I don’t consider myself a “lifestyle” domina.
That is, I don’t order my beau around 24 hours a day, hell, I don’t even get final say in all of our arguments. In fact, just the other night we were arguing about 4th of July plans (we both have pretty intense families and often rub horns when we try to make plans to appease both), and I got a little unrational in a female kind of way, and he said to me, his eyes kind of glazing, “Are you INSANE?”
Mind you, we were just having a squabble, and after reflecting, I do realize I was being unreasonable. I wanted things my way, and like women tend to do, I saw it only my way, and threw a fit when he stood up to me.
Now, you may think – what kind of a femdom takes that from her man? She should have said, “You will do it this way, my way, and LIKE IT! Now, go to your cage!” and storm off, only to deliver 25 lashes to him later for calling me a loon.
But our relationship is more normal than that. We spat, we snipped, and eventually ended up having really good, hot sex (lots of pent up passion from the argument) with the agreement to talk about it later, and I woke up realizing I was being silly.
But I am a lifestyle domina in that when I want it — that is, domination — I must have it, I must have it NOW, and I must have it on my terms.
In other words, if I came home in that mood, and he said to me, “Are you INSANE!?”, I would have a serious relationship issue on my hands.
When I need it, I need it. He understands this.
He understands the subtle differences between telling me it’s my turn to load the dishwasher and telling me “get those things away from me,” when I take out the shackles.
I don’t want a robot for a man, I don’t want a mindless servant for a mate. We share everything, including responsibility in our relationship.
In fact, as far as domestic slavery goes, about the most hardcore I’d ever go in that direction is to force him to be the one to pay for my maid.
And even that’s not likely.
**
I even feel weird when I see him dealing with laundry. Not even my laundry – but his own. I guess it’s because we spend so little time together, I don’t want to watch him do laundry. I want to fuck him.
Needless to say, we don’t do much laundry together.
We have had sex on the washing machine, though.
**
And then, it just hits me.
Two nights ago, he came over, and I had the table set for dinner. That’s right, I cooked. Well, I catered, but that’s another story. But I was in dom-mode, and you’ll see the subtle differences.
“Hey hon,” he said, and he hung up his suit jacket and was reaching up to take off his tie (artist boy had done a presentation that day, so he was looking fancy).
“Wait,” I said, walking up to him, giving him the obligatory kiss on the lips. He froze his movements and watched me, humoring me. “Don’t undress. You look nice. Keep the tie.”
“The tie is uncomfortable, Akasha,” he reminded me. The man HATES ties.
I smiled. “What do you want to drink with dinner?”
See, that set the tone. At that point, he knew. He pulled out his chair, sat at the dining room table, letting out his breath. It was obvious to him that I wanted him to remain uncomfortable, but sexy, for me. However, at that point, he did not know if that was the extent of it, or if after dinner he’d be in shackles being beaten, tied to my bed and teased mercilessly, or humiliated horribly. It could be a little thing, or it could be a big thing.
He looked good, I have to brag, just sitting there in his shirt and tie. He looked a little worn from his day, and I could sense he was tense about just how far this mood of mine would go.
I brought the food to the table. The wine was already set.
As I sat down, he looked at me.
“You forgot my silverware,” he commented, nodding that I had a fork and spoon and knife but he did not. He probably figured it was my bad domestic skills; I can barely set a table to save my life, and it was rare I went through the trouble; we usually grabbed our own from the drawer.
I smiled. “I didn’t forget.”
He looked at me.
That bumped it all up a notch, I could see he realized that.
And then, we moved to the next level.
**
We went from normal 30something dating lovers having a dinner after work to a woman tying a man’s wrists behind his chair at the dining room table.
“So you’re going to feed me, is that what this is about?” he asked me, sighing a little, trying to at least get leverage and find out what my game was Trying to figure out how much strength to reserve. Was this going to be a fun little dinner diversion, or the start of an all-night torture session? Would it lead to beating, or lead to sex?
My grip on his hair gave him a little clue. “Shut up.”
That was the second clue.
He swallowed. He got real quiet. That’s what he tends to do, at the start, he kind of slithers away, emotionally, recoils, protects himself. His eyes went down, I just saw a mop of hair there, that white shirt and hot tie, and he looked like he was pondering the meal before him.
I leaned over. I slammed a fist on the table, and the glasses shook, and the plates rattled. “I’m going to feed you. Then I’m going to fuck you. I’m going to take you to the bedroom, and I’m going to have my way with you. I want to make sure you have energy for that. Do you understand me?”
He gets this look, sometimes. Bites his bottom lip. Nods, but just barely.
His voice was solemn, but still had spirit in it. “Yeah,” he said.
And I can never know if the flippant, snotty “yeah” is because he is pissed at the timing of my stint, or if he is trying to provoke me to hurt him because he knows I LOVE to hurt him but can never actually do it unless really provoked.
So I took him by the chin, half-diving over the table actually, and made him look at my eyes. That’s when he can see it, I think. The look in my eyes. I said to him, “What did you say?” I was half on fire, buzzing already from seeing him bound there at the dinner table, half just wanting to nail him and get it over with — I was fucking horny.
“I said,” he started, slow, deliberate, “Yes.”
I held his chin hard, tight, until he flinched a little and gave a jerk back of his head to get away.
But I grabbed him again, kissed him hard on the mouth, and it ended up lasting for some time.
This is where the lines get blurred. Because domination, in this case alone, is not absolute. I didn’t turn immediately cold, removed, and make him endure it and other tortures; however, I could have, if I were in that mood.
This time, it took a sexual, sensual turn. I kept him tied up, no doubt. I actually straddled his lap, and I slapped him once, then twice, to get rid of his snobbish demeanor.
Then I forced him to eat, from my hands, his entire meal. I hand-fed him, I force fed him, I at one point pried his mouth open and made him take it.
It ended up being a messy, long, drawn-out ordeal.
And by the end I was totally wet, his shirt and tie were soiled and a pair of my panties were duct taped into his mouth.
Then, I fucked him.
**
Not typical couple behavior, I know. A man bound to a dining room chair, his girlfriend fucking him upright, and a mess of food just about everywhere.
I had poured water over his head (I have a thing for that – wet hair) and switched him to a ballgag, which he hated.
Could he say to me, right then, “Are you INSANE?”?
No.
And that is the beauty of an equal, but femdom relationship. I had broken him to the point that he was hypnotized. He would not resist. He could not. He could not look into my eyes and deny me. Partly because I scared him in that mode, and partly because he had such respect for that side of me that is animal and uncompromising.
When I need it, when the time is right, we have a pure femdom relationship. That is when he sees it in my eyes.
And he knows when he can squabble, and he knows when he must just obey.
But we have never, ever discussed it. He just knows.
That’s why he’s my ultimate treasure.
**
On this night, it did end up stretching out. He rode the whole wave. It went from the dining room to the bedroom, where he was bound and gagged there. It went from hair pulling to nipple clamps and humiliation, which he took, eyes squeezed shut and little tears escaping, biting back the need to beg.
It went from equality to this man, who I adore so much, crawling to me, on hands and knees, to place a single kiss on my foot, his tie hanging down, his white shirt soiled. His eyes, wide, but red. Like two roses.
I held him that night when we finally went to sleep. Nearly 1 in the morning, as he sorely eased out of his shirt, curled up, slightly trembling, and nuzzled my breasts. I held him, kissed his head, and I said to him that he meant the world to me.
Like an intense buzz, the most amazing drug high, my mind looked back at the snapshots of his submission. With each image, my stomach tightened, my pussy throbbed and my little heart fluttered. I squeezed him harder, stroking his hair.
I don’t think any woman has ever made him feel so cherished. So unique. So valuable.
So much like — to put it simply — a prized possession.
I can see where the “ownership” fetish comes from.
I wanted to own him,
I do own him.
I do.
Same concept, different terms.
When he looks at me, he blinks sweetly, and he says, “You know I will do anything for you.”
I do own him.
And I am the wealthiest woman in the world.
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