You wouldn't be reading my precious, exacting words unless you were craving an exotic young Domina to take complete control of you. I am on a mission of control. It involves delicious revenge and pleasure. Mine, little pet, not yours. You will be the ant under the magnifying glass in the hot sun; you will be the mouse I will sink my claws into and bat around like a powder puff; you will turn yourself inside out for me, till you become something seamless and raw. You will sacrifice to me gladly and without hesitation. Revenge is mine, saith the wicked Mistress Melissa. Let me tell you the story of how it all began.
As a young girl, I had all the benefits that come with being born into an extremely comfortable, upper-middle-class family. We lived in an enormous house in Riverdale, one of the prettiest sections of the Bronx. We enjoyed family vacations in all the right places in Europe several times a year. We spent most of our summer days at a sleep-away camp in the Catskills, learning to ride and care for horses. My life was a fairy tale, and I dreamed of the Prince and the obligatory Happy Ending.
In the fall of my freshman year of culinary school in Manhattan, my mother died in a car accident, leaving everyone in the family distraught over the terrible tragedy. I began staying out too, too late at clubs, which my fake ID and model looks bought me entrance to, drinking to oblivion and having wild sex with older men in an attempt to shove my grief into a far, far away place.
Shortly after that, my father began spending a lot of time with a new friend. No, not another woman, but a charming, well-heeled, fortyish man of questionable reputation with whom my father dashed off to the casinos at the Indian reservations in Connecticut, frequented the track, jetted down to the Islands for even more gambling. But the most damage was done when this "friend"—whom I now call the Evil Prince—suggested my father invest in certain resort real-estate ventures in Jamaica. My father would call my cellular late at night, drunk, telling me how rich we were going to be, how I would never have to work, ever, unless I wanted to, in my own coveted restaurant in Manhattan.
Meanwhile, the Evil Prince was aggressive in pursuing me: armfuls of hothouse flowers; oversized, plush teddy bears with golden boxes of Godiva chocolates; jewelry; designer shoes and matching bags—all purchased with, little did I know, the money he was funneling from my father. Although I spurned all his advances, this only drove him into more of a frenzy to possess me. My father didn't seem to care that the Evil Prince was in full-throttle pursuit of his eldest daughter. Sometimes I wonder if my father hadn't even sold me off, in a sense.
Within a year, my father was broke and had to sell our house in the Bronx. He eventually declared bankruptcy. Relatives spoke of his being swindled out of everything, including my mother's life-insurance monies. And it was those relatives, in fact, who had to sit me down and tell me that there would be no more money for me to continue school unless I could find loans and scholarships to complete my education. Soon my father went into such a severe depression that it became a vicious tailspin from which he would never recover. And the Evil Prince disappeared, most likely to some Island hotel, registered under a fake name, awaiting new prey.
As much as I pitied my father, I detested him for being such a weakling, and I will always resent the sharp turn my life took after my mother's death. Obviously, it was my mother's strength that had held everything together all along. Left to himself, or the company of a mesmerizing male contemporary, my father let everything crumble. Since then, I have decided to make it my mission and legacy to improve the world, one wimpy man at a time.