When I started offering full, off the street kidnappings to very adventurous chaps, I knew I was part of a long history of providers of what is for many, a cherished dark fantasy. When I was at art college, I read about Brock Enright, a NYC artist who performed an arranged kidnapping as part of a live performance, and found himself innunated by emails from people who asked him if they’d kidnap them too. And how much would that cost. Being a struggling artist, he took up the opportunity and organized a very successful kidnappings for people who ere from the ones who felt an erotic frisson (I know those), to ladies who wanted to be locked up to lose weight. He’d tapped into a complex, but widely spread fantasy.
When I became a Pro-Domme, around the time when he was performing his bespoke kidnappings, I learned that being captured, held hostage and put to the test in captivity, was a hue turn on for many, too. For me, taking the role of predator and incarcerator, was dream come true.
I’ve always found this kind of power very exciting, because its the opposite of the age old image of the Dominatrix as a woman permanently locked in her own dungeon, or of she belongs to the perfumed classes, mollycoddled and flattered by slaves while she rests passively on velvet cushions. I’ve always preferred the image of a dominant woman, as woman of action. Lara Croft , rather than Anita Ekberg (even though I love both, for different reasons).
I also derive a lot of my ideas and preferences as a Domme from art, and I consider all my sessions and events an art performance. Try to prove me wrong, I’ll bore you to tears with my replies to the old: “yes, but is it art?”
UNDERGROUND FEMDOM is in a way my crossover version of Enright’s bespoke kidnappings from the early years of the decade. When I was at art college and read about him, i never imagined hat I’s find myself doing a very similar thing, in the name of Femdom. But life has proved me time and time again that it does indeed have a tendency to imitate art. Brock Enright says in and interview: “I’d rather live in a different world, but I don’t know what world that would be.”
I do. It’s the world that Ms Tytania has built. In my world, gentlemen get kidnapped off the streets of London by feral Femdom guerillas. And they thank them for the privilege. Because all art aspires at creating an alternative to the mundanity of Monday mornings.
Being kidnapped by a team of female predators, can be the most exhilarating form of D/s and power exchange that can be imagined.
Latest kidnapping and hostage video clips can be viewed on my members’ website, The Urban Chick Supremacy Cell. Join now!
I’ve been very quiet of late, here, due to horrid, headache-worthy technical problems and bugs plaguing my website. I almost forgot to say that our Bespoke Kidnapping Services, undertaken with the help of my kinky comrade in arms, Ms Slide Rules You, featured in Bizarre Magazone. Clock on the photo to go to the page and read the full article, itnerview, and testimonials form our kidnapped specimens.
Also, go to UNDERGROUND – Bespoke kidnapping, interrogation and waterboarding session. And have you heard of pissboarding? Yes, we do that too.
I received him dressd in my favourite leopard print wrap around dress, winter boots and gloves. The lobby were we were meeting, the antechamber to my fearsome UNDERGROUND Cell (which is actually on the top floor , ha), was stylish welcoming, with a comfy leather Chesterfield sofa and a bar. He thought I wasn’t serious, I could read it in his eyes.
We had a cup of tea to warm up in the cold early March morning, it’d taken him some time to arrive to hsi destination: my underground prison cell in deepest East London. Still, all he could see was the misleadingly homely lobby.
He let me handcuff and blindfold him and I gulped my last sip of tea. He said he might need to loo before going up. “Too late”, I replied, “we are going up”
He stumbled on the metal staircase, blind, hands behind his back in steeel polie cuffs. I’d told him to wer clothes I could rip with my hunting knife. I started a soon as he was halfway onto the top floor, prodding him with the tip of the sharp bowie knife, slitting fabric here and there. he yelped like a puppy wehn the metal tip pricked his skin. No blood though.
The room had a clean, white medical area on one side, and a large barred cell on the other. I ripped his clothes with my hunting knife and only when he was completely naked, I turned him round towards the cell and removed his blindfold. The cell was the size of a small room. I kicked him in. He was shaking a little by then, but not much. I tied him up to the cell’s hard cot, his head hanging out of the edge, barely held by a block of wood lower than the bed edge. When I walked in with a bucket full of water and a large, dirty rag, he understood. It was for real.
I’d added the leftovers of our tea to the already not very clean water. I noisily pissed on it, in front of my helpless hostage, to top the bucket up. All that morning tea! The rag on his face and chest wasn’t too clean too, I’d brought my soiled kitchen towels, for realism. He gasped. he gasped even more when i sat in his face to increase the feeling of drowning and lack of air. Attaching the electrics to his shrunk cock & scrotum was agood idea too, unfortunately the electricity didn’t travel to the wet patch. Damn.
Still reluctant to surrender to the demands of the Underground Cell, I untied him and had an idea I’;d toyed with in the past, but never actually carried out: japanese rope suspension and waterboarding? He s after all a strappy, ex’Army lad (or so he claimed). I suspended him face up, on four secure, separate points, his head again lower than his torso.
Waterboarding. It worked. He gasped for air, his chest contrained by his own weight and the rope’s pressure on it. he ave in. he yielded. he surrendered to Feral, militant Female Supremacy. We won! And he’d booked this Underground session for March 8th, International Women’s Day. Wonderful irony, eh?
To be continued…