Tuesday, 2 November 2010

Touch my skin gently

The last months have been rough, play-wise, not because they have been bad, but because it's been a roller-coaster. Spectacular, then huge drops, too dramatic and deep for comfort.

So, I will write to comfort Myself - I'll write the memory of some of the good moments.

He sank to his knees and kissed My feet the moment he was inside. I am not such a great fan of having My feet kissed, particularly not while wearing shoes, but I was barefoot, and his mouth was soft and warm on My skin. he made love to My feet, but I moved away, and told him to undress. I wanted him naked before he got down to it, and he did - undressed - and stood while I inspected him. he was soaked in sweat from the tension, his balls pulled up, his body tense. A touch over-weight, he filled out his skin as if there was no give in him, like some well-fed men do, and I touched that tight surface gently. Then I sat down and told him to get back to kissing My feet.

While I am not into foot-play, I love seeing a man on his knees, struggling to please. I love the movement of his muscles, the line of his back to the curve of his ass. I love the touch of effort it takes to get that far down to the floor, and the contrast between his struggle and the gentleness of his kisses. As I have told others: I love the things I can do to them, and the fact that they don't get annoyed and leave. I am a Bitch in life in general. It's lovely to really express this inner Bitch and be desired for it.

I did quite a few things to this man this first time. I beat and fucked him, tied and used him. But right now what I think back at fondly is one thing in particular. It's how he, at one point, gently kissed the soft curve of My belly, dwelling on the sensation of My skin, breathing in the scent of Me, slowly kissing his way towards My sex. When things like that happen, what blows My mind is again the contrast: between the pain I unleash in him, the marks of the cane or whip, the challenge, and the incredible gentleness with which I am treated. I cherish it to the point that it almost makes Me cry. At times, I do.

And then he made Me tea, and for a few hours, the world was perfect.

Monday, 18 October 2010

Too strong to be held

Sometimes Dominant Women whine about these whimpy male subs who need to be handheld through life. They want somebody strong, powerful, somebody who can be a macho man, finally!

I don't.

I want to meet one who is not too strong to be held. I want one who can let Me care for him, past his pain and struggles. I want one who aknowledges that yes, perhaps he isn't all that special, perhaps he can receive help.

Last week I played with a new submissive for the first time. It was glorious, our kinks fit perfectly, and intellectually he is close to a match. I was pessimistic, because he's married and I don't like playing with married men. This one convinced Me that he had it all under control, he'd be able to take it - all I could give and then some.

So, I went hard at it. I had him undress, worship My feet, then I kicked his balls a few times. After that I caned him, before I strapped on the smaller dildo, and fucked him slowly and lovingly, with him tied up on the bed. he made a late lunch, then he suddenly dressed and had to go.

eeeehhhh?

That kind of behaviour is what normally kicks Me into a drop, the feeling of being abandoned the moment the other party has had what they want. So when he texted later, gushing about the experience, I wasn't that enthusiastic. he returned, immediately, and made tea, watched Me play a game - chatted. Then he undressed, showed Me his ass, and told Me it really wasn't properly bruised.

I didn't want to push that hard, but, hey, that was one sexy ass! So I beat him, harder, although less than before, cuffed his arms behind his back, bent him over My coffee-table and fucked him again, not quite that gently this time. Afterwards I spent an hour or so teasing him - playing with his cock and slapping him hard when he was close to coming. Yeah, it was damn sexy, and when he left I was sated - really sated, craving body and sadistic soul.

The next day I got a quick message that he was still bruised, body and mind.

Then nothing.

After a few days of silence from this guy who is normally constantly communicating with Me, I got it. Something was wrong. When I asked, directly, a dam burst, and he described his feelings: Low energy, depression, doubt. Had he let himself go too far? Had he given up too much? Was the sexy fantasy really that far from what he really wanted? Basically - he sounded like a text-book sub-drop.

That's when I made error nr 3 (1: beating him really hard when he asked for it, just because we both wanted it, although I knew he was not as experienced as he wanted to be - men never are. 2: Not checking on him earlier.) I told him he had something which is quite common.

You see: A man with enough machismo to stand before a clearly Sadistic woman with more brains than him, more determination than him and a stronger sex-drive and say "use me," he is going to think he is something pretty damn special. And so, if he can't take it, it's not something as common as drop. That happens to other people, HE must have some very special experience. And so he couldn't even think about wanting to have his inner bruises soothed.

When we parted, he had planned to return today, because he had so much time. Today, when we chatted, he didn't even have time to chat for more than 10 minutes. he did not want to meet Me, and he thought Me "sweet" for offering to be with him. Nope, he did not need Me at all, now that he had been beaten, fucked and denied. Now he, with his superior brain, is to figure out the problem, and then he'll solve it as if I have nothing to do with it.

The logic: he got what he wanted. he is confused. his problem. I can go do something else until he has fixed it.

The thing is - I have barely played the last few years, because I tend to drop so hard when I play with a stranger. This man made Me feel so good, I didn't even come close to dropping. Now he is dropping, and he won't let Me do a thing about it, because, mainly, he's too much of a man to give in to such regular emotions.

So: I don't want them that strong. I want them strong enough to endure, but weak enough to take the offer of My arms with grace. I want to hold both as they are hard and soft. I guess I like the whimps.

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Hits Me like chocolate and red, red wine.

The last months have been busy beyond belief - again. It's odd how life swings from one type of busy-ness to another. What have the last months had in store for Me? Sex. More sex in three months than in the last three years. More SM than in 6 years. It's so bad that I see it in their eyes when they look at Me - they want to sink down on their knees and serve. And the vanilla world rubs against Me, like a cat begging for My attention, to stroke, to touch, to acknowledge their existence.

Still, I have been oddly unsated. I have given pain and taken pleasure, I have held and hurt and released, but still I feel like I am filled with energy that has nowhere to go. And with each new partner I have met the last months, I have hoped that now... this... it has to be the moment when My release lasts longer than until the shocks of orgasm have flowed through Me.

And so I am still seeking for the one who can touch not just My clit with his tongue, but can ground Me with his body so the charges itching just beneath My skin can flow through him, flow out and away, to leave Me sated and rested.

I have hope today.

he is a journalist, a good one, which means he asks fascinating questions, he does his research, and he knows how to listen. It's a professional skill he falls into when he is tense and nervous. And when I get nervous, I go nerdy, and talk on and on about stuff I really know. The conversation, the questions, commentary and depth was a turn-on in itself. If anybody listened, they would have learned nothing of kink, but everything of our speciality fields. But the whole time something purred in My belly, under that cool blue gaze.

I asked him after we had left the café if he would have problems with a relationship between us turning physical. The look he gave Me was so serious, as if I had pronounced his death sentence, as he told Me no... no, he would not have a problem with that. Later, as I sipped a heavy red wine with the left-overs in My own kitchen, alone, because I wanted to give us both time to breathe before we fucked (and because My apartment was a mess with nothing but left-overs in the fridge), anyway, as I sipped wine and felt it slide into My belly and stroke My libido from the inside, I realised what his serious gaze had felt like.

It was red wine and bitter chocolate. It was the dark sensual touch of melting cocoa butter on the tongue, and the rich spicy warmth of an oak-aged wine. It's the taste of desire, for Me, and I crave it in ways that drives Me to gourmet shopping in order to sate the demand.

And so I am hopeful, next week I will have him at My feet, with his blue, serious gaze and his long, powerful body, his questions and his knowledge and the weight of his consideration. And then I will try if perhaps, this time, when I strike his pale skin and mark his flesh as Mine, perhaps this time having one begging Me for his pleasure will hit Me that way, like bitter chocolate and red, red wine.

Saturday, 2 October 2010

Rope-lust

I recently threw out most of My ropes. Meters and meters of lovely cotton rope, keeping only the couple of coils of treated hemp, and although grieving, I dumped it. It was a mix of moving and Top-depression. It had been so long with nobody aching for My rope, begging for my hand, gasping and crying under My cane.

Now I am suddenly as busy as I can possibly desire to be, and I don't have My ropes any more. After years of never using them, three months after I throw them out, I miss them. Isn't that just exactly the way it is?

Thursday, 24 September 2009

Right. Over to something else.

I am turning bitter and whining, and I hate that. So, something else.

I am working on a man's fears. he is very masochistic, has strong fantasies of being a total slave, and is terrified of being fucked. he wants to make the ass-fucking a hard limit. If he wants to be a slave I am not accepting hard limits. he can call himself a masochist, a submissive or a bottom and limits are fine, but if he calls himself a slave and yearns to be totally owned and taken, I am not going to accept limits. Then it's obey Me or get lost.

And he knows that. he wants to be a slave. in his fantasies he is increasingly helpless. he has bought a CB6000 and is begging to be allowed to use it. I'll put it on him next time I visit - this man who hadn't had anybody tie his cock down until he met Me, is now having fantasies about being locked down at My order. Owned. he wants to be owned. he knows it means he will be fucked with a strap-on.

he begs to be beaten, ruthlessly, before I fuck him. I can beat him ruthlessly. But I'll fuck him when I want to, not when he wants to. he begs to be allowed to suffer for Me for hours, bleeding, bruised, burned. I want to scar him, I want My initials on his skin. It will be there, soonish. But first I'll have his ass. him, humiliated, under Me, begging, crying. I am not small. he makes Me feel dainty. I love the knowledge that I am slapping the face of a man with one of the top brains of our society. It makes Me wet to know they will fly him to the other side of the planet and pay for his advice. And he'll have his dick in a cage all the way, begging for his release as soon as he's in his hotel room. But he won't get it. And then he'll remember that he had to submit to being fucked, and remember that being My slave means obedience.

I want to punch him now. Hard, sharp jabs at his body. I want to tear his skin to strips with the whip. I want him bruised and bloodied and begging, and I'll have him there.

A good thing he has no idea how much I want to see him crying and begging, or he'd be even more vain than he is!

Saturday, 19 September 2009

Why should I care?

I spend too much time talking to submissive men who are looking for a Mistress. 90% of them are for different reasons impossible matches for Me. Of the last 10%, there are a lot who want to match, but who back out at the last moment, when they learn that yes, I am willing to meet with them. Of the last tiny amount I meet, they don't turn Me on. They are too young, too old, too tall, not tall enough, they don't laugh in a way I find amusing, they don't smell like a person I want to be close to, they bore Me or they are too eager to entertain Me. And they are all in a hurry.

My desire grows slowly. I need time to want a man. I need to see him bend to Me, gently. I need to have him close for a while, to breathe in his scent. I need to discover the things that trigger Me, the bent neck, the quick blush, the turning of the other cheek when I mentally slap him. Also he needs to demonstrate his intelligence, his tolerance, his will. And I need to see that I make a similar impression on him. I need him to, by his own free will, seek out My presence, desire to stand in My shadow, reach for a touch of My arms or shoulders. I need him to come to Me in more ways than the obvious declaration of his submission. That is too simple, too selfish, too much a scream for attention. I want him to put that away and attend to Me, not to his own frustration.

And so I sort through them, because, despite all this, I dream of this partner - male or female - who is willing to make that space in their lives into which I can step and stand tall. I acknowledge it as a fantasy by now, and the seeking has become My own kind of wanking. With each provocation, with each idiot I need to reject, the fantasy moves one step further away, becomes this much more unattainable.

And so their pleas no longer touch Me. "I have never met a dominant Woman." "My wife refuses to beat me." "I haven't submitted to a Woman in years." Why should I care? What does your lack of satisfaction have to do with Me? I am not those other women who disappointed, rejected or left you. I am the woman giving you some of My time, to see if perhaps you have within you some fragment of the dream I am seeking. And I tell you that I know this much about that ideal. My ideal doesn't come to Me, asking Me to make up for all the disappointments in the past life.

Why should I care about how long you have been without one such as Me? For the one I desire it should be enough that I am here.

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

Sugardaddies

So, today I wrote one of those self-advertised sugardaddies. You know, those who claim they are willing to do anything to keep a beautiful young woman in the style she deserves, if she's just willing to abuse him and his credit cards in style. Also, they happen to be the ones that don't want to talk to fakes.

This looked like one of the better ones. He offered luxury accommodations for travelling kinksters, while he's waiting for that wonderful Dominatrix to step in and start cuckolding him. I thought that sounded kind of neat, as I'd have done pretty much the same if I had money and space. Actually, without the money and luxury accommodations, I have had many a kinsters visiting, and visited them, for fun, for play, and just for plain socialising and friendship. I like kinky people, they just laugh when I claim the television remote, and point out that now I am in control!

So, I sent an email saying: "Hello there, I liked that invitation, how about we have coffee next time I pass through your town so we find out if we like each other, and then we can see if it would be a good idea to stay at your place some other time." So, as you may see, no demand for money, no insistence that he immediately submit, nothing but a way to meet and see if there's some kind of chemistry, at least the friendship kind of chemistry, between us.

I got a reply. He wants a face picture.

Now, I rarely give those out. I am not afraid to meet people, I don't make complicated demands on people at the first meeting, and I don't expect anybody to open up their home and offer their submission without taking their time. But I also don't spread my face all over the place. Not that I look bad, I actually look fairly good, if you're not too into movie stars and models. I'll never be one of those. I have the kind of face that looks everything from extremely mundane to very beautiful in the space of a few seconds. But since I laugh, cry, smile and argue with all of Me, and botox is something I'll never, ever get close to, it's starting to get marked by living. Still, I'd manage to hold still for a great shot, and My real weight is less than I say at the web site. I hate to disappoint people, so I underrate Myself online. It's so nice to have people light up when they meet Me!

Anyway, I told him he would have a face picture when we had made an appointment for a meeting, told him what I look like, and asked if looks are very important to him.

No reply.

I guess looks are very important to him.

Oh well, so much for the sugardaddies. I wonder if I have found the litmus test for "real" among them? Whether they are willing to talk to a person who doesn't fit the conventional idea of "stunning", and settle for the possibility of a scene friendship, or not?

Of course, he might have a fetish for very beautiful women, and use his money to satisfy it. In that case, I am sure there is a nice niche of professionals to help him along.

Friday, 27 February 2009

Foursome lonesome

Some months ago, I found out that two nice colleague/friends were kinky. The last weeks I have been waking up with wet dreams about them every morning. It's really nice and hot, but now I am getting second thoughts about meeting them again. There's never been anything between us but very easy friendship, but in My dreams they and a third friend have cooperated to satisfy My every desire. I have tortured, beaten, denied, cut, burned and electrocuted them, while they have eagerly been begging to be permitted to please - morning after morning.

purrrrrrrrrr

I can feel the touch of A's lips down My thigh as B is begging in a whimper to be let out of the cage so he can serve, and C is hanging against the wall, his back a mess of lines from the single tail, and it makes Me soaking wet, even in the late night. I prepare to go to bed, and to dream again.

Next time I meet them, I will have to be professional and polite, maintain propriety while having them around, eager to relax and be themselves in My presence. No, ravaging them might be an option, but it would be a very far fetched and stupid one. But can I sit in the same room and not burn with lust for it, now that I know how it might feel?

Friday, 20 February 2009

As the desert

I feel as dry as the desert. My skin is tight and brittle, my fingers wrinkle, but not from bathing. My hair falls stiffly, scratching My neck, and My lips are cracking, dry. The inside of My mouth is hurting with thirst. Tilt your neck, offer your vein, let Me suck you dry, let Me own you.

Tuesday, 27 January 2009

I don't want this life

Sometimes it hits Me like a bat to the head: The self-loathing that comes with remembering My stupidity in certain contexts. It isn't really big things, it's stuff that is at best embarassing, but it implies a lack of perfection. No, I don't think I am perfect, so why does it bother Me so much that it floods Me with absolute despair, and makes Me desire to change My entire life?

Lately it has been focused on D/s and S/m. Everything stupid thing I experienced with a submissive comes back up to the forefront of My mind: The whip that struck down the coffee, the ropes that pinched the balls in just the wrong way, the chains that were too tight and did not release, the safeword I ignored for at least 30 seconds, causing severe panic, the bleeding I hadn't foreseen... It's parading over My subconscious, bouncing to the front of My mind in the still moments. Driving a car, walking, watching television, doing dishes - when My head isn't busy focusing on something else, I find Myself utterly disgusted and wondering how I could possibly do these things to another human being.

What does this mean? I don't know. At the moment it makes Me want to throw out all the toys, and never turn to D/s again. But while I think this, I also know that I haven't had a full body orgasm, one where I felt like everything fell into place and body and mind were one, since April last year, when I last tortured somebody I was also deeply involved with. I am never as happy as I am when I know I can play when I like, with My favourite victim. I am never as depressed as when I haven't played for a long time, and think about playing from the cold, clear distance of having had everything turned off for a long time. And I am not bi-polar, it's not the randomness of my hormonal level that puts Me up to this.

I am not sure what My mind is trying to tell Me though. Should I make a serious effort to find a regular play partner I click with, and get to playing? That would mean leaving the job, moving elsewhere and most likely be rejected by most of My loved ones. Should I just stop thinking about D/s, stop playing and avoid making such a fool of Myself in the future? That would be the easier path, the gentler and safer.

Both alternatives makes Me grieve just at the thought though. I am trapped in My life. And there are very few ways out.

Friday, 5 December 2008

Better and worse

Better: Yes, she is amazing and sexy and the combination of beating some male ass and kissing her actually made Me come in the semi-public setting of a club.

Worse: She's a blasted masochist, and I just get it confirmed over and over - I don't like masochists. I was a lot more turned on by torturing others together with her, than spanking her.

Better : I have found an extremely entertaining co-top in her.

Worse: Which surprised and troubled a lot of the people at the events we visited. Since she is Dominant to others, they thought I had to be the bottom. EWWWWW.

Better: She has a nice boyfriend who wore the silliest grin ever when I told him he'd get the pleasure of dating two women, and sitting in the middle at the movie. Sometimes it takes so little to bring a smile to their faces.

Worse: We got so drunk, all the making out took us nowhere exept to sleep.

What did I do?
I pierced a foreskin, and bled a penis. That part was hilarious - I stuck very thin needles in the dick of our victim, and as it was swelling and gorging with blood, it started trickling out. I liked the foreskin part. Actually, uncut men are so much more practical for playing with than cut ones.

I used a rubber baton on a lot of different asses. The last one was the most delicious male submissive. That's the session that made Me come - we were taking turns beating his ass, while he was frantically thanking us - then we forgot all about him as we just ended up kissing right next to where he was chained to the cross - and then he thanked us for him being allowed to be part of making us horny. Very nice. Good boy.

Before that we had used another submissive masochist to the point that he was pretty much used up. Between those two we were busy for hours.

And then I dropped, as usual.

This happens when I don't have a submissive with Me afterwards. It feels like I am all dressed up but have nowhere to go. It wasn't as bad as usual. Her company, the laughter we had shared over the days I stayed there, her care and concern and the fact that I had really REALLY enjoyed working over that line-up of male submissives we had, made the feeling dissipate without much harm. But I really need a submissive partner to wake up with on days like that. Somebody to lick and kiss all the frustration away, and to endure what I tend to want to give, for another little taste of that hormone-soup Sadism and Dominance throws Me into.

Oh well. I'd do it again. But the main problem was that the most attractive person I met was a Male Dom. I'd so love to own his ass. But he'd most likely be horribly offended if I told him.

Wednesday, 26 November 2008

Anticipation

I have been invited by a friend to join for a play party tomorrow night. She is a very active organiser of events, head of a politically active special interest group for BDSM, a well educated scholar and a visually stunning lady. She is also a bisexual switch and painslut, who is already fantasizing about Me and My leather strap coming to stay with her for a long week-end.

I am frantically doing laundry, trying to prepare for three days of being "on", as I suspect she'll keep Me engaged, physically and intellectually, until I fall asleep on the train to the airport. The last time we shared a room, we spent half the night chatting. It's that kind of chemistry. So you can imagine, I really don't want to disappoint her.

So, how does a Dominant Bitch prepare to go visit one of the few who have made an impact in the last year?

First, I have been shopping. Not for toys, but for underwear. It's a lot more important with another woman than with a man. A man will not notice what I wear the moment his dick starts getting hard. She'll appreciate it, envy it, touch it and realise the effort I put into it. To dress beautifully with another woman is a language in itself, she will know I have dressed for her, and she'll understand what it says.

Second comes the toys. I know she is a slut for thuddy. Now I happen to love canes, and she does not like them at all. Being a switch and a masochist rather than a submissive, she's pretty clear on what she likes. But I know what I like too, and I like canes. Quandry, isn't it? I am going to try to get around that by bringing some very special canes. I have two heavy, thuddy ones. I'll try to find a piece of luggage that will take a cane, but not leave Me travelling with a giant suitcase for a week-end. The leather strap she loves is easy to pack, luckily. The heavy, thuddy flogger isn't here, it's staying with My collared male pet, and I won't be able to get it before I leave.

She doesn't like to be tied. She wants to be told to hold still. That's the biggest mental challenge for Me. The process of applying ropes puts Me into a state of mind where I am in control. I love the actual helplessness, the restrictions that underline My absolute control. When I just tell them to stand still it's their choice, not Mine. How do I process that into control for Me, rather than her whim?

I'll still bring some ropes though. We will be going out twice while I am there, to play. We may play with others - she's one of My favourite co-tops, wonderfully inventive and cruel, and she laughs all the time while she hits. Quite likely I'll give her a thorough beating before we go, then we pick on some of the victims there together. Then I'll let her thank Me for being such a good Domme afterwards.

That's one of the things I love about her. She tells Me and shows Me that she appreciates what I do. No floating subspace where she needs loads of aftercare - she does get cuddly and stays very, very close after a good spanking - but she is absolutely there, and makes it clear she's there for Me. It makes My belly tingle to think about what she can do to demonstrate her appreciation. And that brings Me to: Do I bring the dildo? I think I do. Who knows what may come up? And it's not like the cane, a dildo and a harness is easy to pack.

And I need the needles. And a knife. I want to scratch angel wings into somebody's back before this is over. It's almost Christmas, after all. So some kind of desinfectant, preferably alcohol based, for increased sensation. Angel wings. Knife. Pain.

I am wet.

Thursday, 20 November 2008

To be a Dominant

"All Dominant Women are fat, ugly, demanding and rude."
After years of living with Dominant Woman as My sexual identity, this is a presentation of Myself I keep running into. When I meet somebody in the flesh and turn out to be an ordinary woman, it almost seems like they are disappointed. What is there to rant against, when I could just as well be their aunt or next-door neighbour of the non-abrasive kind? There is an underlying aggression which is almost painful in most contact with submissives, particularly submissive men. They treat Me as if I have no feelings, no sensitivity, I am just a Bitch, and they do Me a favour by letting Me do what ever I want to their body. Because they really want to submit, you know, and I had better take the opportunity NOW, or they are off to new and better Dominants before the next possible date.


"You are not really a Dominant."
Well, if that means I am not fat, ugly and rude, I guess I should feel blessed. But there are so many ideas about Dominance, and they are so closely connected to porn, Professional Dominance and leather protocol, that I am starting to doubt My own kink. I adore submissives and submission, and their submission turns Me on no end. When I am spoiled and worshipped I walk around perpetually aroused and high on self-confidence and what-ever drug My hormones release into My bloodstream. It blows My mind. And I give back, by taking control, by molding the relationship to match us, by acting on My desires as a Dominant and sadist - I am not a Do-Me-Domme. And then I get told I am not Dominant. Mostly because I am not a Bitch, I am polite, I even say please when I give an order (Kneel here please. Take My shoes off please. Now kiss each toe please. Good, now bend over, and spread your ass cheeks please. Just hold that pose while I fasten the strap on, will you?) I don't wear much leather, I sometimes play naked, I get orgasms and I let My partners cum too, rather frequently, when I am in the mood for that. From what I understand from much of the male submissive descriptions of Dominant Women, I am not really a Dominant when I do this. Actually, from what the Dominant Women write too.


"Dominance isn't about sex"
I think this one comes from the very heavy argumentation that professional dominance is not prostitution. But this is one of the heaviest reasons for attacks such as the above. A Dominant Woman is not one who delivers sexual services or relief. If they are, then all the professional Dominants can be considered prostitutes, and that would severely change the status and the economy of Female Dominance particularly in the USA. Hence, women like Me, who get insanely turned on by living as a Dominant, we can't be Dominants. We must simply be sluts catering to our partners.


At times this is enough to make Me want to give up. Burn the canes and bury the floggers, donate the corsets to the local opera community and use the ropes for the boat, which they supposedly were bought for. I get so sick of the negative descriptions, the imagery, the expectations which are so very far from both something nice, and the truth. Yes, I am a pervert. I like to see people suffer, I like to get things My way, I like to give orders.

But I would never, ever, at any point, be able to live with Myself if I deliberately made another person unhappy, being what I am. I'd rather live vanilla for the rest of My life, than be a constant source of endless misery to all the submissives out there, trapped between their desire and the endless cruelty of women who are categorised the same way as Me. I can't deal with the thought, and it makes most of the discussions about Female Dominance almost physically painful to Me.

Sometimes, the ones who do submit to Me, tell Me that I am too nice, in the meaning that I care too much. If I just stopped caring, I'd be a better Domme.

Is that the key to it all? All the Dommes out there have realised that they just have to not give a damn?

Tuesday, 11 November 2008

Service

Do you dream about service? Well, so do I.

As a start, I dream of impeccable manners. Having My coat taken, the chair pulled out, drinks offered. A man who stands up when I do, and who will kiss My hand, daringly, correctly, submissively, when we meet and part.

Then I dream about the initiative for service, the offer of something more personal. To have him kneel to take My shoes off, as I walk in, to have learned My habits well enough to know to have the coffee ready, and served as I like it. To have him anticipate what I might enjoy, and offer it, unafraid of doing a mistake, as it's all about learning to please.

After that I want him vulnerable, because at this point, he starts offering of himself. I want him naked while I am dressed. I want him restricted while I am free to move. I want him taking it, while I give. I want his reactions, his lust, his desire for My pleasure. I want to reach down and cradle his cock in My hand, I want to look in his eye and ask him who own it, and I want to feel him grow hard in the warmth of My grip as he says it: "You, Mistress. You own my cock." And I want to close My hand about his balls and crush them, his most vulnerable parts, while he does nothing but whimper. It's My balls. Mine.

From then on, I will want his service without inhibition. I will expect him to satisfy Me sexually in any way he is able to, from submitting to My Sadism to being fucked with a strap-on to spending an hour eating Me until I am tired of cumming. But that's not where it ends. It's not like sex will make the desire for all the rest go away. To reach that point he has to work for holding Me in Top-space, just as much as I need to work on his sub-space.

It seems all to often that the relationship between Dom and sub is about the Dominant putting the submissive in sub-space, that coveted state of mind. What many forget is that the submissive can put the Dominant in Top-space, through their acts and behaviour. Service does that to Me. That delicate kiss on the hand sends shivers down My spine, and stirs the deep waters where the Monster of My Sadism lurks. The cup, served just in time, the carefully thought out meal, the chair brought to Me, the bent neck, the faint blush of embarassment as he reveals himself, mentally or physically - Ohhhh, it pushes at Me, taking Me away from Mundania to the reality where I rule, the supreme Mistress of all before Me.

It's where we both want to be, isn't it? And you can bring us both there, through service.