Kitten, who is my poly-partner and sub, and I are sharing a series of writings back and forth that help us delve into the mindset of particular scenes. It is a tool we are using to accentuate, and help us survive, our long distance relationship for the time being.
In this case, Kitten knows that I occasionally dance on the other side of the slash with other partners, and she was curious where my head goes. Hopefully this did a good job of capturing that for her, and maybe for you as well. It is a mix.of some real life experience and just a dash of fantasy at the end...
Truth be told, I dont expect every Dom out there to relate to this. However, I am secure in my journey, and I will share it in the hopes that it resonates with some.
*********
“Get down.”
I am standing in front of her, a full head taller and she looks up at me with a stern look on her face. Zero fear. Zero intimidation. All business. Physically, I could overpower her, but that doesn’t matter in the least. Yet I grin, and take half a step closer.
She stands her ground, pressing her hand to my chest. “Get. DOWN.”
Doubt flickers across my face for an instant, and as it does confidence rolls across hers. She stares me down for an eternity that lasts for about five seconds.
Then, slowly, I kneel.
“If you think you’re going to be defiant tonight, think again,” she scolds playfully yet sternly, hovering above me, now with me looking up at her. “You think you’re cute. You ARE cute. But that’s not going to work, is it?”
I stare up at her, the smile from my face vanishing as I quiver inside.
“IS IT?”
“No, I guess not.”
“No WHAT?” she grins. Damn, she is going to make me use my words. I swallow hard, glance nervously off to the side as if some solution or out will present itself. I take a deep breath, then another, before responding.
“No... Mistress.” Damn.
****
I am a Dominant by nature. I respect my submissive partners deeply, and I cherish times when I can place them in that submissive mindset. I bind them, flog them, train and correct them as necessary. In those sessions, I own them. It is a very powerful position to be in, full of responsibility and requiring the utmost alertness to sense every nuance, every tick, every whimper to interpret “more” or “less”.
I have found, however, that after several weeks of strong dominance, I crave some time on the other side to balance out. It reminds me of the gift I give as a Dominant and reminds me of how I can be a better one. The mindset of a submissive is a fascinating one, and it helps me to see how my subs feel. It relieves me of that hyper-vigilence, that attentiveness… that power.
And admittedly, with the right Domme that “gets” me, it is hot as fuck.
****
“That’s better,” she replies, satisfied with her title. “Where is your collar?”
I look up at her again. “It’s in my bag.”
She just stares at me and raises an eyebrow until I studder, “…Mistress.”
“Go get it and bring it to me.”
I move to stand without thinking, and I am swiftly corrected. “No. I didn’t tell you to stand. I told you to get your collar.”
Fuck.
The bag is only a few steps away on the other end of the room, but it may as well be a mile. I turn and crawl slowly toward it, quickly locate my collar with the attached leather leash, and turn to her, holding them up.
“You are really being difficult tonight” she sighs. “BRING it to me. In your teeth.” A sadistic smile crosses her lips with that last thought.
I place the soft leather collar in my teeth, leash dangling down, the musky scent still on it as it is a fresh purchase. I’ve only worn it a few times since we bought it. I cherish it. I crawl back into position in front of her, kneeling, collar clenched in my teeth like a dog wanting a walk, leash dragging on the carpet.
“Good boy,” she praises me, and I melt. “Now you may hand it to me.” She loves to draw it out. She knows that it is commands and obedience that put me in my place. I offer the collar up in both hands high for her to take. I hope she will take it. I need her to.
She smiles and accepts it from my outstretched hands. She places her finger under my chin to lift it, and she places the collar against my throat, wrapping it around my neck to the back. I lower my head and close my eyes as she buckles it in place. Then a second later, I hear a familiar metal click, and feel the slightest weight dangle from behind. I don’t need to feel it, but I do anyway – she has padlocked it on. And she will remove it when she sees fit. I shiver. My choices diminsh.
She lifts my chin again to make me look up at her, and she whispers, “Good boy.” Music to my ears.
“Thank you, Mistress.” I no longer require prompts. Butterflies dance in my stomach and I pray she doesn’t notice my erection, but I know there is little hiding it.
“I don’t want to have to look up at you,” she admonishes. “You will remain in a position lower than me, where I look down at you at all times. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Good boy,” she praises, a little louder, taking up my leash. She turns, takes a step, until it pulls taut. Without looking back, she says, “Come, follow me.”
She takes another step, but God help me I can’t move. I am soaking in the moment, relieved of control, drinking in every delicious command and savoring it like the finest steak. She tugs again, but I sit paralyzed, and absorb the subspace a moment too long.
I am an executive in a multi-million dollar company, I remind myself in my head. I am a Master. And now I am leashed. The dichotomy is maddening.
Still not looking back, as if I am not worth looking at, she simply asks, “Really?”
I take a hesitant step forward on my hands and knees, then another, following her down the long hallway. Every step on my knuckles and knees is like a surreal dream, crawling deeper and deeper into a cloud of fantasy. How can this woman exude such power over this dominant?
It very positively is NOT the sex. We don’t go there. This is far more pure dynamic, giving us both what we crave. She loves to dominate men. I need to submit for balance. And right now, I need to submit for her.
When we reach the end of the hall, she says, “That’s better. Isn’t that better?” in that little sing songy voice that drives me crazy. She scratches my hair and I press my face against her thigh, drenched in her slightest approval. “My goodness, you do slip into subspace fast, don’t you?” I nod wordlessly.
Nearly every iota of my very strong ego has dissipated. She has me captured. I feel needy, scared, vulnerable. She knows it.
“Good puppy,” she assures me as she strokes my hair, and with that word I am toast. “Puppy.” I am all hers. I am bewildered by my own behavior, so alien, yet somehow suddenly so natural. The rest of the scary world seems to fade in a fog of war, and I feel safe to be this vulnerable in her hands. She will not abuse me. She will not exploit me. But she will own me, if just for the moment.
I swear, my backside involuntarily shakes like I am wagging an invisible tail.
She places the leash back in my teeth, then walks back to the other end of the hall, opens the door to the large dog crate, and stands next to it.
“Come on, Puppy,” she beckons. I hesitate, staring, negotiating the conflict in my mind. I’ve never done this before (though I’ve subjected others to it). To be in that cage will put me on display, exposed, and worse yet out of my mistress’ reach. I look into my mistress’ eyes, pleading silently, wrestling with the notion.
She remains firm, now glaring a warning shot at me. “I will wait here all fucking night.”
Fuck you, I think to myself. Fuck you for knowing me better than I know myself right now.
Slowly, I crawl…
