Goddess Natasha Hertz

1-800-863-5478
ext: 9531839

She’s the Queen of Humiliation and the Spirit Animal of BBC lovers. She’s a lifestyle Dominatrix and dear friend to all sex workers.

And. So. Very. Much. More. Check out the linkage below after reading these FIVE STAR reviews from just a smattering of her devotees:

Goddess Natasha is so powerful. I can’t think of anyone else that could do what she does as well as she does. She is a true Goddess.

Powerful!

There is a world of difference between lightning and a lightning bug. Goddess Natasha is lightning. She will electrify your core. For me, i knew instantly. If you are reading this, you know what i am talking about. Kneel. Worship. Serve.

You’ll leave the call stripped of your delusions of masculinity.

i live to be reduced to nothing more than Goddess Natasha’s house ashtray slave for life! Whether it’s my mouth, tongue, or ashtray hanging from the chains attached to my nipple clamps, i accept my place, Goddess.

Goddess made me realize I’m a BBC sissy bottom bitch who needs to be filled.

Exceptional. Goddess Natasha took charge right away and had me begging to serve her within a minute. So exciting — can’t wait to call back. Thank you, Goddess Natasha.

Very humiliating. Cuckoldress supreme.

Goddess Natasha is so powerful. I can’t think of anyone else that could do what she does as well as she does. She is a true Goddess.

She is absolutely amazing and has an utterly addictive hypnotic voice.

Once again, a fantastic call with Goddess Natasha. Her imagination and attention to details are extraordinary. She is an excellent role player, involving me in events as the scenario unfolds. She excels in making me so look forward to our next call.

Penis evaluated…omg!

Truly a privilege to be re-educated by Goddess Natasha.

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I mean it when I tell you this woman is a supreme being in every way. It would behoove you to pay attention and learn all about her.

CALL

WEBSITE

TWITTER

LIVE CAM

WISHLIST

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Now FFS! Brush your teeth and comb your hair. Goddess Natasha has plans for you.

And praying won’t help. Not one little bit.

Little Red-Cap

At childhood’s end, the houses petered out
into playing fields, the factory, allotments
kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men,
the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan,
till you came at last to the edge of the woods.
It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf.

He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud
in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw,
red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears
he had! What big eyes he had! What teeth!
In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me,
sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink,

my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry.
The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods,
away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place
lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake,
my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer
snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes

but got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night,
breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem.
I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for
what little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf?1
Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws
and went in search of a living bird – white dove –

which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth.
One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said,
licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back
of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books.
Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head,
warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood.

But then I was young – and it took ten years
in the woods to tell that a mushroom
stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds
are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf
howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out,
season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe

to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon
to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf
as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw
the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones.
I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up.
Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone.

Carol Ann Duffy 1999

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Growing up a girl — wanting a boy, but not needing a boy — and figuring this out, finding her strength, trusting her own wisdom, loving her perfectly happy solo self …

… well this is just the journey all girls take in growing up and this is an epic poem!

++ Little Red-Cap was the original British title for the fairy tale, Little Red Riding Hood.

So I gave @incognitoThomas a rather complex assignment with a lot of working parts. One part was to list his top ten FemDoms on Twitter. With his permission, here’s that list:

1. @DoctorSue
2. @Mistress_DJ
3. @LadyJessica285
4. @ServeLadyPortia
5. @4theLoveofCaia
6. @FaithOShea
7. @MistressJLHyde
8. @Star_of_Alice
9. @xGoddessGeorgia
10. @mandy_facts

(he really is a very good boy, who adores and appreciates all women … and I’m lucky he serves me)

PS. Thomas wanted me to tell you that the list is in no particular order.

She made broken look beautiful
and strong look invincible.
She walked with the Universe
on her shoulders and made it
look like a pair of wings.

      Ariana Dancu