mia loves henry miler – Letter 13 – The Art of Submission; My First Experience with MJ

mia loves henry miller

Letter 13  The Art of Submission; My First Experience with MJ

“Submission is not about authority and it is not obedience; it is all about relationships of love and respect.”  —William P. Young, The Shack

12/14/11 – 10:09 a.m.

“It isn’t the oceans which cut us off from the world — it’s the American way of looking at things.” –Henry Miller Letter to Lafayette, ‘The Air Conditioned Nightmare

Dear Henry Miller,

I have been busy all morning working on burlesque show stuff.  I haven’t done Jack shit for Christmas yet.  I put off my Miss Santa responsibilities year after year.  I always wait until the last minute.  Christmas is my least favorite holiday, due to the commercialism.  I also do not like to conform to the norm, doing what a majority of our American Society feels we are suppose to do.  I refuse to kill a pine tree for our American traditions, or spending all my money to decorate my home and yard full of sparkly, glittering, dazzling, fairy tale lawn ornaments, or dust collecting seasonal knick – knacks for inside of the house, or flashing blinking lights bordering the inside and outside of my home and trees, or silver, red and gold garland draped everywhere, or to endure the expense of decorative holiday tree ornaments.  I’d rather not spend my money on things our society feels we need to do so, in order to be accepted by others – I don’t really give a crap if I’m accepted, and if my friends, neighbors and my family think that I’m a Scrooge.  I am.  And I’m okay with that.  I’m sorry to all you holiday lovers!  I don’t mean to be a kill joy.

However, I do enjoy getting together with family, cooking a great meal for them, and observing them enjoy it.  That brings me pleasure, regardless of all the preparation and hard work.  I love to spoil small children, close friends and family members at Christmas time.  I love to surprise others with kindness when I can financially afford it.  I, myself, don’t require all the frills, which some people feel completes a Christmas holiday.  I used to, but life is so much easier to live my life simple in this way.  It’s also Mr. C’s b-day on Christmas Eve, so I make sure that we celebrate with a cake – this year it will be a homemade, moist and rich chocolate, two layer cake.  This will be our family’s first year with our granddaughter, who has been very ill in the hospital, over the past few days.  I just found out she’s going home today.  She sounds very happy over the phone, happily jabbering away in a language unknown.

I often feel overwhelmed by all the work and responsibility that I have, in order to run a quality burlesque show, to be a mother of a growing family, a performer – magic and burlesque, a writer, an artist, and a lover and wife.  When I do, I have to force my thoughts to slow down, silencing all of the inner chattering, breaking my day down into each, miniscule second – to move forward without thinking and just do whatever it is that I have to do, as it comes before me.  If I stop to analyze everything – my life is fucked up chaos – anxiety, stress, worry and defeat suffocate me.

“The experience dumbed me; I felt a singular exaltation, a surge of vitality, then lassitude, of blankness, or wonder, of incredulity, everything, everything.” –Anais Nin, Henry and June Diaries.

Before I proceed with any more letters to you, I need to write to about the beginnings of my adventure with MJ.  An extraordinary, alluring woman, who is now a highly renowned Fetish Model and actress, Adult Film Producer, a highly respectable Dominatrix, Burlesque and performance artist, and she’s someone whom I have considered a very good friend for a very long time.  I think of her as a soul sister.  She’s irreplaceable in my life.  I knew that she would become successful the minute I met her, telling her that many times, in the beginning of our relationship.  I trusted my instinct more deeply for her success, than I used to for myself and my dreams.  There was something about her when we met, that gave me the confident sensation of her upcoming success.  Today, I still love MJ with all of my heart.  Mr. C loves MJ just as much as I do.   They are very close, loving each other’s company whenever they get together.  They connect on a deep spiritual level because they are both dominant.  My submission to both of them, binds them tightly together.  We’ve been a family to each other for over ten years.  It seems like forever since we first met.  And sometimes it feels as if it were only just yesterday.

Mr. C and I began our adventure at GZ, the Minneapolis nightclub, as well as with MJ when I was 32.  I had only stared with lust flickering in my eyes, gazing upon MJ’s beauty on the evenings I danced and performed naughty scenarios at GZ.  It hosts an erotic, themed night, Bondage A-Go-Go, one time per week – used to be two in its height – ever since I had started to dance there.  It had not been a long duration when MJ and I initially met.  We had barely spoken to each other – only a few times, brief hellos or goodbyes, prior to meeting.  To me, her poise and alluring beauty was so intimidating to me – I became dizzy, mesmerized and dumbfounded whenever I was nearby MJ.  It wasn’t long before the owner of the club introduced me to her.  I had told him that I thought she was very beautiful.  Shortly, thereafter, we were introduced to each other by him.  I can still remember how elegant, feminine and graceful her hand was, reaching out for mine and saying so affectionately, “Nice to meet you, Mia, you are beautiful.”  I could not believe that she was saying this to me – for, she was a woman so beautiful it hurt my eyes.

“So, are you,” shyly I replied.  I could hardly look her in the eyes, which naturally wanted to lower, due to my submissive demeanor.

“I’ve solved the mystery; You have to submit silently.  Open up.  Let go.  Let anything penetrate you.  Even the most painful things.  Endure. Bear up.  That’s the magic key!  The text comes by itself, and its meaning shakes the soul…You mustn’t let scar tissue form on your wounds; you have to keep ripping them off in order to turn your insides into a marvelous instrument.  That is capable of anything.  Everything has its price.” –Klaus Kinsky

Several weeks after our introduction, we met again in person, in MJ’s home and played in her carefully hidden dungeon, which was in the basement of her large, luxurious, vintage home in Uptown.  Her husband was on his way home from work.   He was to arrive soon.  Mr. C was with me.  He is the one I trusted.  I hardly knew MJ.   If Mr. C was there, I knew that I could completely let go and trust the scene to take us to dark, kinky, yet safe places.  I felt assured that I would be okay.

The spring weather was cold, damp with dim skies and weepy rain.  I had a severe headache which wouldn’t go away.  The weather agitated my joints into a painful state.  I was burdened with physical pain – like Frida Kahlo had been when she was alive.  My jaws clenched tightly with apprehension all day.  My anxiety combined with a headache, nauseated me.  I wasn’t sure that I could move forward with this encounter.  I had always fantasized about being dominated by a strong woman – even masturbated to this chimera so many times.  But, could I really face the realities of this dark, alluring illusion?

It comforted me, that MJ wasn’t dressed in her Dominatrix apparel, when we first arrived.  I didn’t feel as intimidated, as I thought I would be.   She answered the door cloaked in her pale pink fuzzy robe, matching slippers – appearing as if she had just gotten out of the shower.  She was so beautiful without any make-up – her natural, dark brown hair with gold blonde highlights, still wet from her recent shower, hypnotized me – dewy, beautiful, twisting curls, spiraling downward towards her shoulders, bouncing so elegantly and gracefully around her head when she walked through her living room, sitting down aristocratically as if a Queen, in a high backed, antique, velvet chair.   We spent time getting to know each other – MJ asking me questions about what my limits were when we play.  I was so enamored by her beauty, her power.  I felt flustered, I could hardly talk – appreciative Mr. C was there to do that for me – he always communicated so well under any circumstance.  When I was nervous, I often stumble over my words.

“I have always been tempted by unknown pleasures.” –Anais Nin, Henry and June Diaries

When we finished getting acquainted, MJ stood up, her body language, exquisite, rhythmic seeming, encouraging me to follow her.  Even though MJ is three years younger than I, her touch felt so mature, maternal, leading me up the stairs with her soft hand and her languid, guiding, statuesque body.  She walked, lean and tall, airing a sense of royalty – she was definitely the alpha female.  I couldn’t help but respect her and the power she projected.  I felt like Anais Nin being so enamored with June, when they first met, listening to the rain beat down upon the MJ’s large rooftop, echoing through the rooms of her house, entering her second bed room.

12/14/11 – 11:05 a.m.

I must start painting.  I want to get a lot done before I need to start getting ready for my visit with Mr. B

12/14/11 3:21 p.m.

I stopped painting for the day.  I’m extremely thrilled about the progress. I wanted to write a few more paragraphs before I have to get in the shower to get ready for my time with Mr. B tonight.  He should be picking me up around 6ish.  We’ll go to the loft.  It’s been damp, grey and raining most of the day.  I’ve been in serious physical pain ever since I awoke – every inch of me hurts – another fucking headache.  The rain outside agitates my arthritis from injuries I suffered when I was younger – several car accidents, and past surgeries.  Sometimes writing or painting can help me forget about my agony for awhile – sometimes not.  Especially not today – my foot still hurts.  So, I’m very much looking forward towards experiencing an electric, erotic, endorphin rush that will make me forget about it – looking forward to playing with Mr. B!  I will write about it as soon as I can.

Back to the MJ story –

There was nothing too severe or threatening about MJ when she wasn’t wearing dominatrix clothing – when her beautiful hair wasn’t hidden beneath a glamorous wig – when her mysterious, blue eyes weren’t dramatic with make-up and false eye lashes – she made me feel at ease – more comfortable – relaxed – and even more submissive.  I found myself succumbing to a warm, drowsy feeling.  MJ has a very intelligent, empathic, nurturing side to her.  She can also be very down to earth, which I have always liked.  I sensed her warm affection when she politely requested me to wear a vinyl, shiny pink corset, no panties, and a pair of classic, very high, black pumps.  I melted with fondness – a great sense of assuagement and torridity burned through me.  When she finished tightly pulling my corset strings, and she dressed into her shiny, vinyl, black corset, a tiny pair of matching panties, and extremely slick and shiny black, very high heeled, thigh high boots, she took my hand, leading me downstairs – to the very bottom level of her home, and behind a secret door.   We were not alone in her dungeon.  Mr. D – our photographer, Mr. C, my husband and Mr. M (MJ’s husband) were tightly fit into MJ’s torturous lair.  

I was apprehensive, titillated, enamored, and a bit distressed by my surroundings.  This was the real deal – it was no fantasy – I observed cages, whips, kinky furniture, chains, rope, cuffs, lubricant, toys, floggers, paddles, clamps, clothespins, plastic red hemostats, and very small, pinching devices for very delicate areas, with my wide, dark brown eyes.  This wasn’t a restrained performance at the nightclub.  This was for real.  This awareness and a rushing deluge of so many emotions made me feel so uncouth, speechless.  I did all that I could to slow my breath, stop my thoughts, acquiescing to the moment, to relax and enjoy the fetishistic adventure that I was soon to be taken upon.   My heart pounded loudly in my chest, flooding my eardrums with loud, terrified beats of rushing blood.

Two, sturdy, well made, black leather cuffs, one by one, were applied to my wrists by MJ’s soft, yet commanding, parental touch.  No matter how faint hearted I felt, I had to move forward.  I had to move on.  I had a deep desire to experience this.  My breath pattern rapidly quickened.  So much so, that I was beginning to pant, when MJ bound my arms tightly above my head, stretching them far above and tight, causing my tiny, perky breasts to peek out above the top of the pretty pink corset.  She gently placed her hand on my chest, silently encouraging me to slower my breath rate.  And so I did, feeling consoled by her in a way that I have never experienced from any other woman before.

“The keyword is trust.  Trust everything that happens in life, even those experiences which cause pain, will serve to better you in the end.  It’s easy to lose the inner vision, the greater truths, in the face of tragedy.  There really is no such thing as suffering simply for the sake of suffering.  Along with developing a basic trust in the rhyme and reason of life itself, I advise you to trust your intuition.  It is a far better guide in the long run, than your intellect.” –Henry Miller, Reflections.

MJ’s slender hand, and her long, delicate fingers lightly caressed up and down the insides of my arms, titillating me, relaxing me, comforting me, as if a mother rocking her baby into a sleepy, content trance.  My muscles softened, my eye lids drifting downward, slowly shutting, my inhibitions disappearing, and my sex drenched with wet anticipation – my suffering transcending into a higher, enlightened, blissful state.  I was drifting deep into a surreal land of submission – completely unaware of the camera snapping photos, or the aroused whispers which drifted through the room on the erogenous currents of air.

“It’s hard for an educated woman to turn her head off. That’s part of the joy of being a submissive.  None of the decisions are yours.  When you can’t refuse anything and can’t even move, those voices in your head go silent.  All you can do, and all you are permitted to do, is feel.”  —Cherise SinclairDark Citadel

I commanded more of my energy and focus, concentrating on my breath rate, deeply inhaling, slowly exhaling.  A roused shiver moved through me, feeling cold metal clips applied to my very sensitive nipples – stiff, tiny stones.  A cold chain tangled between them, chilling my bare skin.  A searing shrill of hotness zipped through my nipples and breasts.  This intense, ferocious sensation shot downward, between my thighs – over heated embers of desire, inflamed my over stimulated clit, whenever MJ cruelly pulled on the chain which tortured my nipples, curling my toes with such a bittersweet sensation – an agonized rhapsody.  My knees felt so soft and weak – my wrists bruising from my body weight bearing upon the secured, leather cuffs, secured to chains, which dangled from the ceiling.  My erotic moans salaciously slicing through the dim room – my erotogenic gasps for air were large and deep, when the hot candle wax dripped upon the bare, vulnerable, exposed skin upon my chest, breasts as well as my clamped nipples, drifting my body, mind and soul further and further into a comforting, dark, yet illuminating world.  I indulged in each obscene sensation – feeling much intoxication, ecstasy, dizziness and euphoria.

12/14/11

I must get in the shower.  Mr. B will arrive soon.

12/15/11 4:30 a.m.

Mr. B and I fucked so much last night – he was so demanding and rough – thrilling me into a satisfied state of delirium.  I fell asleep soon after he left – wiped out and exhausted.  I read for a bit, and then made myself come one last time with my favorite toy, my Hitachi Wand, before I drifted into a heavy, dreamless night.  By 4:15 in the morning, I began to awaken, needing to pee.  I drank so much water the night before, thirsty from moaning, screaming, and panting.  I knew Mr. C would stop by early, arriving back in town from his business trip, to pick me up from my loft, returning us to our suburban home.  I wanted to get some writing done and indulge in a hot bath with Erica Jong’s book, Parachutes & Kisses, before my husband arrived.   Writing to you recharges me, Henry.  It breathes a new life into me.  I will write more about last night in my next letter.  I want to finish my story about my first time with MJ.

“Who but the artist has the power to open man up, to set free the imagination?  The others – priest, teacher, saint, statesman, warrior – hold us to the path of history.  They keep us chained to the rock that the vultures may eat out our hearts. It is the artist who has the courage to go against the crowd; he is the unrecognized “hero of our time” – and of all time.”  — Henry Miller (Stand Still Like the Hummingbird)

The music of MJ’s choice played in the background.  Most of it was techno, trance, or house music that often played at GZ, reminding me of another of my great passions, dancing.  MJ had transcended herself into the true artist, playing with my body like it was an exquisite symphony, her floggers, as well as her hands rhythmically spanking, as if the various parts on my body were a multitude of drums.  Her lusty, curious fingers greedily grabbing, kneading, curling, poking, pinching, prodding me, as if acquainting herself as to what type of sounds I’d make with each tortuous movement.  I gasped with surprised thrill, as if the music climaxed, when I felt her pulling upon my hair, or torturing my sex  and my skin, as if she were  proficiently conducting an orchestra.  Sometimes she slapped upon my tender, vulnerable skin with her hands, or using many other kinky toys, erotic tools and painful instruments displayed in her dungeon, much like a skilled artist’s brush slapping passionately upon canvas, departing behind a hot pink hue upon my heated skin.  Her vast array of whips struck my body, like a drummer hitting hard upon shiny brass symbols.  Her perfectly timed twists, pulls, strokes and caresses, were like her vexed fingers dancing upon the ivory and black keys on a grand piano – Her spoken commands were a cacophony of melodious, aphrodisiac laced whispers – and her female power and eroticism was a very sensual song playing deep inside my mind, reverberating to my soul and heart.  MJ was in the zone and so was I.   Our highly, sexually charged energy fed off of one another.

Near the end of our intense, highly autoerotic BDSM scene, MJ showed me her worst weapon – a beautiful, Mahogany wooden paddle,  sturdy and strong!

“Mia,” MJ wickedly whispered near my ear.  She sounded so sweet, yet frightening. “This is my gorgeous friend, Nancy.  Do you see her?  Open your eyes.”

Her voice – commanding and cruel – sounded alarm bells in my mind – jolting me out of my submissive trance.  Disquietude invaded my entirety – my weak and weary arms attempting to pull on the restraints, desperately attempting to regain my control, when I saw this fierce, virile object.  It was no use.  All I could do was to submit, succumbing to her demands, using every ounce of my last bit of energy to shut my eyes again, concentrating upon my breath pattern.  A soothing mantra chanted softly, encouragingly inside my foreboding brain, “let go, surrender, let go.”  And so I drifted into a surreal state of being, as the tear provoking paddle, struck upon my vulnerable ass, so many times – I don’t know the precise count.   To keep me from drifting too far and deep into subspace, MJ callously kept me aware of the pain by making me keep count of the salacious strikes upon my flesh, which I had to count a loud.  I cringed from the pain, extremely tender from all MJ’s previous torture – my skin was as hot as fire, now beginning to bruise in shades of deep red, purple and blue hues.  Sometimes, MJ would find a way to mess up the count, and I would have to begin at zero again.

I had never played so hard inside the realms of dominance and submission, until then.  I was cradled into deep submission by the ways of a beautiful, female dominatrix, rocked into a euphoric state with blissful pain and carnal caresses.  Before our lecherous scene ended I had been tortured upon my swollen, greedy, wet, lady parts, my enkindled ass, and my afflicted nipples and suffering breasts by every means possible – or so I thought.  My body felt electric, buzzing with recharged energy – my mind completely tranquil – the headache vanquished – my blood intoxicated with euphoria, and my sex as wet as a rushing river.  Every stimulating sensation I felt made me feel alive, comforted, safe, desirous, vehement, ultimate surrender, and a deep connection to the woman I was submitting everything I had in me to.

“I am not always just living, just following all of my fantasies; I come up for air, for understanding.” –Anais Nin, Henry and June Diary Entries

Later, when we finished, all the men in the room were pained by their stiff, hard cocks.  I sought pleasure in their pleasure-giggling a loud.  I felt extremely high from the endorphins racing like greyhounds after a rabbit in my blood. I was so wet and the aching between my quivering thighs was fierce!  I think MJ felt as horny as I.  She kept grabbing herself between her thighs, when our scene ended, with a huge grin on her face.  Later in the night, I knelt submissively by MJ’s side, on the floor nearby her.  She was now sitting down in her vintage, high back, velvet chair in her living room.  All of us conversed about so many topics for a few hours, regaining our composure.  MJ occasionally reached in my direction with her hand, stroking my hair as if I were a pretty pet.  I didn’t mind. I felt so submissive – like I was stuck inside one of Ann Rice’s, Beauty trilogies.  My life felt divine!  I had no regrets or worries.  It was a memorable experience which I will never forget.  Thank you MJ for being an extraordinary, down to earth woman!  You are truly amazing and beautiful on the inside and out!

“We live in the mind, in ideas, in fragments.  We no longer drink in the wild outer music of the streets — we remember only.”  –Henry Miller

12/15/11 10:03 p.m.

I must quit writing.  It’s getting late.  I’m tired.  But, content to finish another letter to you.

Much Love,

Mia

(Photo take by David G. at the Stone Arch Bridge in Minneapolis)

3 responses to “mia loves henry miler – Letter 13 – The Art of Submission; My First Experience with MJ

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