My Mind's Maiden


Jennifer A. Sheffield

I never settled for plain, red strawberries for breakfast. I preferred to drown the fruit’s scrumptious seedy skins in pools of cream, sprinkle spoonfuls of sugar over their floral green tufts, or swirl their pursed tips in chocolate sauces. I still remember tasting the sinful juice of the raw fruit inside its dark shell, but what stuck to my fingers was a viscid satisfaction. "You don’t bathe your soul in just anyone," a friend said, "but there is no harm in tasting."


I woke up sleeping on my stomach. My head had slipped onto the mattress from its spot on my pillow. I was looking at the table lamp on my left. I didn’t know where my hands had wandered, nor wanted to look at my passed out boyfriend, beside me in bed; not this morning.

My mind was rapt in a dream. I could still feel the violent nurturing of the woman whom had whipped me, and guided me to play with lust last night. I feel softened, and am still longing for her touch, and a part to play in her fantasies. I am not a lesbian? But, I felt lightheaded.

Drowsy on a tonic of something dark, drawing me onto her body, where I felt stimulated and, in that moment, I belonged. Sunlight is shining against my eyelids, and awake, the fact that she is gone again hits hard – like coming home after a storm knowing you have surrendered everything.

"Sometimes," she said, "there's no accounting for what the body wants. I think your feelings were obvious."


I am instructed to change clothes in the marble bathroom that is more like a steamy meat locker, glistening with clean, steel walls. I am assured they had been dutifully swabbed by a dungeon slave. Still, I shook, as I pulled on my fishnets. She was lurking, waiting, and my time was near.

Earlier, at the Mona Lisa cafe, she pulled me aside by the back wall, and asked me what sort of scene I wanted. I couldn’t tell her that what I wanted was to be a utensil for her bad behavior. For her to get me going to the point where I was tired and spent; where all of my energy was released, and the only things holding me up were soft, fuzzy wrist cuffs dangling from the ceiling.

"Yes," I said, I wanted what was coming. I was fine, we smiled together, and we finished our crêpes.

Now, I am standing in front of a mirror, like one finds in a carnival house and wondering how many others on the cusp of receiving such alluring pleasure had stared at themselves in the same ways.

Emerging, I was her Hot Topic. In addition to stockings, I wore a short plaid skirt, strung together with bows, and white blouse, to this occasion. I release one button, too, just for fun, and as I open the door, she shrieks. She is pleased, but for teasing her, I will be royally punished.


The throne room is romantic, and moody, with a large gold dais at one end, an electronic suspension rig at its center, and low, cushioned platforms on either side. It is dimly lit, lush with Asian accents, and soothingly quiet.

It is also red. The many antiques throughout the space play nicely against the red and gold dusted walls, and huge doors behind which there is another torture room, though leather covered, copper studded double entries. Hours before, as my boyfriend kneeled at my feet, with his head on my lap, I watched my borrowed mistress crisscross crimson welts expertly onto a client's bare, skinny back. Her advances made him yield. Staring upward, his face was covered in a crazed blankness. The effect on the viewer was electric.

From my spot, I can see a custom-built red and leather rack, as well as a restraining chair and a large wheel. The toughness required just to stand in place, in anticipation, is contrasted by the room's resplendence with silk fabrics, jade floors and ornate, oriental statues.

My mind, travels through time, back to the twelfth century through her green stone pendant, shaped like something sacred, maybe of Indian origin, lying flat on her white chest.

Our relationship is like a hit man to a little girl; nervous albeit, comforting. To worship my highness, I am told to remove my shoes so I am level with Ganesha, Hindu God of Mischief, impulse and such joie de vivre as a child has in a candy store. Both of us could scream.

Standing – bound – between stiff amber encrusted pillars, I can hear her coil her single tail whip around her long, curly black hair, like a cat holding her balance. I wait for the hiss, as she sends her switch into motion and for the prick, on my naked ass. She stands in a perfect ballet fifth to send her switch.

Her dance brings out her piercing eyes, and they are prodding me, deep, but playful. My senses are growing stronger and I beg the spirits to let me out, and let me sing, but I can only trust myself.

I stare up at the golden dragon over those rough doors, pissed, too proud maybe, knowing soon it would all end in ... nine ... ten. I am shivering to feel her flawless fingertips on my hips, wrapped like they were around her tea cup earlier, at the café, where we went for dessert. My sighs and moans change from automatic to expressive. He told her about the clothespins.

I am giddy too, to have her thin, long lips close enough for a kiss. The night feels so young, even though it is very late, since my private scene started for its two, inspired spectators. The expanse of the room revolves, now, around her eyes. I buck back against her breath in my ear as she flicks my clit with a flogger. The nervousness I feel when I hear her purr into her dirty paws escapes and I feel safe enough to rest my head on her shoulder. My movements are subtle. I get to breathe every time she returns to her bag of tricks.


I am glistening and she is pleased. But our relationship has changed. It is not one of master and slave, but of mutual respect, and I accept her. She is my goddess, but she is not completely mine.

Unsnapping my bra, right before my eyes, after my beating, she says, "You've reached your goal," adding, "Impressive." Three buttons before, she'd said, "The minister's daughter, indeed," and pulled at my tits, hard.

Secrets shade her silhouette and she closes maroon curtains for my cleansing in mortal sin. A gong sounded. In seconds, I am hoisted into her hold again. I feel fresh, drowned in sweet despair, and in love with surrender in this world of watery relationships and forbidden will.


Later, I get to lie across her long, ballerina legs, and get spanked like a schoolgirl. With her long nails lightly on my hips, it doesn't matter any longer, how many hits she makes with her heart-shaped paddle. Afterward, she gets onto her knees, in front of me, out of adoration for what I had endured. She said, "I like you, sincerely," before she unbuckled my feet.

Slipping, then, between the realm of the dungeon and the reality of the vanilla world, we part our odd kinship.

My mind’s maiden broke down my barriers in this sick, sad city that night, and served me up a bowl of something beautiful, lethal, and seething with morbid silliness, but laced in sugar. Quite simply – scrumptious.

True pleasure is not what I feel inside me, for in my gut it is only floating, it is truly felt by letting something out.

Open my Pandora's Box.