I have always known why I want to dominate.
It’s not because it’s taboo or transgressive, or even because I’m in charge. It’s because in that bubble of time where a man bends his knee to me I can finally let go.
I want to dominate so I may trust.
A year ago I met Nate. I never really named him other than tagging the name in the footnotes of my writings. He felt like a shadow to me, sand through my fingers. I didn’t want to name something I knew would be temporary.
He found me on CollarSpace. Approached me like a normal man, but respectful. Not simpering or demanding, an all too common combination in the male sub choice of communique. Simpmanding. Demanpering?
We met on an October night at a local wine bar and drank two bottles of wine. His long legs capped with cowboy boots crossed at the ankles stretched out past our table. We laughed and talked under the stars for hours until hunger drove us out to find a diner.
He walked me to my car and I let him snake his fingers inside my panties. He was usually dominant he said. He kissed me hard, almost painfully, and brought me to climax. I came down my leg and my juices pooled in my shoes.
At the diner we talked some more and stuffed our faces. His black leather jacket crinkled and he periodically had to flick his jaw-length blond hair out of his eyes. “We’ll have to make sure you have a hair tie,” I said mischievously.
We said our goodbyes in the parking lot under a street lamp and tried to hide our lascivious petting from the occasional other diner coming and going. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in the apex of my thighs. At 3 am we were virtually alone.
He was an intense A-type workaholic with his own one-man business. His passion and focus was entirely on his career, but he could no longer ignore this burning need to be dominated. He wanted the freedom of no control.
He was never very good at just casual sex he said and wanted to make a real connection with someone, not just a one-time thing, which was perfect for me. When we met I was still licking my wounds after a crushing D/s disappointment and I was refocused on going slowly.
We hung out ol’ vanilla style a few times, established expectations in communication and made out. He tasted of weed and tobacco and I liked to eye his long hair with disdain. “You don’t like my long hair, do you?” he’d ask smiling.
“Nope. Not at all,” I laughed.
Over the next 4 months we played with our deeper drives. The first night I took control I didn’t change out of my work attire, a black pencil skirt and cream colored silky button down with its own black tie tied loosely into a bow right where the last button held at my cleavage. His eyes bugged when I opened the door. The black sash would end up around his neck while his hands and feet were bound.
For weeks he’d come over and I would have a different sash, ribbon, or tie. A length of pink satin wrapped gently, yet firmly around his ball sac and the base of his shaft, my sash tied through his smile, and the little black velvet ribbon I used to use on The Neighbor bowed about his beautiful, pale neck.
I used my “BDSM Starter Kit” on him and experimented with the flogger, the ball gag and the blindfold. And while bound and blind I liked to slip a plug a boy had once left behind – a boy whose name I don’t even recall – light pink and slender, angled like a soft little diamond deep into his clenched hole while I milked his cock and he cried out begging to cum.
Nate was tall and lean and he loved to do domestic service for me. I’d sip wine while I watched him put away the dishes wearing my black lace panties with cherries on them, his pink meat stuffed inside the lace basket.
My room lit with candles offered us the safe space to seek that which we wanted so badly. His trust in me was an aphrodisiac, his complete submission a harrowing, yet utterly titillating experience. Every touch, every sound, every kiss and lick I gave was for a purpose: submit to me.
I liked to ride his face until I came with him bucking beneath me for air. He’d look drunk when I’d slide down his body to suck his cock and sound near-to-tears when I finally gave him permission to fill my mouth with his seed.
Afterwards we liked to sit on my balcony so he could smoke and we could come back to earth and our bodies. It was during one of these post-coital, aftercare moments that I realized my true drive to dominate. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to trust him so badly.
My relationship with Nate, while brief, was also the first time I said, “No, don’t treat me that way,” when he was vague or slippery about plans. We talked on the phone semi-regularly to touch base and recalibrate. He was eager, willing, and listened to me. I felt heard.
The very last time we were together things felt a little off. He was distracted and I was struggling to enter my dominant space. I checked in with him, corrected things and we forged on.
I wore my harness replete with a slender black dildo the length of my middle finger and after cumming twice myself via his face and cock I unbuckled his ankles and put them on my shoulders. His eyes, uncovered so he could watch, glistened in the candlelight.
I felt an incredible sense of power kneeling over him with my little mini hardon. He was so open to me, waiting, trusting. I dribbled lube all over his crack and hole, pushed inside and shuffled closer to the backs of his thighs, and began to thrust as I played with his chubby dick.
The movement to penetrate was harder than I’d imagined. A foreign curling of my hips and a strength in my thighs I didn’t have. The more I pumped and fondled the more he strained against me. I was on the verge of being thrown completely off the bed by his pleasure. I shook with the effort to take in the power of his submission, I was about to be on the floor!
“Nate,” I said tapping the rock hard thigh against my chest. “You have to stop pushing on me. You’re about to fling me right off.” We’d have laughed if we weren’t both drowning in power and submission.
He relaxed and I pushed into him further and continued to squeeze and jerk on his cock. It all felt a bit like patting my head and rubbing my belly, but I was determined to see it all to the end.
He came mightily and I braced myself against his muscles. He shook and cried and and the air vibrated around us.
I slowly pulled out and grabbed a towel to wipe his bottom. He was embarrassed there may be a mess. I told him not to worry and tucked the towel beneath him and unwrapped the harness from my hips.
We lay together, dazed, incredulous that any of it had happened. As per our little routine we got up, put on robes and went outside. I could barely move and felt like I had fallen flat on my face from a four story window. My legs shook with the effort of walking and I would end up hobbling for days.
He puffed on his weed and I sipped on wine under the moon on my balcony. He left sooner than I was ready, though it was probably an hour. I’d needed more time to come back into myself. He seemed eager to run out and I could almost see him waiting the appropriate amount of time until he could.
We’d talk about it – the pegging and the disconnect – and he agreed with everything and validated my feelings. We would never attempt that level of D/s again unless he was fully submitting. I felt good about the chat, so did he. And I’m glad because it was the last one we’d have while engaged with one another in the dynamic.
He called not long after to give me the update that his career taking off and he’d have no time for us. I wished him well and accepted my fate. We texted off and on over the months and even had a nice chat. He was dating a vanilla girl and No, she didn’t know about his predilections.
Since Nate I’ve met one young man, though we had no chemistry; talked with one on the phone who was basically so unintelligible I wondered how he got through life; and have emailed with a dozen more. My requirements are specific and my need a lazy one so it’s not much of a combination to move the needle towards a match.
Dozens of men a month send me disgusting notes about being my personal toilet or sitting on their faces to the point they pass out. Demanding that they be dominated because they want it, calling me Goddess and Mistress and all sorts of honorifics as if they’ve earned it. It’s as exhausting and ridiculous as regular dating, just with a kinky and sometimes disgusting twist. It’s not all a complete loss, though.
Recently I found a man who ticked all the boxes, though the ink on his divorce wasn’t yet dry and he couldn’t seem to find the time for me. I told him my interest had waned, but to reach out if things changed on his end.
And – more excitingly – I’ve found an Irishman who is an astoundingly good match – aside from the distance, that is.
He’s everything I could hope for and our emails are long and interesting. Perhaps I will meet him while I’m in the UK in March. I’d been seriously considering popping over to Dublin even before he and I began chatting, so maybe this is a good opportunity for me. Or just another chance to meet someone I can’t have long term. I seem to be really good at that.
This dance of D/s is so prolonged, so intricate. There are steps to follow, dips to learn, twirls to master. My pickiness is born out of slap-in-the-face after slap-in-the-face as I’ve learned the moves of the kinky world. Some men can’t handle submitting and lash out by disappearing. I have to be cautious and hold the bar high above my head – oh so high. It is delicate and fragile, this power exchange, yet empowering and exciting. I can’t fuck around.
I am so clear on what I want and what is acceptable and I never wonder if I’ve made the right choice, but I do miss dancing with someone… and barely being able to walk for days.