You can visit Tristan at her official website, www.PuckerUp.com.
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When the elevator door slides open on the top floor of this ordinary office building in the Flatiron District, the reception area looks like the lobby of a small upscale hotel. Lushly decorated in shades of burgundy, hunter green and other inky hues with well-polished dark wood furniture, the room has a sexy, gothic quality. I am at Pandora’s Box, one of New York’s finest dungeons, to schedule a session with a professional dominatrix.
“Do you know what you have in mind?” asks Lara, one of the managers.
“I was thinking about some bondage, flogging, and maybe play piercing.”
“Hmmm...” she responds, “I am not used to women coming in here and knowing exactly what they want. Usually if women come here at all, it is with their husbands–reluctantly.”
She gives me a big leather portfolio which has photographs of all the house Mistresses. I look through the pages of women in full dominatrix-ware, stylized settings, dramatic poses. I was expecting that there would be more to go on: some sort of bio of each of them, a list of their specialties, a brief missive, something to give me a feel for their individual personas. But, for the most part, I only have photos. I am reminded that this profession is geared toward men as I search to no avail for the fierce butch top. There is lots of lipstick and over-coiffed hair and cleavage–I mean some of the Mistresses look downright girly, which isn’t my thing.
Amidst all the femmey drag, I seek out the ones who look tough. Lara tells me that one of my choices, Isabelle, is also a manager and will be working tomorrow.
“She may be able to take a break to do a session, but you’ll have to call tomorrow.”
There is a flurry of activity in anticipation of a big client who’s due to arrive, so I hang around for a while, hoping that some of the women will come in and I can check them out in the flesh. When Mistress Sydney walks in, I know right away she’s the one. When Lara introduces us, she immediately tops me as she tells me to do something. She also seems genuinely eager to do a scene with a woman. It’s true that probably all the women would do a scene with another woman, but, as you can imagine, some would be more into it than others.
Lara gives me a copy of the extensive information form which all clients fill out, the house keeps on file, and the Mistress reviews before each session. There are the rudimentary questions about medical problems, experience level, and pain tolerance. One section asks me to rate my interest (from 0-5) in various activities and the intensity level (light-medium-heavy) I’d like to experience: spanking, flogging, caning, bondage (rope), bondage (other), slapping, humiliation, public humiliation, sensory deprivation, blindfolds, hoods, gags, mummification, straight jackets, wrestling, foot worship, kicking, nipple torture, golden showers, enemas, hot wax, rubber toys, forced feminization, cock and ball torture, play piercing. The next section is a list of role-playing options to check: student/teacher, mommy/child, abductor/abductee, nurse/patient, trainer/dog, mistress/slave (and some others I can’t remember because I wasn’t really into that part). The final section is what you’d like your mistress to wear: leather, latex, PVC, corsets, high heels, boots, no shoes, gloves, medical, uniform (specify). When I am finished with my form, it’s all there on paper---all my desires tabulated and rated. No one has to do any guesswork, not even me. I return it to Lara, who gives me an appointment for the next day.
When I arrive for my session, Isabelle greets me at the door. I recognize her from the portfolio, although she is much more beautifully striking than her photos. Tall and slender with chin-length golden hair, she looks refined, assured, experienced, and a little severe. Dressed in a black suit, her jacket is classic, tailored, but the skirt is more daring---short, slightly shimmery---and her long legs end in super high patent leather heels. She would make a perfectly demanding teacher or a strict equestrian trainer with a serious riding crop. My fantasies are already in full swing.
As I tour the different rooms, I am struck at how elaborately and thoughtfully each one is decorated and equipped. The “Role-Play Room” has lots of different enclaves: the colorful, majestic carousel horse (for mommy/kid scenes) and a vanity and mirror, with drawers of cosmetics and wigs (good for cross-dressing and “forced feminization”). The classroom has a blackboard and little desks with attached chairs, and around the corner is a black vinyl bondage table leaning against a wall full of whips, floggers, canes, and leather restraints. The “Versailles Room” is actually two rooms decorated in the style of 18th century French aristocracy–lots of plush couches and chairs, an ornate chandelier, a throne-like chair on a raised platform fit for a queen. It reminds me of an upper class ladies boudoir. The next room is “The Dungeon,” which is pretty self-explanatory---wooden stockades, a bondage table, a wrought-iron cage, an eerie looking coffin, and some sort of saw horse apparatus. The temperature feels noticeably cooler in The Dungeon than in the other rooms.
Mistress Sydney’s long, curly hair is pulled back loosely, and she is dressed in an outfit similar to when I saw her last night–black silky, clingy pants, high heels, and a black lace bustier. She has off-white chiffon skin and dark, perfectly lined lips.
“Hi, how are you?” she says, pleased to see me, smiling genuinely, holding my questionnaire in her hand.
“I’m nervous,” I admit.
She reviews my questionnaire with me, asking me a question every now and then, commenting, nodding, taking mental notes.
“So, you’d like a little public humiliation, right?”
“Um, yeah...” I giggle. When someone whispers in your ear, “I bet you’d like to have my friends watch me spank you and see what a hungry slut you are,” that can be hot. But in this context, it felt too matter-of-fact, de-eroticized, businesslike.
“Now, what about humiliation in private?”
“Well, I like to be told what to do, given orders, disciplined. I suppose it’s more discipline that humiliation. Sometimes I can be a wise-ass and need to be put in my place.”
“Very good.” Pause. “What kind of sensory deprivation do you prefer?”
“Blindfolds, mostly, I guess. Maybe a gag, but not a hood or ear plugs.”
She nods, then reads aloud to herself. “Play piercing, good, 5 for slapping, good, hot wax, you’re not really into.”
She reminds me that penetration and sexual acts of any kind are illegal and not part of the services provided. She tells me that my safeword is “mercy,” but I must use it properly, as in “Mercy, Mistress, Please.”
“Would you like to have an enema to start?” she asks. Now, she doesn’t know I wrote a book on anal sex, so this question immediately makes me think she’s got me pegged. I agree.
She leads me to the “Medical Room,” where our scene will take place, which is mirrored on all four walls and the ceiling. A white vinyl table sits in the middle of the room with white leather restraining straps, white leather wrist and ankle restraints, and metal stirrups at one end. Glass shelves with glass jars of medical paraphernalia line one wall. In the corner sits a tank of oxygen and a IV stand. A white leather hood hangs on a hook to the left of the sink. There are white cabinets everywhere. She tells me to get fully undressed, and she leaves the room.
[To be continued...]
Visit Tristan at www.Puckerup.com