Life Within the Gilded Cage

Mistress Marlena

Tonight I received a phone call from a woman that I have not spoken to in many years. She used to go by the name "Mistress Marlena." Fifteeen years ago she was one of the most famous (infamous?) madams in Philadelphia. She was also my mentor, and for a year of my life, I was her little toy.

"I haven't spoken to you in a long time," she said. "And thought I should call just to make sure you were still alive."

When we were close 15 years ago, I was in my early 20's and Marlena in her 40's. I mentally tried to calculate how old she must be today, and what kind of shape she might be in. She had thyroid problems and her weight bounced up and down like a basketball. She told me she'd ballooned up to 200 pounds, and was no longer in the "business."

But before she got out, she snagged herself a young honey, a 35 year old man named James, who I remembered as being quite cute. Submissive as a lamb, but cute. She told me he'd graduated first in his class from Drexel, and that he waited on her hand and foot. She hadn't changed, not really.

"So, are you still the same tramp you were back then?" Marlena asked.

"No, I've changed," I told her. "I'm not that young anymore." And, after 6 years of estrogen and anti-testosterones, my libido is about as active as a 1-legged man. I just don't care about sex anymore. Not like I used to.

"I've learned a lot from my girlfriends," I told her. "Nowadays when I meet a man, I tell him right from the get-go that if all he is looking for is sex, he'd better look elsewhere." I want a soul mate, not a bed mate. I've had more than my fair share of lovers, and have absolutely no interest in kink. "The one thing I've learned, is that I need love, not lust."

Marlena said she understood, and was glad to hear it. She also told me that she spent half the year traveling. She'd been to Hawaii, England, and Key West in the last 2 months. She'd seen every country in Europe, and was planning another trip soon. Her only complaint was a degenerated disk that gave her constant back pain. I wanted to make a comment about her breasts that used to hang to her belly button, but thought the better of it.

As we spoke, a flood of memories, long buried, floated through my mind like I was watching an old movie. Paddles, whips, riding crops... dildo gags, and a slave who got off on being cocooned tightly in Saran Wrap... I could still recall how Marlena wrapped his face like a mummy, and smiled cruelly as he began to breath frantically, the clear plastic fogging and pumping in and out over his mouth as he struggled to breath -- just before she poked a finger through plastic, and he gasped for air. "Come on downstairs," she had whispered to me. "We'll watch some TV while we wait." Thirty minutes later when we checked on him, he was done. Even though his hands were bound to his sides, and he could not so much as touch himself, the strict bondage of being wrapped so tightly, had caused his orgasm.

Such were the type of men you met in the "scene." Most of whom were married. Most of whom could not talk about their desires with their wives. They came from as far as D.C. and Dallas to sample Marlena's own special brand of therapy. And she always prided herself in the fact that she had never, not once, ever had sex with one of her submissives. On the contrary, she had no interest in intercourse, and she had her slaves so well trained when she ordered them to orgasm with a snap of her fingers -- they did.

"You know, I'll bet I still know you better than anyone," Marlena purred on the phone. "Better than your family, or your faggy friends."

It was true in a way. And in a way, Marlena was the person primarily responsible for me being who I am today. All those years ago, when I told her my wish to be a woman, she reacted by saying: "Let's go shopping." And we did too, to a woman's boutique, where she threw me into a women's changing booth, told me to strip down to my panties, and not only brought in armloads of clothes for me to try on - but also a sales girl to take my measurements. "So we get the right size."

Marlena not only encouraged me, she used it to control me, just as she dominated everyone around her. Never had I met such a strong-willed person. And although 15 years older, probably pushing 60, she still had the presence of the Rock.

"When I come back from Florida, I want to see you," she said. "I want to see how you turned out. I doubt I'll even recognize you. You know, you were such a cute boy. It may take me a little while to get used to all your changes."

I said okay, and we parted. Do I really want to go back down that memory lane? It's a part of my life that I've buried over the years, and just chalked up to stupidity and youth. And yet there was a time when I was actually proud of the fact that I could command $300/hour.

Now I'm not so sure how I feel about those days. I suppose I should feel at least a bit tainted or ashamed, but I don't. I never forced one nickel out of one pocket. Nor do I feel the compulsion to earn a dollar that way anymore. It's just a phase of my past. It's not me. Not anymore.