An excerpt from unpublished book Twisted Sister copyright Mistress Petra

“Anally Pedantic”

   I had interviewed him a week ago, and he had presented references of previous service. Despite my flippant mood at the time, this very serious, upright slave needed me to take a serious approach to his request, so I snapped myself into Mistress mode, and had agreed to start him as my personal slave on a one month trial basis, which would be reviewed. I had assured him I would check out his references, prior to allowing him into my home. I had done that, and he was given satisfactory recommendations. Today he arrived at my doorstep, promptly and smartly dressed. I ushered him into my dungeon, where I instructed him to strip his clothes off and place them in a box. Once he had done this, I put a padlock on the box, put a leather collar around his neck, with a small bell attached to the front of it. I then sized up his rather small genitals, shrunken no doubt with embarrassment and fear. I selected an appropriately small sized cock cage, stainless steel is so clinical, matter of fact, but entirely effective. I fitted it, tightening it even tighter than it should go, he stood stoically , without flinching. This was a good sign. I then clipped on a dog leash to his collar, and towed him out of the dungeon, from there giving this domestic slave a tour of my home, I spent particular pains at the cleaning cupboard. I maintain a huge assortment of cleaning products, He nodded, and asked the occasional question. As I swooped through the house, I casually explained that I will test his thoroughness, that I do not expect to find one ornament moved or rearranged, as this would imply that Mistress has no sense of aesthetic. He was also told, that once he was a trusted domestic, he would be shown how to feed the dogs, and if he was very lucky he may be allowed to bath them. The one room I forbade him to enter, was my bedroom. If he was ever suspected of doing so, or caught , it would result in immediate and permanent banishment. I asked if he had understood all of this. He did. Doubting that he would live up to my expectations, I then explained my punishments. I have two systems that I employ, one is instant punishment on the spot if the infringement is done in front of me, the other system is a tally that adds up. Once it reaches 100 the caning or strapping with the tawse is administered. As I explained to him, this method encouraged tardy behavior performed in Mistress’ absence to cease. A reliable and earnest slave should not , after initial training require constant supervision. He thought I was a very clever Mistress, I laughed at him, ‘but, of course Mistress is clever’ I had replied. I will watch him like a hawk for this first month, and I will need to set little ‘honesty’ traps. My instinct is that he will prove to be a useful slave.’

   I stopped reading, so she had a slave that cleaned her house. I always found it to be organized and clean, well I certainly wish I had a cleaning domestic slave. I laughed to myself, there was certainly a lot more to my friend than I had ever imagined. What a great idea, and to imagine that a man would be grateful to do domestic chores. The men I know avoid it, some living single pay a cleaner to come in once a week for a couple of hours. This ‘slavery’ thing is a whole untapped market!. I sat back and digested what I’d read, as my thoughts ran wild with all the chores I would get ‘my’ slave to do. God alone knows the kitchen walls are long overdue for a good scrub, and the garage desperately needed sorting. Oh , I wanted a slave all of my own!. My fantasies ran wild, flooded with visual images of men , clad only in a dogs collar cleaning, and then I looked around her house, and my imagining’s started to bring forms to life, I pretended to chide a slave..’you’ve done a sloppy job of dusting, bend over!’ I giggled at my  playfulness. Thought myself stupid, and went outside to the garden again. It was then that my analytical brain kicked in, what was it that drove that type of man to desire to serve a Dominant woman by cleaning her house? Why did he need to be told what to do, why the need to relinquish his self control and be instructed on his every movement, what was the satisfaction and reward in that? Peculiar. I started to wonder what sort of person he was in his day to day life, in fact I wondered about Princess, and John, who were these men in their real day to day family lives? Would her diary enlighten me? I needed to read on, the psychology that bought these men to their knees was now the thread that was intriguing me.

   “I often find the slaves and submissives to be quite delightful when they are ‘them’...it is the ‘them’ that they too are seeking to find expression for, mostly preferring the persona that they can escape to when they are acting out. Often the ‘real, everyday man is cold, removed from sensitivity and is too afraid of being seen to be ‘sweet’ or’ gentle’...passive in our society is often mistaken for weakness, therefore a lot of males tend toward maintaining a strict façade of an upright spine and a controlled demeanour.

Do these men not know that the boundaries between play and permanent escape are tenuous and potentially hazardous. They give a great deal of time to the power of their fantasies, unlike women who seem to have the ability to put it into perspective, men on a thread find it difficult to divorce themselves from it, and are easily distracted becoming more attuned to the fantasy than the reality. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a male can tune out of male mode and become a ‘slave’ or a ‘submissive’. It’s a bit like putting a new hat on. Is the hunger that drives them so immense that ‘slipping’ into this role is easy? Is it an avoidance of intimacy?. For some the use of sado-masochistic and roleplay behaviours is akin to the addiction to a narcotic, the sexual experience is the painkiller that numbs emotional feeling reactions.”

  So part of her theory was that her slaves were avoiding intimacy. At times we all do that. Fear of connection, of getting hurt, an inability to make a commitment, or a drive to focus on other aspects of our lives. For some confusion over sexual identity.

A little something from my book...

 The next entry in her diary revealed more than another fetish, I read as follows;

  ‘I had received his email several weeks before. He had outlined his fetish and was wondering if I would be interested in having him as a client. I agree to do the session, it would be fun. He arrived today, on the dot of two o’clock. I like a slave who conducts himself with old fashioned punctuality.

We talked briefly about the session. I had him sit in my comfortable old armchair in the sitting room. I went to the dungeon and selected off my shelves a pair of patent leather court shoes. The stiletto heel is only three inches high, with a pointed toe. The slick shiny reflection in the black court shoe mimicked the efficiency of a glamorous business woman, or a strict governess. I swept my hair up into a French roll to enhance the effect. I walked out to him, and paraded in front of him as he sighed and moaned, his eyes rolling gently as a blissful clicking low in his throat indicated to me that he was captivated. I sauntered slowly past him, and returned to the dungeon. This time I choose a pair of faux ocelot fur heels, my favorites. I walked out with the air of a vixen on heat, and teased his sensibilities. Placing my foot near to his, I traced small circles in my plush wool carpet, daring him silently to bend and touch the shoe. Driven by his fetish he bent to reach for the shoe, which I snapped away from his grasping hand, I verbally chastised him, and stalked off, back into the dungeon, a smile on my face.

This time I selected my five inch red leather stiletto heels. So sexy to look at, dangerous to totter in. As I balanced atop them I eased my way back into the room, the ‘parade of shoes’ was taking it’s toll  on him, he licked his dry lips, and looked pleadingly at me, I ignored this needy gesture, and walked to the fire place ,where I steadied my balance, playfully running one shoe up the back of my other leg I teased his eyes and tortured his mind.

   Silently I ‘modeled’ the shoe collection, the array was quite impressive. I progressed onto boots, starting with black leather ankle boots that are perched on stainless steel points, perfect for grinding into fleshy parts! I then adorned my black patent leather boots, a 7 inch heel with a two inch platform, they lace straight up the front, and stop just below the knee. I then posed in my black satin and leather vintage boots, circa 1870, they were a beautiful reproduction style and I often wear them out when socializing. Finally I wore my thigh high red patent leather boot’s, I strode out to him, and ordered him down onto his knees, where he was given permission to show his respect. He did so, by kissing the toes of my boots. “ Enough’ I snapped, ‘you are slobbering all over them, and it is not a race track slow down, show reverence for Mistress!’ He did as he was instructed. I then told him to follow me on all fours, telling him not to take his eyes of the heels of my boots, and with a little ‘click click’ of my heels like a Gestapo commander, I walked to the dungeon, and he followed.

I made him lie on his back, still fully clothed, I then peeled the long zip down on the inner thigh of my left boot, he looked wistfully at me, wishing I’d allowed him that privilege, ‘next time, if you’re lucky’ I said laughing at him. I removed the other boot, and went to stand above him. I lifted a foot high above his face, and dangled it, enticing him, slowly it hovered above him, lowering it so close that he could smell my foot, his nostrils working overtime, trying to inhale and memorize the aroma.  Slowly but surely I stamped my foot on his face, he emitted a groan of pleasure, and just when he thought he was safe and in heaven, I removed it again, laughing at his desperation. I then put my other foot to work, this time teasing his lips, he knew better than to put his tongue out and try and taste my toes, and then  as I thought he would burst I forced his mouth open with my toes, running the tips across his lips, and the pushing further into this mouth to feel his moist hot tongue. He closed his eyes, and devoured my foot in a ravenous fashion. I removed it after some time and then reaching above me, I took hold of the suspension bar, and one foot at a time, I stepped onto his body, where I walked over every inch, carefully avoiding the heart and sternum, I trampled him. He was in heaven, and I noticed a growing concern in his trousers. “Slave, you have had your therapy for today, at eight o’clock tonight you will complete this course of treatment, by relieving your pent up frustrations. You will email me, and let me know when you have completed your instructions’. I replaced my boots, and saw him to the door, He walked out with a rather obvious ‘tent pole’ in his trousers. I enjoyed that session. I did my usual bathing and ‘cleansing’ of the dungeon, and then got back to ordinary life.’

Love Thy Shadow

  This seeing without recoiling is what undoes judgement, to bear witness to the theatre. No urging to see the light and no denial of the power of the darkness, no searching for a cause. Dark, light and shadow…

  “I had captured one of them, and had kept it alive and pacing in its cage, one of the demons that visited my soul during the hours of sleep. The dream was deep and restless, color visited as images sharpened in my mind. Constructing a landscape… creating a session with an exquisitely controlled atmosphere of scandalous behaviors, spicing up the mix with suspense, pushing it with a bullying intimacy that fills the silence, testing the submissive’s powerful appetite...the images raced through my dream corridors. Whips flayed, screaming reverberated around my head, hollow screams of boyhood disappointments, I heard my own laughter parrying back at the perceived failures, and punished harder. Pouncing on any self doubt, any minutiae of weakness is fodder for my sharply directed humiliations. With cold superiority I maintain a strategy of self protection. I realized the brutality of life had struck him as it touches all of us. None escape. At some point we all get to taste and feel the harsh edgy sadness of life. It’s how we handle it that determines our future”.

  I woke, breathing rapidly, confused. Sitting up I gathered my thoughts assuring myself it was just a dream. I dream often. This is the ‘magic’ of the mind at work.  My mind was doing some deep processing. I was forced to look in the mirror and see the depths of my shadow. It is acknowledgement that the shadow belongs, it is not separate, but a part of the whole. Denying your shadow or being afraid of it will keep you running, haunted by your own specter. Stopping to know it, allowing it the space to ‘be’ and to ‘play’ removes all fear. The skin you live and breathe in becomes a much better fit when you reach this juncture. Embracing that I am Petra…Domina that sadistically peels away the layers of protection that one human has carefully constructed over his life, through removal of the flesh or mentally melting his fragile ego. It is the quiet moments, those times when alone and the world seems so still, that I often get to meet with my shadow.

Copyright Mistress Petra von Payne 2009

Mood Stabilisers versus Corrective Behavioral Techniques

I am being brazen enough to write about the male dominated region of allopathic medicine...in particular the huge and mostly exploratory territory of psychiatry. However I want to explore this very serious area of health that afflicts the western world like a plague, within the context of fetish, bondage, discipline and sado-masochism. In this short dialogue I am in no way suggesting anyone should cease prescribed care or medication.

These are only opinions based on observation, experience, application and professional work. It is a subject that I think needs exploration. There are many perspectives all deserving of discussion, so forgive me if I leave a point of view out, however not every stone can be upturned for inspection. This is barely scratching the surface, but perhaps provides some interesting food for thought.

When, in the past I have been asked what it is that I do as a Dominatrix, which like most professions has many myths surrounding it. Most people have already conjured up visions of a leather clad she-devil wildly flailing implements of torture. That can sometimes be the theatrics of a session... however I go on to explain; "I receive a submissive into my chambers, I put a tight collar and leash on him and exercise his demons in safe space. I am here to exercise the demons not exorcise them”. My answer is deliberately obscure, for unless one is willing to experience the journey simple words and explanations do not suffice. In this analogy I also scare away the curious voyeurs saving my energy for those that want to engage authentically. Arrogant perhaps, but in my experience the holding of sacred space for such intense play comes at a personal soul cost. Essentially I as a Dominatrix am a healer, whether my client recognises that, or is fully cognizant is not initially important. It is the process, the healing comes without bidding, and that for me is the beauty.

 For many years I worried that I was facilitating acting out behaviors and allowing people to continually 'replay' their fantasy and wasn't in fact encouraging growth and change which is ultimately a healthier state than stagnation for any part of the human psyche. I questioned whether I was a perpetrator of taboo's, some of them dark, and most definitely enactment of the shadow, as Jung would put it. As time has passed, I accept that if people want and are in fact ready to 'shift' they will move through their fantasy states, indeed developing and evolving into different BDSM roles. Sometimes they stop having sessions completely, on other occasions it’s a break whilst they regroup. The commonality between this and some of the modern day psycho- therapeutic approaches, like cognitive behavioral therapy, gestalt and so forth, is that when a person is ready to change and move on they will. Sometimes they have a catalyst, or they simply have an “ah-ha moment’’.

The interesting thing I have observed with clients is that sessions can be quite cathartic in many instances.  A person can turn up on my doorstep with a flat affect and a monotone voice. The eyes devoid of life. I think to myself what am I to do with this person? A little talking often reveals stress and anxiety of the level that would definitely earn them a prescription of Valium just to get to lunchtime, let alone a top up of Zyprexa for the rest of the day...and here they are wanting a  bdsm session. I notice to myself that there is a distinct feeling of hopelessness, futility and what I call aloneness. Often these people have no sense of community, no ‘’tribe’’. The soul is malnourished.

The benefits of a session are often profound. I have had clients who are in their day to day lives are in control of millions of dollars, or have to manage large corporations, in other words they have a huge amount of weight and responsibility on their shoulders. I have also had clients who run their own small business, however the stress levels are comparable, these people are anxious and usually suffering a great deal of mental angst. After a session that explores their predilections, they usually look five years younger, their posture is relaxed, and they become chatty and informal, smiling and laughing. The transformation of negative, heavy energy into relaxed positivity is apparent in every gesture.

So what is it that is 'therapeutic' about the approach used within the dungeon, what is really happening to the body, emotions, mind and soul? Like some of the medications that are dispensed for people suffering mental illness, bdsm can also becomes quite addictive, so what are the qualities that are similarities? These are the things I want to explore.

There is in all of us a desire to be approved of. To succeed, to be loved, at some level, no matter how buried. Yet most of us have that bitch of a monkey on our shoulder whispering in our left ear how ugly we are, or how fat we are, how unpalatable we are, how stupid we are, how we lack in courage, how much our Mother or Father disapproves of us, how little control we have over our lives..this monkey chatters away as we sleep, we work, we play, we reinforce it silently every time we agree with the self doubt, and therein lies, albeit simplistically the cycle of mental disharmony.

For one hour a week, the slave has found a way to release the tensions, the 45 years of self doubt, the stress of having to be Mr Perfect,..... he visits his Mistress. Dry mouthed he knocks on her dungeon door, wondering again to himself why the hell he puts himself through this torture. For three days, since making the appointment he has been anticipating and fearfully wondering what she will do to him this time. The sound of her high heels on the hallway floor terrifies him.  He finds himself quivering, he tries to remember is it two or three sessions he has had with her. His trembling vibrates up into the humble bunch of flowers he holds for her, and the door opens. She smiles and welcomes him in. He steps over the thresh-hold, too late to turn back now. He realises he isn't breathing, and attempts to relax. As he's ushered into the dungeon and told to strip and have a shower, he does so... clumsily offering the flowers, which now seem so pathetic a gift for such a magnificent woman.

What has just happened in these five minutes?
A man, highly stressed, usually socially confidant and well adjusted has put all of his trust into a woman's hands who he doesn't know that well, other than on a purely professional level. He knows in 5 minutes he is going to be completely naked, kneeling and at her feet. For him it’s a break with reality, it is an escape into fantasy, a safe space where he can 'play', where no-one will judge him for his fears, or his fantasies. In fact he is trusting her more than he has ever trusted his wife of 20 years. To some this would seem utter madness. However in many respects the baring of his naked body is very similar to the baring of his mind, should he be sitting in a psychiatrists office.

She enters the room, and commands him to worship her stiletto heel, greedily he kisses the heel, almost mauling it in hunger for the release he knows is going to sweep over him. Gently she slows him down, telling him to be more reverent in his approach. As he continues to worship her shoes, he feels a  collar being tightened onto his neck, the firm, but supple feeling of leather around his neck allows him to sink into an even lower level of safe submission, An internal sigh of 'I am all hers, she can do as she wishes'

The man has just allowed himself to go slowly down into submission, not to 'collapse' but to surrender into the care of another. This implies a huge level of trust. One of the key elements that in day to day life are surely distorted. The average person in the corporate world would well relate to the old saying, 'sharks to the left, pirates to the right and rocks dead ahead'. This is the reality of our competitive world. To be in a space with another human being and surrender completely is a unique and very rare experience. It is the beginning of healing, some would call it sexual healing (and others would call it perverted!). I believe it is more wholistic than just sexual, I think it resonates on all levels, emotional, spiritual, psychological and physical.

She binds me in rope, I feel the cords wrapping around me, tightening into my flesh, clasping my hands together, I stretch against the knots, they are firm, my hands are going nowhere, they are firmly behind my back. As a leather blindfold is placed over my eyes, the softness of the lambs wool relaxes me, I sink into a reverie of observing what is happening to my body, as now there is no visual stimulus, I focus acutely on sensation. I hear her voice instructing me, it is soft and rich like the taste of caramel chocolate. I respond, I am in automatic pilot. A sharp sensation runs all the way up my spine...slowly...I shudder, and then nothing. Just silence... I smell cigarette smoke, I imagine her lips, the beautiful red, moist lips inhaling and slowly letting the blue smoke escape, her eyes deep and dark green casting over my naked, bound body. The feeling of weight on my buttocks, it takes time to work out what it is, and then I realise....Oh it’s my Mistress' beautiful stiletto shoes, she is resting her feet on me, whilst she enjoys a cigarette. I smile, and I relax into my bindings, waiting, eager to please Her.

And so the session continues, the slave is put through a series of 'trials', he is given sensory deprivation, to aid internal focus and concentration, he is physically bound, so he relinquishes physical control, he receives pain in the form of a flogging. Gently easing into his altered state of consciousness he starts to float.

She pauses with the whip, I can’t bare the delay, again please Mistress, an aching for the sensation of pain, knowing that what floods into my senses is release.

 Step by step he allows himself with guidance to 'let go' and to endure, In a way it is a mild form of a rite of passage, in order to receive, he must first let go, to let go he must trust. The healing comes from moving through this process, earning and choosing the right to endure. Just as a young indigenous tribal person dreams of his scarification ceremony. Honoring it as he knows it will give him a pride and vision that he hasn't carried before, it will give him rights that he has not formerly enjoyed.

This act of surrender that submissives offer to dominants, is one that should be deeply respected, it is indeed a gift, but it is also the responsibility of both parties to enjoy the process, and if it is healing, and helps to stave off the modern scourges of depression, anxiety and personality disorders, then I say power to the dominants of this world. When a submissive looks up at you, with total contentment and a blissful expression on his face, and he tells you how great he feels, or how he is 'just floating', then it’s got to be a better addiction than a pharmacological one.

Note; In no way is this a recommendation to stop taking prescribed medications or cease any treatment options, these are the opinions of the author

Just  so you all know- hair grows and colours change. I am not the homogenised surburban breed of evil witch sadist that you require.

Memo to self; update your photographs when you change your hair colour/style.

The reality is I would be taking photographs every week. Can I be bothered uploading with that sort of narcissistic frequency? - No.

 A Dominant is not  their hairstyle, or the look in a photograph.

 Two years ago, I was lucky enough to have a female submissive who adored me, and also happens to be one of the best Fetish photographers  around at the moment...so some of the images I have posted,which are of me, in my abode are authentic snaps- and thats what they are;moments in time captured with her, me,and the energy.Not forever.

 So yes, Mistress's hair has grown, its changed colour, and my enjoyment of a Germanic cropped look has dissapated...easing into a comfotably 40's feel of abundant feminine curls, dark, sultry, red lipsitck and still the politically incorrect swirls of cigarette smoke.

If you dont or cant deal with diverse presentation, and have fixed ideas of image slotting into your ideal of bdsm...keep walking and talking.

I AM MY own Dominant, not yours. I will choose when I am Yours.

I believe thats Old Guard.

The submissive at my front door is lying on is stomach, its dark, but as I open the door my heart stops seeing him head to toe in leather, high, high heel boots. Impulse is to drag him in and chastase him for exposing my house , my reputation with the vanilla neighbourhood.

But then I feel the devilish Petra descend.

Nice.

I grasp is neck, cutting off his air and pull him to his knees, whispering comand he hastily gets to his feet. Time to shuffle I think.

"Stand", I command. I retreat indoors, get a chain and a padlock...returning, I pull said postulant out to the street. I have a tree that I park my car beside. I think this slavish type will make a good guard dog for my car for the night.

Stretching the chain around the tree, I thread it through the convenient collar, his hand cuffs, his ankle cuffs, and snap, the lock is locked.

Service.

Does this site have a cokometer that prevents pictures of cocks suitably bound from being published??? God forbid that we are so constrained in the morality of some shitey republic...of heathen christian crappola.