I’ll be sharing a few excerpts from my new novel, Amazon Hammer, over the next few weeks, to lure you into reading this big juicy coming-of-age and coming-to-power story!
I’ll start here, a few chapters into the book, when our heroine Jax steps into a BDSM space for the first time. She’s known since her early teens that she liked fetish clothes and fantasies involving domination and submission. After running away from her narcissistic mother, and moving in with her loving gay grandfather, she is hungry to connect with her authentic identity.
Could she become one of those sexy dominatrixes she had seen on the Internet? She decides to start by getting new clothes for her new identity. Dressed in a basic fetish outfit she assembled off discount racks in an East Village (NYC) shop, she soon ends up in a secret club where the fragrance of sweat, leather, and naked flesh let her know that she has found her paradise.
It was like a living circus of her most secret and shameful sex fantasies. There were black leather swings suspended from wooden beams erected inside the tent. There were bamboo and steel cages, some with captives inside. There were things she couldn’t quite identify and tops and bottoms acting out rituals she didn’t quite understand.
She froze and her brain froze. She threw her hands up to her head as if it might explode off her shoulders. Everything she saw was new, yet it felt weirdly familiar. Everyone was a stranger, yet she felt a level of comfort with them she’d never felt in any group, as if they were all genetically or spiritually connected somehow. She knew that any rational person seeing implements associated with brutality and torture would probably flee. But what she saw were really infinite erotic opportunities to live out her most precious fantasies in a safe space where she would not be judged.
“First time?” A man wearing a red corset over a tailored shirt and loose, almost flowing pants stood at her elbow. A Zorro mask completed the look, making him look more like a raccoon than a rakish legend.
“Maybe,” she said slyly. He amused her. His outfit was so bizarre and seemingly random. The corset was custom-made of red leather and cinched his waist so tight he looked like an hourglass. His pants billowed out below the girdle, like a harem girl’s. On his feet were high red boots that matched the corset. He was part pirate, part harem girl, part fetish doll and, to her titillation, clearly a bona fide pervert.
“You should be wearing lipstick to match your outfit. I would never let my slave leave the house without lipstick that matched his corset.” She dug through her purse and grabbed his face in one hand. He did not demur when she waved the lipstick at him and said, “Let me fix that for you.” He obsequiously allowed her to apply it to his lips, then blushed and said thank you to her.
She couldn’t believe this was happening! She wanted to squeal and jump up and down. Instead, she turned her head away from him to hide her facial expressions, hoping that he would read it as haughty disdain. “May I please ask what your name is, Mistress?” he asked humbly.
She pretended to be looking for someone in the crowd. “You may call me Mistress… Amazon.” She knew enough not to reveal her real name. She turned back to him. “Follow me,” she snapped. Zorro meekly followed a few steps behind, head bowed.
Were all submissive men this easy, she wondered? Well, not the gay guys, of course, but still, how could Zorro know she was a real femdom? Did it even matter to him if she was real? She had no idea a woman could claim she was dominant, say a few bossy, bitchy things and a submissive would turn to mush. With every step forward she felt a little more entitled to be there.
By the time they were halfway across the tent towards the stage, where someone was performing, another man lined up behind Zorro. Then a third guy lined up, and now the crowd was starting to watch them. There were some whispers, some coughs of laughter rippling through the crowd. She stared straight ahead at the front of the room, striding with a tense grace, her reflection from the store windows present in her mind. She was that woman, not the girl whispering in her brain that this was embarrassing and bizarre and she should run away.
She stopped. There was a large low platform set up as a stage in front, flanked by posters about AIDS and a table to the side that was collecting donations for a charity group. On the stage, a naked man, his body shaved from head to toe, was cuffed to a huge X-frame cross while two men in leather pants and vests were attaching metal devices to his genitals, working in concert as the naked man writhed.
She stepped close to the platform, mesmerized by the shiny steel gadgets and the quiet authority of the two men working to push the bound man to his limits. One man held a small whip and randomly threw its lashes across his thighs and ass. The other one held something that looked like a pizza cutter. When he ran it on the naked guy’s leg, the man twitched and groaned.
“It’s a Wartenburg Wheel,” Zorro whispered in her ear.
His words startled her from her trance. “What?”
“The little steel tool that looks like a spur? Those tiny little points, they feel like tiny needles.”
She nodded in understanding. She imagined the wheel in her hand. She wanted to run it all over a human body and see how much their body could take.
His voice got throaty and the eye holes in his mask got beady bright. “Would you do that to me?” She ignored him. She was flying now. She was flying away. She twirled. Her small submissive entourage looked at her expectantly. Were they expecting to do something dominant? She pointed at the ground. “Kneel!” she ordered. All three quickly got on their knees….
She walked to Zorro, grabbed him by the hair and stared into his eyes until he lowered his gaze. “Now, thank me for giving you attention.” He murmured, “Thank you, Mistress Amazon, for the privilege of your attention.” She yanked his hair roughly, and saw the whites of his eyes. “Louder,” she commanded. “Say it louder so others can hear!”
“Thank you, Mistress,” he shouted like a terrified military recruit to the officer training him at boot camp. “Thank you for paying attention to this humble slave.” His voice was so loud, everyone turned to them for a second, laughing and whispering…
She turned to the second in line. This guy looked younger than her. He had ruddy cheeks and Beatles-style hair, with dark greasy bangs hanging to his thick eyebrows. Even she knew he was dressed all wrong for the event, in a neat white shirt and khaki pants. He looked smug like he had snuck into a line for seats he couldn’t afford.
“You’re new,” she sneered, wondering if anyone would call her out on her own inexperience. No one did. Her tiny
entourage would believe anything she told them. She felt it. They had recognized her as dominant. She was a sub magnet. The thought excited her. She wanted to collect men, to have a whole cadre of devoted men who would jump when she told them to jump and kneel at her command.
She continued, “Do you deserve the privilege of following me?” She didn’t know if she meant it or not, but suddenly it FELT like she meant it. How dare this pimply grinning whelp, who dressed like a square and snickered like a coward, follow her around!
His smug look vanished. “Probably not,” he admitted, “I mean, you’re a dominatrix and I’m not sure.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “I don’t know, maybe I’m not in your league.”
“If you think I’m out of your league, then I am.” She coldly dismissed him with a wave of her hand and turned her back to him.
Now she beckoned the third guy to approach. He was the oldest of the three and looked like he was made of tougher stuff. He had a huge head, with a wide nose and jutting jaw. He radiated calm and certainty as if the rituals were familiar and comfortable to him. Both Zorro and the pimply Boy Scout looked shady by comparison as if they had guilty secrets. He looked humble, but not downtrodden and his big shaggy head was the kind of ugly that could, at certain angles, look handsome in a classical way. He wore close-fitting black clothes on his tall, trim body and his gray hair was thick and beautifully combed. She sensed he had experience and the way he looked at her pleased her. He looked humble and submissive, but also friendly and if she had to put it in one word, sane. He
looked strangely sane.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Henry,” he said.
“Thank me, Henry. Thank me for the privilege of following me, like the slave
you are!”
He said it loud enough for people nearby to hear him, but not so loud as to stop the crowd. Then he lowered himself to his knees and asked, “May I please kiss your feet, Mistress?”
“Yes!” she cried. This was unbelievable. This was incredible. She was flying again. Not only did he want to kiss her boots, but he kissed them so affectionately, so genuinely, with such sincerity, the heat of his kisses rose to her head.
Zorro couldn’t stand it anymore. “Can I kiss your feet?”
“No,” she said coldly. “No, you may not.”
He looked frustrated. “Can I get you a drink then?”
“Sure,” she said, and he hurried towards the bar. It would be really mean of her if she left before he brought it back, she thought.
Henry watched Zorro retreat, shaking his head and chuckling. “When the blood goes to the penis, it leaves the
head.”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t even ask you what you want to drink.” Henry bent at the waist laughing.
“You’re right!” She laughed. Was Zorro so scared of her, or maybe so horny for her, that he forgot to ask what she wanted?
“Would you consider going for a drink with me somewhere?” Henry asked.
She looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s late. I haven’t even had dinner yet. I need to go.”
“What a pity.” He looked genuinely sad. “Would you consider seeing me another time? Do you have a private
dungeon where I could visit you? I’d love to schedule a session with you.”
“Oh,” she fumbled, “well, I mean, not really, I’m not set up for that.”
“Do you work at a club? I’d really love to see you professionally if you’d allow me. Yes, I think we’d have fun, don’t you?”
Henry took out his wallet and pressed 2 crisp one hundred dollar bills into her hands. “Let me pay you for an hour in advance,” he said, scribbling on the back of a flyer he snatched off a table. “No strings. The money is yours. If you can’t find time for me, so be it. But, really, I would love to get to know you and am happy to pay for the privilege.” He handed her the flyer. “Email me if you can make time for me.”
She stared at the money. She just got money for nothing. He didn’t even know her real name. She folded the bills and the flyer and deposited them in her bag.
“You’ll hear from me.” She tried to sound as if this happened to her all the time. “I’ll find room for you in my schedule.”
He bowed. “May I kiss your hand goodbye, sweet Mistress?”
She shyly gave him her hand. He was perfect. Henry was sexy enough, and sane and holy shit, he wanted to pay her to do things she’d already dreamed of doing! Professional dominatrix! Holy shit! She knew women did that, but it had never occurred to her that she could become one!
…From her toes to her brain, from her heart to her pussy, she was alive, more alive than she’d ever been. What had changed inside her? Was it in her hormones? She had never felt so horny in her life….
What did she really feel right here and right now? She felt aspirational. She felt capable. She wanted to live out her dreams. She wanted money and the luxuries it could buy. She wanted people to respect her. She wanted to play with a maximum of men. She wanted slaves to worship her. And, one day, she wanted to fall in love with someone who loved her for who she was.
She felt powerful. That was it. She had tasted power. Her body rippled like a shark in the ocean as the idea sank in. Power was her aphrodisiac.
You want to keep reading, don’t you? Click here to download your copy of Amazon Hammer right now.
Give me sweet aftercare by following some of these steps
Graphic by Sherry Snyder, via http://www.paulbishopbooks.com/2015/08/care-and-feeding-of-amazon-authors.html
