BDSM & Alternative Lifestyle Personals
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Black Widow In Stockings (edited for NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one)
3/22/2006 9:20 am Last Read: |
My husband read a bit of "Netherwhere" last week and confessed he saw a lot of me in Celine. I was faintly surprised. He knew I had an alt.com ad, and he's often looking over my shoulder snickering at the various "bits-shots" I keep getting in my emails. He's never seen that other aspect of myself, which I don't tend to let out too often. I have, in essence, protected him from that. There are those who write fantasy stories about women who use and abuse men, and leave them gasping for air in a rented room. By the amount of people who read the things I imagine it's not such a far off kind of fantasy. It would also suffice to say there must be women like that, somewhere, who want to be this sort of Femme Fatale, to find, (NAUGHTYWORDOHNOES!!!11one) and forget. And that too isn't too far off. Very high and mighty words from a homemaker, aren't they? Well, like most, I wasn't a housewife my entire life, you know. Once upon a time, I was very much a Black Widow in stockings. I was more than happy to haunt a alternative club in my provocative best and see who I could bring home. Sexy 20-somethings without a scrap of money to their names, who wanted to shag in the backs of their barely running vehicles was fun for a short period of time, but it wasn't quite "it". There's no sense of taking in such an encounter - such men sacrifice nothing. They're making out like bandits if you'll excuse the term; getting exactly what they want with little output but a bit of foreplay. Even the merest suggestion of commitment, or of them showing anything other than a modicum of interest in your wellbeing or personality will make them run a mile, and why not when they know they can walk back into the club and find someone else? I used to call it "Seattle Male Syndrome". Freeloaders, one and all, but very good in bed. I however fancied a spicier dish. Are you aware, dear reader, that lawyers and doctors are perhaps the most kinky, depraved people on earth? Forget politicians...it's the most upright people with the most clean-cut facade who have the most to hide...and they're more than happy to pay through the nose to get what they want. Spending £500 for an evening out is nothing for them. Sickening, but it's small potatoes. They're more than happy to spend that kind of money on doe-eyed idiot teenage girls who actually think they've landed themselves a sugar-daddy - and then realise their mistake all too soon when Daddy Warbucks turns out to be more than they can handle. I've been the agony aunt for more than a few young girls who thought they were playing a game, and realised they were actually in the lion's den. When I came across such people, prim and proper on the outside and black with vice on the inside, I gave them a run for their money. It took very little time for me to establish that I wasn't some starry eyed idiot girl buying into their stories. I was their equal. Of course, that usually started the gleam in their eye that meant I was also competition, and when you deal with Type A personalities, competition cannot be tolerated. One upmanship was the name of the game at that point, or perhaps I should say - who could sink to the lowest depths? It was usually a tie. At the end of things, when it was expected I was smitten and in love forever, when these men were certain of their conquest, and would enjoy the cruelty of casting me aside, it was I who got up, composed and calm, and began to dress without a tear in the eye. "Where are you going?" "I'm leaving. I have what I want, and so have you. Time to go." Shock, sometimes anger. One man actually threatened me physically - and I left him on the floor, clutching his nose and bleeding on the carpet. It wasn't the money they had spent on me which made them furious...it was my attitude. I deprived them of something worth more than money and pleasure. I deprived them of their CONQUEST. One man actually laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and we became good friends, where there was one, there were now two, and if my purity test score seems high it's only because it doesn't list nearly enough things I've done to someone else, rather than had done to me. I don't merely want to shag someone, so one night stands don't interest me. And none of my particular kink or enjoyments fit into the ticky-box and ruleset that is now BDSM. My wants are very simple, and yet somehow incredibly complex. I want to set the stage, be drugged on sherries and fine food, dance in the club, and weave the spell. To never have the same experience twice. To have no name, no past, no future, and merely be in the present. To be whisked away and steep oneself in vice in the way De Sade tried and failed to do. To be courted by a masked man at a Ball, someone I'll never see again, and never see his face behind the mask. Everything to set the mood is merely a facade, a backdrop for the final hour, the moment when the will is broken and leaves one breathless - and then I leave without so much as a word. You may find that shocking and very much in the face of accepted BDSM rules...but you'd be amazed at how many people rather enjoy that sort of thing. I don't want your undying loyalty, or your love or adoration, little fly. If I never see you again in a million years I'm happy. I'm merely setting the snare, baiting the trap...like you've done to all those impressionable girls before you. Let's see how you handle your equal, my dear little bluebottle. Step into the parlour, and I'll go put my stockings on. |
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