(Too) great expectations.

Simon.

The essential problem, I suspect, is expectation. For what I desire more than anything else, is a lady who understands me. Expectation is the greatest obstacle to this desire.

Great Beauty? Well I’m not going to pretend that wouldn’t help. But does an aesthetically pleasing form naturally equate with great understanding? I suspect the two are not mutually guarantied. Is it the harridan: the harpy from hell? Well I’m not going to pretend that a little cruelty from a lady isn’t welcome. In truth I can think of few things more exciting than being subject to the whims of a malicious woman. However, can a relationship rely solely on this facet alone to continue successfully? For some perhaps, but a small level of affection should exist within both parties and clearly displayed. The line between abuse and erotic torment may be fine, but it exists and can be crossed. Besides, what I would I not endure in the name of love? What action could the gentlest of seducing words not entice a man in to performing?

Is this the true nature of the beast? So many aspects of femininity are caricatured, creating modes that are impossible to realise. Ask a typical man what he wants, and it is a whore in the bedroom, a master chef in the kitchen, a trophy on display, a lady in every other aspect of life. My own desires may on the surface be much more simplistic but no less contradictory. My Mistress in the bedroom, but my equal and confidant outside of it. Perhaps regarding me as submissive is incongruous: I strongly suspect that I’m not and that many men who claim to be are deluding themselves: because the nature of any desire is always I want, I want, I want. There are always caveats: there are always exceptions: it is always the way that I want it in my fantasies. Oh what selfish creatures, we who claim to be submissive. I’m not a weak individual, but for a lady to be dominant she would have to be stronger than I; intellectually, morally and spiritually. In short, for the craved equality I seek romantically, the lady would have to stoop down to my level: and I would have to act ungraciously in allowing this.

What unfair expectation to be placed upon a potential partner? The caricature of the dominant woman. Scolding and apparently indifferent: incapable of kind words or deeds less this somehow dilutes the submissives perspective regarding their dominance. And yet at the same time the expectation is to gratify the submissive through their dominance. There is an element of feedback, quite pernicious, in the development of this persona. We can’t simply blame pornography, although this plays its part. We’re all adults with our own minds. We don’t have to buy into the fantasy: yet we do, unthinkingly driven by the need to realise the fantastic. The lady can end up believing this to be what the sub wants, and so can end up trying to fulfil that role in a manner that leaves them unsatisfied.

There are, however, obvious reasons why equality is not realistically practical so far as I can see. The longer I remain untamed, the more unrealistic the prospect of any relationship on any terms becomes: simply because I can‘t see it giving me what I really want. When in a relationship, I cannot help but prod the lady to fulfil my cravings. I know myself that this is topping from the bottom: a cardinal sin within the scene. I’m all too aware that the point is the dynamic, and that if this not maintained, that exchange of power and responsibility, then I will actually end up feeling unsatisfied. For what I really want when I poke is to be put in my place: made to wait, to long for, until I cannot bear it, only to be made to wait a little longer as punishment for my impatience. Then really put through it for being irritating. I seek, on a subconscious level, the assertion of dominance. Such a show of tenacious will would undoubtedly exceed my own and demonstrate clear superiority. I do not believe I have met lady capable of such restrained awareness. It is as though I seek to test the relationship but clumsily end up destroying it instead.

The simple truth is, that stable and lasting relations may be the exception rather than the rule when it comes to female led D/s: because their beginning leads to their end. You may read that there is a ridiculous ratio between the number of dominant women, of which there are few, and submissive men, of which there are many. One can almost imagine something reminiscent of the Burley man scene from the Matrix: one plucky domme fending for herself against the endless onslaught of thousands of inappropriate, and above all desperate, sub standard submissives. How many truly find happiness in a suitable partner for life I wonder? How many actually last? The relationship begins with the notion of the lady being wank fodder for the courting gentlemen, to put it kindly. Yet contradictorily, it also relies on the premise of the lady being in control of this. Can this really be regarded as adequate basis for a long term and mutually satisfying relationship? The contradiction is the beginning and practically ensures its end. And so the domme ends up doing one of two things that destroys the relationship: goes too far or cedes.

And so I had resigned myself to accepting that what I sought would never be achievable, or in reality, even desirable. That I would remain single to the end of my days. The prospect didn’t seem too unpleasant. Freedom, after all, has its perks.

But of course, saying something will never happen practically guaranties that it will…

Dee.

What is it about cock shots that makes men believe we find them utterly fascinating? And yet look on the profiles of many submissive men and guess what you find? Believe or not boys, it’s nothing that I have not seen before. Besides, when looking for potential slaves, that would be partner for most of you vanilla guys, personality is actually quite important. Just how much of your personality is displayed by the public advertising of your phallus? Probably more than you’d like. If it’s big, you’re obviously full of yourselves and probably ego-centric and shallow. Not ideal slave material I’m afraid. If it’s small, you’re obviously a humiliation freak. Did the idea of having the entire world titter at your obvious inadequacies make you jack off? This is just as egotistic. The last thing I want is for you to be obsessed with yourself. Indeed, I should be the subject of all your attentions and desires: not the sex between your legs.

Hood shots are also derisive, though perhaps less so. I haven’t met any man who’s had the charm and wit necessary to carry of a hood with style and panache. I’m not saying it’s not impossible. The purpose of the hood in part is to objectify, but mainly the liberation of the slave from their vanilla self. And I do like to objectify, as well as liberate: that gets me hot. But it’s not quite the same when someone else has done this.

What exactly is the sum of your desires? Is it being dominated? Or being dominated by me? Which do you think it should be? Which do you think I would prefer?

The amount of mail I get would impress a film star, until they realise that quantity does not guarantee quality. It’s obvious when someone has taken the time to consider a thoughtful response to my profile. Within the first few lines, I can distinguish between those that have read it and those who simply didn’t bother: who rolled off a clichéd introduction then block sent to every domme they could find. Either that or the idea of sending the mail itself is the point: the satisfaction of the fetish. It will have the word Mistress within the first sentence, and usually won’t even have my name present anywhere in the mail. May I ask, am I YOUR Mistress: it‘s a word I hate. I don’t remember giving you permission to use that form of address and given that I prefer others don’t expect it. I’ll read the first line of the mail. If I see the M word, it then gets deleted.

There are so many of you out there, and it makes me wonder whether or not you have anything better to do. And yet in amongst all the coal, you find the occasional diamond. Or at least, what you believe will be a precious gem. The optimism usually lasts right up until I meet them, when I realise I’ve been fooled again and it is in fact clunker: like the rest. This generates a great deal of disappointment. But the greatest is when you think you’ve struck gold, only to find that they cannot take what I have to give.

Vanilla dating is a minefield. D/s dating has booby traps thrown in for good measure. My kink is not always your kink. Compatibility has to be present regarding enjoyed activities. Then, you’ve got to like that person.

It’s frustrating. There are times when it feels like a conveyor belt. The next one leaves, I ring the bell and cry “next”.

******

When Diana and Simon first met, there was a great deal of scepticism on both sides. Not what one might expect from the greatest love affair of the 21st century. Simon had been involved in a quite brief female led relationship and afterwards had started vanilla dating: with disastrous results. Recently, a mystery admirer had propositioned him. Simon was all up for the liaison, until he had discovered the marital status of the lady proposing. He had resigned himself to the possibility that the right one probably lived in Outer Mongolia, or somewhere similarly stupid: and that the chances were he wasn‘t right for her. Or she was taken already. He wasn’t a bad looking guy. A little bit skinnier than he would have liked but not overweight: he thanked his lucky stars. Anyone looking at him would remark on his unloved appearance. Though clean shaven, he still managed to come across as seemingly dishevelled. The skinhead cut had started growing out, and the clothing was faded with repeated washing. Oh god, thought Diana. Another twat with self esteem issues. Still, beneath the clothing was what seemed to be a good physique and he carried himself with a direct confidence. She, on the other hand, had gone for a smart casual look, being a professional. She was also something of a fitness fanatic. Red, curly locks framed an angelic, innocent façade. Pale skin was offset by blushing red lipstick. Very little makeup was applied or necessary. With appearances being deceptive, a warm smile stole over Simons face as he greeted Dee with enthusiastic awkwardness.

“You must be Dee.” Ten out of ten for observation. “I apologise for being late. I’m only as good as my satnav I’m afraid.” He had thought to call ahead but didn’t have a number to do this by. He offers his hand in friendship. A few moments pass, leaving him hanging. ‘Very classy, Simon’ he thinks to himself, sarcastically.

“I’m sure I can forgive you… this time.” Her voice seems like a blast of cold air. Simon then withdraws his hand, thinking ‘well, this is a great start.’

“Could you give me a moment just to get something to drink…? Would you like anything?” This offer was made almost as an afterthought.

“I’m fine. Though some napkins would be nice.” She sits with her legs crossed, leaning forward on the table.

Simon get’s his drink and some napkins then returns. He places then napkins on the table and stares bemused as she cleans a mug stain from the table. ‘Hmm, someone’s a little OCD about cleanliness,’ He intones mentally. In such situations, Simon cannot help but fall back on banal wit.

“One could be forgiven for regarding this situation as awkward.”

She looks at him properly for the first time.

“You don’t seem nervous?” She asks, with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“I’m meeting new people all the time. Though this is a little different, for obvious reasons, I tend not to get anxious about it these days.” He takes a sip from his cup. “I guess we could start with what you’re really looking for?”

“Well that’s not something a girl gets asked every day.”

“Reckon I’m not the sort of person you’d meet every day.” He cradles his mug, leaning forward, mimicking her body language, before catching himself and lounging back.

“Perhaps not.”

“Still, you haven’t answered the question,” he presses, gently. She begins smiling. She thinks, ‘well, this guy rates himself very highly. Perhaps more so than he should.’

“My, my, you are forward. Such impertinence might be regarded as unbecoming. Was it not clear from my profile?” There’s a slight mocking tone in her voice, but it’s no longer so aloof.

She strikes him as a little prickly. And he was thinking that it’s not going to work out. Oddly enough, her interest is piquing. There’s something about the way he was engaging with her that was unusual. Like she was a human being first.

“I like to hear it from the horses mouth, forgive the expression.” When he speaks, he looks directly at her, and curiously looks to see if she does the same. “There are so much that can be hidden, in terms of feeling, when something is written. It’s very easy to infer only what is desired.”

“And what is it you desire?”

The question takes him aback, just for a second. “You know for some reason I always feel embarrassed when discussing these things. Even amongst friends.”

Dee kisses her teeth. “Now how is it fair that I tell you what I want when you seem so reluctant to return the favour.”

He smiles, with curious amusement. “As my old man would say, ladies first.”

She cannot help but smile a little at this. She couldn’t agree more. She weighs the pros and cons in her mind. On the one hand, he turned up late, seems boorish to the point of rude, wasn’t half as funny as he thought and dressed badly. On the other hand, he was a direct and honest. He smiled easily and clearly wasn’t a shrinking violet. Balancing things up, she decided that he was definitely asking for it. ‘Probably won’t last a week anyway, so what’s the harm if we have a little fun. If he’s submissive, he’ll appreciate it being at his expense. Besides, it will be fun putting him in his place, as well as playing The Seductress.

“Ok then, come closer.” She beckons him so that she may whisper in his ear. “I want a dirty little slut who’ll do everything I tell him to and who’ll beg me to do everything that I want to do to him.” She then leans back, crossing her legs seductively. Raising her voice, she continues: “Of course, having read my profile I doubt you are under any illusions as to what that is. Do you think that’s something you could assist me with?” studying him intently for his reaction, she sees the look of bewildered lust steel across his face, before the smile returns.

“In my wildest dreams perhaps.” He couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“And now onto what you want…. Or shall I hazard a guess” She leans back forward to whisper once again. “To be that dirty little slut.” Each word is enunciated and separated so that it could not be confused. The ice previously there had melted away, frying his mind.

“I’d be lying if I pretended otherwise,” he whispers back, wondering if anyone else could hear what she had said.

Dee leans back. “Well it’s not going to happen today. I’m not that kind of girl.”

The composure returns, almost. “You go and get my hopes up high just to dash them.” She regards him with curiosity. She makes a bet to herself that he’d do pretty much anything she wanted.

“Well you can keep some of those hopes alive, for the moment.”

They break to go and get another drink. Finding a sofa available that's a little out of sight, they talk briefly about what they do for a living and hobbies. It’s a surprisingly easy conversation. After a while, the conversation naturally draws to a close.

“You’re not entirely what I would’ve expected.” She opens.

“How so?” he asks, indifferently.

“At first glance, I wouldn’t have guessed you were submissive.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard this said. “You mean I don’t stoop when walking and look directly at people when I speak to them. That sort of thing? You’ll have to forgive me. I got given the book regarding acceptable sub behaviour in public but lost it down the back of the sofa. Besides, walking upright is good for your back.”

A look of faux irritation is present in the smile. “You can cut the wisecracks if you like. I know that’s just the mask you wear.”

“Am I that transparent?” For just a second, he sees the understanding he’s seeking.

“Not really.” She starts kicking her feet back and forth, gently but slowly. She lets it catch his gaze. “It slipped back there just for a second. Just a small crack in that self assurance: and I’m willing to bet you’re nearly always sure of yourself.” He stares at her feet, mesmerised. 

The statement disarms him, wrong foots him ever so slightly. “It’s a part of where I come from. Everything’s a battle. Anything less than absolute conformity marks you as a freak or weak. It’s not a mask. It’s armour.” This is said without pretence. He has already decided to be honest as he could, but each word is chosen carefully with the hope of clarity.

“If you want a chance with me, take it off.”

Did he want a chance with her? Hell yes!

He swallows hard, as if what she asks might be too much. “That might be hard. I think, regarding it as a mask doesn’t quite hit the mark. It’s who I feel I have to be to function in this world. And to regard it as not a part of me is strange.”

“It’s ok, I’m patient. But I will strip you of that armour, if you‘ll let me.”

Barely audible, still gazing at her heels, he replies. Up and down, up and down, it‘s motion is hypnotic. “I think I would like that, thank you.”

She decides to rattle his cage.

“Hmmm. Foot fetishist?”

“Sorry. That obvious?” Simon suddenly feels very self conscious of where he’s been staring, and sits up and looks at her directly.

“Nothing to apologise for. Most guys I’ve met are.” Alluring satisfaction fills her voice.

“I can blame KGB for that. She seemed to have a big thing for foot worship.”

Not just armour, she thinks to herself. Part of his character: the man he feels he has to be, rather than the slut he truly desires. ‘He changes, doesn’t he? He’s suggestible. I think I’ll enjoy moulding him.’ She becomes interested in who KGB was. “Was that a previous girlfriend?”

“No…” he states too quickly. Then looks at her. She can see the decision to be honest forming in his mind. “She was a pro. Oh god, I know that sounds bad doesn’t it?”

“Ah. See how those little secrets come tumbling out. So did you tell her that you liked licking boots did you?” The amusement she takes in this is obvious. He relaxes a little.

“I didn’t say anything like that. All I said was that I would like to do whatever she wanted: that I wanted to relinquish control completely.” Still looking directly at her: the sparkling eyes, the warmth in the smile. Like a shark about to have breakfast.

“You’re brave. Or stupid. Or perhaps both.” He could tell this was not meant as an insult.

“The first time I went I sought to destroy the fantasy. I guess I never believed that I would enjoy really giving up all control. Of course, she’s a pro, last thing they’re going to do is anything that would discourage repeat custom.”

“And did she guarantee repeated custom?”

He thought back to the experience, looking wistful. “If I was a rich man…”

“So you went in a sub and came out a boot licker?” He liked the teasing tone. From the point of view of the conversation, he ignored it.

“It’s funny how something can become, what’s the word,” he seems to struggle with his own mind. “Eroticised due to another’s intent. Before that, I would have said that I couldn’t see the point. I guess the nicest thing about it was that she appreciated it: indeed, demanded it, and showed her appreciation of it. It was clear whether or not my efforts were sufficient or not. And yes, as a result it became sexualised.”

She smiles so sweetly, so knowingly. Another layer of armour slides off: “Nothing is ever invented,” she replies sagaciously.

“I guess not.” He looks into those eyes, and feels owned already. His hopes are that he’s not entirely deluded.

“So, now I have something I can reward you with, and deny you when displeased.” She sips her coffee. He gulps and burns himself with his. He wipes his mouth with his hand.

“Where the hell have you come from?” It’s a half serious question. Simon had decided to move there, finances allowing. Though it wasn't the question he really wanted to ask. “You always this much of a vixen? Just talking with you makes me feel coy as hell.”

“You like the feeling?” The voice is completely warmed up now. It felt like a blast furnace. Simon started to feel itchy with the heat. She bats away the question, thoughtlessly.

“Yeah. It’s a good feeling. The best in the world,” he half stutters it, without a trace of irony.

This was the point for her. Having them in the palms of her hand, willing to crawl naked over broken glass just to be chastised. But she also knew saying that you wish to serve someone is very different from having the nerve to do it. Pros and cons, back and forth. She sips her coffee, and decides to test her knew found toy. With half intentioned clumsiness, she sets the mug down on the table harshly, and a small amount of coffee escapes the mug, living a ring on the table.

“Oh, look at this, how clumsy. I do so hate making a mess. This will need to be cleaned.” Simon suddenly becomes animated, saying he’ll get some tissue to clean it. Dee just smiles, however, and enquires:

“And why wouldn’t your tongue do?”

He puts his hand on table and looks at her, a rabbit caught in the headlights. He then gawps at the stain with a mix of mortification and desire. In his mind, he argues the pros and cons: back and forth. He didn’t like to engage in play with Joe Public hanging about. It wasn’t fear of embarrassment: he couldn’t care less if others thought ill of him. But he also considered it rude to impose his activities on others, particularly without consent. Yet the request didn’t seem unreasonable. Already she was pushing his limits. She could see the conflict etched on his face: though she didn’t know it’s genesis. ‘A limit,’ she thought, ‘but perhaps not a hard one. He wants to do it,’ that was what was important to her. A very gentle nudge should do it. She clasps his hand softly, warmly and raising his gaze, he looks straight at her.

Almost whispering, she chooses her words carefully. “Don’t feel like it’s a command. I don’t want you to do anything unless you want to do it for me: Ever. You’re missing the point. I don’t make anyone act against their will. That would be wrong. It is always your choice. I would gain a great deal of pleasure and satisfaction from your obedience here. It would prove your intent. And that’s also the point.”

She reads his expression carefully, as the conflict is resolved, and the desire to be obedient takes hold. The last of the armour clatters on the floor. He looked so peaceful, so serene. This was the side of him she wanted, and it looked surprisingly beautiful.

And then without further hesitation, he leans down to lick the cold coffee on the table. As you can imagine, it doesn’t taste particularly nice. There is laughter somewhere in the distance, and someone intones “Oh my God”, rather dramatically. Their might as well be silence: the only thing in the room is her. She squeezes his hand slightly, to convey her satisfaction. His heart soars with the angels.

Leaning forward she whispers in his ear. “See, that armour isn’t as welded to your skin as you thought. Your number please.”

Dumbly getting his phone out for the number, he fumbles and drops the phone before picking it up. She’s close to laughing at how little composure he now possesses, ‘but such cruelty can come later,’ she thought. He reads the number out, twice because he gets it wrong the first time, and she types it in her phone. When saving the number, she quietly says the word bootlicker as she punches in the name, before calmly reading the number out to check. A glance his way when she uses what she has decided will be his nickname confirms its impact: absolutely all over the road. She then leans forward to whisper in his ear, placing her hand on the small of his back, stroking very slightly.

“I know you’ll be a little bit rattled.” Such kindness in the timbre of her voice now. “Give yourself the chance to calm down before you drive home. I want you to promise to save yourself until you see me again. Swear to me you won’t touch yourself until I want you to.”

He gulps hard. He knows how unbearable it will be: but somehow, her disappointment would be infinitely worse.

“I know it won’t be easy. But it will please me greatly if you manage to refrain.”

“I promise,” swearing this oath with his hand metaphorically on his heart.

She pecks him on the cheek, and then collects her things. A waitress comes by to pick up the crockery after Dee has left, and gives Simon a dirty look. By this time some of that reserve has returned.

“Truth or dare,” he explains. He wonders for a second just how far from reality this is: truth and dare hit’s the nail on the head. “I lost.” This is an obvious lie.

Dee:

Not quite what I had expected. There was some hesitation before carrying out my instruction and it was clear that I took Simon out of his comfort zone. And yet, all it took was that little nudge: the reassurance that it would please me for him to do this. Will have to find out why he hesitated: I can guess but I’d like to be sure. I do hope he becomes a little more relaxed in future meetings. It would be frustrating to have to coax him out every single time we meet.

I wouldn’t normally seek to perform any play in a public setting. But I wanted to ensure that getting past that reserve was possible, otherwise I would have said “nice to meet you but, goodbye”. In the end, it was very easy.

I wonder if he’ll keep his promise. The thought that he might is very pleasing. I intend sending him a text just to remind him. But I won’t actually call him for a couple of weeks at least. The idea of letting him suffer is simply too much fun.

Simon:

I managed to maintain my composure and concentration until I got home. And then, lying on the couch, my mind raced. I wanted to suffer for this woman. And I already would. I could have torn my clothing off I was that desperate to touch myself. And yet I didn’t. But the thoughts in my mind were impossible to reign in. It was a sleepless night.

The fantasies I experienced were not what I would usually have. I dreamt of being undressed by this woman, in the analogical and psychological sense. Of being seduced with painful grace into utter degradation, coaxed gently into complete slavery. Having every conceit and pretension gently removed by the simplest seduction of her pleasure, not mine. There was no cruelty in her actions: only warmth. I suspect her malice would be no less thrilling. I would lie awake at night, hungry for the promise of her sadism. Yet her warmth was in every respect so much more devastating for it’s ability to tug on my reigns. It was my choice whether or not to obey: and I did so gladly. In this way, her command of me was unarguable and certain.

I would lose my concentration during the day and could find no solace in the twilight hours. I received the text messages, reminding me of my promise. “Hope you’ve not relieved yourself yet, bootlicker”. Every time I read it I would be transported back to her presence. It was unbearable. Such a simple thing, yet my mind was completely blown. I had no idea if I could possibly handle what she had in store for me. Still, that wasn’t going to stop me from trying at least.

Somehow, I managed to keep that vow. After the first week, I almost became sexually numb, having spent the first in such turmoil. I got used to saying no. When she finally called however, I suddenly became very much alive.

*****

Simon rushes to reach the telephone. “Hello, can I help you?”

A warm voice responds. “Is that Simon?”

“Speaking.”

“Is it not typical to announce who you are when you pick up the phone, bootlicker?” He realised it was Dee straight away, and almost immediately becomes uncomfortably excited. Within those few seconds, Simon is back in her presence. It felt like standing naked under a hot sun.

“I apologise…” there’s a slight hesitation as he wonders how to address. “Dee.”

“Have you managed to keep from wanking then?”

“Yes…” He can imagine the humour she would find from the situation.

“Are you sure?” She lounges on her sofa at home, twisting the cord in her hand.

“I can’t pretend it’s not been difficult.”

“I’ll know if you’re lying.” She’s happiest talking over the phone in this instance. Her smile reaches both ears.

“I’d tell you if I had.” His hand rests upon his stomach. Internally, he begs ‘please, let me relieve myself.’

“Would you now?” She sounds doubtful of this.

“Of course.”

There’s a slight pause in the conversation, and Simon decides to find out how to address her.

“May I ask how I should address you?”

“When you’ve earned that right,” she replies, a little harshly. Simon feels his stomach drop. The blood from there goes only one place, increasing his discomfort.

“I bet you’ve been having all kinds of dirty little fantasies about me my little bootlicker?” the mirth returning to her voice, teasing him. Probably knowing just what effect it would have.

“I can control my hands but not my mind.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. At least, not quite yet. Are you willing to tell me what you’re dirty little mind has been dreaming off?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start!” This was actually the truth, believe it or not. He could write a book on the subject.

“Hmm. Perhaps if we have you tortured. Do you think you’d know where to start then?”

‘God, please torture me’ thinks Simon to himself. There’s a healthy dose of fear in this sentiment and an unhealthy level of desperation.

“Yes, I bet if you were tortured, you’d know exactly where to start. It’s a shame; I might have let you touch yourself if you were a little more forthcoming.”

“It wouldn’t be the same as if you were touching me.” It’s harder to say this than one might expect. His breath is heavy. He wants to beg her to let him touch himself, yet feels doing so would seem shameful.

She bursts into laughter. “That’s truly very sweet of you. There’s a club I like to go to sometimes. I know the house domme. I‘d like you to attend to my needs and whims. I’ll e-mail you the details.”

“Thank you,” he replies.

“Just one more thing bootlicker. You hesitated in following my commands at the coffee house. May I ask why?”

“It was just the people there.” He knows it might be difficult to explain. “I would have done anything you asked immediately but other people can take offence to such things, particularly if they have not asked to see things like that.” Well that was clumsy.

“Will you be hesitant because of other people when we’re out at the club?” She wanted to be sure that he would obey her wishes.

“No, I’ve been to such events before.” He slowly begins to feel calmer.

“Have you now? More secrets tumbling out,” she chides. “Can’t wait to squeeze the details out of you. So why would you be different at a club?”

“The people there would be more understanding.”

“Hmm.” She considers how to proceed. “Well the last thing I would want is you to feel uncomfortable among other people, so perhaps we’ll leave public play to parties. Unless of course you inspire my displeasure. Agreed?”

Humiliation wasn’t something that would normally do much for Simon. He liked the idea the idea of it, but once in the zone, he found he had a cast iron ego. The cruellest taunts? Name calling? Feminisation? It was water of a ducks back. He’d always been disappointed at the efforts of others to humiliate him. It hadn’t had the effect he desired and he’d often end up laughing as well. And yet he found himself hoping she would be able to humiliate him: that doing so in public would feel electrifying. There was something exciting about it. Was it because it was wrong?

“Thank you.” In declaring his gratitude, he hides so much.

“I’ll call you the evening before we see each other again. In the meantime, look after yourself and no masturbation.”

“I can’t wait,” he declares, deciding that cold showers in the morning and evening would be required to ensure compliance with his vow.

“I know. But you’ll have to.” With this, she terminates the call.

*****

The mind is the most important sexual organ. The way to the heart of a man is not through their stomach: but if you want his mind, it helps to have his heart. And who could love the cold and uncompromising domina.

You can look at her actions as cruel, condescending, and patronising. Yet he loves every second of this treatment for its intent, which is to drive him wild with suppressed sexual excitement. When he finally submits to her, he will feel elevated rather than degraded, and this is in part what makes the suffering a joyous experience and as far from humiliating as you could imagine.

There’s a huge difference between pleasure and pain: but sometimes pain can be pleasurable and vice versa. Simon enjoys his excitement, and at the same time, cannot stand the torment of it. He may not enjoy the torture he will be subjected to and yet he has no doubt that it will be exciting: an incomparable rush.