Saturday, April 9, 2011

The Domme On 19th Street

Her ad in Screw Magazine had no picture. Magazine is a misnomer. It was a sleezy, misogynistic rag. But Mr. Goldstein ran ads from dommes. After a time there was a whole section entitled Hells Belles. But her ad ran years before that and was just text and a phone number. I called the number and she answered.

I forget what her ad said or why it drew my attention. Who am I kidding? I called all the ads back then. I was a domme ad whore. I forget what she said or what it was about her manner that drove me to make an appointment. And I don't remember how it was I ended up in the Peter McManus Cafe as I was told. I just as often called, made appointments, and no showed.

It was before I quit drinking, in the gorgeous dirty desperation of late 70's New York. After I fortified myself with a shot or two of Bushmills, I called from the venerable Irish bar which still graces the corner of 19th Street and 7th Avenue. She answered. Come over, I'm right down the block.

I sometimes miss the feeling. Like I was the electricity shaking my body. Nothing else mattered except getting to that door and seeing it open, as if by magic.

I remember her well, though I can't recall her name. She was probably in her late twenties like me. Curvy and fit, dressed in classic black retro lingerie and back seamed stockings. Bullet bra, full panel panties, a waist-cinching garter belt,and nylons ending in skyscraper, patent leather stilletos. She had jet black hair cut in a Louise Brooks fetish bob.

She didn't smile, but had an easy, confident manner. She was smart and articulate. She put leather cuffs on me and attached me to the Saint Andrew's cross that was sunk into the wall of the bedroom in her clean, simple walk-up apartment. She matter-of-factly put nipple clamps on my virgin flesh. She rubbed her black pantied hips against my raging demonstration of desire.

She pulled me and slapped me and beat me. She laid me on my back, took her panties off and squatted over me. Over my mouth. She lashed me hard with her rough hewn riding crop as my tongue involutarily rose, its own mindless erection in full bloom.

"Put that back!" she snapped. "But keep your mouth open," her words a hot hiss, as I hurriedly did what I was told.

She pissed in my mouth and told me to swallow. She did it again. And again. And once more. I coughed and sputtered as taste, stomach and mind struggled with the confusion.

"One more time?", she asked sweetly. "For me?"

For weeks afterwards I tasted her in the oddest of moments. And every time I walk by McManus's Cafe, I think of the domme on 19th Street, and wonder what happened to her and marvel at what riches she showed me.


Her Majesty's Plaything said...

Another wonderful memory from the vault of Client 9 1/2! Talk about elevated dopamine levels! It's so easy to see how that could be come an addiction. Your description of her makes me want to see photos I know do not exist.

It's funny how remembered tastes can return to us at the most unexpected times. Not to mention memories of New York City in the 1970's. I didn't have my first pro session till the the 21st century but somehow I could always feel it out there; part of the city's dark pulsing energy; its "gorgeous dirty desperation". ;-)

advochasty said...


It was the adrenal/dopo rush that was so powerful. The bdsm sex was just a part of it. I loved the whole thing. The session I wrote about was full of "firsts" for me. It stands today as one of my most powerful prodomme experiences.

She said something during the session that made me think I'd met her years before. This eerie sense that she was the girl I'd made out with once in the basement of her grandmother's house - both of us completely naked - she teased me to a frenzied state and sent me home. Very weird.

I never found her again after the one session and I tried two weeks after we met.

Yeah, the pro scene was very much alive in the 70's in New York. It was indeed.

Aarkey said...

Wow. Intense recollection. That electricity is something, ain't it? The build up. The anticipation. The sheer excitement.

It's part of what chastity play is about for me.

But it sure is something special. That build up seems so often lost on the practitioners of the art. The hours, even days before can mean more to me than the moment of. Especially when there are specific instructions.

Ahhh, Advo... you definitely took me "there" with that one. And I needed it.

advochasty said...

Aarkey -

The anticipation and build up are so much a part of the whole thing. I love instructions, directions, tasks, and quests.

For me, chastity becomes its own narco-like, consciousness altering experience. Like some said of tripping (I was an unadventerous hippie, never did it) I only want to do it with someone I trust.

Glad you liked the story. There are some memories that stand out. That sure was one of them.