Saturday, April 6, 2013

SCHEHERAZADE and One thousand and One Nights

Sorry, it's been awhile since I posted on here.

Scheherazade.  This artful, imaginative, articulate, Persian Beauty is an inspiration as a woman who frees herself from male oppression by ingenuity, intelligence, and imagination.

So, here we have the King of Persia, Shahriyar. who decides the best way to take vengeance on his unfaithful wife is to kill her. Convinced that the only way to keep a faithful wife is to have her for only one night, he decides to take a different virgin every day and after taking her to the matrimonial bed at night, he then puts her to death in the morning. Story has it: 3,000 times. 

Yes, the virgins weren't exactly lining up to be his wife.

But, being the King, he could summon any virginal beauty to his temporary bed of doom without a whisper of complaint. This massacre of virgins continues  until along comes our heroine Scheherazade - beautiful virginal daughter of the grand  vizier.  She pleads with her father to let her go to the King to be his wife and that she has a plan in mind for her survival and consequently the survival of other virgin females under the King's domain.   The grand vizier reluctantly agrees and Scheherazade, taking along her co-conspirator, (her sister) offers herself to the King.

 On the evening of the Wedding Night, as planned, her sister begs the King that Scheherazade be allowed to finish a most enchanting story because  she knows this will be the last opportunity for her to hear the ending.  The King agrees and, as the story progresses, he becomes more intrigued and captivated by the reader and the story.  Scheherazade moves into another story and with this one, he becomes even more mesmerized and oblivious to the breaking dawn. Scheherazade is careful not to finish the story, and desperate to learn the ending, Shahriyar gives her a stay of execution.,  The second night, Scheherazade finishes the story but quickly moves on to another, even more spell-binding than the before.  Again the night passes and the story remains unfinished, with the King even more entranced and beguiled than before.  Every night for one thousand and one nights, Scheherazade captivates the the King with her imaginative stories of Aladdin, Ali Baba, Sinbad, and others (still enjoyed by us today) and with her eloquence of voice, and never quite reaching the end of the story that night, she continues to see another day.  Eventually, realizing that he cannot part with Scheherazade, and finding vengeance  long gone from his heart, he happily beds his wife each night and wakes to her in the morning.  In between story-telling she also managed to give him three children.

The femme fatale connection and moral is: Always leave a man wanting more!

Wednesday, September 5, 2012


JACK RHODES is a salesman that attempts to wear many disguises to get what he wants: women. One day, he gets a video letter from a mysterious video-artist, MONIQUE (Shannon Tweed), who challenges him to meet her. She plays him like a fiddle and takes advantage of him. Now the tables are turned and Jeff can't escape, not even with his life.

Domination and assassination... good post title for a Femme Fatale Blog.

I missed this series on HBO. 1984 and on... The Hitchhiker.  I must look for it, but in the meantime, I love what snippets I have found on the internet.  

And if you see it, does it scare you that I love it? (-:

Tuesday, July 24, 2012


Certainly there are sexless men out there somewhere, people who feel that erotic pleasure is utterly uninteresting. The guys at work who spend all their free time checking out sports scores or fantasy league standings, or who are devoted exclusively to their model airplane collections. Admirable things, to be sure.

Certainly. He knew that. But it had never been like that for him. He had always noticed the curve of a calf, the sheen of stockings, the rosy flash creeping up a neck as a sign of embarrassment or incipient excitement. It was like a kind of radar or ESP. Sure, it had created awkward moments, a restlessness that wouldn’t go away. Every day, it seemed, there was a moment – an image, a thought, a flash of recognition in a passing glance, a sight that took his breath away – that resonated in his mind as he pleasured himself. Yet it was never right, never enough, and increasingly he imagined darker but unarticulated things. But several months ago, things started to go haywire, and it was only now that he realized things had gone beyond his control.

It started at the carousel at the airport. His bag was identical to Hers. By the time they’d sorted it out – he’d been helpful and deferential, of course – he’d not only been intrigued by Her perfume and the dangle of the bracelets on Her slim wrist but by the lacy hem of the leopard print slip he’d seen in Her bag when he’d opened it to show Her that the bag was his. He felt silly, of course, but also flushed: the rosy tint creeping up had been on his neck, not Hers. She’d simply smiled.

The shared cab ride, the drink at the bar of the bistro near her home with the twin bags on the floor, side by side, the dinner, the exchange of phone numbers, and then dropping her off and helping only to the door and the soft kiss of her hand on his cheek and the lingering scent – had she freshened it in the restaurant’s bathroom while he paid the bill? – as She said goodnight.

In time he’d discovered that She was every inch a lady, down to the tautness of Her neck as She arched her back before thrusting Her hips forward when on the edge of orgasm.

She epitomized the woman that had danced darkly in his imagination for so many years. Yes, of course he’d looked at porn and knew the allure of leather opera gloves and garter belts. But he’d never before felt the smooth bindings of stockings around his wrists as they were pulled out to be tied to the bedposts or the insane pleasure of being mounted and ridden as She rubbed herself to orgasm and collapsed against him, still hard, panting, and more aroused than he’d ever been in his life.

For the first time in his life, he discovered the most intoxicating form of arousal of all: the pleasure of a woman who feels no shame in the pleasure She experiences and is without reservation in making it happen.

Soon, things he’d started to say seemed to remain stuck in his mind. First it was during their lovemaking – how amazing She felt, how intense the pleasure was, how he’d all but begged her again and again to slow down so She would come first and how She’d breathlessly complied, often leaving him fully engorged until She’d regained Her composure and finished him off with a few twists of Her fingers. Not that he was complaining. For some reason, even with the minimal, casual, almost forgetful touch, he would come more intensely than ever.

And for the first time, when he was alone and making himself come, he thought only of his partner, of Her, and not the open, expectant gaze of an attractive woman waiting for him to approach her.

And soon, also, the things he’d routinely said to soothe the ego of a partner when out in public – “you look stunning,” “there isn’t a man here that wouldn’t want to be in my shoes,” “how can you stand being so sexy” – had a resonance and solidity. The words didn’t evaporate but stayed with him when they were apart. And when She had him repeat them, as She had him massage Her feet and kiss the tops of Her arches, they stuck even more.

When he confessed those feelings to her – surprisingly, after he’d released and was normally inclined to get lost in his regeneration – She’d smiled slightly and Her tongue would slowly and unconsciously glide across Her lower lip.

And then, things changed. There was a problem with Her bank account. Could she write him a check for $500 and get cash? He’d be able to deposit it later. Later became later and later still. And then one night when he was snugly bound and deep inside Her, She asked if he wouldn’t mind forgetting about the check. He said, ‘No, of course,’ and She paused and asked him to speak more clearly, asking if he was sure it didn’t matter, and that he was happy to forgive the debt, to admit that actually he was the one in debt to her. Which he did. Careful to articulate every word. She shuddered as She came, and he spasmed to his core.

The check – the checks, actually – were only part of it. Where they had regularly seen each other a couple of times a week, it became erratic, some weeks just once (and one time not at all), others three times. Sometimes it was simply dinner out, which became more provocative than he’d expected. He spent one weekend entirely with Her. They’d planned to fix things up, and had started. But She remembered a pressing need a client had, so while She worked on some code on Her computer, he scrubbed clean the grout of the bathroom floor. She was effusive in Her thanks and, when She had him sitting on the floor, between Her legs, pleasuring Her, She said, “Careful, or I’m going to program you.” He couldn’t stop thinking about Her for days, of Her fingers tapping over his body, instilling code.

Every couple of weeks, She would ask at especially delicate moments whether he’d ever known as much pleasure as he did with Her, even if he didn’t come exactly when She did. It became easier and easier to talk about how consuming the pleasure was, how deep and satisfying and meaningful, about how much She meant to him. And each time, She’d talk about his debt to Her and he found himself agreeing more and more easily. Without even realizing it, the statements came to be true, and each time, when she said, “I’ve brought a check,” he found his pleasure reached a new height and a new level of intensity. The numbers seemed arbitrary. 200. 625. 415. They meant little, just numbers, and when She slid them into his hand, kissing his forehead lightly, She would always say, “You can hold on to this for now, can’t you?” he always answered yes.

Then the routine, irregular as it was, was broken. Then a week passed, and a second. She was busy. But not unthinking. He received a parcel with a pair of Her underwear, smelling faintly of Her perfume. They talked on the phone. She was simply busy, which he didn’t doubt: She was always there when he called, happy to hear from him, even if a little distracted. He was careful not to be pushy in saying how much he missed Her, careful not to be too pleading. Often She said only, “Hmm…” letting it dangle before reassuring him that She missed him also.

Despite the enforced hiatus, he found himself coming only to thoughts of Her. The blistering red nails of the woman who shared his table at Starbucks, even as she applied her lipstick – things that once would have consumed his erotic attention for days – were soon forgotten. When an attractive colleague at work (who had once filled many of his fantasies) dropped her cup of coffee on the floor he had been quick to help clean it up, but he’d barely noticed the color of her underwear as she squatted to clean it, as well.

Then another envelope with a note inside and another envelope, as well. The note was brief. “Please call me when you’ve received this, but wait to open the other envelope.” Excitedly, he picked up the phone and dialed, relieved to hear Her voice, which was warmer and fuller than it had been for weeks. She asked him to rub himself through his pants, asking that he hold back for now, and asking if he was free for dinner in a half hour. Of course he was, and She asked him to open the other envelope. Inside was a pair of Her underwear scented both by Her perfume and the scent of her mound, a scent he loved more than any in the world. Also in the envelope was another envelope, this one business size, with a single word inscribed on it: “Take me to dinner, unopened.”

The restaurant was quiet, the martinis were dry, the meal delicious, Her warmth and obvious pleasure in seeing him irresistible. As they swirled the cognac snifters and inhaled the fumes, She asked if he’d brought the other envelope. She slid closer to him, and brought Her lips to his when he said yes. She talked about missing him, about missing the intensity of their time alone together. Her hand slid to his crotch. He found himself saying all the things he’d said to Her when they were intimate. She asked about indebtedness and the checks and he said he’d forgotten about the latter. She kissed him deeply, her tongue forcing itself deep into his mouth. She asked if he liked the checks, Her hand taking the lower part of his crotch firmly. He stiffened more as he said, “Yes.”

She asked that he open the last envelope. He did, and he pulled out a check. It was different. It was an unsigned check of his, made out to Her, in the amount of $5,000.00. The memo line read, “Just the first.” She took his ear lobe between her teeth and said, in a clenched, slightly choked voice, “Make me come.” 

The next afternoon, when he answered the phone and heard Her voice, he sat up straighter in his chair, as if She could see him. “Thank you,” she said, “it’s never been that intense for me before. And do you know what I love most? There’s nothing you can do to change things.”

The line went silent. For a moment the room seemed to darken and then come into focus with a crystalline clarity.

There was nothing he could do to change things.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012


We all remember, don’t we, that Sampson fell in love with Delilah, who was bribed by Sampson’s enemies to find his weakness. Wary of her questions, he said first that if he were bound with bowstrings he would lose his supernatural strength. (Had you forgotten than he was into bondage?) So Delilah, clever girl that she is, waits for him to fall asleep and ties him up. He wakens and breaks the bindings. She asks again – uh, Sampson, think anything’s going on here? – and he says new ropes will do the trick. Again, she waits until he slumbers and practices a bit of bondage, and again he wakes, and breaks the ropes. Ever persistent, patient, and greedy for those thousand pieces of silver promised her by the Philistines, Delilah once again asks the question. Sampson, by now, weakened by his own love and lust for the Delilah, moves closer to the truth - that he will lose his strength if his hair, which truly is the source of his strength, is woven together. As he sleeps that night, she gives him a hair weave and ties him up, and the next morning, he awakes and unbraids his hair.
Not to be dissuaded from her potentially profitable enterprise, Delilah yet again asks Sampson the source of his strength. And poor, simple Sampson (he’s male, after all, and clearly had forgotten the story of Eve and the serpent), says that if his hair is shorn he will lose his strength. Sure enough, Delilah waits until he is asleep, and then with his head resting in her lap, she has a servant cut off his hair. His strength removed, Sampson is captured by the Philistines, turned into a slave, and, after his hair has grown back, brings down their temple and kills all those inside.

That Sampson. That Delilah. No photographers were there at the time to record the events and post them to Twitter, so artists – mostly men, of course – used their imaginations. But for the visually inclined, there are a couple of points of interest.

Point 1: Delilah is usually, though not always, shown clothed and Sampson unclothed, an early example of the CFNM (clothed female, naked man, for the fetistically illiterate) kink. (During the presumably suppressed Victorian period, women, too, were shown topless.)

Point 2: Sampson is slumbering, presumably in a post-coital state, which leads one to ask exactly when it was that Delilah cajoled his secret out of him. Just before she manipulated his secretions out, one might reasonably expect. Those among us who are moral know well that information divulged and promises made at the height of edgy arousal (promises erectus, in Latin) are less solid than the member of the person making the disclosures or vows. But some people – Delilah, you go, girl! – are a bit less moral.

Point 3: Sampson often has his head in Delilah’s lap. Let me think, where does one often see a sleeping male with his head in a woman’s lap? Why, at any event that goes on too long where a mother has brought her son! Interesting that artists associate this tender, maternal moment, normally associated with protection and comfort, with the story of a venal femme fatale, no?

Point 4: Sampson felt pretty silly when he woke up with his new hairdo. But Delilah thought it was just adorable!

Moral, for women: in his weakness there is our strength.
Moral, for men: never get an erection.

Sunday, December 18, 2011


Mother and daughter, stood facing each other. Mother in a black dress and Louboutin pumps; her blonde hair pulled up in a classic French pleat. She took her daughter's hand and there in the palm firmly placed the gold gun.

The daughter, a younger image of her mother: haughty, blonde, blue eyes,  lean and statuesque, slipped the gun down between her breasts, the barrel rubbing tight against the leather as she pulled the zipper up to her neck.  The soft leather catsuit was tight around her torso before flaring out at the leg over her favorite Louboutin biker boots.   She had been waiting for this moment--the opportunity to put all the training to good use.

They hugged, mother giving daughter a light kiss on the lips, before stepping back to watch her daughter take her leave out of the door.  It was time. 
The mother poured herself a drink, Macallan whisky, straight up, and sat down on the chair; two mobile phones were on the desk in front of her; she reached for the cheap throw away phone to make the call.

The man answered on the second ring.  No greeting, just a distinct and familiar voice brusquely  informing him a girl was on her way over. The phone disconnected before he could say one word. The call itself did not surprise him, but what did is that it was she who had made the call. She had always been obvious in her disdain for any contact with him. He grinned in the thought of her actually having to procure a girl for him. The usual arrangement was that some minion would arrange for a whore to come to his hotel. He had made no secret of his proclivity for certain sexual perversions, and one of the provisions when he was first  'turned' was that he would expect certain favours be granted him.  The exchange of documents and cash had taken place earlier that evening. Now he was wanting the whore.
The daughter pulled up her hair and slipped under the Arai full face helmet. Gloves on, she mounted her prized MV Agusta F4 1100 CC 315 km/h. 1.078 cc engine motorbike.  Kicking up the engine, she kept it purring through the back streets, until... out on the state road, she revved up and disappeared into the night...
Her pulse was steady, seeming in sync with the speedometer. She was completely focused as she executed each turn on the dark winding road.  She had always loved bikes, much to her mother's disapproval. It was the one defiant act she allowed herself. The vibrations were now having a distinctly pleasurable effect. She loved grinding hard into the seat, feeling the bike rewarding her effort with little  shock waves moving down her thighs. 
The secluded hotel was in view, the lights of the rooms twinkling through the branches of trees  Slowing the engine, she looked for the opening where she was to leave the bike, 200 yards from the Manor Hotel. There is was, the lights now in full view. She parked and climbed off the bike, removed the helmet, and checked the time on her Girard-Perregaux watch.  Dead... on schedule, she thought.
She quickly stripped out of the leather, smoothing out the long soft flowing red Valentino dress.  From the opened seat of the bike, she removed the black ankle strap stilettos and the small Chanel handbag. Quickly moving, it took all of 3 minutes to go from black to red. Slipping the gun into the Chanel bag, she made her way on to a gravel path. A security person had been persuaded to leave the fire exit door ajar before making himself scarce. She moved quietly around the side of the building, once in the door, she began climbing the stairs.  Tonight was for mother, and she would not let her down.
It had been her and mother since she was two years old.  Her father had accidentally and fatally shot himself while cleaning an antique rifle. Her own memories of him were vague and conversation regarding father had never been encouraged.  Mother had provided for them both a very privileged lifestyle, never wanting for anything.  But, while life was privileged, she had never been indulged or pampered. At the age of eight,  it was mother who taught her how to strip and clean a rifle before teaching her how to fire it.
She moved quickly through the fire exit door and entered the corridor of the 4th floor. #410. She tapped lightly on the door.
An older portly man, in black satin robe, opened the door and she quickly brushed passed him. 
Once in the room, she took a quick look around. Nothing had changed from her prior surveillance, except the king size bed was now covered with various restraining devices, dildos, a leather mask, several whips, and... a schoolgirl outfit. She sat down on the sofa, eyes on her target.

His first thought was that she looked nothing like a whore.  The second thought was that she was too tall for the outfit he had for her.
She let him have his look before smiling and stating "you've been rather naughty, haven't you."
He was quick to correct her, "Oh, baby, you've been the naughty one, and daddy is gonna have to punish you."   He was breathing heavy with excitement as he moved towards the bed.
She reached in the handbag, still smiling. "Well, I have not been as naughty as I am going to be... "  He eyed up and down hungrily. 
"You see, daddy, you've become a liability; bad for business, and just... plain bad all around, really.”  She brought the gun out and aimed for his forehead. “You have to go. Mummy said so.”
The man froze in the sudden realization that this beautiful girl was not a hooker but the daughter of...
 Thud. The man fell backwards on the floor.
Her mind concentrated. Training took over. 
Slipping on the latex gloves, she rose and checked the pulse to make sure he was dead.  She moved quickly around the room, checking his clothing,  grabbing his phone, laptop, documents and cash from the briefcase. She gathered up what was on the bed and with the gun still warm stuffed everything into a large plastic garbage bag taken from her handbag. One more look around, she checked her watch.  One minute under. She stood, hand on the door handle surprised at just how easy it had been to pull the trigger and watch him fall. She looked back at him with disgust.  She knew his file; no one was going to miss him.
Down the stairs, out the door, she looked around to make sure no witnesses, including the paid security guard, needed to be dealt with. Back at the bike, she put the plastic bag under the seat, and zipped back in to the leather. Helmet on, she climbed on to the seat and gently stroked the engine to life. She turned the bike and headed back down the quiet road before moving into gear on the state road and entering the highway.
 The arranged drop  was a rest area, just a short run from where she entered the highway. She pulled in and saw the black Escalada parked at the far end. A man in a black suit stepped out as she pulled up close to him. Raising herself up and forward, he took the plastic bag, nodded and immediately drove out of the rest area.
The daughter waited until the vehicle was out of sight before removing the helmet and taking out her mobile. She had now completed her assignment, and everything, even the drop off, had been executed exactly as planned.  Mother will be happy.
She reached in the leather jacket and pulled out her mobile. "Mummy... ". She could just pick up a soft sigh of relief on the other end before hearing the dial tone. 
Now, euphoric adrenaline could kick in.  She was as one with the bike and as one with mother. She revved loudly, and spun the bike around and entered the highway. She was already grinding down hard as she roared up the ramp.

copyright Ms. Londoncalling.

Monday, October 17, 2011


Just for a moment, let’s go beyond the primary layer of the seeming femininity of our furry friend, the cat, and its alternate name, the pussy. Yes, I know it’s difficult, asking you to go beyond your hypothalamus and your fight, flight, fear, and fuck impulses. Let’s move up a bit into your more, well, socially informed areas of your dopamined mind, yes?
Dogs, as we all know, are loyal, easily trainable, and need to please.
Cats, on the other hand,  are fickle, independent, and indifferent. So the stereotyping says. Let’s draw a parallel. What are some of the more common complaints men have about women, aside from being late? Well, one is that they’re unpredictable (read fickle). Another is that, despite all the media blather about women needing to communicate, they actually don’t, at least when it comes to their relationships with the opposite sex. And, well, what’s to say about indifference, particularly when a man really, truly wants something? The surest route to rejection, whether at a pick up spot or in the marital bed, is for the man to go down the path of being very clear about his hypothalamine desires. Swish of the tail, as she meanders away.  Reject, reject...
It’s just sooooo much fun being a Woman!
Seemingly so warm and cuddly, and then suddenly indifferent. Changeable. Yes, men do like to reduce it to hormones and menstrual cycles, which would seem to leave them off the hook: she can’t help it, she’s on the rag. Did I ever tell you about the time a man actually had the gall to say that to me? What a lovely evening that became. I seduced him, bound him, blindfolded him and had him open his mouth wide. And, can you – I mean, really, can you? – just take one little guess about what I popped in, followed by tape across his mouth? LOL. Honestly, I’m a very caring and compassionate person. Truly. But his remark was just so distasteful to me, and it seemed an important part of his education to learn just how distasteful I found it by having him experience that sensation of distastefulness. And so, as I straddled his crotch, with him straining against the slightly undersized briefs I enjoyed seeing him in, and removed the blindfold – visual contact is very important during training – I explained that the word “rag” in that context is entirely inappropriate. And I calmly, as I shifted my hips just a bit, explained that one of the most important part of our relationship, of the dynamic between us, is that if either of us ever felt we truly knew the other person, and their responses to things, and could anticipate that, it would be lovely… but it would come to feel stale and boring quite quickly – that should he feel that I was entirely predictable, he would be terribly disappointed. And, again, I reminded him of how distasteful the word “rag” is and went on to explain that my being capricious really had nothing to do with hormones – I could just as easily manipulate him into the very position he was in right now when I wasn’t having my period—on his back and rather helpless, though I’d need to find something equally distasteful for him to chew on.

Which, of course, I later did, merely to prove the point. He wasn’t a fan of Chopped Liver. Never did acquire a taste for it, despite my effort. Oh, well.
The point here, my dears, is that being unpredictable is a source of strength, and power. Yes, it’s the nimbleness and quickness of the cat that makes them so elusive to dogs, with their hunting instinct. And, yes, it’s the hiss and the arched back that warn dogs off. But it’s the sudden, entirely unexpected and unpredicted swipe of the claws across the snout that reinforces it.
Which is why, dear reader, Batman – the strong, mysterious male and his transparent ego – can never quite subdue Catwoman, and her feral understanding of arousal, desire, and manipulation. Sure, he’s stronger. And, he has all those nifty man toys at his disposal. But Catwoman is a continually elusive being, beyond his control.  (Like the man’s penis.)
Surely you don’t need proof, but let’s just consider something. What’s the best way to minimize and control something? To mock it, of course. Back in the repressed ‘50s, Catwomen were often flat out goofy – ineffectual little things that flocked around each other to no effect, a source of amusement and naughtiness.
Example: some fun films of that era:

CAT GIRL the UK film
CAT PEOPLE. Actually a fun film.
Later, as taboos lifted, Julie Newmar in the ‘60s Batman television series was more than naughty – she was bloody well hot.

Michelle Pfeiffer was hardly buttoned down, though her Catwoman was the polar opposite of the passive, mousey designer she was in her mortal life.

 Ditto for Halley Berry in Catwoman, who literally had no need for Batman: she was her own woman.
And now comes Anne Hathaway in the next installment of the Batman movies. Dark glasses, inscrutable, impenetrable leather skin.
When it comes to men, let me ask you this. Who needs claws, when there are so many other weapons at our disposal?