She left an indelible mark on me.


I had the good pleasure of seeing Mistress Darcy a few weeks ago. She was not my first session, but she left an indelible mark on me. I hope you enjoy the review:

By the fourth time I cataloged the venue, I was certain she wasn’t nestled in a booth shrouded in low light and din. I looked again anyway. I was also certain she wasn’t hanging on the only door like some sort of dominatrix holiday ornament. At least my plan to stare from person to person to door gave me something to do. Taking stock, I fulfilled minimalist and neat descriptions: cold, early and nervous.

She still wasn’t the boy beside me, awkwardly associating with a couple but focusing on his phone. I add frenetic to my list of adjectives.

I see her on the street through the window and a gallon of adrenaline bursts like a supremely satisfying water balloon in your childhood nemesis’s face. I’m flush. Two people by the door jostle for a better table in the corner and the upheaval delays her entrance. I envy the vestibule and curse the couple and the cafe for poor urban planning.

She knows I’m the one waiting for her but I wave anyway. Her in-person presence is different from her photos…

My first repose; a comment better left unsaid and she swivels her head. Her eyes narrow and I feel as if she slapped me on the street corner without warning. My voice cracks and my gait falters. “Not angry, just intense”. Now, cold, nervous, frenetic and trading early for quizzical.

Arriving at her space, I couldn’t retrace my steps. I was lost in a city with a companion I fail to categorize and she was leading me up the stairs– forcing me to my knees I felt the Mistress in the Darcy. I have been asked to kneel, told to kneel, expected to kneel and even abruptly placed on my knees but Mistress Darcy invoked something else when she locked my arms and *forced* me on my knees. She lowered my face to the floor and gripped me between her legs. I readjusted my body to keep symmetrical and placed me hands on the ground. I wanted to be beautiful lest she tire of me. I was sloppy. I kissed her boots in revelry but I was consumed rather than measured. I stared when I should have embraced modesty and closed my eyes when I should have absorbed direction. An emotional puddle and her boots were still on.

And then they weren’t. Removed at my hand. She lounged on the bed and brought them to my face. Grace, poise and sophistication, already long gone from my repertoire, were replaced by my grinding hips against her mattress. Her aroma immediately struck me and the lights in my brain lit up like my fanciful images of switchboards on Mother’s day. I was losing touch and she wanted to play.

“Say when”. I’m trim and tiny so cupping my body in pseudo-embrace was effective bondage. She held me and put her right arm on my windpipe. Pressure. More pressure. Spots in front of my eyes and no breath– it was my only responsibility in the last half-hour and I didn’t want to make a mistake. I say when.

She ties me and uses the lead as a leash. My knees struggle to keep up with her stride. She pushes me down again. Again. I stare and marvel at how beautiful she is; how minimal changes in the curves of her lips span an emotional orchestra. Her feet are out of reach and she is flexing and wiggling them in front my face. I need them but I’m relatively still; squirming but compliant. “Can you reach?” I can, but is it worth it. I twist my tiny wrist out of a loose tie and sit up. One explosive second near her mind-altering feet before she moves. “Cheeky boy!”

… My screams are muffled by her hand. I guess 40 and I’m correct. But she is switching implements and I’m straddling her bed. I find the moments between striking blows 43 and 44 to consider she sleeps here. And now my face is hiding my moans in the sheets. Round 10s and she lets me kiss her toe. I debate whether she is affording a single contact. I test with a double-dip, she closes her eyes and I want her contended feeling to be forever associated with my lips on her feet. We resume with a cane. Harshly. She pauses on the 9s and delivers a blow that makes me bite my lip. My rear is hot. Oh god yes, hit me again.

She often holds me so I can’t move– unless she tickles me. I’m to kneel and she stands behind me. I raise my arms behind her head and lock my hands. “Keep your hands together” She attacks my ribs with a thousand touches and I’m seeing red. I can’t remain still but I don’t let go. I pray for it to stop. “I don’t play with safewords”.

She is tender with me but begins to guzzle water. She probes me for unfulfilled fantasy. She marks me without permanent or even temporary implications. I’m finding I want to take more, give more and be more.

I dress and we chat. I want to see her again; in a month or in an hour. We laugh and I want her soundtrack.

Dear Max readers, this review was more reflective than most. I can
recommend Mistress Darcy without reservation. She is attractive, very sharp and giving. I would be happy to answer specific questions but one has little to lose by reaching out to contact her. Please do, and I hope you end up as fulfilled as I am.

(Posted by ohkchanged1 on January 4, 2011)