In this Podcast, Mistress Roulette and Mister P reflect on what constitutes real male submission versus what they consider to be faking it. They also discuss a new psychological technique that Roulette is considering using with both her clients and her lover.
I finally finished subtitling the scene that Roulette and I did that was virtually ruined due to Jerry’s poor camera work.
I hope you like it.
VIGILANCE
[working title]
(c) 2009 M Roulette Chatelaine
(Steal my shit, and I’ll be hunting YOU down.)
CHAPTER ONE —
. use me
I dig my heel deeper into the soft pouch of flesh between his legs, protected only by a thin layer of fabric, thanks to my generosity of allowing him to leave his pants on. Trust me, I didn’t have to. His eyes are wide, and he’d be begging and pleading with me to spare him the pain and humiliation, were he able to. I’ll have to remember to buy a new pair of hosiery in the hotel lobby, I mentally note before alleviating just enough pressure; it should allow the man to speak. Oh, except for the hose. I yank that quickly out of his mouth, enjoying the nice red lines that have formed at the outer edges of his lips due to him having to accommodate the big ball of lingerie.
“Well?” With my other arm casually against my thigh, pistol in hand, of course, I look right at him. Ready for my answer. Too bad for him, it appears he has nothing. Nothing doesn’t fly with me. Not in my work, and not in my play. I hate that I keep getting the two mixed up.
“She said … ” He begins.
“That’s right, Jimmy. You take a nice deep breath and think carefully about your words.” Somewhere in the back of my brain, I realise Cassandra would kill me, if she knew I was here. Not that I cared, or that it would stop me. Cass and I were friends. This is what friends do – when one of them gets date-raped, at least. “Do you think I have all day?”
“What?” He sputters. “I, I … I don’t even know who you are!”
Well, that’s a no-shit. Nor will he ever. If he wants to live. Against my better judgment, I’m not always a sadistic hell-bitch. I do ensure that the punishment fits the crime. And, well, California, and thereby, Los Angeles, isn’t going to make rape a capital crime anytime soon. Regardless of my own personal, albeit biased, feelings toward the subject matter. (more…)
I am a dominant woman.
I don’t play at it, I don’t simply fantasise about it. I just simply am.
I was the vampyre queene while the other little girls were playing at being faerie princesses. Though I could perform the many arias of Briar Rose to perfection, it was Maleficent’s litany to Prince Phillip on the hopelessness of ‘true love conquering all’ and the delivery of her own power-play that captured my heart. Needless to say, I was always a little bit dark. The many personae in my head as a child, (which led me to believe I was mad before I realised I was actually just a writer) ranged from powerful, dominant women to the seasoned villainness and the experienced seductress. No ingenues, naive faire maidens, or delicate flowers for me. The only princess whom I admired was Leia; I often found myself fantasising about being the one seductress mastermind capable of making even Bond succumb and surrender. (Ridiculously hot kinky sex to follow — and of course, he’d live to fight another day. But his body, his heart, his soul — those would be mine.) But Fleming never made my fantasy come true. Naturally, I never quite gave it up. I kept on writing, kept on dreaming, kept on creating tales of mystery, espionage, suspense, murder, even science-fiction and fantasy — with daring, empowered women and the strong, devoted men who were helplessly under their spell, though powerful in their own right. (more…)
