Helle De Jour

Slots-A-Fun

Oooh! Looks as if I have a worship/smothering session coming up here in Sin City. I *knew* it was a good idea to pack along some gear and clothing, but then again - why in the world would I ever travel without?

Also on the agenda, a trip to the P.E.S. Boutique to acquire some electrifying new equipment. Sadly, I don't have my box with me, but I'll be ferrying all manner of delicious attachments with me, and am eagerly anticipating in lighting up YOUR skyscraper.

Viva!

xxxMistress Cherry Esplanade

Sin City

Viva with a kinky diva!

Rapture's Mistress Cherry Esplanade is making a break from NYC to Las Vegas for a few days (March 23rd - 28th, if you wanna get all specific about it), and would love to be hitting your jackpot, beating your odds and, well, you can pull your own slot handle, but I'll make sure you've got your cherries all lined up in a winning combo.

I'm a vicious roleplaying vixen into heavy verbal abuse, serious splosh and OTK spanking. Other interests? Bring it on - the more bizarre and elaborate the better. I'll be checking PMs and e-mail while I'm there (that would be as of Wednesday), so fire away with any pertinent (or impertinent, even) questions you might have. The earlier you contact me, the better shot you have at getting the prop or costume you've been hankering for.

Shootin' you those snake eyes.

xxxMistress Cherry Esplanade

Snuff Film

With A Cherry On Top

Songs In The Key Of "O"

Dress Code

And did I also mention that I had to wear plaid uniforms to school every day for twelve years in the service of...I believe it was purity or wholesomeness of something. And look how well *that* all turned out.

(Oh, and before y'all go fussing - this church belongs to a friend and has been deconsecrated since the early 70s. I may be obscene, but I ain't profane.)

Altar-ed States II

Altar-ed States

Have I mentioned that a nun tried to strangle me with her bare hands when I was but a wee slip of a Cherry? Have I mentioned that I just *might* still have an issue or two?

Whippet Real Good

Devo's Got Nothing On Me

Ass, And Thou Shall Receive (II)

Ass, And Thou Shall Receive

Ice Queen

*Sparking* your interest.

Some pretty electrifying news - I've just acquired a brand new PES box and several intriguing attachments for the nether regions. I'll be spending the next while intensively training in electrical play, and I'm awfully amped about it, to say the least.

Charging ahead...

xxxCherry

Rapture's Sissy Slut Spin-the-Bottle Sleepover Party

Friday 3/11 8 p.m. - 12 a.m. New York, NY

We dare you to try to catch even a wink of sleep with a dozen delicious dommes waiting to be served. Ditch your jammies at home (unless you've got a silky nightie or marabou slippers you'd care to model for us) - we'll need your back bare for spreading out our snacks and propping up our pretty feet for pampering. You'll be used and abused at our whim as we play with makeup, chat about girlie things, and have you sing and dance for us a la American Idol. If we deem your performance less than acceptable, believe us, there will be hell to pay via vicious rounds of Truth Or Dare and Spin The Bottle. Pucker up!

Looking for that Rapture twist? Come toting a pillow for the inevitable tussle, and you'll get a special treat. And need we even mention that there will be baked goods courtesy of Mistress Shiva's kitchen? It's not a party without something yummy to stuff in your mouth.

For more info, e-mail doms@rapturenyc.com or call 212.966 6777.

Red Light Special

I know you'll think I say this to all my slaves, but I really do think about you. Not just after our delicious sessions at Rapture. Not just outside the Red Room where I taunt and tease and torture you down to your very marrow. Not even just while I'm sliding on the Cuban heeled stockings and buttery red leather stilettoes you simply live to suckle. I think about you in my vanilla life as well.

Oh don't be shocked. How would I know the minute and private ways to make your world collapse if I did not live in it myself? I must masquerade in the world, just as you do, with my secret self shrouded in a veil of respectability. Of course, though, it's completely expected that I'd be wearing my own panties. Who would suspect that you are swathed in my dainties as well? Ohhhh, poor darling - are you squirming in your office chair now? Is the string of the thong pulling tautly against the back of your balls as you feign interest in what your colleague is saying? Will you be having to make a covert dash to the men's room to relieve the strain of your now-bulging cock against the elastic of my panties? Did your secretary see the tell-tale outline of your torment pressed against the somber fabric of your slacks? What a terrible, terrible shame for you that I have not allowed you release until you receive my approval. I feel for you. I truly do.

And as I said, I am not completely free, myself. I think of you as I go about my day. A jaunt to the hardware store brings new inspiration, and I swear I've aroused the interest of a young, male employee as he saw me lovingly fingering the hooks and bolts and chains in aisle six, and then have a potentially indecent moment stroking a hose in the garden section. What a luscious, blazing welt that would raise against your defenseless white cheeks! No doubt I'd have to secure you to the posts of the canopied bondage bed so you could not escape my loving lash (you know I do this because I care, don't you), but there are a few steel items in aisle seven I think may find a home in Rapture's silver room for just that purpose - and I mustn't forget to stock up on duct tape. Oh - the young employee is openly gaping now, and a flash of my garter did not help his situation at all. Perhaps I'll be seeing him at the dungeon soon. Perhaps I will drop a card.

Next on today's to-do list (and curse slaves who come down with the flu when they are supposed to be doing my chores!) - the office supply store. I'm in need of new file folders as my scribbled lists of scenes and whims and fantasies grown ever thicker (and you have noted my amusement when things grow thicker, have you not, slut?), but I cannot deter myself from lingering in front of bins of bulldog clips and packets of rubber bands. Why look - the folders I have selected are nearly the same hues as your violently blued cock, when I twist the circulation away with thick bands (and you are just SO adorable when you plead - have I ever told you that?), and your blood-bright nipples before I flick them free of their little springed prisons. Ours is a colorful relationship, is it not?

A quick jaunt to the pet store. Note to self - the new collar and lead will be in next week, and luckily the customized dog bowl will finished then as well. Oh goodness me - I've let your birthday surprise slip. Well it's no secret that I've trained you to be an exceptionally good puppy - fetching all manner of toys with your mouth when I toss them across the room, cleaning up puddles of piss from the floor (oh excuse me - was that MY accident that splashed into your water dish? You seemed to have no problems lapping up every last drop, and in fact begged for more!), and again the begging - oh, the lovely begging! For that, you may now eat from your very own bowl, rather than scrounging your food from the wastebasket or the toilet. Oh, no need to thank me...well. on second thought, there really always is.

A last stop at the supermarket before heading back to Rapture. I'm grateful for the cooling mist of the ice-cream freezers, as my face and other regions heated as I dawdled in the produce aisle imagining the creeping sear of a carefully whittled rod of ginger root inserted gently in your crevice. I'm fairly certain there would be tears, but of joy? Pain? Who could really tell, with your mouth crammed full of a distinctly dildo-esque dill pickle you're fellating like a gosh-darned champ? And really, at that point, who cares? I certainly know I'm going to make at all better so very soon and soothe the ginger burn with a delicious chocolate pudding pop that seems to be molded for that very purpose. And as it happens, the color is quite fortunate, since you'll be licking the whole thing down to the stick after it is removed from your nether regions. I'd just hate for you to be even the tiniest bit disgusted. That would simply be tragic.

Errands accomplished, and fortunate me - a slave-in-reserve has phoned to inquire if I wish his services, and he is parked just outside and ready to ferry me and the afternoon's bounty back up to the dungeon. Phone me when you are released from work and perhaps...just perhaps there will be a red-light special hand-selected just for you. Thank you for shopping at Rapture-mart, my sweet...

© 2005 Mistress Cherry Esplanade

Peachy/Clean

A short story by Mistress Cherry Esplanade

I remove the unpeeled peach from between sub s.'s clenched teeth, and fully delight in his revulsion. The extraction has released a sweet torrent of mingled juice and saliva down his winter-pale chin and neck, and he is clearly straining against the impulse to whimper and squirm and propel himself toward the pristine towel I have left folded on the paddling bench across the room to taunt him. I have left sub s. unrestrained this evening, knowing that his torment would be exponentially increased if he could, of his own free will, and in a matter of strides, cleanse his skin of the sticky film. But I am in possession of sub s.'s will, and his desire to please me outweighs his agony at the moment. He will be rewarded, but not until I've wrung my fun from him.

sub s., I've come to learn in the course of several months, is a
compulsively orderly slut, and quite accustomed to having his way.
Throughout the span of a workday, sub s. can crush or raise the
standing and status of corporations and countless underlings with a
phone call or stroke of a pen. sub s. is expensively, impeccably
groomed, polished, tailored and manicured - fastidious to the point of
obsession. sub s. can breeze into fully-booked 5-star restaurants and
be instantly fawned over and accommodated. sub s. inevitably comes to
me afterward. I always have him wait at least an hour in the hallway
to see me - even if I've nothing else to do.

I peer at sub s. through a curtain, and I note two things; next to him
on the sofa is a discreetly elegant takeout bag emblazoned with the
logo of my most favored sushi bar, and his knee-jouncing,
finger-wringing anticipation of the evening's delicious humilation
lends him the air of a fidgety schoolboy. I motion to a houseboy who
descends to a street-level market and returns in moments with my
order. Once these items are arranged to my liking, and I have prepared
the room, the houseboy is dispatched to bring sub s. to me.

sub s. stands in the doorway silently until I beckon him in. I stand
just behind the sole, gritty dust pile I ordered the houseboy to leave
from his sweepings, and without hesitation, sub s. kneels at my feet,
soiling the knees of his previously pristine linen trousers. He does
not dare look up until I lay a velvet-gloved hand atop his head, and
he knows he is permitted. He is wide-eyed and trembling and for just
one moment, I consider mercy. But that is not why sub s. has come here
tonight. I open my mouth, and release a crystal stream of spit down
onto his forehead to trickle past sub s.'s tear ducts and quiver down
to the tip of his nose.

"Strip," I command, and he complies.

The first time sub s. visited Rapture, he possessed the audacity to
inquire as to where he might find a hanger so as not to sully his
custom-made Italian suit. I did not hesitate to procure a hanger, but
the contours of his clothing are not where it left its whip-wire
impression. Tonight, he swiftly balls his garments into an untidy heap
in the corner and resumes his obeisance at my boots. He has performed
to my liking thus far, and he is allocated a treat - I wrench his
expensively coiffed head to my toes, and he is permitted a small taste
of my velveteen pumps. I laugh heartily at his twin shudders of
arousal and repugnance.

One of the first things I learned about sub s. was his extreme
reaction to lightly-furred surfaces. As were many well-heeled youth of
his time, sub s. was sent to an all-male boarding school from age six
onward, and exposure to the opposite sex was minimal, compelling, and
terrifying. sub s. grew into a lad possessed of extreme curiosity and
was, during the Winter break of his thirteenth year, discovered under
the coat pile at his older sister's Christmas party. The young ladies,
certain he'd been privy to their most intimate confidences as they'd
whispered and giggled atop the heap of furs and wraps, jammed his face
full of velvety trim, sueded cuffs and luscious mink until
oxygen-deprived, he sunk out of consciousness. When sub s. floated
back to the surface, he was surrounded by a gaggle of teenaged girls,
pointing at the front of his cashmere trousers and tittering
hysterically. sub s. while unconscious, had wet himself, and upon
reviving, swiftly swelled the most monumental erection of his young
life. In that moment, sub s. did not know if the burn and blush of his
cheeks was from shame or excitement, but from then on, the two were
inexorably entwined. I always wear velvet when sub s. is scheduled.

"Speak."

"Mistress Cherry, I have brought you dinner. I hope you find it to your liking."

I've lifted up his chin so I can see his quivering lips forming the words.
"Fetch," I order, and he crawls over to retrieve the restaurant bag
from the spanking bench, and then back to me. I remove the handle from
his teeth and give him a "good dog" pat on the back of the neck with
my velveted palm. He shivers, and I slap him between the shoulder
blades. I inspect the contents of the bag. He has chosen exquisitely -
sumptuous cuts of fatty toro, delicate, ocean-tickled uni and
generous, opulent abalone. "Set the table," I say, and sub s. stands
stock still while I fix his wrists into leather restraints above his
head. I tap and tease sub s.'s cruelly exposed back for a few minutes
to ready him for the sudden, sharp whhhsstt! of my rattan cane as it
warns the tender air before it hits his flesh. sub s. cries out, and I
stop for a moment - not for his respite, but because he has been
warned before to weather this in silence. I despise being put off my
dinner by the whining of a submissive, and I reach into the paper bag
the houseboy had procured. sub s. whimpers as I brush the peach
against his cheek, yet I also notice that he's instantly and
astoundingly erect. "Bite," I order, and he sinks his teeth into the
sweet, firm flesh. I know that he is in exquisite agony as his tongue
inevitably bumps against the fuzz lodged solidly in his mouth, but if
he bites and it falls to the floor, there will be hell to pay. He
closes his eyes, and I cane his back until cherry-red welts and a few
shy pinpoints of blood appear. I release his wrists. "Dinnertime."

sub s. falls to all fours on the concrete floor, and I lay out my meal
on his upper back - taking care to slather any open skin with dabs of
stinging wasabi and delicate slices of lemon. I hitch up my
floor-length velvet dress, straddle his waist, and sit astride him
while I eat my fill. To sub s.'s credit, he flinches only when I spill
chilled sake on the back of his neck, but then again, I have trained
him well. By the time I rise, his meticulously exfoliated, gym-toned,
skin is a soggy mess of soy sauce, eel glaze, wasabi and…oh no…I
nearly forgot. I've still one thin sliver of pickled ginger left over,
and order sub s. to stand. He blushes fiercely as my lushly textured
skirt brushes against his still-fierce arousal, and sub s. nearly
drops his peach when I gently lay the ginger slice over the glistening
tip to work its chilly burn. His nostrils flare and flex like those of
Derby-run stallion, and I giggle and dig in the paper bag once more.
"Down boy! Horsie needs a tail." sub s. again falls to all fours, and
arches his back, spreading his hindquarters for me. I slide in the
peeled, tapered ginger root, and sub s. cannot help himself - he bucks
wildly from the ecstatic and inescapable sting, aching to release, but
he knows he dare not…he dare not…not until I say so…

But while I am a cruel Mistress, I am not without my appreciation of
obedience. "Up, boy!" I march sub s. over to a full-length mirror, so
he can fully witness his own humiliation - slathered in the leavings
of my meal, ginger root protruding from his ass like an oddly priapic
tail, cock hatted with a pickled ginger slice, and the peach still
fuzzily cuddled between his lips. I pry it from them, and a Niagara of
juice and spit cascades down his face. I can see how desperately he
aches for release and order and clean skin again, but I must hear him
beg for it. "Say it."

"Mistress may I?"

"Mistress may I what?" He is nearly beyond speech at this point, but I insist.

"Mistress may I please come? Please come?
Pleasecomepleasecomepleasepleaseplease…"

I place the peach in his left hand, and position it so the skin is
nestled against his cruelly taut balls, and in the right, I lay a long
scrap of black velvet left over from the making of my dress. I step
back and nod at him and sub s. works to furious, swift, and explosive
release as he stares straight ahead at his sloppy and sensuous
degredation.

sub s., relieved at last, slumps forward, and upon viewing his spent,
sullied body in the mirror, dares a hangdog look at me and then the
clean towel, and again back at me. I shake my head. I am not yet
finished with him. He unfurls the come-drenched velvet from his right
hand, sinks to his knees to dab the soy, peach juice and semen
dribbles from the dungeon floor, smears the whole mess into his face
and chest, and walks over to stand military-style for my inspection of
his work. Several moments pass, and I see his cock quivering to life
again under my scrutiny, but I am finished with sub s. for the
evening. I nod. sub s. kneels to kiss my boots, and makes a beeline
for the clean towel and the shower.

I hear the water running, and I collapse into giggles, wondering what
will be on the menu for next time.

© 2005 Mistress Cherry Esplanade

Ink-stained Wretch

Oh by gosh, by golly! Seems as if a little yarn I've spun has stretched its way across four pages of the latest issue of Dominant Mystique! Complete with photos, even. If you ask awfully nicely, perhaps I could be persuaded to share some snippets from it...

xxxMCE