With the exception of some spanking, light bondage, and role playing in my university (er… high school) relationships, my first introduction to BDSM was Mistress Natasha. She was the real deal. I went to a swinger’s club a few times when I lived in New Orleans – more out of curiosity than a desire to engage. When I heard from a go-go girl there that a professional dominatrix came in mid-week to do fifteen-minute sessions with members, my eyes grew as big as saucers. I. Couldn’t. Wait.
She was tall – at least a good six inches taller than me. Then again, it could have been the boots. She had long, swinging hair and wore all black – and she was stunning. She moved gracefully and spoke slowly and deliberately, her eyes feline and surrounded by liquid coal.
I asked her if she would do a session with me; yes, she said, as long as I didn’t mind spectators. I gave my consent; she took me into a dark room the size of a walk-in closet that had a St. Anthony’s cross against the back wall. She instructed me to take my clothes off, fold them, and put them in a neat pile in the corner. Watch, too, she said – leaving a watch on is just tacky. That stuck in my memory for years and was something I would go on to tell my own clients. My heels, she said, could stay on.
She told me to press myself face-forward against the cross, to which she bound me with leather restraints. The cross felt cool and reassuring against my skin. I was too giddy to be nervous – feeling her soft but sure hands against my wrists and ankles filled me with exhilaration and anticipation. I remember the first time the big, thuddy flogger hit my back; it felt glorious. It felt like waking up.
She flogged me and ran her hands over my back and bottom, soothing my pink skin. She scratched me and whispered dirty words in my ears. She had my rapt attention even though I felt like I was dreaming, and when she took me down from the cross and told me to get on my hands and knees, I was gutted to be almost finished and also relished being told what to do by a woman so confident in knowing what she wanted. She poured hot wax on me, which rolled down my back and pooled just above my ass, before telling me to kiss her boots – which I gladly did. I thanked her for her time and told her how much I enjoyed the session; I was so completely riled up by it that I grabbed the woman I brought with me and dragged her into a private room to ravage her.
In my relationships, I’m a switch. I can play either role and feel comfortable in both, but in my heart of hearts – in my fantasies – I’m pure bottom. Not seriously masochistic and not truly submissive (I’m more likely to say “Fuck off” than “Yes, sir,” if the wrong person tries to tell me what to do), but for sure a bottom. Mistress Natasha really opened that door for me, and I’m forever grateful.