walk in the front door of the elegant house of lies I had spent the past 30 minutes constructing.

I let loose a sort of “ohhh” noise and let my jaw drop a little. Then I turned my head in modesty and started blushing. I’m still not sure how I did it, but I could literally feel the color flushing in my cheeks. I put my hand over my mouth. “What?” he said, genuinely confounded. “Nothing, nothing,” I replied. I paused a moment for effect. Then I started laughing. Quietly at first, then a little bit louder, as if I couldn’t hide it. I kept my face turned away to make him think I didn’t want him to know I was laughing. He was starting to deflate. He was losing his boner for real. His eyebrows were crinkling in the middle of his forehead. Miraculously, he still believed my reaction was organic.

I got up and got a glass of water, feigning a cough. Then I slowly walked back over to him and picked up his underwear. “You know, I’m actually kind of tired. Maybe we can continue this over a drink tomorrow…or something.” I handed him the underwear and gestured for him to start to get dressed. He tried to rub my shoulders, get close to me, caressing my stomach. I waved him off.

Finally I leveled with him. “Look,” I said, staring into his eyes and taking his face in my hands, “I like you. You’re cute, you have an incredible sense of humor, we obviously have chemistry but…seriously? Did you ever actually think I would… with that?!”

“Oh come on Darcy,” he tried to protest. “This isn’t roleplay. It’s not THAT small.” Yes, he actually said, “this isn’t roleplay.” I barked with laughter and let loose a curtain of missiles aimed directly at his self-confidence.

“I know this isn’t roleplay. If this were a session, I would have taken your money. But I didn’t. We were having fun. I felt like I was on a date. I’m attracted to you. But I don’t appreciate your lying. Yes, you lied to me. You did! When you sit there and look me in the eyes in broad daylight and try to tell me “truthfully” that your dick is average sized, and I actually believe you, that’s lying to my face. Average? You know what average is? It’s 6 inches for a Caucasian male in America. I am not looking at six inches right now. And I have seen thousands of cocks in my life. Are you delusional? I’m a ProDomme, I know what average looks like. I’ve seen average. And your dick is so far below average that I am actually angry at myself that I let things get this far. I can’t believe I bought it. I can’t believe I fell for it. I would never, in one hundred million years, even consider fucking…that. I wouldn’t feel it. There would be no sex, no sensation. Your dick is so disgustingly small that I almost wish this were a session, just so I could tell you off for it.”

The poor man didn’t know what to believe, but his (average) cock had started to twitch again with the horrible realization that not only was he not getting sex, but that this woman with whom he had formed an intense emotional bond in a short amount of time was now realistically and brutally berating him in a lifestyle turn of events that he had only imagined in his wildest fantasies. I continued ranting on for another 10 minutes, eventually ending with him on the floor on his stomach, grinding and begging me to hump until he came in his underwear.

Before I knew it, the hour was up and the session was over. I snatched the money out of his pants pocket and started counting it in the corner.

“You’re welcome.” I tossed the words over my shoulder at him as he caught his breath on the floor, a huge grin of awe and wonder spreading across his face.

I could be as cold as I liked now. The character was gone, and I said a perfunctory goodbye as he let himself out. He could tell that the whole thing had been a fabrication. In his follow-up email, he thanked me for the most realistic roleplay of his life, and admitted he was relieved he hadn’t actually been given the opportunity to cheat on his wife that night. I knew he would go back to her peaceful in the knowledge that he belonged with her, and that I remained comfortably out of his league for all time. I had constructed a fantasy for him that played perfectly into his decades-long fetish for humiliation, and which could not be achieved by someone who was being transparent about their tactics.

The best kind of dominant is someone who can actually outsmart their submissive: surprise, frighten, and delight them. It takes a bit more planning, forethought and skill, but the moments when I outsmart my subs are by far my most rewarding moments as a Domme. In those moments, the power exchange is not roleplay. It’s real.

Click here for more of my writing on Emotional BDSM and Mindfucking / Psychological Edgeplay.

Cuckolding Mistress

I crashed a recent fashion shoot Robert was doing and convinced him to take some pics with me.

As some of you may already know, I tear through male models faster than a lion in a gazelle convention. This month is no different; I’ve been incredibly stressed out which means I need some extra hands on deck (read: my vagina) when I’m trying to cut loose.

Cuckolds, meet Robert. Robert is six foot four. He could probably benchpress you.

 

I’m doing cuckolding sessions with Robert for the rest of January and, I’m guessing, February as well. Fill out my online booking form to inquire. He’s got a great, um, set of assets and is eager to explore more of the kink scene with desperate, lonely cucks like yourself.

Cuckolding Session

Goofing around behind the scenes at another shoot. Pic by 2G Photography.

So far, our chemistry is unprecedented (I’ve never had anyone pick me up and fuck me *in the air*), and if you’ve always wanted to try cuckolding this is a fairytale opportunity. I’m one of the top cuckolding Dommes in the business because I really, deeply understand it and, just as important, I love it.

There’s nothing quite so relaxing as feeling your environment in deep agreement with who you really are at your core. I see through you; there’s no fooling me. Now get on your knees and kiss the ground we walk on. Time for you to meet a real man.

trump

When my good friend Karley Sciortino, a.k.a. Slutever, asked me to weigh in on golden showers (what are they? who likes them? why?) for Vogue Magazine after the #GoldenShowers scandal with the president elect, I of course said yes. I was delighted to have such an esteemed publication ask for my thoughts, and immediately took the opportunity to demystify kink and offer a pro-golden shower stance.

As I said in the article, this is the first redeeming thing I’ve heard about @realDonaldTrump, and I refuse to kink-shame over something like this. What I did think was strange, however, was that so far in the memos, the alleged incident involved him watching several prostitutes urinate on a bed–not urinate on him. First of all, what a waste of a scene! Second of all, this is not a submissive act: watching women urinate themselves is far more dominant. I’m left wondering, as usual, just what was his agenda? Was he attempting to be submissive to the women in that Moscow hotel room, or was he hoping they would debase themselves with their “performance”? Either way, I’m intrigued.

(Now if only Mike Pence would follow suit! #DoubleEnder)

Full article at Vogue.com.

golden showers

Darcy told me that, generally speaking, people who enjoy golden showers can be broken down into three main categories:

1) People who have an association with urine either from an early sexual memory, or from an early love bonding memory—for instance, during potty training—that later became sexualized.

2) People who have created a bond with their partner through urination play. Darcy told me, “Doing this for the first time with someone who you’re dating is very intense—it’s a bonding experience, and creates intimacy. It’s a way to have an exciting or maybe scary experience with someone, and come out the other side closer than you were before.”

3) People who are drawn to the “filth” aspect of golden showers. These are usually submissives who already have an interest in sexual humiliation and degradation, and being pissed on becomes an extension of that. This category also includes “human toilets”—so people whose fantasy is specifically to be a toilet for a dominant.

According to Darcy, “Golden showers are an aquired taste. It’s kind of like calamari: You might think it’s disgusting, but have you ever tried it? Golden showers are basically the calamari of the kink community.” For a lot of people, golden showers are just an alternative way of being intimate with someone. Darcy told me, “I’m a dominant, which means I’m usually the one doing the peeing, but if Channing Tatum wanted to pee on me, I’d be like, Yeah, go.”

Darcy also noted that it’s rare to meet someone who has a kink only for golden showers, meaning that someone who is into piss play will likely have other kinks as well. “You can sexualize anything,” she said. “It’s just about building a bridge in the brain that wraps a certain activity or object in a cloak of eroticism.” The more you know.

book-cover

HONEYMOON

SCENE 1: THE ROAD

 

He laughed into the wind, sucking in mouthful after mouthful of joyous, salty air as the rocky cliff flanking the road suddenly parted and dropped, revealing an astonishing expanse of blue that stretched away from the cliff sides and into oblivion. Allen blinked through wind-tears, wiping at his blue-gray eyes—Thames gray, to be exact: the gray of fog and smog, of all those soggy English women he had dated over the years, and of the dreary vacations he’d taken with them to the sad crags of the English shores, which now, in comparison, seemed like ghost-cliffs and shadow-waters. This was real ocean, ocean as it was intended: a sparkling sapphire carpet that caught the light of the afternoon with a thousand tiny, dancing facets and made you think, just for a moment, that maybe you could fly.

Was this his life? The beauty of the Baja Sebastien Vizcainzo Bay was only the latest in a string of perfections that filled his heart with a fireworks display of satisfaction. He had just sold his second screenplay in Hollywood and was, according to his agent, “hot” right now. Very hot. With that paycheck he had promptly bought a black convertible Mercedes, in which he now sat proudly. Next to him was the gorgeous, brilliant, essentially perfect woman he married a mere 18 hours ago. The wedding had been a Herculean task to organize but was an enormous success. The ceremony in England to please his parents, the reception in LA to please hers, and three dozen of their closest friends who had used the word “perfect” themselves more times than Allen could count. She—his wife—had looked better in her dress than he had ever imagined, gliding over to him at the ceremony with a power and grace that prompted him, unexpectedly, to drop to his knees when he gave his vows. She was nestled behind the wheel of his convertible now, the wind tossing her long, dark hair around her shoulders and neck, occasionally nipping at her cleavage, which  was shamelessly on display in a tight white tank top…no bra. He smiled to himself, knowing that those breasts would soon be in his mouth. His wife’s breasts, and his wife’s thighs, gently spreading for him as he laid her back gently onto the hotel bed for the first time as his own, his woman, his fingers drifting up to the warm crease between her—

“Allen—look!” She pointed at the sky in front of them. An eagle was hovering in the air about 200 feet above the cliffs, perfectly still as it balanced on the gentle Gulf breeze.

“Ah, he’s just showing off for you,” Allen yelled above the wind, shifting against the swelling in his crotch.

Why had he waited so long to come to this glorious land? Darcy, his beloved wife, had been telling him for years that he needed to see Mexico, that no country was so relaxed and pleasant and sensual all at the same time. She had summered here as a child and knew the Southern tip of Baja intimately, and so when it came time to plan their honeymoon, she naturally insisted on making arrangements on her favorite strip of Mexican coastline. Allen hadn’t lifted a finger to plan any of it, except to lift his credit card from his wallet from time to time. He liked it that way: it was sexy and easy and all of their holidays together seemed to fall into the same natural rhythm: Darcy would give him a choice of three destinations, usually in three different countries, and he would select his favorite. Then she would set about masterminding the ideal itinerary, carefully plotting every detail, every meal and every outfit, barking threats down the phone to the travel agents and concierges when things didn’t go her way. Allen was usually seated at his desk, typing away while she worked the phones, his credit card primed nearby, ready for the moment she needed it. Some part of him did like that feeling, the idea that he was being used for his money to satisfy her decadence. The phrase “wallet rape” always popped into his head whenever Darcy called out to him in that gentle, cooing tone she used when she wanted something expensive. Still, a good rape is a good rape, and even wallet rape was sexy when it was Darcy.

His other unofficial holiday job that they had never officially discussed was a bit less glamorous, though he bore it well. Darcy refused to carry her own luggage, instead forcing “bag boy” to “take care of it.” She always said the words so sweetly and with such a genuine smile that Allen actually didn’t mind the task—although to be clear, Darcy did not pack light… ever. She had been known to bring as many as three suitcases with her for a simple weekend away, and for their honeymoon she had splurged on a new Vuitton luggage set in order to accommodate her 16 dresses and 3 bathing suits specially selected for the Mexican seaside. The suitcases were now snug in the back seat of the convertible where Allen had left them, seemingly enjoying the sunshine as the car sped past cliff after cliff after cliff.

To be continued…