My Domme skills need work. Or do they?

I had a dream last night that basically epitomized my feelings about being a Domme to The Neighbor: I’m a hack.

I was somehow partnered with a pixie-haired blonde girl, lithe and curvy with little breasts and a sweet, flowy energy.  There were two men with us, TN and her man and they were both eager to please.  I was awkward and weird where she was sure and innovative.

In my silences she gave them tasks to do and I watched somewhat horrified as my guy did as he was told BY SOMEONE ELSE.

She was encouraging me to engage, but I couldn’t, I felt like I was at a dance and they all knew the steps, but I didn’t.

TN was sweet and kept looking to me expectantly, but I kept hiding inside myself.  They kept going without me.  I was alone with my dick in my hand, feeling silly and horrible.

I don’t think TN really feels this way about me — thank God — but it’s enough that I do.

Lately, life has put the brakes on our libidos and the quantity and quality of the sex has gone down slightly (it hurts to write that, by the way, but I will avoid any self flagellation for now).

We still talk and see each other every night and day, cuddle and kiss and I stroke his big hardon and he suckles my breasts, but for some reason 10 o’clock at night no longer calls to me rise up.  Instead, my body yearns to shut off and I answer the call.

I do my best, though, and if I look at it objectively (and more kindly) I dominate him considerably through a multitude of non-sexual ways: my tone of voice, my requests (aka demands), my moods, and my needs.

And the magical, impossible, ridiculous thing of it is: HE COMPLIES.

He complies and he yields and he bends and he offers.  Always.  He never says NO.

To be fair, I think I’m fair.  Rules to follow include things like not teasing me about my age in a disparaging way (he may tease, of course, but I better not feel like it’s a dig); he is to kiss me before leaving the house; he is to do any favor I ask of him no matter how big or small (how many boxes of Topo Chico has that man lugged up 3 flights of stairs in 2 years is beyond me); he is to wear panties when he vacuums for me; and more recently, he is not to masturbate or cum without my presence.

In the absence of physical, sexual play, these little rules are what connects our dots.

Dumb Domme made an incredible list of her House Rules recently and it brought a tear to my eye; and Kink in Exile and Ferns have also both written about rules and their relationships to them.

What I’ve taken away from all of this is that it’s whatever fits the couple.  It’s sorta like how a therapist is trained: they learn the theories and how they work and then they personalize the exchange for each client.  We all take what we know about consent, D/s, power and play, and make them into our own.  It’s a hodgepodge of rules and limits and we gotta take what we can get.

I don’t know whether or not I’m actually dominating him in his eyes, but I know I’m trying in mine.  Perhaps he’s so wired to submit he doesn’t even realize it.  Can that even happen?  Or does he know on some level that I am always exerting myself over him?

My dream denoted my worst fears — that I’m a goddamned stupid idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing — but I guess I can take that as a positive: I don’t want to be around anyone who thinks they know what they’re doing and that includes me.

 

I don’t know how to dominate: When you hurt your submissive.

I said the wrong thing, the worst possible thing.

His eyes filled with tears and what had felt like a calm and gentle silence turned into something heavy and frowning.  A giant face of disappointment.  I had hurt him.  I had fucked up.

“Will you please untie me now?” he said quietly.

I sat up and quickly undid the Velcro cuff.

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” I whispered into his chest.

I clung to him, my naked body pressed against his, and listened to his heartbeat.  Candlelight flickered around us as I felt the occasional disturbance of his freed hand wiping away his silent tears.

“I’m so sorry,” I said tearfully again, “so, so sorry…” I trailed off wishing I could rewind the previous 2 and a half minutes.

“It’s ok,” he answered, squeezing me with the arm I was nestled against.  “I forgive you.  I’m just worried you think the entire night is ruined.”

“No,” I sniffed, “but I feel horrible.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t, but you did and I didn’t know you could…” now he trailed off into a still, yet distant space away from me, beneath my tear-soaked cheek, but safely away from my Dominant clumsiness.

The night had been an intercourse-free one, but layered thick with sexiness and debauchery.  I had him bucking and writhing below me as I lashed his buttocks with a heavy brown belt and clamped his tiny little nipples with my hair clips.  He begged me to stop, to make the pain go away and my answer had been a firm, but resounding NO.

I wanted him to feel it, to breathe through it, to suffer under my watchful guidance.  To break apart and let me put the pieces back together again.

He struggled and panted against his own desire to flee from me, but he was a good boy and remained.  I stroked him gently and purred to him to “Just breathe.”  He clenched his eyes shut and whimpered then finally begged and pleaded with a look in his eye that told me he’d turned the corner of submitting to me.  He believed it, the agony and hope on his face told me.  He finally believed it.

I removed the tiny claws and crooned to him and pet his pretty, scruffy face.  I kissed his mouth and his eyes, told him what a good boy he was.  He thanked me and thanked me and nibbled back on my lips.

I felt like I had finally done something right!  That he had cracked for me, just a little, and we had gone somewhere together!  It wasn’t just me rocketing off to the moon while he stood firmly planted on earth, this time he’d mingled with the stars beside me; his vice-like grip on himself  had slipped just ever so much and a little of his light had come beaming out at us.

It was then that I tied his hands above his head and turned my attention to the giant erection between his legs.  I sucked and squeezed and slurped, lavished attention on this magical appendage of his, then freed his right hand, his jerking-off hand.

I tied his right ankle to the footboard and, remembering his request of me from a few nights ago said, “Jerk off for me.  I want to see you cum on that beautiful black ribbon you’re wearing.”

This was new territory for us both, me telling him to cum.  I’ve asked for it multiple times, but had never in a dominating capacity told him to do it.  Before his blessing, before his trust in me to make such a decree, I had avoided the power it implied, the scenario it resembled to trauma.  I was afraid of hurting him.

But he had said it was ok, that he wanted me to do it, and so I did.

And with what I thought was great understanding of the power dynamic, the importance of consent, and an eye for a hopeful outcome, I loomed over him and laced the leather belt that had been dancing across his bottom around my own neck.

I lowered the free end to his face and told him to hold it between his teeth and pressed my Hitachi against my crotch then pulled gently away from him making the leather leash taught between us.

It was a sight to behold: his luminescence bound before me, his hand a fapping arc beating into his lap, the dark brown leather a physical representation of our bond.  I told him to release me then and he obediently expelled the leather. I stood straight and tall, my leg hiked up on the bed, and gyrated into the buzzing head.

I listened to his gasps and closed my eyes as I orgasmed, hoping that my direction, my order, and my show would help him find his always elusive release.

It did not.

Finally, he asked if he could stop and I said that he could.

I lay down beside him and stroked him as any obedient fellow should be.  Thoughts tumbled through my mind of dominance, submission, boundaries, and trauma.  Had I pushed him too far?  Was it too much stimulation?

As the bubble of our play began to wane I asked him as much.  Was me ordering him to masturbate, to perform in front of me, too much?

He froze.

I froze.

The bubble shattered into a million different pieces and came clanking down around us.

“No,” he whispered, “but can you do me a favor?”  I nodded into his chest.  “Please don’t ever mention that to me while I’m in this position,” he pulled against his restraints.  “Will you please untie me now??”

My tears, which had instantly sprung to my eyes when he froze, spilled over as I saw his own glisten in the candlelight and I watched, then felt, him wipe them away.  He took long moments between speaking and I held my breath not wanting to make my upset a focus.

I explained to him that dominating him was not a gimmick to me, it wasn’t just something to spice up our sex life.  It was an exploration of my own childhood trauma and a mechanism through which to rechannel it.  My feelings of helplessness as a girl are retold as I am a benevolent, yet demanding Dominant plugged into her submissive, someone who is choosing helplessness beneath her hand and watch.  It is a defiantly beautiful thing, a synchronous dance between two souls searching for release, balance, and love.

At least, that’s what I was going for.

But what had actually happened was that as he lay next to me, cracked open, vulnerable, and upset with himself for not being able to cum for me, I stumbled onto his most tender spot.  A silly, stupid girl with no business to be playing this game.

I had crushed us both.  The wound had been open to me and I could see it there pulsing before me, but I didn’t understand until it was too late that even to blow upon it would cause him harm.  I just didn’t know…

My heart is heavy and I miss him.  I want to go next door and cling to him and cry and beg him to forgive me, but I cannot.  This is his hurt and his to handle in whatever way he sees fit.  He said he wants to try this again tomorrow, but I am ashamed and afraid.  Terrified of both my proximity to his heart and my power to injure.  I have never felt so intimately close to someone as I do now pressed up to his pain. I see it now.  It’s been long suspected, but never confirmed.

I peeked into his dark place, his private island.  I am the worst kind of voyeur: I peeped and then I wasn’t careful with what I saw.  Yet, I am confused.  A part of my fear surrounded our complicit avoidance of his Dark Place.  I didn’t want to push him to spill over with me to submission without first knowing the landscape.  I’d felt blind, but now I feel blinded.

I am fucked, damned, lost.  I am nothing.

He gathered himself slowly, gave me my usual “T minus so-many-minutes till I leave,” heads up, and tried to assure me he was recovered.  I remained skeptical, obviously.

He said he appreciated my goal to understand his emotional boundaries, but that he was also surprised  by his reaction to my probing.  “I wonder why that happened?” he said.

“Well, you were cracked open,” I suggested referring to when he’d begged me make his physical pain stop. “You were open to feeling.”

He hmphed, thoughtful.  “Yeah, maybe.”

He fell into silence again and I squeezed him over and over as though it were my last night with him ever.  I ran my hand through his petal-soft chest hair and breathed him in.  Just breathe, I told myself.  I knew he would be leaving soon.

I whispered how sorry I was again and he kissed me and my tears.  “It’s ok,” he said holding my gaze.  “I’m ok.”

He rose and tucked me in and when he gave me a final kiss goodnight — so tenderly, so sweetly — my heart broke once more as my regret filled my unworthy, silly shell of a human body.  Oh, if only I were truly celestial and beyond misakes! 

I let my hand drag across his face as he stood up and disconnected.  He smiled down at the bed, his light blue eyes soft and warm upon me when they could have been hard and cold.

I didn’t mean to hurt him.  I only meant to cause him a little pain.