“On your feet, slave,” she orders, and ties him firmly in bondage and beats him, at which point he wakes up sweating beside his little wife, who accuses him of talking to his mistress in his sleep.
By now, Robinson told me, he was secretly distressed and getting desperate. Should he go on suffering this masochistic anguish, or would participating in a real scene rid him of the nightmare?
At this point I looked at my watch and discovered I was late for an appointment myself, so I told him to call me in my hotel room that afternoon and I would try to help him out.
Robinson and I were staying in the same hotel, and in the middle of the afternoon my phone rang. He wanted to know if I had thought about his problem.
“Yes, I have,” I said, and started spinning him a long fantasy over the phone of how he would get shipwrecked and rescued by naked islanders, only to discover too late they were cannibals who would cook him and eat him.
I could tell the story was freaking him out as his heavy breathing came through the phone. “Hang up and came straight to my room,” I ordered him, just like the woman in black.
He arrived wearing only his bathrobe, and was at such a pitch that all I had to do was touch him lightly with my hand on his thigh, and he climaxed.
The freak world of make-believe is so delicate and sensitive that the essential mood can be shattered by the least lapse in reality. Therefore, the fantasy you spin, the clothes you wear, and the atmosphere you create are absolutely important.
Early in my career as a practicing master I welcomed to my house a man who called himself Marco Polo, who was in fact a famous public personage who makes speeches at the Waldorf and has his picture in the Times.
When this man walked into my living room I was looking very feminine, wearing a diaphanous nightgown, my hair hanging demurely to my shoulders. “You’re not the type of woman I expected to see,” he said, backing off. “You couldn’t freak me out.”
“Perhaps if you will be patient for a little while I could find you a woman who could freak you out,” I said, and slowly, as he made himself comfortable in the armchair, I faded into the bedroom and came back wearing a black leather outfit, with fishnet stockings, and my hair in a severe pulled-back style.
The transformation was for him perfect, and immediately he was reassured. For half an hour we sat in the living room discussing what was his hang-up, and our plan to satisfy it. Marco Polo described to me a set of symptoms that were familiar with many successful and powerful men.
As absolute ruler in his corporation, he manipulates the men beneath him like a puppeteer. However, this daytime domineering makes him feel insecure, and as a balance to reality, he craves being submissive. These powerful men become slaves to release the tension of running other people’s lives.
Having recognized Marco Polo’s preference, I suggested the bedroom, which was prepared with flickering candles and black lights to create a spooky atmosphere, and once inside, his uptight living-room manner disappeared; instead, he became very freaky.
Marco Polo’s desire is to make you believe he is some kind of docile animal, and he needs first to be talked into a different world – which is the mentally exhausting part of it. It can take more than an hour, gradually and convincingly getting him into his fantasy world while dressing him with wigs, makeup, handcuffs, and leg irons. I then add a blindfold, which is something I invented to increase the thrill of fear and humiliation. To masochists the feeling of being in bondage and blindfolded as well can be compared to the classic double ecstasy.
While doing all this I talk about the ocean, the huge white-capped waves, the fishermen in their boats, and this beautiful mermaid. At this point my roommate, Mary Jo, assists me to lay him down on the bed with his head facing the wrong end. We bind his legs together in hospital bandages, make him a tail, and tell him he is that mermaid.
To complete the illusion, we throw a fishnet over him, all the time popping amyl nitrate under his nose, which most freaks love for the aphrodisiac effects.
As he lies in his aquatic fantasy I take off my clothes and stand with my body above his face and let him start eating me, and then it is time to introduce the mystery guest.
The mystery guest is Jonny, the umbrella salesman, but Marco Polo must never be allowed to see or hear him, because he doesn’t want to be confronted with his homosexual tendencies.
Marco Polo, I have recognized, is like many freaks who are respectable businessmen and family men – a latent homosexual who will not admit it to anyone, least of all himself.
As he lies there eating my pussy, his hands in bondage, with just enough freedom to play with my tits, I signal the black stud, who creeps up behind me and slides his enormous cock in between my legs.
Marco Polo is suddenly eating a cock, which, so far as he knows, I have just grown.
Then I step slowly out of the scene and release his hands and the bandages to give him enough room to jerk off, which he does while indulging in his never-to-be-acknowledged homosexual leanings.
Before I remove the blindfold, Jonny is paid and sent away. Then I release Marco Polo from his bonds, and he is so delighted he wants to arrange another identical session.
But I had to turn him down. His scene is too much of a hassle for the money, because I have to turn off my phones and neglect everyone else. With that kind of loss of business, he could be profitable only if he paid me $1,000.
Clothes make the man, and also the freak scene.
I have an entire wardrobe for transvestites, including special nighties, lace dresses, garterbelts, stockings, big-sized padded bras and girdles, gloves, and oversized women’s high heels.
At the time I was going seriously into the freak trade, I went to a small shop on Lexington Avenue to buy the appropriate clothes.
Being relatively new to the scene, I needed a little guidance, so I walked over to the faggy-looking young salesman. “Can I help you?” he asked, and all of a sudden I could see those eyes.
“Yes, you can help me,” I replied. “You see, I need a wardrobe for freaking people out, and you look like you know what it’s all about to me.”
At first his mouth fell open, but then he smiled. “Well, dear, now that you put it that way, let me suggest to you these divine garterbelts, these darling black crotchless panties,” he lisped effeminately, “and how about something in a fishnet stocking?” The sales assistant also recommended a few nice feminine garments in case one of my slaves was in the right mood to wear them.
The first night I had the new collection, I had a slave customer who was so thrilled I could dress him in such heavenly clothes he almost came by looking at them.
Snapping my fingers and slapping my hands together like a bossy mother teaching her school-age son to dress, I ordered him into them. But he was so enchanted being in the new bra and panties that he climaxed before he got the nightdress on.
This slave doesn’t take more than half an hour usually, but at least I have to work on him. “Nut,” I told him, “if that’s how you felt, you could have come in your own underpants and saved the fee.” To make sure he got something more for his money, I gave him a friendly spanking as a dessert.
Freaks will perform the most incredible kind of emotional and physical acts in their pursuit of gratification, but basically they never fuck. They come by masturbating or having it done to them, or with a dildo in their anus, or, like the one I just mentioned, with no help at all.
One exception to this characteristic is one of my sweetest and most regular slaves, a closet gigolo named Tame Timmy.
Tame Timmy loves to fuck, as long as he is in bondage – and I must say that he does it well. I guess he would have to, making, as he does, a career out of marrying much older women who happen to be wealthy.