Though I had not yet met her, I knew that Mistress Fiona was beautiful for she had told me so.
She had placed a simple classified advertisement in the pages of the local newspaper. It read, "Elegant Beauty Dominates Men and Women at the Dungeon of Donatella Den," and offered a telephone number. When I called, she instructed me to write a brief introductory letter, providing information on my background and my innermost desires. Casually, Fiona explained that often a new slave would present himself before her -- his mind full of deliciously decadent ideas -- only to forget everything the moment he laid eyes upon her. "When you see how beautiful I am," she said matter-of-factly, "you're liable to go blank." So I knew that she was ravishing and arrogant before I even met her. Still, I was wholly unprepared when I knelt before this amazing woman. There are many levels of beauty, but she occupies a precipice of a towering height.
As I gazed at her adoringly, I imagined a corps of nubile maidens -- fifty in number -- actresses, models, prom queens, cheerleaders, great beauties all, but none her equal. They knelt before her -- naked, their up thrust breasts heaving slightly as the magnificent dominatrix strode purposefully among them, lorded over them, subjugating them with her indomitable will, commanding presence, and incomparable beauty. Each youth willingly -- no, eagerly -- bowed low before her to press her soft lips to the tips of her high-heeled shoes in ritual worship as they paid righteous homage to the elegant Dominatrix."You must be Max," Fiona said, awakening me from my reverie. Her luminescent, blue, oval eyes rendered from my subdued visage the practiced appraisal of a lifestyle Domina. If I had been tested, I had evidently passed muster because she said, "Follow me … on your knees," she spun on delightfully towering stilettos and strode elegantly to the staircase. It was then that I realized how luxurious and decadent was the Dungeon of Donatella Den, the Dungeon Mistress."Yes, Mistres Fiona," I replied anxiously. My God, I thought, I would follow this woman to the gates of Hell. Little did I know how true that statement would turn out to be. I followed Fiona down the hallway to a candlelit room, one of six well-appointed dungeons at Donatella Den's New York house of domination.
She sat in a throne-like, wicker chair, crossed her glorious legs and gave the appearance of a truly dominant female who was accustomed to controlling her environment. Her beauty was irresistible. The only way to avoid enslav ement was to look away. But I could not pry my eyes away from the Goddess. She looked incredibly arrogant. Clearly, modesty was not one of her virtues. Her large, penetrating eyes glowed as diamonds in opal settings, so dark were her lids and lashes. Her lovely tresses were pulled back from her face, displaying her facial perfection -- high cheekbones, full lips, princess nose. Sensing that it would be inappropriate to stand in her regal presence, I knelt and handed to her the envelope containing my letter. I bent low and worshipped her feet while, leisurely, she read.
I am not a complete novice in the bizarre arts, though my experience is limited. I have always adored lovely women. The beautiful lifestyle dominatrix, I believe, is a superior being who deserves to be constantly worshipped and whose needs must always be met without hesitation. My fantasies focus upon serving as a personal slave to a cruel and haughty Mistress. During my university years, I lived with a very sexy, aggressive woman who demanded a great deal of foot and body worship, and occasionally subjected me to verbal abuse and slapping. I became adept at cunnilingus and anal worship, due to her insatiable desire for both. I have experienced sessions with eight different lifestyle dominatrixes and came away from each experience with a profound sense of catharsis. And pain . . . always the pain. I wish to descend into the depths of enslavement, including physical, mental and emotional abuse and grinding degradation. You may wish to slap me, whip me and kick me. I wish to go into the abyss. You lead and I shall follow.
Adoringly, slave max
I kissed her feet and, though her shoes looked almost new, I ran my tongue over their surfaces in order to cleanse them of any offending dust."Take off my shoes," Mistress Fiona said, "and use only your mouth."
Although I hastened to obey, suddenly and without warning, her gloved hand slapped my face hard several times as she admonished me for disobeying her.
Finally I managed to remove her shoes and her beautiful, nylon-clad feet were exposed at last.
"Carry them in your mouth and set them up on the floor at my feet so that I may step into them," she commanded.
Utterly abased, I obeyed. My degradation at the feet of this wicked beauty had only begun. During that memorable evening, she spat in my mouth and face. We played a cruel game, which called for me to try and "catch" her spittle in my mouth from the impossible distance of two feet. Fiona spat all over my face and slapped me repeatedly for failing in my allotted task.
She required a great deal of foot and shoe worship. I recall the first time she pressed the bottoms of her perfectly sculpted toes to my nostrils and told me to smell them. What a pleasant scent! She rubbed her feet in my face and used me as a footstool. I licked and sucked her lovely feet through dark stockings, hoping that she would allow me to remove them so that I could worship her lovely naked toes.
Wearing high heels, she administered several sharp kicks to my legs. I knelt before her and presented my face to receive a series of cruel, violent smacks from her shoe which she wielded as though it were a vicious little paddle. She smiled wickedly as she rained painful and humiliating blows upon my upturned face.
"Don't you dare flinch!" came her impatient reprimand when I turned away after a particularly painful group of shoe smackings. "Flinching is not allowed."
Clearly, Fiona was determined to beat my face with her shoe and I was to receive the pain with the discipline of a stoic. It was quite evident that this cruel Mistress would have it no other way.
With an evil grin, she held her shoe over my nose and whispered a debauched command,"Smell it! Smell the inside of my shoe!" I hastened to obey.
"Take deep breaths … that's right, breathe deeply."
The insides of her shoes had an intoxicating aroma, a most pleasant scent given off from the dried sweat of her perfect feet on leather.
"Now lick the inside of my shoe. Lick out my shoe, slave." She glowered at me mockingly as my tongue performed this debauched task.
Soon, she returned to beating my face with her shoe. She was relentless in enacting this peculiarly cruel and degrading form of domination and abuse.
My cheeks turned crimson red and very sore. She seemed to take great pleasure in my pain and abasement, and displayed unblinking acceptance of her inalienable right to degrade me and make me suffer for her amusement.
In a sudden fury of movement, Fiona thrust her shoe beneath my nostrils.
I breathed. She pulled her shoe away, leaned forward, spat in my face, and again pummeled my cheek with the sole of her shoe. She beat me with a vengeance now, so furiously that when she turned her wrist to smack my opposing cheek, the toe of her shoe momentarily caught on the bridge of my nose.
For a split second, she appeared angry and vengeful, and she beat both cheeks in quick succession. I have never before seen such ruthless beauty as I witnessed in that fleeting moment.
She handed me the black suede pumps with which she had beaten my cheeks to a bright crimson and commanded me to place them carefully on her feet.
Smiling devilishly, Mistress Fiona selected a simple riding crop, held it in both hands and flexed it, tapped its tip lightly against her thigh, and hissed, "I want your face flat on the floor, left cheek up. Your ass I want high in the air. I don't care where you put your hands, just so long as they never get in the way of my whip. Is that understood, slave?"
"Yes, Mistress." I knew that I was really going to suffer. She was all business now, and it was readily apparent that, when it came to whips and their use, this woman was an expert.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The tip of her crop bit sharply into the tender flesh of my ass. The pain was unlike anything I had ever felt in my life. It burned, seared, sliced through my skin, shredding my nerves. The pain was so intense that it made me lose all perspective. The instant that she struck her first blow, I became a groveling, sniveling animal.
She kept beating me.
My suffering was incredible. Not to be believed. Insane! Why was I subjecting myself to this crazed ritual of denigration and pain?
Fiona stepped on my face. She planted the sole and heel of her shoe on my exposed cheek and she pressed down, putting her weight into it, squashing my face flat. The whipping grew harder.
Was I a crazy man? She would not stop! Should I cry out? If I cried, " Mercy, Mistress," would the harsh whipping cease. What did I have to prove?
Was there a reason for all of this? I was crying. Crying, for God's sake!
As quickly as the ruthless attack began, it ceased. She knelt beside me.
So viciously shamed, I trembled and wept. Fiona leaned forward, bit my cheek playfully and spoke softly in my ear. "How does it feel to be the victim of my aggressive nature?"
"Exhilarating, Goddess," I responded without hesitation. I had endured.
Suddenly, the shame disappeared and I was proud, proud to have suffered for her pleasure, proud to have served my Mistress well.
"You will be my slave, my chattel, my property, my lick spittle, my thing," she hissed, nastily. "You will be my footstool, my toady, my sycophant, my submissive, my bootlicker. I own you. Is that understood?"
"What are you?"
"I am your slave, Mistress Fiona."
"You will serve only me."
She stood and permitted me to kiss her luscious, taut ass cheeks and allowed me to sniff at the rear crotch of her panties. Oh, how I would have loved to press my nose to her lovely asshole and breathe deeply and give her a proper brown-nosing. But she would not allow anal worship at this, our initial, meeting.
"You are dismissed," she said in a bored tone.
I considered myself quite privileged to have been granted permission to kiss her lovely ass. I concluded that such an honor must have been my reward for having endured such a ruthless beating.
I had mixed feelings when I left the New York Dungeon of Donatella Den that fateful night.I experienced a profound sense of catharsis. I bent logic to make myself believe that the ends justified the means, and thus, though it took drastic and bizarre measures to achieve a catharsis, well, I had at last arrived, I felt blissful now that the pain and humiliation were over, so what I had experienced on my journey made at least some sense. But I also had feelings of fear and foreboding. Deep within my soul, I sought answers to the questions posed during the Goddess' merciless whipping. I had no answers. I had launched a quest for the truth, and I had faith that if I followed the Goddess' lead, I would find it. I was on my way.
We are located in Midtown Manhattan and easily accessed by several subway lines. There are three secure parking garages within a few blocks of our dungeon and parking is available on the street after 7 p.m.
From Monday through Friday 10:00 a.m. to 1:30 a.m.
From Saturday to Sunday 10:00 a.m to 11:00 p.m.