I beat his ass.

hyacinthjones_white_shift_belt

The morning after, no underwear.

“Take off your underwear,” he said smiling and with no fanfare.

I looked at him and burst into giggles.

We’d been laying on the bed talking and it’d come out of no where, well, if “no where” was laying in bed and lavishing attention on your man and there was a rule that he wasn’t allowed to wear pants in your bed.  Then, yes, it came out of no where.

I lifted my hips and removed my panties and he kneeled between my knees.  We both still had on our shirts.

He pressed into me and watched each other as he split me open and I gave way with a soft moan.  His eyes so blue, so intensely locked on mine.

His powerful hips began to move and instantly I felt a spark and arched.  I pulled him down to me and we kissed and kissed and kissed as our bodies gyrated onto one another, our breath sweet puffs of passion between our locked mouths.

His tempo increased, I lost my shit as my pussy gushed and my temperature rose.  I tossed my head from side to side and clung to him with my limbs, desperate to feel his cock deep in my throat from below.

When we were exhausted, he stopped and handed me my vibrator and played with my breasts and nipples, told me how hot I was and how beautiful as I sprang into an orgasm from the wand that ripped a scream from me.

I went limp and giggled.  He kissed me.

He left shortly after that, saying he had only stopped by for a quickie before he vacuumed.  When he returned later it was a surprise.  I wasn’t ready for him to clean, yet.  But he wanted to cuddle again and so we did and after laughing and talking for several minutes and me absentmindedly playing with his cock he said again, “Take off your underwear.”

I held still, a smile plastered on my face and a twinkle in my eye that matched his.  And so I lifted my hips and took off my panties once more.

And again he impaled me with his magical cock and we moved together, this time fully nude, and rocked against each other with all our mights.  I gripped the iron bars of my headboard and squealed each time I felt the tip of his cock nudge my heart.  I bloomed and blossomed and lost myself in little orgasms until, once again, we were exhausted and he flopped next to me, my Hitachi wand in his outstretched hand.

I took it, I died, I wept a little, but not too much, and I saw myself in bits of confetti that rained down around me.  His hand rested on my breast, his words of encouragement lingered on my ears.

He left again and we made plans for when I needed him to come over “for real” and vacuum.

When he returned he wore his little white briefs.  The thin cotton transparent enough that I could see his shadowy Caucasian skin piled behind it as he moved the vacuum cleaner about my apartment.

He picked up chairs and moved ottomans as I scurried around the house tidying up, lighting candles, making my bed.

Vacuuming is our chore-play, our gateway activity to the head space to play Dominant and submissive and I was roundly fucked and more than capable of focus.

When he was done he coiled the cord and stowed the vacuum away, came back to my room and looked at me expectantly.

“Good boy,” I purred and pet his red-bearded face.  The tables had turned.

His eyes were round and impossibly light blue, his bowed mouth slightly parted.  I caressed his shoulders, ran my fingers down his furry chest and grabbed his hardon beneath the fabric of his underpants and peeled him out of them.

“Wait here,” I said softly and grabbed a couple of things off the bedside table.  He looked at me inquisitively then with muted horror as I showed him two tiny hair clips, the kind a woman uses at her temples to stay fly-aways.  “Relax,” I said from my throat and kissed his warm lips.

He took a breath and let his arms hang at his sides as I clipped the hungry little beasts on his itsy bitsy nipples.  He cringed and winced and made a big production of it.  I scoffed at him and told him to knock it off.  “Bend over and assume the position,” I said.

There he was bathed in candlelight, in pain, back arched, bottom impossibly full and bare.  I swelled with lust, delight, and nerves.  The white shift I wore pulled taut across my breasts as I breathed in deeply the scent of his cologne and submission.

I reached for the brown leather belt that saves my weak little palm and lashed at him.  “Beg for mercy,” I hissed gently, “Beg.  But I will not stop.  You may writhe, you may cry, and you may beg, but don’t move away from me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said huskily and he held still, waiting.

I lashed and lashed at him then and he did cry and beg.  It was gorgeous and terrifying and infuriating all at once.

When the begging came in earnest I hit him some more and told him to stop telling me what to do.  “But you said –,” he began.

“It doesn’t matter what I said,” I told him.  “You can do this, but don’t tell me to stop, beg me to stop.”

He understood.

I picked up where I left off; I wanted to leave a mark on him.  So I hit and I hit and I panted and I writhed inside of myself as I watched him squirm and shiver and shout.

I was hurting the man I love.  This is wrong, I thought.  And then I kept on lashing and petting and reassuring.

I swayed beneath my gauzy slip, drunk on passion and power and I pressed my mound against his hip and stroked his hot back.  A welt was beginning to appear.

I told him to stand up and he was skittish, but stable.  I kissed his jaw and was careful not to bump the tiny clips clinging to his nipples.  And then I said, “Hold very, very still,” and his eyes widened as he saw me carefully remove one clip and then the other.  “Get back down,” I said.

I reared up again to my full height and concentrated on the belt cutting through the night air and landing exactly where I wanted it to.  Careful, deliberate, my nipples erect, my cunt warm, wet and buzzing, my eyes glazed with other worldly focus.

Slap!  Slap!  Slap!  Slap!

He trembled and shivered, but held himself in position.  He whimpered into the down comforter and gripped it with hands locked into fists.

The smack of leather on skin began to sound like a drum beat and I turned myself inside out, concentrated on my own voice which encouraged him to take more and praised him for his powerful, meaty, indisputable beauty.  I was him in that moment feeling my own hand on him, checking in and feeling around.

And then, I was suddenly done.

I was there, he was there.  There was nowhere else I wanted to go.  And I couldn’t take one more lick lest I burst into tears.

My hand stilled and he lay and panted in big, giant breaths splayed heavily in the middle of the bed now.  I moved closer to inspect my handiwork and gasped at the blister of color I’d caused.  It was beautiful and awful.

I kissed his ear and cheek, his face buried in the mattress, and told him to stay exactly like that while I ran and fetched some ice and a cloth.  I slipped the cool chunk over his scorched skin and blotted up the trickle with care.  He insisted he didn’t need it, the careless, needless submissive man that he is, but I ignored him feeling as though I knew better.  At the very least, I needed it after brutalizing the man I love for 20 minutes.

I cooled his cheeks, his crack and his hip and dipped my hand between the cleft of his backside and stroked his balls.  He lifted his hips for me and the arch and offer nearly made me grab my belt again, but instead I wrapped my hands around his chubby cock and played with the heavy bag behind them before returning to icing his welt.

He wasn’t able to hold a conversation and he giggled.  I swelled with pride and love and contentment.

When the ice had disappeared, he pulled me into his arms and kissed my temple.  I snuggled down into the warmest nook in the world and lazily stroked his growing erection, my lids heavy, my heart full, spent as fuck.    “Hey,” he said with a grin, “take off your underwear.”

He may only cum when I am present.

I had been feeling out of control and my libido had dropped a few rungs when I received a provocative and thoughtful email from a friend who happens to be dominant. He reminded me that if I wanted something, I had the power to make it happen, the responsibility to be kind, and the wherewithal to know the difference between recklessness and pushing boundaries.

I mulled it over for days.

A part of my real life had been spiraling out of control and I had to flex that muscle I’d built up while masturbating myself into true acceptance of all things The Neighbor. In other words, I had to just let go.

It’s worked, thank God, but it took a lot out of me and I could focus on nothing but that problem for most of my waking days.

It robbed me of my will to write like I wanted to and it’s the culprit behind the lowered libido, too, but somehow, insanely, my friend’s words continued to percolate and in the midst of my chaos I turned to TN one night as we cuddled and said, “I don’t want you to masturbate without me anymore. No touching, no cumming, nothing, unless I’m somehow present. You can have me involved or just in the room, but whatever it is, I’m there.”

I probably said it a lot more kindly than that because I am a very soft-hearted woman and a clumsy Domme. I probably also gave some reasons behind it — thinking I had to — but with a slow smile and a squeeze TN said simply, “Ok. I think I can do that.”

That was 3 weeks ago and he has kept his word like a good boy.

My bond to him has deepened and my trust in him has blossomed. I am also in utter disbelief.

There has been a time or two when he has admitted to waking up humping his pillows, a pained look on his face, and I just laughed and rubbed and loved on him like a giant puppy. A great, big, wonderful, love and sex puppy.

His hard-ons are epic and easy as usual, but there’s an air to our interactions that is different. I’m holding invisible reins and he’s wearing an equally invisible bridle. His reliance on masturbation to self-soothe and regulate his emotions throughout any given day is heavy and I take it seriously to be in control of his outlet.

I grip and stroke, and find my face buried between his tree-trunk legs far more often than I have in previous months, and I’ve found that magical prescription that milks the cum from his body despite his control tenfold more times than before my new Rule. And even my pussy has coaxed him to orgasm.

Whatever connection we had is growing stronger as he learns to rely on me and I learn to trust myself. It vibrates, it soothes, it’s sweet and sexy, it’s everything to me.

When I ask him if he wants to cuddle now, instead of saying, “Maybe,” I get, “Of course.” It’s been months since he’s missed a night anyway, but nowadays, he gets upset if I try to carve out some space alone. I hesitate to write the following words, but he might just need me.

On a new level, somewhere between primal and elevated, he needs me and his body knows it. I’m sure his heart does, but maybe now his head is beginning to realize it, too. And it’s the confluence of the three that I’m sensing in him. It just has to be. Either that or I’m just drunk from all the semen and Domme-y power. That can happen, right??

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.