Pain Junkie

There are not too many of him around. He's a masochist, a real pain slut, he doesn't mind marks, welts, bruises, and he'll take just about anything I give him, with or without a warm up. He says I'm mean, but he says it with a smile on him face. He says I start at full sprint, but it's not so much that I don't build intensity gradually, it's that his enthusiasm for suffering for me infects me with a desire to inflict discipline swiftly and aggressively, and the curve is steep and quick.

He is not stoic. He whimpers. He trembles. He yelps, and breathes quickly, audibly. He perspires. He quivers. He giggles. I fantasize that he is on the verge of tears. I tell him not to think, not to do anything but exist, to fulfill his purpose in that moment, which is to entertain me, to suffer for me. And he suffers for me, I can see it in the texture and color of his skin, I can hear it coming through the break in his voice.

I lean forward, I am behind him, chokehold around his neck, and I whisper in his ear, "There's no safe word. Did I mention that?" He says, "No, I mean, yes, Mistress. I mean, I know, Mistress." I didn't mention it, but I know he knew intuitively, or maybe he heard the rumor, that I don't use safe words, especially with someone like him, someone who knows he will take it all, will take all the pain I give him while he's behind closed doors with me.

And the thing about this one is, not only will he take it, he'll take it and he'll feel it, he won't push it down, or out, or take it silently; he'll experience every single drop of pure pain that enters his body through the tip of my dragon tail or flogger or cat o nine or crop, every drop of pure pain that travels through my fingertips as they pinch, squeeze, pull and twist his flesh. He feels it, every microsecond of it, and I feel him feel it.

I feel him feel it.

I'm an ass man.

Yes, it's true, at least according to the announcer who told everyone at the Hedo party on Saturday night: "Mistress Alex is an assmanassmanassman *reverbreverbreverb* ." What's worse is I told him to say it. It's not my fault, I was part of a group of people that Lola wanted introduced to the Hedo crowd, and we were asked to provide our specialties (I admitted to being an expert Mindfucker) and a little known fact (hence the ass man comment). I'm not so sure that my being an ass man is so little known, but now it's most definitely public knowledge. Anyway, it was Lola's birthday, and as we all know, whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.

I must say that having my asshole licked by my one and only very special personal asslicker was a major highlight of the party, and made it worth braving the blizzard in latex and platforms to finally find an off-duty taxi to drive us to Rebel. (Another highlight was feeling up Mistress Sade's amazingly supple presque-couture silk cheongsam, but that's a story for another nevermind.)

Speaking of tossing salad and Sade (never the twain have met—get your minds out of the gutter!), there's a new Masocast up online for your listening pleasure, and I do mean pleasure. I promise you, you will not know whether to laugh your ass off or jerk your dick off. Not only will you get to hear me talk about the tossing of salads, but you'll hear me tell the moderator to "Do something bitch!" and say "Fuck fuck fuck!" out of sheer joy and admit stream of consciousness style that "I am a cunt." Listen up to this special edition roundtable Masocast of four dominant voices: mine along with Mistresses Ayla, Sade and Troy's, as we wax philosophical about the sacredness of BDSM, and speak of the unspeakable, such as what to do with a clone and/or a sex worker, all of which is peppered with my own patented combination of obscenity and hilarity.

I said listen up. Do it now.

Obsessed

I was told today that the scent coming from my foot is mesmerizing, hypnotic, an aphrodisiac. Well, not in so many words, but clearly the subject on the floor looking up at me past my toes and instep would have wanted to say that, if only he had been able to string together the syllables, which is sometimes hard to do with a foot planted squarely in your mouth.

Whether he said it or not, he was right. The secret to my addictive foot fragrance is in the boots—I love to wear them, it's one of my very few addictions. (I am also addicted to latex and caffeine, both of which are too obvious to talk about.) But it's about time I exposed myself, that is, my obsession with boots, especially black leather, form-fitting, and high heeled, preferably with a platform. The fact is, I wear boots almost daily, even in summer, because we all know that the A/C is on too high inside of most places in the summertime anyway. But this is winter, in case you haven't been paying attention, so at this point I am in boots every single day—sometimes steel-toed, sometimes thick-soled, sometimes fuzz-lined, sometimes spike-heeled. I wear them not only because I love the way they look on my feet and legs, but I love how toasty they keep my feet. And I don't mind admitting that from time to time, my feet are slightly moist with perspiration, and when removed from the boot, have a tendency to release a very noticeable aroma.

Deal with it.

Happy Holidays!

Photo Set Archive: The Top

As I'm sure you already know, I finally got around to updating the MyRealityPlane gallery with a set from the super fun photo shoot I did at Sully the Genius Metal Worker's pad a couple months ago. (Thanks again, Sully!) Benevolent as I am, I have decided that none of you should have to exist in a world with less photos of me, and will be posting archives of all retired gallery sets here, so you can look at them forever and ever and ever.

Pause for standing ovation.

You're welcome.

There's a reason why this set is called The Top.

It's not just because I am The Top,

though clearly that's an integral part of it.

But another quite overwhelming part of it is how

I adore putting on tall shoes and boots,

making myself as tall as possible,

crashing through the ceiling and scraping the sky,

swatting at airplanes and King Kongs and such,

a momentary distraction until

I turn my attention back to swatting at you,

puny, small, exposed, vulnerable,

all the way down there.

These are the boots I like to wear when

you're on the floor at my feet,

and the best part is when I trap your wrists or neck

in the space between my boot heel and toe,

forcing you to be still, to stare up at me as I tower over you.

I do so love to tower over you.

Just about as much as I love to hover directly above you,

looking down on you, watching you struggle to remain still

as you do your best to assume the state of a nice, comfy,

sturdy piece of furniture, if that's how I've decided

you'll best serve me in the moment.

Giddyup! And don't make me use my spurs!

*finger wagging*

(As if you could make me.

I'll use my spurs when I fucking well please,

and you'll fucking well thank me for it.)

I am always on top,

sometimes less than inches away from you,

restraints holding you perfectly still in place,

reminding you that an inch may as well be forever,

because an inch from forever is as close as you'll ever get.

(Now that's torture—ha! Deal with it.)

This one's a gift, for obvious reasons. Happy Holidays!