MISTRESS ANGELICA; Why Domination?

I suppose you could say I fell into the scene. I had always felt like a round peg in a square hole, never quite fitting the mould, and the day I stepped inside a Dominatrix's converted house I knew I had found something that made my heart race and my blood pump to every corner of my being. I had never thought of myself as being dominant or 'into' fetish, I would admit to bossy (controversial word but I believe I am), and confident, but dominant was not a word I was au fait with. So, how did I get to be in that house?

Believe it or not I was a rather quiet child at school, always had my head in the books, a good student. At home was another matter altogether.  I am the oldest sibling and didn't I know it! Some of my earliest memories are of organising school role play games with the local group of children I grew up with. I was always the teacher, up at the blackboard, giving my orders. Childhood games of 'house’ and ‘mummies and daddies ' were always dictated and led by me. I even convinced two of the local boys to be part of a dance group, one of whom I am still close friends with to this day. He recounts the story regularly of the time when I had them dancing to Abba songs, much to his disgust! My teenage years were angst filled, as many teenagers’ years are. I was diagnosed as an insulin dependent diabetic at 12 years old and had to grow up and become independent and responsible overnight. This set me apart from my peers as they could gallivant off at a moments notice whereas I had to take bags full of medical kit and food. It was at this point that I think I felt a separation from the 'norm'.

I am asked regularly as to whether I had fetish inklings during my youth. I’m not sure, is the answer to that. Was I different? Yes. Was I drawn toward fetish immediately? Yes, once I found it. One incident I recall vividly was seeing The Rocky Horror Show film for the first time. I must have been about 11 or 12 years old. I was intrigued, (border line obsessed), with Tim Curry as Frankinfurter in his underwear and make up. I recall the film doing strange things to my insides and wondering what on earth was going on with me. Was I born to fancy men in frilly knickers? :-)

Time passed, I grew up, I experimented, and I lived. Some of my early ‘experimentation’ did include fetish play and I did frequent both swinging and fetish clubs during this period, building up an interesting group of friends. It was whilst attending a New Years Eve party, with said group of friends, that I met my first ever Pro Dominatrix. She was full of energy, verve, passion and had a wicked sense of fun. I was spellbound by her. Her authoritativeness, her way with others and her charismatic personality all meant her presence lit up the room.  We ended up in deep conversation and we realised we had a lot in common. By New Year's Day she had invited me to her 'dungeon', I accepted her invite and the rest just fell into place. I quit my job – teaching, and I committed to a new future, not being totally sure of what that future actually held. It was mad, irrational and one of the best bloody decisions I had made in my life up to that point. That's how I ended up in that converted 2 up, 2 down house.

The Domme of the house took me under her wing and taught me the intricacies of domination. I do not believe that you can teach a person to be naturally dominant, it is either there or it isn't, however a person has to learn the art and skills of domination. I was intrigued by the raw power of CP, the delicacy of sensual play, the potency of bondage, the raucousness and entertainment of and from humiliation, the joy of the extensive range of outfits and shoes/boots, (I could go on and on). And then there was the control, that huge, ever present feeling of complete control. It swept me off my feet. I got to meet a multitude people, both Domme and sub, all with wonderful life stories and amazing 'journeys.' The subs were men whose interests are labelled in the vanilla world as 'weird' and 'sick' and there I was chatting to them. I enjoyed their company and soaked up their unique stories and tales as to how they got in to finding and exploring their submissive sides and interests. One in particular, a maid slave, had a big impact on me. He/she was present at the dungeon a lot and she was often my guinea pig. I remember a full afternoon spent with the violet wand and electrics box with me 'experimenting' on her with lots of jumping and screeching (on her part) and lots of giggling (on my part). She was very particular about her dressing too. She taught me that for some people the dressing, make up and full presentation has to be precise. She was quite the perfectionist when it came to outfits, matching her underwear and accessories. She had to be presentable at all times because punishment reigned if she was not. The dominants I met were from all walks of life, some pro, some played socially, a Master whose forte was rope bondage.

I was discovering myself and my kink, which was hidden under layers of social conditioning. I was growing and developing at a pace. The Dominatrix that gave her time to train me became a friend, a partner in crime, we played good cop, bad cop. We were light and shade and all was well. Every day I would go to her dungeon to learn and experience. Every single day I witnessed new interests, new activities and I was hooked. When the time came for her dungeon to close, we parted company, I was ready to spread my wings and fly alone in my own setting. She retired not long after. Many Domme's seem to burn out and disappear from the scene as quickly as a candle is blown out in a draught. Obviously, there are many colourful and varied reasons for a Domme's retirement, they range from ill health to personal problems to their dungeons being targeted by local gossips and 'do gooders'. Many seem to simply tire of the 'role' and the pretence and they become unable to face putting on the make-up and the clothing and transforming themselves into their chosen persona. I am hoping to completely avoid this particular hurdle as I am as true to myself as I can be. I am not an actress that plays a part. Angelica is me, she’s not an alien invader, she has lived and breathed within me since the day I was born. 

 My beliefs and ways of playing are ever growing and changing. I truly enjoy what I do. When a submissive approaches me I listen to and respect their interests and then I create a session that works for me rather than kowtowing to anyone’s specific fetishes. I train all of my submissives to accept. Acceptance of my decisions, instructions and choices takes time to train into a submissive. I enjoy this time of getting to know a person inside/out. It can take years for me to fully train a submissive as I want them. There is no rush, time is forever on my side in my studio. I want to end a session knowing that I have taken what I wanted from the session and knowing the sub in my presence has been truly dominated/controlled by me. Topping from the bottom is a pet hate of mine. I do

understand that people have core interests and will ensure that I find out about these, those are their 'weaknesses' in play. They will be the things they look forward to, enjoy, fantasise about and that can be a potent part of a session but they have to understand that I, their Mistress, also has interests and in order to keep me entertained they have to be open and accept my play, my interests, my mood and my wants and needs.

Mistress Angelica has published two books. My Dinner Party is at Amazon UK & Amazon US
Chemin de Fer is at Amazon UK and Amazon US

Mistress Angelica can be found at her website
 On Twitter she is @MAngelica1UK

DISSONANCE a free Christmas Eve read from billierosie

It is Christmas Eve in the busy Andalucía restaurant. There is an atmosphere of noisy chaos; this is a deliberate ploy on the part of Esteban, the restaurant manager. The aim is to transport diners far, far away to the heat of exotic Southern Spain, with its Arabian heritage, where everything seems to be chaotic but really it isn’t. There’s a lot of shouting from the waiters as they attend swiftly to the diners. The waiters flatter female diners with flirtatious flickering glances. Esteban has told them to do this, flirting with English women is to be expected of Spanish men regardless of your sexual preference and regardless of the woman’s age.


Christmas Eve is always one of the busiest nights of the year in the Andalucía restaurant.
The lights in the Andalucía are kept low, creating an atmosphere of intimacy. You are just able to discern colour and you can observe a guitarist wearing a red muleta, a matador’s cape, moving between tables, getting in the way of sweating waiters as he thrums a flamenco in the style of Rodrigo.


Reds and blacks predominate and sudden flares as a chef flambés steaks at one of the tables. His movements and gestures are flourishing; a sort of constitutional showing off.


The fragrance of cooking meats stimulates the appetite.


A host greets a man and a woman, a Señor and a Señora at the door and takes their heavy coats. It may be warm in the restaurant, but this is England in December and it’s bitterly cold outside, a gale blowing spiteful flecks of snow around.

There will be a white Christmas.


The woman is very beautiful with a Rubenesque figure. Her features are pretty, with wide dark eyes and a full sensuous mouth. Her long auburn hair is swept up at the neck with just a few curls allowed to fall casually.


She is small, barely reaching her partner’s shoulder. His craggy dark good looks are tight with tension.
They are shown to their corner table. It’s the table that they have always had, every Christmas Eve for twenty seven years. She has asked for it when she made the booking.

They sit in silence for some minutes.

“This is nice,” the woman says.

They peruse the menu, each knowing what the other will order. It will be the same entrées and main courses that they have always ordered over the years that they have been coming here.


Only the choice of wine varies.


They order their food: small talk seems necessary.


“I do love this restaurant, it’s like being in Spain, I mean actually being in Spain. I think we should book our holiday soon, make our reservations at the hotel.”

“Perhaps,” says the man; he knows that a response is necessary.

“There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it,” she says quickly.

“Well…yes maybe we should.”

“Well, at least we agree on something.”

“Do we?”

“Do we what?”

“Agree on something.”

They are silent for seconds. The waiter brings a jug of iced water.


“A bottle of this,” the man asks the waiter, pointing to the Cava on the wine list.

The waiter pours them both a glass of iced water and leaves them to talk.

“I’m in the mood for red,” she says.

“Nothing’s ever right for you…”


But he’s asked for the Cava anyway…he has ordered his usual Fruit du Mer as an entrée. Mussels are at the height of the season and will be plump and delicious right now. And his wife has predictably ordered her usual safe citrus fruit cocktail. The taste of the cool white wine will clash horribly with the citric juices, but he’s past caring.


She ignores his jibe. She picks at the cuticle of the thumbnail of her right hand with the index fingernail of the same hand. She wants some answers from him, but she’s not sure what the question is anymore. When she does speak it is a clumsy attempt at intimacy.


“What sort of people sit in a restaurant and don’t even try to talk to each other?”

“Married people,” he says quickly.

The woman flinches. There’s a sting in his words. “We don’t talk anymore, not really talk,” she says. We used to sit up all night, just talking, remember?”

The man fixes his wife with a long cool glance.


“I remember we used talk about a lot of things all night. We used to do a lot of things all night too.”

“Please don’t…I thought we’d finished talking about that.”

“Talking about what?”

“You know…”

“Do I?”

“You can’t even say the word. It’s sex; fucking.”

She takes a sip of her iced water. “I still can’t make up my mind about how to have the kitchen finished off. I think wood would be best. Mahogany or pine. What do you think? I don’t think we should go for the stainless steel. An industrial look wouldn’t fit with the farmhouse.”


Her husband sighs. He rests his elbows on the small table and he leans forward. She can feel his warm breath on her face. She cannot repress a shudder.

“You’re prevaricating again. You always do that…prevaricate. Evade the subject.”

“Thank you. I do know what prevaricate means,” she says irritably.

“So you should, you’re an expert at it.”

She slides her forefinger over the condensation forming on her chilling water glass. A gesture that could have been seen as slightly erotic, but he knows better.

“Don’t be nasty. It’s Christmas Eve. We can do it when we get home…if you like.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t say ‘thank you’. You our make our lovemaking sound so mechanical.”

“It is mechanical. You go to the bathroom before we fuck and stuff your cunt with lubricant. Then we fuck. I want to hold you afterwards and even do it again, or maybe not…but you can’t wait to get back to the bathroom so you can douche.”

“Don’t be crude…you’re being crude…and nasty cruel.”

Her fingernail digs at the cuticle; she has made the place sore.

“Oh sorry if I offend your delicate sensibilities. I can’t believe that you really think that couples of our age don’t have sex anymore.”

“I never said that…not exactly that…but I no, I don’t believe they do.”

“So because we’ve both hit fifty, we’re never going to have sex again?”

“There are more important things.”

“Oh really? Like what? The kitchen and holidays in Spain?"

“Yes…if you like…”

“I don’t like…sometimes I despair.”

“Don’t exaggerate. You despair about what?”

“My own body. I don’t know I don’t know what to do about my own body.”

“You’re still talking about sex? You’re obsessed. You should masturbate…in fact I know you do, I’ve smelt it on the bathroom towels”

“I do…masturbate, often. But it’s not enough.”

“You’re sex mad, that’s your problem.”

“You always say that.”

“I have needs and so do you…I hear you masturbating in the night, when you think I’m asleep. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“It’s…it’s just a physical thing…like scratching an itch…I sort it out and go back to normal.”

“You’re insane,” he mutters.

“You always say that.”

The wine waiter arrives, the tall clear bottle of pale, honey coloured wine wrapped in a white linen napkin. He performs the little pantomime that none of them really believes in, but the ritual of pouring, offering the glass to be sniffed and tasted has to be observed.

The man nods his approval to the waiter and the waiter pours two glasses.

“I really would have preferred red.”

“I’ve order red, a Rioja to drink with our main course.”

“Don’t you love me anymore?”

“What, because I didn’t order red wine straight away, you think I don’t love you anymore?"

“You’re just being so abrasive tonight.”

The waiter brings their entrée. They are silent a while; the food is a small distraction. She pushes the thin slivers of orange and grapefruit around the deep blue bowl and surreptitiously watches him eat.

He is skilled at the delicate way he manipulates the shell fish. The first one he opens with a fork, then he uses the empty shell casing as an implement to pick up the next moules. He opens it up, now using the shell like a pair of tweezers and grips the plump body inside. Then he eats. The procedure is sensual. Touch, taste…clever sensitive fingers, dexterity, lips, mouth, saliva, sucking.

She shudders.

She has given up all pretense of eating her entrée.

“Well do you still love me?” she asks.

“Don’t know. Do you still love me?"

“Yes, I do very much.”

He is silent.

“Don’t you like your food? I can ask for something else if you like.”

“It’s okay.”

“Perhaps I do still love you, perhaps I don’t, I don’t know. Sometimes I don’t like you very much. But I still desire you, is that the same as love?”

“That’s deep.”

“Not really. It’s like in the song, ‘something has died inside and I can’t hide and I just can’t fake it’.” He knows he’s muddled the words; he always muddles the words even when he’s singing along with Carole but he’s smiling as he softly sings the lyric.

“You’re being personal and hurtful to pay me out.”

“Revenge?” the man’s laugh is without any humour. “I gave up on revenge a long time ago. But I’m glad it hurts. I think of all the times you’ve belittled me, made me the butt of your stupid jokes. Made me a joke. Vanessa doesn’t think I’m a joke, by the way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

The fingernail digs deeper; the cuticle begins to bleed.

“Have you had sex with Vanessa?”

A waiter deftly removes plates. Another waiter brings their ruby red Rioja. The ritual of pouring, sniffing, tasting is repeated.

Their steaks arrive. Filet de boeuf. Rare for him. Very well done for her. Thus it has always been and always will be. A younger waiter dithers over serving the red tomato salads and frites. Perhaps he feels the tension in the atmosphere. She sighs her irritation and the young man leaves the table unfinished.

“Not yet, but I could have. I may well do. Vanessa likes sex.”

He cuts into his steak, it is bloody, just as he likes it.

She glances at her bleeding thumb cuticle. Dabbing at the blood gives her a distraction. She doesn’t know whether to believe him.

“Have you discussed our private life with Vanessa?"

“Of course I have. I talked, she listened. Then she talked and I listened. You know a dialogue like grown up people have.”

“I want to leave. I want to go home. Can we leave now please.”

“Not yet.”

“What is it exactly, what is it that you want? Do you want a divorce?”

“No, I don’t want a divorce.”

“Then what?”

He puts down his knife and fork.

“That’s pretty much what I talked to Vanessa about.”

“Ah, Vanessa, the fount of all wisdom.”

“Not really. She just told me stuff about people who have the same sort of problems that we have.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know what the problem is.” His voice is raised, and despite the noise in the restaurant, a couple on a nearby table turn to stare. “Boredom, sexual boredom. I want more than you seem able to give. I want to touch you deep inside. I want slow tenderness. I want it fast and rough. I want you to want me inside you as much as I want to be inside you like we used to. I want to taste you, I want to taste me in you after we’ve fucked. I’m dying inside here Elizabeth, suffocating…choking for air.”

“You’re ridiculous. Dying inside, suffocating, choking…that’s a stupid thing to say. And you’re disgusting, filthy, perverted. You make me feel sick.”

He meets her disdainful gaze. “And I want variety. That’s what Vanessa talked about. There are places we could go…together. Places where men and women have multiple partners. I want you to see me fucking other women. I want to watch you fucking other men. I want to watch you with a woman too. Several women…”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then I’m going to go there with Vanessa. You can do what you like. Take a lover if you want. Do whatever you want.”

The Spanish guitarist stops playing. He glances at the couple at the small table in the corner. A lovers’ quarrel. He and his Maria often quarrel. There is joy in the making up, in the fucking. He knows that the two lovers will go home and fuck. The woman looks feisty. The Spaniard would put money on her taking control of their lovemaking. How delighted the man must be with such a wife! They stand up to leave. They have barely touched their food. Obviously they cannot wait to fuck each other senseless. He leaves the restaurant and sits in the chilly garden for a cigarette break. Cigarettes are now politically incorrect in uptight England and you have to go outside in the cold. But he’s a Spaniard and he smokes. People have been generous with tips on this Christmas evening. He can buy his Maria a gift.

The restaurant is much quieter now. Just the low rumble and mumble of the diners.


                                                                      ***

George Pappas, author of Monogamy Sucks, Dear Hef and many, many poems, told me of a Hemingway story he’d read a long time ago at college. “Hills Like White Elephants.” I hadn’t read any Hemingway, but I ordered a collection of his short stories and read the tale. It’s very short, but what is intriguing about it is that Hemingway tells it entirely through dialogue; a couple are talking about abortion, but never actually say the word and I understood immediately why the story has stuck with George for all those years. George said it would be interesting to try and write a tale, perhaps with the theme of sexual boredom, using Hemingway’s technique of pushing the plot on through dialogue as a template. George’s idea would be to mention sexual variety but never to get to the word Swinging. “Go for it George!” I said. George said he didn’t have time, but with a generosity so typical of him, he gave his idea to me.

I hope I have lived up to George’s expectations. I know that I can never equal Hemingway, nor can I equal George Pappas, but it’s been interesting trying.

And film buffs will recognise these lines from “Two for the Road” starring Audrey Hepburn and Albert Finney. (1967)

Joanna Wallace: What sort of people sit in a restaurant and don’t even try to talk to each other?
Mark Wallace: Married people.

THE NIGHTMARE...A weird horse, an even weirder goblin and a beautiful sleeping beauty..what is there to be afraid of?

We’re all familiar with Henry Fuseli’s painting, “The Nightmare”. The feelings of stress and anxiety that the image evokes. Freud would consider this work as an example of “the uncanny.” The “unheimlich,” the unfriendly world of the shrieking horror of our unconscious. In our unconscious dwells the taboo; those dark secret yearnings of our worst nightmares. “The hag ridden realm of the unconscious.”


I’m still learning about Jung, but I think he would say that this painting is an example of an ancient story; a mythology. A piece of our collective unconscious. A story that is whispered, by candlelight, while snow falls softly outside. Jung would also talk about “the shadow.” For our emotional sanity, we must acknowledge the shadow. Recognise that we do have indecencies, the taboo, in our psyche. Only then can we live healthy, sane lives. We shun the taboo, yet are drawn to it. It fascinates us, in the same way that we cannot turn away from Fuseli’s “Nightmare.”


Fuseli painted the picture in 1781. He produced at least three other versions of “The Nightmare.”


But what is our place in this painting? We are the voyeur, gazing in horror at the potential violation of this beautiful young woman. We anticipate the violation hungrily, at the same time screaming our denial. There is the stench of sulphur, the ghastly shriek of tortured demons. Why does Fuseli want to show us this depravity? Is he telling us that he knows our darkest, deepest secrets? Is he telling us about his own contaminated desires? Why does Fuseli want us here?


Whatever Fuseli’s reason, his painting is an image to haunt our waking hours. To make us afraid of sleep. To dread our dreams. The sinister creak on the stairs, the screams of hell, echoing down through eternity. It is Fuseli’s “Nightmare.”


Contemporary critics often found the work scandalous due to its sexual themes. A few years before he painted “The Nightmare,” Fuseli had fallen passionately in love with a woman named Anna Landholdt in Zürich. Landholdt was the niece of his friend, the Swiss physiognomist Johann Kaspar Lavater. Fuseli wrote of his fantasies to Lavater in 1779:


“Last night I had her in bed with me—tossed my bedclothes hugger-mugger—wound my hot and tight-clasped hands about her—fused her body and soul together with my own—poured into her my spirit, breath and strength. Anyone who touches her now commits adultery and incest! She is mine, and I am hers. And have her I will.…”


Fuseli’s painting, likely influenced Mary Shelley. Shelley would have been familiar with the painting; her parents, Mary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin, knew Fuseli well. In a scene from her Gothic novel Frankenstein, (1818), where the creature has murdered Victor’s wife, Shelley seems to draw from Fuseli’s canvas:


"She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by hair."


The novel and Fuseli's biography share a parallel theme: just as Fuseli's incubus is infused with the artist's emotions in seeing Landholdt marry another man, Shelley's monster promises to get revenge on Victor on the night of his wedding. Like Frankenstein's monster, Fuseli's demon symbolically seeks to forestall a marriage.
Fuseli is often quoted as saying, "One of the most unexplored regions of art are dreams".


Tom Lubbock, writing in The Independent, Friday, 7th April 2006, gives us a 21st century reading of Fuseli’s painting.


"Can a picture be scary, like a film? You might think not, for a simple reason. What makes a movie scary is not the subject alone, but the timing. You need sequence, you need editing, to create suspense and shock, the horrible realisation, the sudden jolt. And this a picture cannot do - because a picture (so one old theory goes) is all taken in at a glance, in a single blink."


Of course, this is sort of true. Looking at a picture is not like watching a film or turning the pages of a book. You grasp what's going on quite quickly (well, depending on what you notice). A whodunit in paint would be hard to do. But in another way, the glance theory is quite wrong. The eye sees a picture, not in a blink, but in a series of fixations that dart and scatter across its surface.


But the "timing" of a picture - that's something else again. Even though the scene is all before you, a picture can pace and direct your attention. Though it lacks the syntax of a strip cartoon, it can create episodes and sequence and surprises. The sequence may not correspond to literal eye-fixations. (Words on a page have an order, after all, but the eye darts all over the page as it reads). It's a matter of managing the viewer's interest.


To see a pictorial edit at work, take that classic scary picture, Henry Fuseli's “The Nightmare.” The voluptuously flopped sleeping woman is visited in her dreams by a revolting incubus and a frightening horse. All very Gothic, Freudian etc. But put psychology to one side, and look at stage-management.


Look at the picture, and watch how you look at it. It may seem upfront enough, with its three prominent characters, a woman and a couple of creatures. And it's true that these elements are clear(ish) in your field of vision. But you don't attend to them all at once. Fuseli controls your involvement.


“The Nightmare,” is not a fluent, unfolding composition, where one thing leads smoothly to another. It's made up of separate incidents, each requiring a distinct act of attention. Move between them, and attention jumps. What's more, these incidents have an order. The picture arranges things so that you move and jump in sequence. This still image is cunningly and abruptly edited.


The brightest patch is the woman's bust, her breasts, shoulder, throat, cheek, closed eyes, the unconscious mind in the helpless and exposed body. This is the first "shot" in the edit. It is not simply eroticism. It uses eroticism to manage the viewer's attention, and it won't just be the eyes of the male viewer that are immediately drawn to this area. Sexy female vulnerability, with a spotlight on it, is a general hot grab. That's where Fuseli begins his sequence. Though far from the centre, it is the picture's hub, the point from which everything else is paced.


This hub, you notice, is not the whole woman, just a part. The woman's body is itself delivered in shots. The bust is one incident. The left forearm and the flaccid hand, trailing its fingers on the floor, are another. (There's a clear jump of attention as you look between them: this - that.) And the rest of her, the tapering mermaid's tail curve, ending in a single toe-point, is a third shot, another jump. This fragmenting of the passive figure is not only fetishism. It's editing. You the viewer have to put this distrait body together from its parts. It makes it all the more passive, less in control of itself.


And then, the monster! - the devilish hunched incubus, that squats on the woman's belly. The jump juxtaposition is obvious here: compact brown lump set upon stretched-out, languid white curve. There's an extra scari-ness in the way this figure lurks. Its lower half is shadowy and formless, blending into the gloom behind, not really anything. Its hideous shape and nature only come to light, materialise, as you go up, with a gradual realisation.


What adds to the fear, when you see what the creature is, is that it isn't actually doing anything to her. It's just sitting on her, inert, like a monkey-ornament. It's not performing a horrible act. It has some calm and horrible purpose, which is worse. And it turns its bulging eyes to meet the viewer's in a way that shows a mind at work, and may invite complicity.


But as this horror is sinking in, the scene's big shock effect strikes: on the far left the crazy nightmare horse, flash-lit, eyes burning, hair standing on end, barges into the picture out of the darkness, out of nowhere, out of control. It enters suddenly, and Fuseli depicts it like something that is seen suddenly, its form not fully grasped. He paints a Francis Bacon creature, in elusive, flickering highlights and blurs that don't integrate into a single solid. It is hysteria and suddenness embodied. Without its white-hot eyeballs, the horse would hardly read as "head" at all.


The scene carefully paces its horrors. It is made of shots and jumps, gradual realisations, sudden shocks. It is thoroughly and dramatically timed. True, the editing of a picture is always more flexible than the frame-sequence of a cartoon strip or the cuts of a film. You can always go back, you can move between things in other sequences, every part can be related to every other. You can do your own edit. But still, a scene such as The Nightmare, emphatically divided into its distinct and horrid incidents, puts a potential scare into your every move.

ENSLAVING ELI by billierosie

CHAPTER 3: ELI’S TALE

Jasmine sat in the passenger seat of the powerful Mercedes, her head bowed; her dark, gleaming hair hiding her face. Eli watched her, puzzled. What the hell was wrong with the woman? It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to marry him. He’d simply asked her if she was going to invite him in for coffee.
The lamp light across the quiet Chelsea street illuminated the interior of the car. He could see her dark, sleek hair moving as she breathed.
They sat in silence. They’d met that evening at a party, given by a mutual friend, and they’d hit it off straight away.

At least Eli had thought they had.
It was like a bad black and white movie. The interior of the car, lit by one street lamp.
Then just like a bad movie, they both spoke awkwardly at the same time.
“Look…” Eli started to say.
“I’m sorry…” said Jasmine.
“…I’ve had a wonderful evening,” she went on. “But taking things any further would be a big mistake. But thanks for the ride home.”
Eli shifted in his seat. “Just tell me what the hell’s going on. Are you married? Engaged? In a relationship? I ask you for a cup of coffee and you freeze on me, like I’ve asked you to suck my cock.”


She turned to face him and smiled. It was the same smile she’d hit him with, across the room at the party and it made him quiver inside. He loved it that she hadn’t been shocked by his crude remark. That was something he’d liked about her, when they’d talked earlier at that boring party. How she’d fallen in with his silly game of guessing what type of underwear the other guests were wearing. What they’d be like in bed.
“You’re sweet, and funny,” she told him. “But really, you’re just not my type.”
“Well that’s strange,” he said. “Because, here’s me, thinking all night, that you were just my type. I…I’ve never met anyone like you before. I thought we got along just fine.”
“We did …we do. But just leave it at that will you,” her voice was low and husky.
“No,” Eli persisted. “I won’t just leave it at that. I won’t be just left on your doorstep. I want to see you again.”
“Impossible.”
“Why?”


Jasmine sighed. They were going round in circles. She felt bad, and sad. She did like Eli, and if she were any other sort of woman, perhaps they could have a nice time together. Some fun, some sweet sex. She knew that he would be a gentle, tender lover. He just wouldn’t understand her cravings; her needs. Why couldn’t she be like other women; normal? Wanting a nice home with a kind man. A couple of children too. That had been enough for her sisters and they were happy. But Jasmine knew she needed more than domesticity and vanilla sex.


“Let’s just say I have unusual tastes.”
Eli grinned. “Go on.” He reached out and ran his long fingers through her hair. She gave a barely perceptible shudder. Revulsion, or desire?
She tilted her head. Her dark eyes were huge, her dilated pupils told him it was desire. Eli persisted; he tilted her small chin with a forefinger.
“I’m only suggesting coffee.”


Jasmine felt strangely wrong footed. She wasn’t used to having to explain herself to a man. She didn’t like it. It didn’t sit easy with her. But she was strangely attracted to this tall, strong guy. That had never happened to her before. Usually, she picked her men carefully; they had to be…well, just not like Eli. He was strong and controlled. In charge of himself; he’d want to be in charge of his woman too.
One thing that Jasmine knew she could never be, was someone’s woman.
“I like a certain type of man, and…”
“I’m not it.” he finished the sentence for her.
“That’s about right,” she said bluntly.
“ So what is this certain type of man?”
Jasmine was quiet for a moment, framing her answer.
“I like submissive men. I like to be in control.”
“Hell, I don’t have a problem with that.”
“Yes, you do…you would. You don’t understand what I’m saying. You think it’s just some sort of kinky game. It’s not. It’s a way of life.”
“So are you saying you want a guy to be some sort of slave to you?”


Jasmine took a deep breath. She looked up into his strong, determined face. She at least owed him an explanation.
“It’s not just that; although it can be like that. It’s more a negotiation of power between two people. The slave gives his or her Master, or Mistress power over him. For some, it may be two women; one of whom is dominant, the other submissive. The same for two men. In a straight relationship, it may be the woman who is submissive. She serves her man, unquestioningly. It’s not always sexual, although that usually plays a big part. With the very best of submissives, and the best of Dominants, the relationship can have an almost spiritual dimension. For me, I am a Dominant; I rule my male submissive in every aspect of his life. Physical, sexual, emotional, social. I tell him when he can orgasm, when he can eat, drink, sleep. He obeys me without question. I might tie him up and whip him. I might loan him to my friends. There is nothing my submissives won’t do for me.”
A quiver ran through Eli’s frame when she’d mentioned being tied up and whipped. It was a long held fantasy of his. His cock was instantly hard.


“Wow,” he said. “Still sounds good to me.”
Jasmine sighed again. He wasn’t going to let it go.
“You better come in for that cup of coffee,” she said.


She waited while he walked around to the passenger door. She took his arm as they stepped out into the warm, summer night.
Jasmine’s mews cottage was deceptive. It was like a tardis; bigger on the inside than you would at first think. She must have had two cottages knocked into one. There was a long sitting room, with a kitchen area at the end overlooking a small garden. She flicked a switch and the room was instantly bathed in a soft, glowing light. She picked up a remote control; the French doors at the far end of the room opened silently. Perfume, from what smelled like an exotic rose garden wafted in.


Eli looked around him. He was shocked; then he was surprised that he was shocked. The Art work that led the eye around the room wasn’t just erotic. It was pure pornography.
It was all huge photographs. Pictures of naked men all being lusciously violated by women. Eli held his breath; then he breathed.
He glanced at Jasmine; she was watching him, as he’d known she would be. He couldn’t meet her commanding gaze and looked away.
Eli was surprised at his nervousness. His mouth was dry. He was still hard.


“I guess I should have asked permission to look at the photographs?” He tried to sound light hearted, but he was anything but.
“Yes, you should have, but you won’t make the same mistake again. Tell me what you think of them.”


Eli stood in front of a large black and white photo. It featured a naked male being raped; but not by a man, by a woman. You could just see the line of her strap-on. She was lithe and muscular, with short, cropped, blonde hair. Her pert breasts were small. Her victim was on all fours and wore some sort of bridle. A metal bit was in his mouth. The same sort of thing that you use to control horses. The woman was raping him doggie fashion. Her cock was rammed into his arse, up to the hilt. The victim’s own cock was huge; the rapist was reaching beneath him, her fingers curved around his erection. He was being held firmly by his head by another woman; she was clothed in a black leather corset and high heeled boots. The male was being controlled and violated by the two women. Eli had the feeling that these weren’t actors, staging a scene. This was an event. This had happened.


He glanced at the next photograph. A different guy; a naked blond was hanging by his wrists. He was chained; his arms being pulled painfully out of joint. His toes were an inch away from the floor. His wrists were taking his whole weight. His body, mostly his genital area, was bruised and bloody; he’d had a thrashing. A woman stood to one side, dressed in a tight corset and high heeled shoes, her arm raised to bring her cruel whip down again. She was aiming her lash at his huge testicles and massive erection. Eli could see the tormentor’s profile; with a jolt like an electric shock, he realised it was Jasmine.
Eli blushed, but he found the courage to meet her eyes. At last he felt able to speak.


“The photos are…alluring.” he said. “But you said that relinquishing power was something the slave did willingly…”
She looked exquisite; her simple black gown enhancing the creamy whiteness of her skin. Her dark hair shone. She was relaxed on a chaise longue, a glass of red wine in one elegant hand. She hadn’t offered him a drink. Neither had she invited him to sit down.
“I didn’t say quite that,” replied Jasmine. But yes, the slave has given over total control to his Mistress. He gave his consent for her to do with him as she pleased. That’s what I meant by a negotiation of power. For a slave to start putting in clauses and safe words, takes away the whole point. Besides, the Mistress, the woman holding the slave’s head, in the rape scene, has paid a lot of money for the slave and spent a fortune on his training. She doesn’t want him damaged. And, yes. The Mistress in the second photograph is me. The slave is Joel; as you can see, he’s enduring a whipping.
“You bought him! You can’t buy people.”


“You can if they sign a contract. The slaves in the photographs signed away all their rights, willingly. They sold themselves. Never have I been asked to put in restrictions on the contract.”


Common sense told Eli, that he should get the hell out. But he was intrigued, he’d stepped into a strange, surreal world. He was also helplessly aware of his throbbing erection. Why was he aroused? He wanted to know more about this elusive woman, and her sinister life.
“Why do they do it?” he asked. “The guys I mean.”
“They recognise that their sexual orientation is submissive. They are happy, they don’t want any other way of life. As Mistresses we are honoured that they give themselves up to us. And it’s better that they make that decision, rather than get involved, perhaps even marry a woman, who can never understand their needs. Both husband and his mate would be miserable. He would never dare to tell her of his urgent needs. Even if he did, she wouldn’t understand. She would run from him, screaming that he was a freak.


“Nothing is done out of force; that would be pointless. They live for the pain we inflict; the humiliation. A good Mistress helps the slave find his limits; we have found that always a slave can go much farther than he had ever though possible. And when the slave orgasms, when he is permitted, it is like nothing you will ever have ever experienced.”
“You really make them hold back their orgasms?”


“Sometimes for weeks at a time. Their ethos in life is to serve; that is their pleasure. Come here.”
Her order took Eli by surprise. He didn’t obey her immediately and she clicked her tongue and snapped her fingers.
Eli stood close to her. He inhaled her fragrance; it mingled with the scent of the roses from the warm garden. She placed her hand on his erection. Eli gasped as she squeezed his hard bulge through his jeans. This was everything he had ever dreamed of; a sexually forward woman, not afraid of taking what she wanted.


Jasmine unzipped his jeans; Eli groaned. He didn’t know where the night was going, but he was happy with the action so far. She pulled his jeans and boxers down to his knees. His erect cock slapped and bounced against his belly.
Eli didn’t know why, but it seemed appropriate for him to put his hands behind his back.
She stared at his cock, absorbing every detail. Eli was proud of his thick cock and large tight balls and he preened beneath her gaze. His erection didn’t fade. Her face was close; he could feel her breath on his cock head, cooling the pre-cum that oozed from his slit. He wished she would suck him, but knew she wouldn’t.


She took hold of his cock, sliding the foreskin back, then she peered at his erection from first one side, then the other. She flicked it, bounced it, pulled at it.
Eli’s heart was beating; pounding against his rib cage. His breathing was heavy. He had to stop himself moaning. He mustn’t come. He just mustn’t. It was suddenly important to demonstrate his self control. He tried to think of something else; anything else. But her long fingers teasing his cock was all that was on his mind.


“How many women have you had?” Jasmine asked.
Eli swallowed, afraid to speak.
“Well?” She pushed the tip of her pinkie finger into his slit.
Eli gasped. He spoke as best as he could, through clenched teeth.
“Four, maybe five.”
“Well what is it four? Five?”
“Five,” he grimaced. Still concentrating on not coming.
“How soon are you hard again after you have orgasmed?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry.”
She jiggled his balls in the palm of her hand. She fingered his scrotum. Eli felt like a prize bull being assessed for stud.
She slid his foreskin back and forth.
“Are your veins usually so pronounced?”
“It’s because I’m close to orgasm.”
“You have not been given permission to cum.”


Eli was silent. What could he say? All he knew was that this was the weirdest, most erotic experience of his life.
“Turn around. Bend over,” she ordered. Eli turned so that his arse was facing her. He bent and clasped his knees. She parted his arse cheeks with her fingers and peered in at his anus.


He could feel his little puckered hole opening and closing; pulsating as she fingered him.
She allowed him to stand, having finished her inspection. She turned him to face her.
“Men?” She asked.
“What!” her direct gaze was unnerving.
“How many men have you had?”
“None,” he said emphatically.
“Your hole has been used.”
“I use a butt plug on myself.”
“What size?”
“Large.”
“Do you use it continually.”
Eli didn’t answer. He was too embarrassed.
Jasmine punched his testicles.
“I won’t ask you again. I’ll kick it out of you.”
He was doubled over from the force of her blow. “Sometimes I wear it all day.” He managed to croak out the words.
You wear it all day at your work?
“Yes.”


Eli was glad she couldn’t see his painful blushes. He had never felt so humiliated in his life. He wanted to weep and apologise for being unworthy. More than anything, he wanted her hand in his rectum, fisting him. Eli had read about fisting in a porn magazine. He’d seen a photograph by Robert Mapplethorpe. A man being fisted by another man. The fist was in the recipient’s rectum up to the violator’s elbow. Eli had thought it the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. The thought of Jasmine’s clenched fist inside him, nearly made him orgasm on the spot. He imagined her violating him in that dirty way; perhaps she’d be wearing a long opera glove.


“Fetch me a tape measure, pen and notepad from the drawer in the sideboard. Top left.”
Eli shuffled across the room as best he could with his jeans around his knees.
“Stand up. Face me.”
She measured his cock from root to tip. She scribbled a figure down on her note pad. Then she measured his erection’s circumference, at the root and near the head. She measured his slit. She made extensive notes. Then she wrapped the tape around his cock and testicles; was she measuring him up for a cock ring?
“On your knees and masturbate,” she ordered, suddenly.
Trembling, Eli obeyed, sliding his foreskin back and pumping his cock. He prayed for release; he’d never needed to cum so much in all his life.
She was still watching his every movement. He was close, very close to orgasm. His breathing rasped.
“Stop.” she snapped.
He groaned in desperation. His confusion showed in his face.


Jasmine ignored him. She sipped at her wine. Then she pulled out a laptop from beneath the chaise. She switched it on and surfed for a while. Eli stood by the chaise, his jeans and boxers around his ankles; he was still confused.
Jasmine was not confused.
“Go and look at the rest of the photographs,” she told him.
“Um, can I pull up my pants? Zip myself up?” Eli was feeling at a disadvantage.
“No, you may not,” she said, curtly.
Humiliation was a useful tool in training a slave.
Jasmine tapped away at the laptop. Did Eli have the potential to be a slave? She knew he would leave soon, he would have seen enough. She also knew that he’d be back. He would be feeling a kaleidoscope of emotions. Revulsion, despair, curiosity, fear.
He’d asked her where the slaves were kept. What happened to them after they had been purchased. How they were trained. The fact that he’d been curious enough to ask, told her a lot.
She’d told him. And that alone would be enough to keep him awake at night. But more than anything he would want to know why he’d got so turned on.

***

Eli was weeping as he pulled up his boxers and jeans, struggling to shove his still erect cock back inside. There wasn’t enough room to do up the zip, so he left his fly open. He exited with as much dignity as he could muster.
When he arrived back at his house, he poured himself a drink. He needed one. Fucking bitch. What right had she got to make him feel such an idiot.
But she hadn’t done anything, had she? That thought came from the part of his brain that was still rational. She’d explained what she was, what she needed in a relationship and he’d found it quite a turn on. He’d persisted and pushed her.


Eli knocked back his whiskey and shuddered. He poured himself another, splashing the amber liquid into the glass.
He sat slumped on the floor, his back to the soft, suede sofa and started to cry.
A bus drove by, light and shade flickered across the room. Then a car, its horn blaring. He could hear the shouts of drunken revellers in the street. He thought about people leading ordinary lives. How ordinary his own life had been before Jasmine’s extraordinary revelations.


Damn her, and damn him. He’d never felt so humiliated as when she wouldn’t let him orgasm. Up to then he’d been enjoying himself, masturbating for a beautiful woman. His fault again. She’d told him, more than once, how she denied her submissives’ orgasms.
She’d treated him like a potential submissive and Eli was shocked to realise he’d actually liked it. The photo’s had turned him on; he’d imagined himself in those degrading positions and he’d been aroused. He’d wanted to be the slave being sodomised by that slender woman. He’d wished that he was the guy being whipped by Jasmine.


Had a door been opened that could never be closed?


And there was another photograph that had caught his eye. A huge blow up of a naked guy in a metal cage. His strong arms straining in heavy chains. His massive erect cock, pushing through the bars. Despair in his dark eyes. The photographer had focussed on the head of the slave’s cock. Pre-cum dripped from his slit.


God; to be so restrained. But where the hell had all this come from? Why had it turned him on so much? He felt his cock stir again at the memories. His erection, which had faded with his tears, became insistent again.
And another naked male. His arms bound in thick ropes. His erect cock and huge balls tied tightly. Jasmine, beautifully naked, apart from very high heels, leading the slave by rope knotted to his genitals. The slave’s head was hanging. He was weeping.
Eli wondered why the slave was crying. Shame? Pain? Ecstasy?


He thought about what Jasmine had told him about the old Manor house, deep in the heart of the English countryside. The Coterie. A place where wealthy Mistresses, like her, sent their slaves to be trained. Where many of the slaves stayed, after their training, to be used as their Mistresses required. She’d spoken of stables, where the hardier slaves were kept. How they were trained as “pony boys,” pulling a little cart, with one, or two Mistresses driving them hard.


She’d pointed out a small framed oil painting of the very subject. Two naked, exhausted slaves pulling a heavy pony trap. The red haired Mistress was lashing them to go faster. It was set in the chill of mid-winter; snowflakes falling. You could almost hear the slaves’ booted feet clanging on the hard ground. The slaves were well matched; their cocks identically erect. The Mistresses were dressed in period costumes of purple and red velvet; but where in history they were, Eli couldn’t tell. It gave the image a timeless feel.


She’d told him about parties, where the slaves had to compete, to see how many women they could service at a time. There were beatings and brandings. Even a special brand; a seal of quality that was given to slaves of exceptional ability; those slaves would be sold on to Mistresses in faraway countries. Their brand heralding them as one of the Coterie’s triumphs.


Eli’s orgasm exploded. He felt dizzy with its violence. He hadn’t even touch himself. Her whispered tales had done that to him. And the pornography that he had lapped up so voraciously.


His jeans and boxers were soaked, sticky with spunk. He stood and took off his jeans and underwear. He held his boxers to his nose and inhaled the scent of freshly ejaculated spunk. He licked the crotch of his jeans clean. He needed punishment for having orgasmed without a Mistress’ permission.


He would go to his Mistress’ house tomorrow and beg her to have him trained as a slave. To be her slave. To be used. He would be the best slave she’d ever had.
It was fitting.

Eli was afraid.

***

The next day he drove back to her house. She wasn’t there. He sat on the stone steps and waited. He waited through the night of that day and through the next day too. And another night and another day. He did not move. At midnight on the third night she came home.

Enslaving Eli is available Amazon US and Amazon UK