You Do Remember Who I Am... Don't You?

I have received a private comment expressing displeasure over my missing Book Review Thursday last week. This potentially ex-trainee seemed to think they might not be the only one who missed out, and wondered if I would like to ask for a show of hands on the issue. They seriously wanted a poll. They wanted to know if the big, bad dominatrix had disappointed her readers. Think that one through for a moment, folks. I will wait while you try and sort that one out.





You have got to be fucking kidding me. I will not be dictated to by the likes of you, maggot. I am not here for your amusement, and I am not here for your pleasure. Your pleasure, so you claim, is to serve. How dare you question my methods. You are a disgrace to submissives everywhere.

I will bare your flesh and administer forty lashes. I will choose a flogger that is a bit more than you can handle. I will land blows with precision and make damned sure that your ribs, your tender wittle wibs, show the welts of my displeasure tomorrow and in the days to come. I know your weakness, fragile one. I know your fear and I will exploit it. You, regardless of what some crappy dom in college told you, are not in control here. I am in control here. And you will like it.

I will fuck you with the handle of my weapon for that little indiscretion. And next time you have a complaint, you best phrase it in the form of a question, bitch. Remember this, if you remember nothing else: There Is No Talking In My Library.

The Day I Had

Have you ever just wanted to hit somebody?

Tell me about it...

Book Review Thursday - The Black Swan

I think you know by now how much I love smart boys. Mmmmmmmmm. Tasty. She's into malacas, Dino.

This man, Nassim Nicholas Taleb, is sexy. I love to curl up with this book, his masterpiece about the highly improbable thing that will sneak up and bite you on the ass. The Black Swan is a beautiful freak. Gotta love that.

Black Swans are highly unpredictable and improbable events that, when they do occur, change everything. Ever had the impossible happen and change the entire paradigm of your life? Perhaps you were a sweet young thing who had never been hit and then one day your mean bitch of a girlfriend hauled off and slapped you. First you were angry. Then you got a hard on. And you got even angrier about that.

A Black Swan can be the big event that changes the world (like a credit crisis) or a big event that just changes your world. Either way, it changes the game, to borrow an overused phrase from the political pundits of CNN.

Even better than the incredibly geeky/sexy subject matter of math and philosophy: this man can actually put together a coherent sentence! Hooray for the Queen's English! This book makes me hot as a librarian, as a student of history, and as a dominatrix.

Keep it up, all you sexy smart boys who aspire to be like Mr. Taleb. You get the dominant bitches wet. ISBN-13: 978-1400063512 Amazon.com

There is no talking in the library!

Sometimes I really love my day job. Today the library was overrun with Seniors researching their big papers before Spring Break. I got to "Shhhhh!" them. Repeatedly. What bliss.

You bad, bad boys!

Working Lunch

Now that you know a little about me, maybe I should give you a taste of what I do. As a matter of fact, one of my favorite trainees got a little more taste of me than he intended at our lunchtime meeting today. You see- some trainees have social and family obligations that keep them from training on my schedule. These people, generally men, have trained with me long enough to have earned a little leeway. Perhaps for this trainee, it wasn't leeway enough.

We have met behind closed doors at his office on several occasions. His secretarial staff think I am just a client and they bill me after our meetings. I bill him right back, and I raise him every time.

On this occasion, I brought him his lunch. He seemed pleased at the notion as he led me into the office and shut the door behind us. I ordered him to sit, and he smiled. First I tied his ankles to the legs of his desk chair and his biceps to the arms of it with my favorite office accoutrement, an extension cord. I wanted his forearms and hands free to move in a prescribed area, so I left them unencumbered. Then I locked the wheels on his chair with him pulled almost up to his desk and slid between him and that large expanse of polished mahogany. It was obvious he had something in mind at this point. When I turned my back to him and pulled up my skirt he knew that his assumption had been wrong.

My trainees know not to protest, but he did mention his reticence in the only way he could. "Ma'am," he almost whimpered, "I can of course do anything you desire." He knew that a good trainee would just lick my ass like a good boy, but he hoped I was only testing him. I wasn't.

The flinching attempts started with a few hesitant little flicks of his tongue on my cheeks and along the crack of my ass, just feeling out the situation. I stood with my knees locked and my hamstrings flexed, bent over the desk. My posture said it all. He slowly worked his way to my asshole. I could pinpoint the moment when he actually became aroused at the idea of licking my ass. That was when he realized his hands were free and used them to pull my cheeks just far enough apart. Suddenly his tongue was inside my asshole and all bets were off. He was enjoying it.

Contrary to popular belief, a dominant does want their sub to be happy, so I let him lick and tongue fuck me quite a while. I kept an eye on his office clock, of course, but I did lose some track of time. Eventually his wet lashes had me so turned on that my thighs were sticky wet and I was chewing the edge of his desk blotter. When I stood upright my obedient boy actually moaned because he didn't want it to be over.

I turned to look at his eyes and gave him a drink of the tea I'd brought for his palate cleanser between courses. After he'd had his fill I leaned in and whispered in his ear. "My pussy is jealous. You've got more work to do."

Book Review Thursday - Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns

This classic by Philip Miller and Molly Devon is a truly "boots on the ground" look at what the subtitle refers to as "the romance and sexual sorcery of sadomasochism." I don't know about sorcery, really, but this book is required reading.

Screw the Roses is a masterful (no pun intended) description of how a BDSM lifestyle relationship can work. The touching tales of how love conquers pain are actually fantastic from the right point of view. An individual hoping to embark on a BDSM journey with a spouse or other loved one simply must read this book. It touches on so many important subjects that can make or break a traditional relationship, and for that it must be worshipped.

However, this is not to be confused with a professional BDSM relationship of any sort. Just as a professional (usually) will not have sex with you, they (usually) won't cuddle after a scene and tell you they love you. I know I won't. You may earn a loving sigh or even a few words of affection, but these things are not rights as they are in other types of relationships. Remember, just as you must do what it takes to earn an engagement ring, you must do what it takes to earn your collar. Don't expect that it will be freely given without something in exchange.

So- as much as I adore this book in a relationship context, please do not read it and expect that your life as a trainee will resemble this in any way. It will not. The dichotomy must stand. For it's intended purpose, though- this book is the best. ISBN-13: 9780964596009 amazon.com

The Look

Not every woman has it. This is sad, and this is avoidable. Even if you or your beloved do not possess the Look, I know you understand the Look I mean. That "do not fuck with me" look, perhaps with one eyebrow raised. It is the glare that stops unruly teenagers in their tracks. It is the steady gaze that tells a man that he will under no circumstances deviate from the woman's plan. When employed by the best, you need not even see it. You can feel it. It creeps up your spine and into your brain stem, squelching any desire for autonomy.

I was born with the Look. My mother had it in spades when she was my age, though her power has diminished over the decades. It is possible that my withering glance showed her defeat as soon as I hit puberty, but I prefer to think that she is just out of practice. The champion could come out of retirement at any time.

The Look is standard equipment for a dominatrix. The Look can lead a trainee to the right head space faster than my favorite flogger. It can do anything. It can mean anything. It can, and will, seduce you into submission. When we feel the Look upon us, we all revert to childhood. Some of us even aim to please. But the Look will never be satisfied. It will never concede an inch. And that is just how it should be.

Word to the Wise

BDSM scenes and activity are not "just foreplay." For many practitioners, they are the main course. The sooner a newcomer learns this, the better.
After my weekend, it seemed like something you should be made aware of.

Book Review Thursday - Female Ejaculation and the G Spot

Female Ejaculation and the G Spot, by Deborah Sundahl. Save yourself some heartache and add rubber sheets to your Amazon order when you buy this book. Part fantasy fodder and part what you really hoped to learn in Sex Ed, this book deserves a place in every woman's collection. Leave it out so your partner can find it "accidentally." ISBN-13: 9781904132387 amazon.com

Long Weekends Create Long Tuesdays

The smell of books is what keeps me going on long days like today. Not exactly musty and not exactly crisp, the paper of a book takes on some of the character from the place where it is stored. For instance, our periodicals reading room has changed over the years. At one point it smelled of cheap pulp and rubber bands. Now it houses computers for online exploration, so it smells like sweat and hot dust.

My favorite area of the library, as far as smells go, is the pseudo-corridor between the children's section and the sports section. The children smell sweet, of course, and the sports section smells rancid. The only people who frequent the 790s on most days are adolescent boys with overactive sweat glands and the local newspaper's sports writer. He wants so badly to be punished that he leers at me between the shelves. But the sweet and the rancid combine ( in a manner not unlike Chanel No.22) in that corridor. The space is truly just the empty shelves between sections where the breath of the building somehow ebbs and flows.

If you catch that certain square meter of space at just the right moment it smells fantastic. Like innocence in the process of becoming. Not being the patient sort, I find reasons to visit there much too often. Sometimes I catch that fleeting scent, but I usually just reminisce.

Power of the Written Word

I have a very vivid memory of my first taste of porn. My childhood was spent playing with boys, and not in the way you might think. I was a tomboy. My two brothers were probably the reason for this, although my mother did her very best and bought me all the pink and frilly things that any good mother would have purchased. Much like children/disappointments everywhere, I eschewed these offerings to the feminine. I wanted guns. I wanted fatigues. I wanted to be just as fast and lewd and dirty as all the boys in the neighborhood, even before I knew the intentions behind all those adjectives.

So I spent an inordinate amount of time doing guy stuff with guys, and as we got older the guys got weirder and weirder about it. They would exclude me from their outings on occasion, but I was generally invited for treasure hunts on bicycle or hikes through the wilds of uptown. Little did I realize that the reason they invited me along had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the fact that their mothers somehow knew I would boss them into staying out of serious trouble. A Domina, even then.

Most of all, they excluded me when they stayed in. After I expressed my displeasure with this situation, they pointed out that I was a girl and could not attend sleepovers. When this explanation worked, all their indoor events became sleepovers.

One day after such a night, I showed up at a male friend's house unannounced. His mother was surprised, but said she expected him home soon and that I could wait in his bedroom until he arrived. As soon as he got home, of course, that bedroom door needed to stay open. But she didn't watch me very closely until then. What harm could I do alone, after all?

As it turns out, plenty. I found his porn stash. In my defense: it wasn't very well hidden. He kept it in his guitar case and, as a boy, was honor-bound to never put his guitar away where it belonged. I was just looking for a pick, but what I found was much more interesting to me.

That encounter is probably the reason I love lingerie today. The pictures didn't titillate me. In fact, I found them rather disturbing. I didn't have hair like that. I didn't want hair like that. What I wanted were all those pretty things. Those few minutes of window shopping felt almost as good as a trip to Agent Provocateur does today. My mother was just thrilled at my change in demeanor, of course. God forbid she ever find out the reason for it. I flipped through three magazines before my friend came home and caught me. He was ashamed in those first moments. I wasn't. I asked lots of questions, and he answered.

I learned a lot that day. For some strange reason, he actually told me a version of the truth. He told me he liked the pictures. He told me why. I told him what I liked too, and we both found it interesting that we liked the same thing for different reasons. This pattern of porn viewing and discussion, by the way, lasted well into our high school years. It did, in time, become very titillating to me. In fact, it was fantastic. As was he, if you must know.

Penthouse letters is overrated. We all know this, of course, but many of us pick it up occasionally out of some sad hope that this time will be different. To this day I prefer the written word to even the most artfully crafted erotic photograph. Some say this is due to my gender, some say I just think too much. I often wonder if it all relates back to those conversations. Talking about the pictures was so much sexier than just looking at them.

Sight unseen. It's an overworked phrase, of course. Something that real estate agents have wet dreams about. But phrases become overworked and timeworn because they contain truth. The unseen has a certain splendor in this hyper-exposed world. Beauty in sublety. Tell it to the unwashed masses with visible bra straps and tramp stamps on display, right? I know, I know- I'm old fashioned that way. But I enjoy a little mystery. I enjoy an undercurrent, hell- I even enjoy the Undertoad. So what I ask of you, dear reader, is that you endulge your imagination. In exchange, I promise to provide you with just enough information to make that dog hunt.



Truth be told, that's about all the asking I intend to do here. The world is full of askers. Everybody wants something, but asking is overrated. Telling, on the other hand, is great fun. Telling people what to do, for instance: now that can flood a girl's heart with warmth...

the tables are officially turned...

In my professions (and yes, that was purposefully plural) people generally reveal more of themselves to me than I ever reveal to them. With the creation of this blog, the tables are officially turned. I must say, it feels good so far...

We shall see how my new bruises look in the light of day.