His vision returned after some blinking, helped by the filtered nature of the light from the big stained glass panels along the hall. There was thick carpets and heavy bunches of flowers in blue vases, a citrus heavy scent saturating the air, another fancy home with a wife taking care of the decoration, though not as quietly opulant as the Harrington country house.
The trip had been an hour by car, with the hood on, sitting on the floor of the car with Anette’s hand on the top of his head. She’d had him dressed in new clothes, fashionable but a bit more foppish than he’d have personally chosen, and locked the hood in place, pulling tight straps on the back of his head so it pressed against his face and made it hard to move his eyes of blink.
Walks without Annette turned into jogging sessions, followed by running broken with intervals of hard exercise: push ups, stretches and crunches to keep him limber, made harder by the dark hood. Every time he adjusted to the new routine, he would hear Annette order something new to the guard that only spoke to give him an order. First there were weights on his ankles and wrists, and then one day she joined him for his daily walk with an enormous wooden yoke, with swinging buckets attached by metal chains.
One length of rope looped around his arms and wrists bound him to the yoke firmly, and held his arms out in cruciform position. Even before he saw the rocks piled up in the buckets he knew it was heavy. Two servants had brought it to Annette and dipped their heads politely before gratefully grunting the yoke to the ground and taking their leave.
Standing, Adam could walk forward at a snail’s pace, the buckets swaying slightly. Annette had the picana in her hand, its orange plastic bright, but not out of place among the countless, vibrant layers of gaudy flowers that were in bloom for late summer.
It was a better meal than he’d had on a long time, though eating too fast gave him indigestion. After the second course he’d tucked away a large bunch of grapes, three strawberries and an apple, the latter of which Annette neatly segmented for him with a little knife. Finally there was the breakfast liquor, a thick and pungent beverage quaffed from tiny glasses, fermented with the after taste of metals. Most women drank it for their health, more men abstained, but under Annette’s watchful eye he took it down with one swallow.
Phillip shifted in his chair, belly distended with all the food he’d gobbled. The maid was clearing up the dishes from the table. All this time the ever present body guards had lingered in the background, one of them holding the threatening alarm-orange picana.
There was a steaming bath tub, almost large enough to swim in, flanked by decorative marble swans and an enormous urn holding an overflowing bunch of lilies. He slowly eased into the water, his first bath in a month, nervous even to be hesitating at one of Annette’s orders, though she seemed unruffled. She was rolling up the sleeves of her navy blouse, up to her forearms, smiling her small smile. He saw that as she periodically did her hair colour had changed, though this time only a few tendrils of green and chocolate brown escaped the neat confines of a charcoal grey and black scarf.
Hot water soaking in, he didn’t resist as she took his head in her hands, gently sloshing water over his scalp. He felt her palm laden with something cool and viscous, a shampoo that she worked into the short regrowth of his hair. She soaped and rinsed him, using a rough white wash cloth to scrub his shoulders and down his back and belly, massaging and rubbing.
At her instruction he stood up, and she did the same to his buttocks and legs, turning him so she could reach. Splashes of water stained the front of her dress, turning the indigo darker in splotch patterns over her breasts. She left his crotch alone, but the washcloth found its way into the split between his buttocks before Annette told him to sit down again.
Start up any kink forum, and the same standard questions come up, time and time again: “How the hell do I get a Mistress/Domme/Dom/Dominatrix?!” Sister to this plaintive cry is the equally desperate call of the dominant women “How the hell do I make these guys figure out how to approach me properly?!”
This is the awkward part: trying to give advice. As observed by Beej, there’s a lot of hand holding Mumsy advice, often downright basic things about regular baths and wearing some pants on the first date; a hell of a lot of idealistic twiddlings on the true beauty of kinky sex and the difficulty in doing it; there’s a whole suitcase full of books about starting out kinky in any particular orientation you want, many of which have been around since before absolutely everyone had the internet; and of course there’s an active scene in most communities of a certain size, where at least one person fancies themselves to be a mentor.
This is not even getting into the websites people have put together giving various shades of advice, from pornographic fantasy like the abysmal Elise Sutton to fussy little tripod and archived Geocities pages that were labours of love of some well meaning person about a decade ago, and still bear their black backgrounds and white or coloured text, (because anything about kink has to look like something I thought was cool when I was a 15 year old goth) and “under construction” GIFs. But your question is probably- Where are the fem doms at and how do I approach one without getting devoured like a male praying mantis or shunned like I was president NAMBLA?
A short piece, originally published on fetlife.
He’s wearing the button down shirt you like, ironed flat and neat because you have a thing for that. Once upon a time, when you were a little girl, Barbie hurled Ken off the edge of the bed and your mother found you stringing them both up by the chewed up feet. Now you hurl him onto the bed, push him back aggressively.
Oh god, oh god. He’s taken your fetish to heart. Clean pressed black slacks are about to get really rumpled and you have him down to socks and boxers faster than peeling a banana. Fuck, you can stroke up an erection through his underwear. You can see the lines in his shoulders when he throws his arms up (hands up! you said to that indulgent 13 year old boy when you were 11, and you had a water pistol on a hot summer’s day). That was a boy, this is a man, with a man’s smell and muscles under the skin and much more potential than shy awkwardness and your first kiss at gunpoint, ten years ago.
She’d taken her time with his bondage, spread eagled with scarves not ropes on the four poster bed. Pashminas, available in every colour of the rainbow, made soft thick holds around his wrists and ankles. Blindfold, ball gag (he could spit it out if he really worked at it), safeword more for her comfort than his and indicated by a raised little finger.
Flesh, and the abuse thereof came with its own clichés. His torso was not an unmarked canvas waiting for the touch of an artist or a pristine landscape without footprints, it was hairy and warm, every pore on his skin releasing that delicious pheromone she had to call musk because there wasn’t a word for the cloying, back of the nose taste that came with sex.
A short story with D/s.
She put her thumbnail behind his ear and began to press hard, into the fold where it joined his skin, pinching and pulling as her nail dug in and scratched. It was a hidden spot, one of her favourites, where she could slash and scratch and nobody would be the wiser.
“Come on,” she barked, at his distressed, sleepy face. “Hurry up!”
Leading him off the bed, she yanked in the direction of the closet, with him stumbling after, his long limbs never meant for a journey on all fours. She made him kneel and open his mouth, wrenched the closet open and grabbed the large cardboard box, with the marker scrawl ‘Toys’.
“I don’t want the neighbours to hear.”