Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

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Every man I share some sexual slice of bliss with runs to the shadows or into the arms of their girlfriends. When I was younger I would put all the blame on me. Now, I realize that it’s my power that they just can’t handle. Men to boys. And I’m nobody’s mother.

The men, or boys, I’m referring to would probably be the first to deny such a power from occurring, or that they just can’t handle what I’m willing to serve. Egos – it hasn’t been the first time those have gotten in the way of the truth. It’s my assumption that they had no clue what hit them, like a hurricane. Dripping wet on the winds of an oceanic libido, one that roars and is unwilling to stop. I come in and I come in strong. And when I come, I come strong as well…

2011′s the year of the demon. My demon. When I close my eyes and clear my mind I see it take shape. Distorted Salvador Dali face. Melting eyes and lips crudely drawn up at the curtains. Smiling at me, taunting me. Although playful at best. Sometimes it has sharp teeth protruding from it bottom jaws. Sometimes it calls at me, dances around me.

It multiples and overwhelms me to the point where I have to take it on with bated breath. Bring it on. Unspoken and scary, it tells me that change is upon me. It caresses my clitoris, cosmically speaking, so I’m always excited. Turned on. Electric. I say yes to everything. I sign my name in blood to any contract now. I take leaps where there are canyons, swim deeply through bottomless pits. I do this because I have a demon in me.

“Let us go!” They screamed. And they’ll continue to scream. The clock had stopped, as predicted. Soon, the generators would malfunction. All lights would go out. Food kept fresh will finally be allowed to sour. And the electronically locked gates that kept the island’s beast at bay would cease to protect the people forever.

Clouds of bomb smoke stained the blue sky taupe and showered down a sour odor, a cloak of somberness and dismay. It intermingled with the peppery gun powder that had also polluted Cartona, the kidney-shaped mass of sand and rock. Hidden along the Mediterranean, the island was mythically known for collecting sailors lost at sea.

As you may have guessed by now, most of the horrible things I masturbate(d) to are from movies. And it’s normally never the entire movie but just one scene, one destinctive scene that completely blows all I knew about sex out of the water. I will watch that same film again and again just to arrive at the scene. I’m not desperate, I won’t fast forward. The anticipation of arriving to that point of no return is far more satisfying than a quick fix.

This is very true for the movie of Revenge of the Nerds. Only one scene in that entire comedy had set off a fetish that still lives with me to this day, one that I often don’t bring up in the bedroom.

As a fetishette, I often invite potential clients on dates before we plan a session. That way, we can get to know each other, have a few laughs and develop some chemistry before the appointment is made. After a good date, an appointment is no longer just an appointment but an encounter, and the transactions are arrangements made for the time offered. And not once have I met a client where the first meet isn’t necessary.

You’d be surprised how many of my married or partnered clients feel guilty for seeing me. As an escort, men were happy to see me regardless of their romantic status. Of course, they never told their spouses and partners. Or perhaps there was some sort of understanding I wasn’t aware of. But, as a professional dominatrix, everything was shrouded in secrecy.

My clients never fully disclosed their personal lives. Men were named Peter, Paul, and Andrew and nothing more. They used fake phone numbers and email addresses. They found anonymous sanctuary in many dungeons sprinkled throughout midtown, sinful places cradled in the monotone buildings that tower above us.

You are waiting for this to happen. A single moment that poured off the side of your face. It splatters to the floor. You wipe away the sweat, fully aware of the smell you excrete. The natural odor of the body growing hard, stiff at the sight of her. You feel your cock inflate like a balloon in a Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. She’ll see what you have been hiding all this time. She’ll notice you’re engorged secret.

I blame it on Jodie Foster. But, I suppose blaming the victim isn’t the right way to begin such an uncomfortable article. *Drum solo…?*

The first time I saw The Accused, I remember it was a gray day, maybe a Sunday. It’s an old movie based on a true story, although I didn’t know that at the time. It was the only thing on TV, Lifetime perhaps, and at that time I watched Lifetime religiously to catch alien conspiracies on Unsolved Mysteries and any crazy psycho-boyfriend killer flicks they might feature.

The Fetishette is a series of articles and essays that provide insight into the type of work I do. You may also learn a thing or two, which isn’t so bad, is it?

Storytelling and adult sex play: The two go together quite well, actually. I would say that if sex was a song then storytelling would play bass guitar. It goes unnoticed but it very much carries the soul of the tune, while the drums are the heart, etc.

In my adult play sessions, it’s my responsibility to string the story along and carry us through from the beginning of a scene to its ending. And don’t let porn fool you – all sexual fantasies have a story.

Sorry for the long wait. My mac has been returned to me in better condition than ever. Whoo! Don’t forget about my performance on Sunday. Hope you can drop by!

In our last episode, two friends engage in a game of epic proportions. Let’s see what happens to David as he hangs on by a thread (literally)! Will the gigantic Christina ever notice her tiny little friend? Find out!

me: This strand is annoying me. I twist it around my finger and, as I’m about to slide it back, I notice that something lands on my countertop. It almost looked like a speck of pepper, a flea. I bent down reaaaaally close to the counter, and inspect the tiny object.

Bridget was easy. She was flimsy and sensitive. Like a bird with a pointy beak for lips. Her messy brown locks were pinned up like a large cloud of smoke hanging over her head, wisps of it falling over her feline face.

She felt particularly special in her Uncle Leo’s dress. Not one that he wore it himself. Bridget giggled at she looked down at it; its golden corset glistening in front of the fireplace. She couldn’t imagine her tall lanky, frowned-face uncle in such dainty attire. He was too much of a tight-lipped conservative to entertain such an unusual secret.

Being 25 years old really offers no shame or secrecy. In fact, I’m expected to revel in my youth, and the presumptions made by being a twenty-something.

Actually, I’ve been having a case of the grownups, what with all the moving and making business plans and forecasting a future where I can do what I love and suffer a little for it – which is a pretty harmonious gig if you ask me.

Meanwhile, I’m surrounded by older gentlemen who have rocketed from their humble beginnings to the type of success that I long to procure. As some would say, if you want to achieve some sort of greatness, then you should always keep the company of those who best reflect your ideal accomplishments.

As I’m edging closer to the possibility that I may have a chance to expand my business, I’ve been considering the many changes I’d like to make. For one, I know I have called myself a role play fetishist, and I’ll still identify as such. But, I want to introduce a new idea into the mix: Adult play.

Here are some of the differences between the two.

Role play implies that you’re playing a stereotype or an archetype – Hooker, schoolgirl, nurse, etc. So, there’s little to no room for individuality.

This is a collaborative fetish adult play story between a client and I. I’d like to thank him for letting me share this with everybody. It’s interesting; originally I was going to write a story, only using the following conversations as a blueprint, of sorts. But, the dynamic of the messages is pretty golden… at least to me. As you can see, we had a great deal of fun with our special endeavor. And I hope you enjoy it just as much as we did.

To give you some background, my friend (we’ll call him David). He secretly loves giantesses; it’s a weakness for him. Poor David thought that he had his unusual desires under control. But, when he becomes vulnerable in front of me, his life changes forever!