ART APPRECIATION

I have been adored my entire life. When I was a baby, doctors, nurses and relatives routinely remarked on my uncommon beauty. "This baby is going to be a real heart-breaker," the doctor accurately predicted.

I was smart too, and by the age of two, I knew that I was superior to everyone around me. By the age of three, when I started abusing playmates in the sandbox -- throwing sand in their faces, stuffing sand in their ears, noses and mouth -- I realized that I was born to be dominant and cruel. I knew that I was superior and came to the conclusion that I was entitled to abuse and humiliate people.

In third grade, a half-dozen admirers were so smitten that they formed a secret society, called the "Maxine Lovers' Club." At lunchtime, they lined up on their knees to kiss my patent-leather Mary Janes. I loved it! And after running around at recess and getting all sweaty, I generously allowed a member of my peculiar fan club to lick the sweat from my feet, while two other admirers held my shoes and sniffed the insides. To this day, I regret that specific episode, and do you know why? Because none of those three children were worthy of such a great honor.

By fourth grade, the "Maxine Lovers' Club" had grown to ten submissive admirers, including two pretty, blond girls, which I called maids, although, in reality Bonnie and Rachel were my abject slaves. Abusing attractive, young girls was a whole new trip. They changed my shoes into my sneakers at recess -- right in front of everyone. They couldn't wait to worship my feet, which have always been beautiful and pristine. By fifth grade, I was already an expert at teasing and taunting submissives with my perfect feet. I knew how to manipulate pathetic, pubescent boys by dangling my shoe from the tips of my exquisite toes. So, you see, I got off to a very early start as a dominant female.

I am a serious Foot Goddess. All of my personal slaves have been professionally trained to give excellent pedicures. My lovely high-arched feet are worshiped daily, not only by foot slaves in my home and dungeon, but also by male and female novice submissives, who humbly approach me on the street, in a restaurant, nightclub, movie theater ... even in coffee shops, where they typically kneel before me and literally beg to kiss my feet.

A vast number of postal and email slaves throughout the world worship photographs of my perfect feet. The adoration of my feet has reached cult-like proportions. Am I surprised? Not really. I am entitled!

My beautiful, soft feet are massaged and professionally pedicured every day. I often wear clear nail polish, with the tips painted a cruel, crimson color. Naturally, my toenails match my fingernails. I have been known to wear jet-black nail polish when I am in a particularly wicked mood. Of course, a dominatrix can never go wrong with deep red nails.

During the last couple of years, on trips to New York to visit my stable of slaves in the city, I enslaved four accomplished artists (three painters and a sculptor) who frequent Sandy York's enthralling Hellfire Club whenever there is a performance by a Dominatrix. This quadruplet of perverts begged me for the great honor of rendering my perfect feet. "Please Goddess Maxine, please allow us the opportunity to paint and sculpt your magnificent feet!" I agreed to pose, but insisted that it be done in one sitting at my Fort Lauderdale dungeon and that all four artists work at the same time. If I was being difficult or unreasonable, then so be it. Let us not forget that I am entitled. It's my way or the highway, slave boy.


Eventually, I relented and sat for three hours while these four renowned artists (whose names have been changed for obvious reasons) attempted to capture the essence of my beautiful bare feet on canvas and in clay.

The previous night, they took hundreds Poloroid photographs of my bare feet and my feet adorned with golden toe rings and diamond ankle bracelets. They shot pictures of my feet clad in open-toed sandals, slides and shoes with dainty straps.

Three months prior to the event, the four strange artists even pooled their money and commissioned a custom-designed pair of black, leather Harvey Bugler pumps which were cut especially low on the sides to show off my high arches and cut so low in front as to reveal a taste of tantalizing toe cleavage.

After all that, I wound up posing in my bare feet, sans footwear.

I sat in a comfortable, old-fashioned rocking chair with my right foot (no particular reason; they are equally beautiful) perched magnificently on a purple, velvet cushion -- purple being the color of royalty. While the prominent New York artists worked hard, immersed in deep concentration, I sipped chilled Crystal and reread Kafka's "Metamorphosis" and a Kafka short story entitled "In the Penal Colony," about a diabolical torture machine used on recalcitrant prisoners in French Guiana. Interesting writer, Franz Kafka. Everyone thinks he's Russian, but he's actually from Czechoslovakia.

Edward is a handsome, young sculptor whose work is especially popular in Europe. He had only met me once before, at the opening of an Egon Sheile retrospective at the Whitney. From the moment he saw me, he was smitten. Once again, I enslaved a successful, young man without even trying. He begged to visit me at my dungeon, but I kept putting him off, making him beg. With some of these arrogant, hot-shot, young artists, I feel a certain responsibility to make them realize that, no matter how much they are admired for their work, they are nonetheless wholly unworthy of serving me.

On this night, about an hour into my posing, a mad look came into Edward's deeply penetrating eyes. He approached tentatively, knelt, crawled forward, and studied my haughty, aristocratic high arches and my straight, lovely, perfectly proportioned toes. I didn't trust this guy. I wouldn't put it past him to try and pull a fast one. And, as usual, my doubts were borne out when, suddenly, without warning, he bent low and tried to steal a kiss.

I just barely pulled my foot out of way in time. I was really angry and I let Edward know it. "Shame on you! Who the hell do you think you are, slave? How dare you attempt to kiss my foot without my permission!" I hissed. "You know that you're not worthy, don't you, slave? None of you are worthy of worshiping my beautiful feet unless you are specifically granted permission."

"Yes, Mistress Maxine," came his weak reply. "I'm terribly sorry. I was just mesmerized, overwhelmed by the beauty of your perfect feet, and I got carried away. Please forgive me. You know that I would never do anything to anger you. I only wish to please you, but I had a moment of temporary insanity."

"Unsolicited foot worship is not allowed. And temporary insanity is not an acceptable defense. After all, everyone becomes temporarily insane when they see my exquisite feet up close. You'll have to be beaten now. In fact, all four of you will submit to harsh beatings. I'm sure Bella will be delighted to assist me, isn't that right, Bella dear?"

"Sounds like a wonderful plan, Mistress Maxine," my pretty, blond Switch replied with a wicked gleam in her bright eyes.

"Please forgive me, Mistress. I am so sorry," Edward said pathetically. He knew that he was in big trouble and tears actually leaked from his eyes.

Meanwhile, the other three artists were livid, enraged that Edward had so seriously misbehaved that now they would all be subjected to beatings.

"It's not fair, Mistress," the Italian-born painter Arntz protested a bit too loudly for my taste. "Why should we all get a beating when that foolish, no-talent sculptor Edward was the one who committed the unpardonable sin of attempting to kiss your foot without permission."

My reply was swift and cutting. "You'd better lower your tone, Mister, or you're liable to get into even more trouble. Do you realize what a harsh beating you are going to get?"

"Awww, Mistress," Arntz whined.

Then, at the very moment when wisdom should have informed him to keep quiet, Georgie V. added his two-cents' worth of input. "Mistress, please don't misunderstand me, but I agree with Arntz. It seems quite unfair that we should all be punished for a crime committed by that fool Edward.
Bella and I exchanged knowing glances. "They just don't get it, do they? Explain it to them."

Bella said, "Don't you understand? Of course it's not fair, but it doesn't matter. Mistress Maxine is the one who decides what is fair. She is entitled to beat you all for the ill-advised misbehavior of one of your group. And, frankly, I'll be delighted to assist."
"You've really gone and done it this time, haven't you, Edward?" said Georgie V. "Now we all have to suffer."
"I don't believe that you comprehend the seriousness of Edward's offense. I think its time for Boots ," I said casually.
That got everyone's attention. You could hear a pin drop in Edward's spacious Soho loft.
You could almost smell the fear.
"Yes, it's definitely time for Riding Boots."
"Oh, goody," Bella enthused.
Edward was stunned to disbelief. The famous sculptor was an adoring submissive, but he was no masochist. He knew (they all knew) that, my slaves must worship me constantly and suffer increasing amounts of pain and degradation for my pleasure and amusement. However, the mere thought of his Mistress clad in riding boots and a wielding a crop sent a wave of paroxysm through poor Edward's already-overtaxed nervous system.
"Fetch me your sculpture of my beautiful foot, slave."
"Yes, Mistress Maxine," he said as he crawled to his work station.
Actually, it wasn't a bad likeness, although it needed substantially more work.
"Give it to me," I said in an evil monotone.
He hastened to obey.
I threw the unfinished sculpture against the wall, breaking it in a hundred pieces.
He cried out in anguish. The outsized sculpture of my beautiful, high-arched foot, with its exquisite toes was gone forever. He would never get the opportunity to fantasize about me while worshiping the likeness of my feet. I know that's what he was planning to do with it. Men! They are so transparent.

The three painters strained at their individual work stations to capture on canvass the wonder of my beautiful feet. One by one, these successful, accomplished, world-renowned artists quit, in the frustrating knowledge that they lacked the talent necessary to render a worthy oil painting of my feet. They wept audibly and made sad faces.

Roger the Dodger, a highly creative, manic depressive, was so distraught that I seriously considered sending him off to the emergency room. He took a couple of valiums and promised that he would be okay.
I demanded that all three canvasses be destroyed. I didn't want one of these sub-par paintings to show up years later, and fetch an enormous price on ebay.
Following the same reasoning, I also made sure that Bella gathered up all of the photos of my feet that the artists had taken the night before.
"The modeling session is over," I said. "Strip naked because now it's time for Boots."
Bella and I repaired to the guest bedroom, where she dressed me in full, black, leather, dominatrix regalia.

I wore a fine, Italian glove-leather top that fit my superb breasts like a second skin. My loins were girded in a matching G-string, guaranteed to make anyone sit up and take notice. Whenever I wore a G-string, my slaves begged for the opportunity to service my precious nether hole. They simply can't help themselves, poor fools and wretches.
"Stockings tonight, Mistress?" Bella queried.
"No stockings."
"Field boots or riding boots?"
"Riding boots!" I exclaimed with a devilish grin, and we both broke out laughing like excited little girls.
"This is going to be fun," Bella said.
"A night to remember," I added. "We'll both use riding crops. You go out front and get their little naked butts ready for a good lashing."

When I made my entrance, I strode to the middle of the room, where I was pleased to see that Bella had lined up he four naked artists on their knees and in a row. My four boys audibly gasped when they saw me in my brief, leather outfit. I sat on stool while Ella herded them forward like sheep to the slaughter.

"Worship!" I commanded as I thrust my leg forward. One by one, with great enthusiasm, they kissed and licked my boots. By the time my fourth slave got to worship my boots, they were damp from the adoring tongues of the slaves who came before. But, if Edward was irritated at getting sloppy fourths, he didn't complain about it. In fact, from the looks of things, they all appeared to be extremely excited.

Once my boots had been thoroughly cleaned, I commanded, "I want all of you to get down on your elbows and knees, and spread those bodies out nice and long for your Mistress, so that I don't have to waste any energy while I punish you. Bella will get you started while I have a taste of my Champagne.

"What are you doing?" I hissed. "Are you all deaf? I said to get down on your elbows and knees, not your hands and knees, but your elbows and knees. There is a method to my madness, and it would be quite unwise to further anger your Mistress. Foolish slaves. Fawning, truckling, obsequient, parasitic, groveling toadies, lackeys, lickspittles and sycophants. You lowly bunch of groveling, crouching, fetching and carrying, subservient apple-polishers and sniveling Snyders. Let's get on with your whippings. Perhaps once you've suffered a good beating, you'll think twice before trying to steal a kiss of your Mistress' beautiful bare foot. Let the whipping begin."

Swack! Swack! Swack! Swack! My lovely, blond Switch Maid wielded her crop with the expertise of a woman who knew how to handle a whip.

Swack! Swack! Swack! The whipping never ceased for a second. Bella rained harsh blows on their naked backs and buttocks. It was such fun to direct the obscene scenario. These wretched submissives were taking a dreadful drubbing, solely for my pleasure and amusement.

Swack! Swack! Swack! Swack!

These world-class artists were not such big shots now. They were forced to undergo a serious riding-crop whipping to suit my sadistic whimsy and to demonstrate beyond all doubt that they were devoted slaves.

They were whimpering now. The room smelled of sweat and fear. Edward was the biggest sissy of the bunch. He wept, tears poured down his face.
"Take a break, Bella," I stated. "It's my turn!"
Swack! Swack! Swack! Swack!
I whipped them hard and fast.
Swack! Swack! Swack! Swack!
"Oh, my God! It hurts so much!" cried Edward. The other three handsome young men were suffering dreadful pain as well. Sweat poured down their faces.

I threw the riding crop to Bella and stated loudly and clearly, "Now it's time for your kicking and trampling. Stretch those naked bodies out far for Mistress!"
I wasted no time getting started. There's nothing quite like a good riding-boot kicking to get the adrenaline flowing.
Bella and I proceeded to take a "stroll" as the four artist served as a lovely carpet.
"All this whipping and trampling is so exhausting." I commented to Bella as I stared down at the artists' brused bodies. "Dispose of them and then bring me a cup of tea."

I could hear Bella giggle all the way down the hall as she led the four fools to be caged for the night. She promptly returned with my cup of tea.
"If it pleases Mistress may I properly worship your feet." Bella inquired gently.

"You too, Bella?" I smiled down at her knowingly. "Well at least you asked politely rather than attacking my toes. Certainly you may, but only if you promise to torture the boys with descriptive tales of your worship tomorrow."
"Absolutely Mistress." Bella beamed up at me. She removed my boots and began sucking on my toes lovingly.
I sat back and allowed the tension to just slip away as I sipped my tea.
"It's good to be Mistress, Bella. It is so good."