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.
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