I wore my nerdy glasses and pinned my hair with a pencil. My white, eyelet panties peeked out from the bottom of the cardigan.

I am not an insecure woman.

I am bold and confident, believe my common sense will guide me through any uncertain circumstance, and feel that my instincts are correct 99% of the time. I consider myself luckier than most.

Therefore, it confounds me when I feel confused, lost, or otherwise discombobulated.

Discovering my dominant side and fanning its flames does just this. It discombobulates the fuck outta me.

Many years ago, in a faraway land called Dating, Marriage and [mostly] Vanilla Sex, I yearned to be dominated. I wanted to be cherished, worshiped, and taken care of. Pain wasn’t a part of my fantasy. It was about letting go and trusting my partner to think of everything. To my overwrought, SAHM (stay-at-home-mom), neglected brain the notion of being used and directed was heaven. Sweet and salty, not-a-care-in-the-world caramel heaven.

My journey to this side of myself has been accidental. I’ve been tying up my lovers for years, but it was just something I did, not a part of who I am. Long term boyfriends had the pleasure numerous times to be pinned down, dripped with wax, pinched with clothespins, tickled with feathers, pegged, blindfolded, and otherwise sensually tortured by me and I enjoyed myself. Immensely.

I went to a primal place within me; I was a sexual nerve. Forward thinking, empathetic, pushing, pushing, pushing. And then I would hit the wall of uncertainty: what to do next? My lovers and I never talked about D/s — what the fuck was that? We just liked things a little spicy. And so I delivered. To a point.

When I would come to the end of that teasing path I always handed back the reins. My bashfulness rose and my ignorance reigned supreme. Instead of keeping him beneath me I relinquished control and didn’t see the gift of his submission. I mistakenly believed that I could only receive pleasure from him if I was the receptacle. Soft, submissive, feminine. It was selfish, sexist, and completely silly of me.

The Neighbor and I stumbled onto my abilities much like I had come upon my kinky pleasures in the past: we had the gear and the imagination and shit just happened.

He’d been telling me for months that he’d had a lover in the past for 6 months — some honey he met off of FetLife –who dommed him, but I dismissed it. I didn’t let it stick, sink in, or otherwise digest into any part of my consciousness. It did not compute.

Men are bigger and stronger, I thought. I don’t want to be in charge. I’m tired and need relief.

Back then TN like to spank the fuck out of me. I walked away from our encounters with welts the size of his paw on my hip and flanks. He’d growl at me and toss me around and I reveled in what felt like his dominance, but it never went all the way. He didn’t domineer, direct, or control me. He inflicted his superior strength upon me. There’s a difference.

One is intellectual, the other is opportunistic.

Embracing my ability to control and hold the reins has called into question the decisions I made during my marriage. Could it have been saved if I had taken over in the bedroom?

In hindsight, I recall my sweet exhusband’s own wall present in most of our interactions. His own uncertainty and hesitations. I demanded that he break it down, but to no avail. We hovered in a place of love and longing and lots of miscommunication. It broke my heart like so many pieces of glass.

I’m trying not to think about it.

My dominance over TN excites me for my future and whatever lovers I may have. Seeing a man bend his will to mine, to curb his superior strength, and to give over to me his own sexual pleasure is a tender, wild gift. I must treat it with respect and delicate hands. Give it little puffs of love as I pant beneath it and moan about its beauty.

It is less about penetration than it is about obedience. I keep TN and I calibrated through our roles. When he behaves badly, he is punished. I am just and open. He tells me why he’s getting spanked even as the belt laps at his pale skin. “I’m sorry for being a jerk. I’m sorry for not thinking you knew that. I’m sorry for being petulant. I’m sorry for being a dick,” and so on. Sweeter words never befell my ears.

Last week, I was desperate for a session. We had re-hashed the rules and boundaries of our relationship and fucked numerous times, but I was adrift and mildly angry at the world, perhaps at him, certainly at me.

When he arrived 3 minutes late he knew immediately he would be getting at least 3 lashes. He argued with me and I added 5. He huffed at me and I added another 5. He rolled his eyes and I added yet another 5.

My mind was lightening quick, my math smooth as butter, quick as my words. “That makes 18 and I haven’t even finished lighting all the candles. Want to go for more?”

He ducked his chin and looked at me remorsefully. “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” I stood there in my grey cardigan and panties feeling 6 feet tall instead of 5′ 5″.

He walked over to the bedside table where I had pulled out our toys. Body markers, a pretty glass butt-plug, lube, blindfolds, straps, and a banana-yellow ruler. I wanted everything within reach, but didn’t have much of a plan.

As I watched him watch me and move against my moves I became more aroused. He was regarding me with eager eyes. He waited for my voice, my command.

I told him to lay on the bed and we talked and I played with his flaccid penis. I sketched an outline of it like a dead body and measured it. Four inches soft as a water balloon.

When the outline grew to 8″ I told him to flip over. His round, white ass high in the air bloomed red as I carefully painted him with his 18 lashes. Then another 5 simply because I could.

I kissed the bright red skin and pulled him up by the shoulder, leaned in and kissed him.

“Let’s go take a shower,” I said then. “I’m shaving your balls and you’re going to wash my pussy.”

A small universe away from that moment I lay with legs splayed and his dark head between my thighs. He made me soar, though I didn’t cum.

When his jaw began to hurt I laughed. “We need more practice, TN. Lots more!” He smiled gingerly rubbing his jaw and agreed, stood up and pulled my bottom closer to the edge of the bed and slipped in deep and long.

Later, in a four-point restraint he dangled in front of an orgasm for so long his body tingled and he writhed and panted and begged for me to stop. I took pity on him and untied him, curled up in his arms and let him stroke me.

He plunged his fingers deep inside of me and burst through my shell and I released a bucket of ejaculate onto my sheets. I saw stars and couldn’t speak.

Cuddled in his arms again he said he was hungry. I agreed. And as I entered the neighborhood diner, my breasts free behind a white t-shirt and my hair home to a little bird’s nest in the back, I felt tough and fine and I sincerely hoped everyone knew what we’d just been doing.

We drove back home under the stars and he gave me a long kiss goodnight at my doorstep. I staggered back to my room which was littered with the proof of our debauched night and flounced onto the bed with not a little drama. Faisal mewed and pounced on me and I put my arm around him and floated away with dreams of dominance and a new sense of my anchor deep down below me.

I have gone to a new side of Hyacinth and staked my flag high and bright. I’m a little nervous and still somewhat shaken, but I much prefer the view from here as opposed to over there. It’s a lot nicer on the Domme side.