Campaign of the Month: October 2017
Blood & Bourbon
Controlling dominatrix & collector of strays
“Have you ever stepped on a grape?”
“How much are your balls worth to you?”
“The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.”
Appearance & Attire
The crack of a whip. The clink of a chain. The tenuous creak of fresh, black leather. Victoria wears pain, just as pain wears her. What does a dream look like? The silken touch of a seraph, pride in her motherly gaze? The claws of a devil, tracing, trailing crimson lines down unbroken skin? Victoria is the orchestrator of dreams birthed by a creature of nightmares, clad in darkness heralding that dream’s ascension to reality. Leather clings to her just as well as shining latex and the softest silks, ending with six-inch heels that have stood upon more than one pair of balls.
In the waking world, Victoria—Sylvie, to those closest to her—is a woman of varied tastes. If there’s one lesson she’s learned in her line of work, it’s that the wardrobe is as potent a tool as any steel or leather implement.
Around the house or in the grocery store—when someone else isn’t doing the shopping for her—she’s seen in simple clothing: a pair of shorts (or jeans, on New Orleans’ rare, brisky days), a band t-shirt or a tank top, her hair pulled loosely back, and a pair of converse. She’s been told on more than one occasion that her fashion sense went to Warped Tour and never came home.
She’s frequently seen in the company of Marcus Marrow at the Corner Club, an occasion begging for something more refined. Some hint of the leather-clad goddess re-emerges: leather pants and a top fit for the dazzling lights of a club, or a dress that brings her thighs to reality and bends imagination to fill in the rest. It’s sensuality within the bounds of propriety. Eye-catching without eye-widening. Allure without fear. A predator, tensed, jaws waiting to snap.
No matter the occasion, Victoria Wolf’s palette echoes her vocation: from midnight blues to dark forest greens, and spilled, red wines to satin blacks.
Name: Sylvia Arden St. George
Alias: Mistress Victoria, Sylvie, Vic, Victoria Wolf
Ethnicity: American. Victoria isn’t sure of her biological parents’ ethnic heritage.
Date of Birth: October 21, 1989 (New Orleans, Louisiana)
Date of Embrace: April 6th or 7th, 2016 (New Orleans, Louisiana)
Apparent Age: Mid-20s
Weight: 152 lbs
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Dark brown
Complexion: Pale, curated, and cared for
Education: M.S. Mechanical Engineering (Loyola University, 2011—2013), B.S. Mechanical Engineering (Lafayette University, 2007—2011)
Occupation: Owner, the Curious Cat (2018—present), owner, the Den of Iniquity (2016—present), dominatrix, independent (2014—present), dominatrix, Chakras (2013—2014)
Sylvia likes to say that “my first mom and dad cared for me about as much as janitors care for shit-smeared desks.” They came, they fucked, her mother shat a baby, and another unwanted child was thrown into foster care. From one woman who spent more of her monthly board rate on fake Prada and booze than her foster daughter, to another man who who would kiss and fondle the girls in his care at night, Sylvia’s time in the foster system was as joyless as any other unwanted child’s.
That changed when Mary St. George fostered her.
Ten years in NOLA’s foster system left her damaged and mistrusting, sure that the next caretaker would be just as bad as (or worse than) any of the previous. Sylvia’s relationship with Mary began as many foster child relationships in Catholic households do: with mistrust, a rulebook, and a Bible. Despite Mary’s attempts to bait Sylvia’s affection and mold her behavior with a mixture of cookies, well-defined expectations, and blanket understanding, she wanted nothing to do with it.
One month passed. Two. Life in Mary’s house was strict, but kind. Sylvia and her foster siblings slept two to a room, Sylvia with her sister Leslie. She never wanted for company at night, and the two were often caught up past bedtime playing games under a sheet with a flashlight. Mary spent their monthly board rate on food, clothes, and braces. She never yelled or hit them, even when Julius and George couldn’t decide whose turn it was to play Super Angelo Bros., or when Maria brought a boy over and closed her door. Sylvia wondered when the woman was going to get rid of her, but Mary never did—even after she stole that cookie.
As a single parent on a social worker’s salary, Mary wasn’t rich. Between financial aid, state-given breaks, and a strong relationship with the archdiocese, Mary made it work. Sylvia and her five siblings enrolled at St. Rita’s. The tuition was less than a quarter of what McGehee costed.
Sylvie never complained. She was going to a real school—a private school! The air conditioning didn’t go out every Tuesday. The doors didn’t have metal detectors. The teachers smiled and gave a damn. Even young, Sylvie knew what this had cost her mother, and promised herself never to squander it.
Classes were hard for her. Coming from foster homes where caregivers were indifferent to her academic success, she hadn’t ever really tried. Now that the pressure was on, she began to see just how far behind her education was. Sylvie persevered through the remainder of junior high. Where her educational foundation lacked, her determination not to let her mother down carried her forward, especially after Mary adopted her: she still remembers crying after realizing she’d found her forever home.
In eighth grade, Mary sent Sylvie to Mount Carmel Academy, a girls’ Catholic school in the affluent Lakeview neighborhood. It was the next tier down from McGehee and cost double Rita’s tuition. Mary somehow made it work too, and hoped the school would set her daughter up for a life of success. Her classmates hoped otherwise and teased her relentlessly.
“Silver-dollar Sylvie, it’s all she’s worth!”
“Hahah! She’s a saint ’cause she needs donations!”
Fights were common, and when Leslie got picked on, it was often Sylvie who ended up in the principal’s office being lectured on the finer points of ladylike behavior. Only suspension and threats of expulsion got through to her.
When she graduated, her grades were strong enough to earn offer letters to at least a few universities, though her behavioral record might have been why she never got into Tulane. Sylvie wanted enough distance to form her own identity, while still keeping an option to return home. University of Louisiana at Lafayette was the perfect choice, where she entered their Mechanical Engineering program a mere two hours from the St. George house.
During her first year as an undergrad, she encountered Anna May Perry, another freshman. The pair met during an Introduction to Sociology course, bonding over the notion that they could both have been doing better things.
So they did. All the time. Day in, night out, classes together where their degrees overlapped, lamenting time when not spent together. Anna was there for Sylvie when Grandma Beth St. George passed due to a genetic heart issue. Sylvie was there for Anna when she was drugged at a party. She almost earned a criminal record when she sunk a golf club into the offender’s nose. The wounded frat boy decided he wanted to stay out of jail and away from drug charges more than he wanted to see Sylvie arrested.
She placed an anonymous tip a week later, anyway.
Anna and Sylvie moved in together at the start of sophomore year, and remained friends as close as sisters for all of undergrad. Unfortunately, life separated the two after college. Sylvie went on to pursue her master’s in M.E. at Loyola University, while Anna went on to University of Miami to pursue her career as a history teacher.
During her master’s program, Sylvia needed paid work to support the meager lifestyle of an academic. Between six kids and private school, Mary had no college funds set up for them. Loans had piled since Sylvie’s acceptance to Lafayette, and her minor scholarship only covered a fraction of the books she needed each semester, leaving living expenses (and piling interest on loans) fully on her to support. Her time in undergrad had earned her necessary practical skills for the an engineering career, and finding an internship using those skills would give her better prospects for life after graduation.
Loyola’s career center had a buffet of opportunities on offer for students to apply to, of which Sylvie took full advantage; yet, it was exploring her sexual curiosity that led her to discover Chakras, a BDSM dungeon in New Orleans. It was a local-enough house of sin in search of the right candidate to do the back of the house work requiring a specialized set of skills: construction of industrial BDSM rigging and machinery. It wouldn’t be the first time a blowtorch had been lit in the dungeon.
It was a match made in heaven, cast to hell for the sinful future it would unfold. Sylvie’s first few days in Chakras were filled with nervous uncertainty and bubbling curiosity. Her experience in intimacy had led her time and again to controlling positions over short-term flings and long-term boyfriends alike, and though she’d had a veiled curiosity in the BDSM world, she’d never actually considered exploring it outside her own bedroom.
Perhaps that veil tore. Perhaps she just needed the excuse. It didn’t matter—she was there, under the attentive care and strict instructions of men and women she looked up to from moment one.
It brought a chill to her spine just hearing them speak; the subtlety of their undertones, the nuance of their wording, the intentional refinement with which they held themselves. Even to her, their very air commanded a note of respect, and wonder, and mystery, and desire, and she wanted to please them.
She wanted to be pleased.
She wanted to be one of them.
Sylvia maintained an employment at Chakras for six full months before her interest came up, not due to her own forwardness, but because of a fat, slimy piggy who went to the wrong market.
“Why don’t you put her ass in chains and give her a lesson? I’ve never seen her around! Come, kitty kitty, won’t you come and play?" he said. She didn’t see his face, as he was locked in a steel collar facing away. A steel collar, and nothing else.
She didn’t remember what exactly the domme in charge of him said, but she did remember being instructed to take his punishment in hand herself; remembered how the leather handle of a flog felt in her hands the very first time. She remembered how it felt to strike him. She remembered how scared she was. She remembered crying at home, later. She remembered wanting to learn more, and to learn how far was too far.
Wielding the Whip
The newly minted dominatrix grew into her role as if she were born for it. Leather molded to her as if it were a second skin, and she soaked the nuance of body language, the specificity of language, and — most importantly — how to ply empathy to understand what each individual client really needed.
Sylvie—Victoria Wolf, in-persona—soon spent more time behind the machines than she did building them. After receiving her master’s from Loyola, she continued to work under the tutelage of the experienced women at Chakras for another year more.
Over the years, Victoria came to understand just how corrupt the rules at Chakras were, and how deviant they were even for the BDSM community. Consent was a temporary setback. Safe words were given deaf ears. Always, the clients returned, and so the rules were left as they were—guidelines, sometimes. Despite her tastes, Victoria could not tune out the screams, or the clients raced out on ambulance stretchers. She thought back to her loving mother, her respectful brothers, and the Christian values of charity and compassion Mary never let them forget.
In 2014, she left Chakras. Not because of a difference of opinion, but because she saw herself eroding, becoming just as callous and wicked as the women she’d come to admire so deeply.
Only a few months later, Victoria began her journey as a self-employed business owner: a dominatrix for hire. For the first time in her life, she was able to set her own hours, and pick her own clients, and still make it to her family’s Sunday dinner. She enjoyed the control, but that was nothing new.
In 2015, Anna’s life was rocked by the sudden end of her career at McGehee; a lifelong dream held long enough to savor before it was snuffed out to smooth feathers with the high and mighty of New Orleans. Sylvia was there for her as if it had been the woman herself cast into oncoming traffic. Where Anna needed a shoulder to cry on, Sylvia was there wearing her softest sweater. When Anna needed to be pushed to a movie, to dinner, or just to get the first fresh air in a week, Sylvia was the one pushing her out the door. When Anna’s pride pressed her to take a job with the city’s public school districts, it was Sylvia that locked her liquor cabinet and told her that everything would be all right.
Anna’s dream was dead, but she would dream another night. Nightmares don’t last forever, and she was in the arms of a dreamweaver.
The dreamweaver was in love with her. By Valentine’s Day of 2016, friends had become more, never to be separated again.
Anna May Perry
Long-time friend, several-time roommate, and long-term girlfriend. Anna and Victoria have been inseparable friends since college, becoming more in the months following the events of the LaLaurie House. Victoria provided for Anna: offering a shoulder to grieve broken dreams and a dead relationship, pushing her to leave the house, and providing structure where she had little.
On-again-off-again fling of several years, became more serious as of…
A more novel romantic interest than Anna and Marcus, Victoria is as much interested in caring for Lezlee as she is in dating her. The two can be seen anywhere between motherly-daughterly, explosive fireworks, and casual couple dynamics. Vic has been courting the idea of Lezlee more than courting Lezlee herself.
Victoria met Tina when she took Anna’s advice of ‘working her kinks out’ a little too seriously, and decided she really would enjoy a professional massage. Some double their massage therapist as a personal therapist, others fall asleep. Victoria learned that she is the former, in addition to two facts about Tina, though she didn’t actually admit either: One, she really likes cars. Two, she really, really wants to keep her distance from them. Victoria has a recurring massage with Tina, and intends to peel back the layers of damage as best she can.
Flamboyantly gay and fiercely loyal manager of Den of Iniquity. When Victoria is out, he’s in charge, and Papa Bear is just as protective as Mama Wolf.
Recently hired, still under training under Victoria Wolf. Her past tendencies are under close watch as getting ahead with flirty smirks and lidded eyes won’t work in Victoria’s employ. Given a chance by Victoria as she sees someone who can do better. Be better, Alena.
Alena mentioned Amanda’s name to Victoria while looking over applications to replace an outgoing dominatrix, citing her as ‘someone that knows how to have a good time’. Despite worry over picking up a stigma as a home for poached waitresses, Victoria hired her anyway—following proper vetting. Amanda wondered if she were hired as the “token black worker” until Victoria confirmed the fact, adding an explanation of “You’d be surprised how many strong, white men want to be struck by a stronger, black woman.”
Mishenka “Mistress Shank” Yolanovicha
She came on blistering wind, and for the first time in years, Victoria felt she had lessons to learn. She’d never hired an employee as quickly as Mishenka.
The Wolf’s Den
Victoria’s primary business and source of income is a by-recommendation / by-rumor dream fulfillment service for the rich and powerful, specializing in buried secrets. One client quotes, “I wanted to become a star! She made me one! A glowing, fiery ball of light and energy floating through space!” The majority of her private client list, which includes some of the city’s elite, stick to a more simple regimen of power exchange and loss of control.
The Den of Iniquity
Where those with a few hundred dollars toss away money to toss away their worries. Mostly-fixed menu with some customization allowed.
The Curious Cat
“The wings will spank you.”