I gripped his throat as I bore down on him, clawed at his chest and pinched and twisted his nipples. My hair hung about my shoulders wild and messy, and my breasts bounced as I rode him until I wore myself out, slumped down by his side and sunk into the mattress and an alcohol-laced sleep.
In the early dawn light his hips pulsed slowly against my rump and I sighed. I was tired — but he persisted and so I engaged.
I played with his fat morning wood not absentmindedly until he asked that I climb back on top of him. I obliged. Tore open the condom, rolled it on. “Guide you in,” I told him as he lay below me with his arms above his head.
What had been wet had dried and the push in was yummy. I rocked and he guided my hand back to his throat. I guided his hands to my breasts.
I worked on him, gently crushing his throat with my hand and rocking my hips, punishing his little nipples. I filled his greedy mouth with my breasts and he suckled as he curved up inside of me again and again.
I rode him until I exhausted myself and slumped down by his side, deja vu. He began to pulse against me again. I lifted my legs over his hip and he pushed back inside of me and curled around to my breast and latched on.
Later, as he jerked himself off beside me, he whispered that he wanted me to make him my bitch, code to grab his throat again. I looked into his eyes and felt a million miles away. I pinched his nipples and scratched his abs, whispered to him that his jizz was mine.
He came in a tumble and soiled my hand and filled his belly button.
I dozed for a little while, spooning him. He pulled me closer into his back and seemed to fall asleep. My alarm went off, the sun had crested and the room was bright, the sky a light grey. I quickly and quietly dressed as my phone chimed with my ride’s arrival.
He stirred and rolled over, sat up for a peck and a hug and I left, exhausted. I’m not sure I like fulfilling fantasies.
I chose my outfit a day early: a black pencil skirt, a slip, a light pink lace bra which would show tastefully through my opaque white blouse. My cuffs were black as was a strip of silk that I tied haphazardly below the highest button.
In the cool morning light my stomach fluttered as I dressed carefully; slipped on black lace panties, the short black slip, and the rest of the tantalizing draping. Business appropriate, but with an ulterior motive. That black silk that rested between my breasts all day will be wrapped around him once the moon rises.
9 o’clock. Au naturale. Nothing up his ass or around his cock. Fresh underwear on if he wears some normally. Stone sober. I want him just as he is.
I have inventoried my new toys and laid them carefully on my white bed, their black shapes like a seedy jigsaw puzzle. I have attached a silk loop at the center head of my bed to the steel frame for the cuffs to be attached to if I so choose to use them and looped two more silk ties in the upper corners to the wooden mattress slats if I eschew them.
I have condoms of all sizes and only a little lube. I doubt I’ll need it.
My nose is powdered, my pussy spruced up. I have placed a single hair tie on the coffee table beside a bottle of lotion. When I am ready, he will tie his jaw-length hair back and my eyes will turn black with desire. He will remove my black booties and socks and rub my aching feet, his hair tied back while I devour the length of his long body with my black eyes and imagine his heart beating against his muscular chest.
Candles are lit. The house smells like tobacco and cinnamon. A Led Zepplin record from my mother’s 1970s collection plays tantalizingly in the low light.
He called to say he ran out of time to buy wine, but he will be on time. I bought red wine for us anyway. I can’t stop my heart from beating wildly in my chest nor my pussy to stop thrumming intermittently when I think about his imminent arrival.
Our original foray into D/s was borne out of intense curiosity to see if it would fit us; he’d been spanking me for nearly a year and controlling our interactions, but I was miserable and he was a slippery little thing, perhaps miserable, too. That was definitely not working for us.
When I finally heard him, actually listened to his words about being submissive in the past — deliberately and with a real Domme — and how much he loved to vacuum for me bound in my skimpy lace panties, I opened a cupboard door into a part of me to which I hadn’t given any merit. And then it liberated us.
We dipped our toes into the power pool and suddenly we were both more relaxed, tall and serene. He still wasn’t committing to me or saying he loved me, but there was something else there, a stronger, newer connection that bound us even tighter. Roots were growing.
There have been mostly ups since we started this new side of us and I have learned mountains of information about the both of us: like how I am not a sadist, but I like welts, how I like having control over his pain because I can make it stop, how my position better allows me to express my needs from strength and not fear; and how he needs to feel trust and kind words during moments of consensual weakness, how he wants me to stand up for myself and keep him in line.
We fuck an average of a dozen times a month and 2-3 of those are me in total charge. Spankings, nipple clamps, him falling the fuck apart. The rest are laced with my domination and I top from the bottom with a big fat fucking smile on my face. And mostly all of our clothed sexual interactions are via D/s.
The innuendos, the spanks, the demands, the rules. So that means I also have had to come up with punishments. A real punishment, not something he would outrightly enjoy, though, that is how I prefer to deliver my blows.
He confessed to me the other day that he had masturbated without my permission. I thanked him for telling me, because I knew he was afraid, and we talked about why and I shelved it for later.
The next morning, I came up with a plan:
Ok, I’ve thought some more about you jerking off. I’m upset bc you didn’t send me a pic like I always say to do (& you broke your promise, but that can’t be helped now). So, to start over fresh, this is your punishment: you’re allowed to jerk off 3x bn now and next Tuesday but you must 1st ask my permission, 2nd, if it’s late and I don’t respond, then you must make a video of it, and 3rd, regardless of 1 or 2, you must take pics. So this means I expect 3 pics at least, if not some videos, of your gorgeous cock. You can also jerk off in front of me, too, thereby eliminating the need for pics :)
He said it was “tough, but fair.”
I said, “Good boy,” relieved to hear it, but knowing there was really nothing else he could say.
Thursday night, sick as a dog, I convinced him to jerkoff next to me. It was, quite literally, the highlight of my miserable day to watch his body tense and vibrate then jerk into his blurry hand, milky white jizz quickly mopped up by a tissue I had ready. I had three boxes of them littered about me, after all.
And this morning, this happened:
I’m not certain if he actually jerked off right then or of he was asking for his lunch break, but either way, I’m looking forward to the pics and I feel strong in my position yet again.
I never would have guessed how hot him asking me for permission could be — never — but goddamn. This punishment stuff sure does feel good. Almost as good as everything else with him does.
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.
“Do you want me on my knees in front of the fireplace?” he asked sweetly.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, thoughtful. “I plan on being out late tonight and drinking.”
“Well, ok. Just let me know.” I gave him the customary swat out the door and clicked the lock behind him.
When I go back a year and read my posts, my yearning for something is palpable. I wanted connection, love, trust, passion. I was locked in a terrible embrace with fear of loss and all it entails and The Neighbor was a complicit partner.
He was uncommunicative and distant. He liked to taunt me, torture me and basically flog my ego until I would literally beg for parts of him, at which point he might deign to humor me. Or possibly not.
What I didn’t know then, that I’m beginning to understand now, is that my offered position of subservience kept him away and it never had the potential to draw him nearer like I hoped. He wanted me on top. Always. Somewhere near his marrow he is some kind of submissive.
He needs me to be in charge, confident and independent, not simpering and desperate for attention. He needs me to think of him and his pleasure first. I need his trust and for him to need me.
Since the sun has risen on this slumbering side of me I feel taller — I’m the tallest 5’5″ woman you know — and I am no longer scared of him walking off. Maybe I’ll walk off instead.
And now my stark, raving fear has gone away like the steam from a kettle. I am gentle. I am strong. I am changing. I make the decisions.
The shift isn’t perceptible to the outside. It’s a private contract we’ve signed between each other. When he calls me “Ma’am” in public I swell with pride and excitement. The rules are making themselves known with each step; I could never have laid them all out myself.
One thing is clear: I’m more in love with him than ever.
“I’m coming to get you. Text me the address,” he said, his deep voice clear and vibrant.
It hadn’t been the plan at all, but he’d been texting me all night asking my whereabouts and my ETA and things weren’t going according to plan.
Apparently, he was coming to rescue me from the hipster-clogged streets and over-extended taxis. I would soon be in his kneeling arms after all.
Thirty minutes later he pulled up in his dark luxury car at the end of the street and my friend and I hopped in, to be greeted by his boyish face dusted with whiskers and split with a smile.
We lavished thanks on him and he was gracious and kind as he dropped off my friend. When she was gone, the silent whisper of the car taunted me to rub the bulge between his legs. My white knight in a black car was aroused.
Moving shadows played across his face, his thick hands gripped the steering wheel, and I continued to make him grow.
We parked and climbed the stairs. He fondled my bottom and I giggled. A pat and a tickle. A love and a whisper.
A minute later, naked and pressed against him my body flexed and received him. Ever ready, always wet at the slightest glance, we both exclaimed as he pressed deep inside of me.
“I’m not going to look away,” I said, more to myself than him and my lashes fluttered.
His broad shoulders over me, his arms locked and flexed, his beautifully shadowed face nodded approval. Then he began to move.
The flower of my passion opened like the hussy that she is and I dug my nails into his flanks to draw him ever closer. His tempo increased and he hitched my ankles up to his shoulders and pile drove into me.
Bloom after bloom of little g-spot fireworks peppered me from the inside and I coasted for a minute like a rag doll. I begged him to stop, said I was going to die, but never truly cried uncle. The torture was too sweet.
I grabbed his head and pulled his face down to mine and kissed him passionately.
“Ok, stop. Stop for real,” I panted. He instantly stilled and waited. For me.
“Get on your knees,” I whispered. “I want your cum on my tits. Now.” He raised his eyebrows for a second, but didn’t hesitate. Slowly he pulled out and kneeled to my left. This wasn’t the kneeling man I’d envisioned earlier, but this was abeautiful man.
I leaned over and grabbed the Hitachi and the head buzzed noisily on my clit as his hand became a blur above me.
“Oh my god, you are so hot, Hy,” he gritted out. I closed my eyes to imagine the sight we made: a creamy and muscled man, with dark hair across his chest, his tree-trunk legs spread wide and kneeling, his hand fapping at his enormous erection like a teenager with a box of porn and me, a thickly curved woman on her back, breasts large and plump like domes of Jell-O, knees slightly splayed, breath heavy, eyes closed beneath her dark and staring lover.
My revery was broken by a lusty, “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum on your tits.”
“Cum on my face,” I offered.
He exploded and cried out and I closed my eyes as semen rained down on me, landing on my breasts, my jaw, and my cheek.
He fell forward and giggled a little. I pressed the wand down harder and concentrated as the jizz’s magic heat began to cool on my skin. He laid down beside me and made little patterns in it over the swells of my breasts and the flat stretch of my chest. He followed the trail up to my jaw and kissed some off of me.
My build jumped forward and I chuckled that a glob was under my eye. Carefully, he wiped it away and closed his mouth over mine. My pussy clenched and I inhaled the fragrance of his seed and remembered the look in his eyes moments before and I came long and hard in his arms and to his words of encouragement.
I am not the boss of him — I can’t make him do anything he doesn’t really want to do, but my loss of fear has opened me up to the possibility of being something else for a change: myself.
Dominance and submission, compersion via swinging, good old fashioned vanilla, a blowjob and a handjob. It doesn’t matter what I do so long as I’m real, so long as I’m me.
And me — I think — is a horny, self-esteemed, loving, curious, bashful schmuck who is no longer afraid of losing someone because she’s sorta found a little more of herself.
That lurch in my chest, that belly ache. The wild sense of fear and loneliness has somehow returned in flashes here and there. I can’t decipher if it’s because of the year I’ve had with him or because my life has primed me for fear of loss.
The funny thing is loss hasn’t killed me yet, so why would it now? Fear is an infection on my life. It steals the beauty of a bright blue day with sounds of twittering life on the breeze. It robs the beauty of a moment between lips and thighs and puffs of breath. It decimates the beauty of a feeling between beings, that raw, wondrous energy one human transfers to another. Fear is death of all things beauty.
I’ve lost much in my life, like most — I’m no different from the hipsters sitting next to me. Loss isn’t just a death of a being, it’s also the death of a thing, a feeling, an agreement. Divorce is the death of a life planned and hoped for. The death of love and trust, even faith.
And yet, I’m still kicking. No loss has gotten the best of me. I continue to grow, feel, love. Why am I so afraid, then?
It confounds me that I fear losing TN so much. What would happen to me? I wonder. Well, I would hurt. I would ache and flail and sob and shrivel up a little, but I wouldn’t die. Perhaps I would find beauty in my pain. I believe it exists there because pain is life and life is art. Some put it on our bodies, others turn it out. I put it into letters on pages and sometimes I put it into my pussy.
Pain is unavoidable and grand simultaneously. It’s reassurance that we’re here.
And: I am falling in love with him all over again. That’s why I fear.
I’ve been avoiding writing that sentence — even saying it to myself — for weeks now, but it’s unavoidably true.
I do. I love him. Perhaps I always will, I don’t know.
Switching to the top, becoming his Domme, has transformed me. I feel as though it’s where I should have always been. I feel frantic about it and stupidly calm. He needs me to care, I need him to need me. Why has it taken me this long in my life to surrender to this? Would this have saved my marriage? I’m certain my ex-husband would have plugged into this — wait, I should never speak in absolutes — I’m confident he would have liked it. Maybe it would have salvaged our broken promises from the wreckage.
Feeling TN’s desire for me to care, to take charge, to reprimand him and tug him this way and that lights my insides like a Roman candle. The trust between us is growing, my love expanding, and thus, my fear. I am juggling two kittens and an ax. One wrong toss and the kittens are ribbons and my hand gone.
We have spent night upon night together cuddling and/or inside each other — literally and figuratively. Since last Monday, we haven’t played with our new roles much other than setting light boundaries. The way he speaks to me, for example, is up for review. He gets punished when he says things on the assumption that I am silly or that I am old. It’s a brilliant way of communicating.
Me: I’m going to get an ice-cube for your bottom now.
Him: But the water will drip down!
Me (firm and holding up one finger): That’s 1, TN.
Him (thinking): It’s because I assumed you wouldn’t take care of the drips, right?
Me: Yes. Good boy. (SMACK!)
Me (as I’m cooking us dinner): Could you please put the dishes in the dishwasher away?
Him (smiling): Why?
Me (smiling back): Because of my bad back and because it’ll help me stay organized.
Him (with a face-splitting grin): It’s because you’re old, right?
Me (also still smiling): That’s 2. You are not to make fun of my age any more.
Him: Yes Ma’am.
Touching him, his cock, his lips. I feel as though they’re mine. I require a kiss now before he leaves. He always presents his bottom for a nice smack, but then I pull him back in to feel his 5 o’clock shadow on my face and under my fingertips, his pliant, warm lips on mine. I take what I need and he obliges.
Sunday he donned another pair of my panties and vacuumed my apartment for me. I languished on the couch in my yellow dress, breasts to my chin, and mused that I should probably invest in a nice vacuum cleaner, one that wouldn’t wrench my back each time I used it. He stopped the rhythmic push and pull and stood up straight, and looked at me.
“I don’t think I like that idea.”
“Because then you wouldn’t need me.”
And so the story goes. He wants me to need him as much as I want him to need me, though we dance around labels and real commitment and loving each other as openly and proudly as we are able.
This week I felt myself unraveling. That fear of loss has me stumbling and gasping. He has pulled back infinitesimally and it I feel like it’s the Titanic to my iceberg. It’s ridiculous: He didn’t want to cuddle with me Tuesday night. It was the first night in weeks that we didn’t spend time with limbs entwined. And last night, as we cuddled and he said firmly for me not to touch his beautiful cock with my mouth or pussy, he wasn’t forthcoming with details for his plans on Thursday.
“I don’t remember what they are,” he said, eyes closed, brow knit.
“You don’t remember?” I asked, clearly not believing him.
“Yeah, I don’t. I’m all out of it tonight.”
And just like that, the seed was planted. He has plans with a woman! I thought. They’re probably just friends, but he doesn’t want to tell me. What does that mean? How am I supposed to respond?? I’m like a dog with a bone.
When asked, he assured me that We were cool, that he was just in a bad mood and that it had nothing to do with me. I emphasized that he was welcome to discuss any problems with me if he had them. He accused me of being insecure. I scoffed at that. He had the wrong reaction to deduce that. Yes, I am insecure, but guaranteeing open lines of communication is not the indicator.
When I see him, my heart skips, my eyes twinkle. He loves on me, cuddles me, kisses my shoulder, strokes my hair. He humps me.
When he was vacuuming my bedroom I jumped on the bed, lay on my stomach with ankles crossed. His erection was mighty and straining at the cotton of my panties. He turned the machine off and came around to my face. I patted his meat and breathed on him.
“Lay down,” I told him and we switched spots.
I pulled my panties down over his hips and fell on him with my mouth. I crawled up the length of him and he popped my breasts out of the top of my dress and sucked on them with exquisite perfection. I slid down back between his knees and when I stood up we laughed because his cock was caught under my dress, popping a yellow plaid tent between us.
I reached down and grabbed his shaft. “It looks like it’s mine,” I said. He pulled up the fabric of my dress and I stood there with no panties on with a giant cock leaping out at him. Again we laughed as I took a picture. It really is mine. We both know it, though never say it.
I rode him and he rode me, hearts pounded. It was the old TN and Hy. No D/s, just me losing my shit and him reveling in it. “God, I love fucking you!” he said over and over. I thrashed beneath him naked, my breasts round Jello domes of jiggle, my eyes fluttered to his unable to keep eye contact. If only I could get him to remove one word.
Monday night shifted things inside of me. For a few hours my fear was gone. I know I have no control, I know that life will do as it wills, I know I am insignificant. But for a few hours I was in charge of something important to me: Him and Us.
I scribbled words of devotion all over his body, though he didn’t know that’s how I meant them: “glorious cock,” “yummy chest,” “broad shoulders,” and, over his heart, “Good Boy”. If he ever finds this blog I hope he sees the love seeping out of every word I’ve ever written about him, good, bad, or ugly.
He wrote on me. It was his reward for behaving: “magnificent breasts,” “sexy, horny slut,” “hottest, wettest best pussy ever” with a little arrow to my shaved vulva.
My fear of loss, my need for love. They are constantly warring, constantly pulling me into a million little different directions.
I can’t say more. I feel shy and protective of him now; I am incapable of sharing the details of the D/s encounters, my fingers will not move, but I feel beautifully vulnerable sharing the changes in me and the other wonderful sex and things between us. I think I’m ok with the fear.
Being dominant isn’t easy — I can’t even bring myself to capitalize the words for talking about myself. It seems too self important, too damn cheesy. I’m a neophyte “Dominant”. I have no desire to truly put myself above another? Does that make me less dominant because my desire isn’t to be above, but in control of?
This new area of my psyche — and of The Neighbor’s — that we have begun to poke around in is wondrous and strange. Being dominant over him perfectly incorporates much of what has come naturally to me most of my life: leadership, caring, intuition, and control.
As a mother I have been in charge of a life and all its minutiae; as a woman raised in a relationship-centered culture I am intuitive and always anticipating someone’s needs and thoughts (thanks, sexist world, for that). My personality is bold and fearless, despite my attacks of ridiculous bashfulness and I’m creative to the bone; and control is the elusive thing I have yearned for in all my relationships, and knowing that it’s a parlor trick of heart and mind makes it even more tantalizing to me. Like spraying myself in a cloud of perfume in the middle of a dump. I can pretend I’m somewhere else for a minute or hour or two.
We’ve gently explored our roles over the past few weeks and exhausted our brains talking about limits and expectations. I know his hard limits and I have been reading exhaustively what it means to be a “good Domme.”
I don’t want to humiliate him unduly. I want him to trust me, to give himself and his body over to me completely. I crave being needed, feeling important to him.
I’ve gently rebuked him when he pointed out the obvious, fearful I would miss it. He’d tried to squirm away from me when I placed a wedge of ice on his round, rosy bottom due to a pleasant belt-heavy punishment because he wouldn’t stop grossing me out about something.
“My jeans will get wet!” he’d protested. I held him down and smacked him smartly then blotted the wetness dry with a fluffy towel I’d spotted hanging over my foot board earlier.
“You need to trust me, TN. You need to understand that I will have thought of everything already, that I will take care of you before even you know you need it. Unless being neglected is something you get off on, you need to understand that I also need to take care of you.” He sighed then and sunk deeper into my mattress as I let the ice melt more easily than his walls seem to be. But I am a patient woman.
Being dominant, to me, means I am in charge of this young man’s everything. His desire, his pleasure, his care, his pain, his fears. When I can meet his mistrust and dismantle it with a few softly spoken words and a kind, but firm hand, my heart soars.
He comes to me more and more with a twinkle in his eye, testing me, begging me to take the reins. I am growing more confident with each encounter and he is learning my limits and when we can switch. He forgives me when I stumble and I remind him how much power he has in this, yet NO isn’t an option anymore. We’ve struggled with that one just a little.
Throughout our year-long plus affair he has wielded NO against me like an angry rider at an old nag. NO to this, NO to that. Sometimes with a polite thank you stapled onto it, sometimes cruelly applied, but he was like a child learning his rights and powers with grown ups and I went along with it. Until now.
I understand that NO for him is part of his emotional journey. A word that, until the last two years, was virtually absent from his vocabulary. His childhood based in neglect and powerlessness forfeited him that basic human right to NO. He reclaimed it, abused me with it, and now I have gently demanded it back and he has willingly — trustingly — given it back to me. I think he gets it.
I have asked to be the gentle keeper of his NO because it would destroy this delicate balance we are braiding together if he misuses it. His NO, claimed by him to thwart or challenge me, stops me dead and takes away all my dominance. It rocks me to the core in a more deeply intimate way than his regular nos did — those stung and stunk like shit, but they didn’t disembowel my ego. I depend on his trust to go along with my demands in order to remain dominant in his presence.
We have a safeword, and he may use that, of course, but he may not tell me NO. He is beginning to understand his responsibility to me more, to the discourse between us. I’m not certain his former Domme explained any of this to him. They had a brief affair wherein she physically dominated him, certainly, but I’m unaware of the emotional dominance she demanded of him other than ordering him around.
She entered the playground an established Domme; she knew what she wanted and what she was doing and he deferred to her immediately and naturally. He’s seeing behind my velvet curtain, can see me struggle. Maybe I have to work harder to gain his submission. Hence the ban on NO.
Joy floods my heart when I know he’s baiting me so I’ll spank him and I feel balance when I redden his bottom and get to kiss it softly to make it better. Pushing my own limits to feel inside of his shell turns me inside out and inflames my desires for him; that he hands himself to me so willingly kick starts an engine in me I had no idea existed several weeks ago.
Then there are days, days like last week, when he clearly wanted to be in charge and I realized that I had power over that, too. I let him take it.
I gave it up and he took my foul mood and my soft body to bed and I emerged from the cocoon of my darkened room a little happier and a lot more centered.
It’s a process. I’m learning. I don’t always do it right.
A week and a half ago I wanted to exert some long-term control over him and therefore banned him from cumming unless I caused it. Ultimately, I’m tired of his hand stealing the pleasure of his jizz from us together, and I think it’s also an easy exercise to prove his loyalty to submission with me. He’d agreed, but slipped up two nights ago.
I frowned at him and spanked him once. “I’m not pleased, TN. For the love of God. All I want is your semen in my body. Somewhere. Is that too much to ask?? I don’t mind that it’s hard for you to cum, but do you think you could help me out a little bit? Keep your hands to yourself if you think there’s even the slightest chance we’ll fuck later?” He was silent, I was cross.
He looked down, ashamed. “I slipped up,” he said quietly.
“Ok. I need to think of a punishment for you. Lemme think, but you’re back on the No-Cumming regimen. Understood?” He nodded and went about with vacuuming my apartment, clad in a pair of my silky white panties trimmed in teal velvet and lace.
Eventually, he stripped out of my underpants and swung loose in front of the fire, vacuum in hand. I snapped pics and waited for him to finish. When he was done and flicked the machine off I said, “Ok, I know what your punishment is. You must clean your bathroom, rugs and everything. If you don’t, you aren’t allowed over here.”
He gasped. “Noooooooooooo!”
“No, really. I’m serious.” I’d promised myself I would not have my butt touch that toilet one more time in that condition.
“So, what if I never do it?” He was challenging my dominance and I had no smart, reasonable thing to counter with. I had stepped into the trap all parents know about: The Follow Through. I had laid out a consequence I was not actually willing to enforce and, just like a child, he immediately saw the weakness in my statement.
I’d overestimated him; I thought he’d play along like a grown up, but he doesn’t want that. He wants to be dominated, told what to do like a child. He needs a very firm, authoritative hand and I hadn’t quite realized it until that dreadful second I felt my power slip away.
Later, as he left that night, he twisted my nipples and sucked on the swells over my shirt, I hugged him close to me as my mind continued to search for a solution. I didn’t feel good about our earlier exchange, but didn’t know what else to say. As the door clicked behind him and the cold draft dissipated around me it suddenly came to me.
I quickly pecked out the following text:
Let me start over with my newest demand. Erase the rewards and punishments we discussed from your brain. Just do as you’re told. You have until next Sunday to clean your bathroom, ok? I’ll review your efforts Monday night and respond accordingly.
Something is happening below my feet. It’s like the worms are wriggling and pushing the flowers up faster. TN is responding to this kind of care and love from me like a wilted houseplant. His attentions are more vibrant, more dependable, just more.
Laughter and fun — true Hyacinth fun — has therefore leaked into our dusty basement playground, as well. A bright, 4×4 beam-sized ray of sunshine slicing through the cobwebs and depravity. You see, it all comes down to humping.
It’s a dirty little secret of mine: I hump those I love.
I used to bite them back in college. I had a girlfriend once — a girl I didn’t particularly love — once have her feelings hurt because I’d bitten her two roommates, but not her. I show my affections in strange ways.
These days, I only hump. I humped my first love and second, and I’ve humped most of my girlfriends whom I love. In recent days, I’ve begun to hump TN – like a crazed Chihuahua. He laughs hysterically and tears squeeze out of my own eyes as my loud laughter joins his. It’s bizarre and ridiculous and fucking funny, y’all. What am I doing humping grown people anyway??
So, it was a sweet surprise when he started requesting it from me and doing it to me in turn. He’d lay on the floor and beckon to me, beg me to hump him. And just last night, as he was reluctantly leaving me and my sore throat, he came back to my bed, climbed on top of me and gyrated.
When he stopped, he just rested there, sunk down into my neck and hugged me tight. I squeezed and patted him back, smiling into his warm skin.
I may have been wrong about everything.
Maybe he really does love me after all — in his own way — I may have more of his heart than any woman may ever.
This could have something to do with him feeling safer with me under the constraints of a D/s relationship or maybe it has something to do with almost getting dumped by me again last week. A man’s realization of how close he’d come to his own death is a powerful thing and certainly requires changes.
He pledged his faithfulness to me that night of the almost-breakup. “I will be faithful to you, Hy, I promise. I will tell you before I look for another woman.” He remained non-committal, otherwise, but that pledge evaporated the crazy inside of me that was beginning to build.
“Hy, I’m not looking to date anyone right now. I can’t. I don’t want to lose this.” It was a sobering and comforting thought. After sacrificing love and commitment in order to keep doing this with him, it’s nice knowing he’s also sacrificing something. I feel like we’re more evenly matched and I feel more powerful, more worthy of dominating him.
He claimed that I do, indeed, receive love “of a certain kind.” I will cede this point to him. I do.
I’m holding my breath and waiting for the colossal sucker-punch waiting for me now that my defenses are lowering by the hour and my heart has opened more, instead of shutting down like it was supposed to. I thought the seasons were changing into something entirely different from this. I thought it was ending, but, like the coming spring, it’s blossoming into something new altogether. Fuck me.