Dear Dominant, Sir,

When another man tells me to call him Sir, I imagine that he is you. In my head, it’s a significant moment. “Sir,” not to be handed out like a cheap piece of sugar to suck on. “Sir,” low, soft and meek, uncertain. It sounds half-baked and clumsy in my mouth. I feel a sort of bravery, deliberately entering into such an intimate dialog that I know can leave me feeling so very small and foreign. I tentatively flirt with the little-girl vulnerability and how I must struggle with the white-knuckled independent, adult woman that routinely runs my life. It’s a hard fought victory and even with my raging libido as a distraction its new unfamiliarity conjures confused and uncomfortable feelings. It’s all part and parcel of this enormous every-day-is-Christmas kinky life I am discovering. Who is this she-creature you’ve roused?

“Sir.” It’s terribly embarrassing. I blush and squirm. Closing my eyes makes it easier. Willingly handing over that power is intoxicating, almost exactly like a shot of morphine.  Literally. Fucking remarkable. I go all dopey ragdoll with desire. My IQ drops. I am debased. It’s my lazy slut self in full swing, legs spread wide, doe-eyed and pleading – fuck me. Fuck me, claim me, I’m yours. Lost in this new and desperate deep sweet need to please. “Yes, Sir,” each utterance is like a soft suffocation and I gladly and willingly drown in it. My pussy drips. This is clearly something I was born to do.

I try to pay attention to the introduction and education you dole out in such excruciating small pieces. I have no idea how hot the flame you fan in me can get. When I m forced to think about it between mosquito bite scratch masturbations and unsatisfying vanilla humping I admit to feeling a little fear. Do you understand the full extent of what you are doing to me? Your persuasive sturdy claims make me bashful. I could be so lucky, that you would be more naked in your desires.

Another man demands that I call him Sir, and in my mind I fall to my knees in front of you and never has a position felt so perfectly right. I fall to my knees in front of you and my cunt is thrilled. “Sir,” gulp and guttural deep - appending my sentences makes me think differently about every word that comes out of my mouth…

Dear Dominant,

First encounters. I imagine a chaste peck on the cheek hello that beguiles the primal instincts which insist we immediately fuck on the floor of the restaurant. The lightest touching of hands. You trace nonsensical shapes on the skin of my fingertips, wrist, forearm. Twirl the ring around my finger in a gesture so possessive I bite my lip, almost on purpose, hoping you notice. Your thumb pressed firmly against my palm speaks of a more violent meeting of skin. Such small things. Such dizzying desire. Though a talented multitasker in my personal and professional life, my sexual desires are singularly overpowering. I quite abruptly lose the capacity for speech and thought. Grace gives way. The pheromones blasting off my body should be enough to harden cocks in a mile radius.

We settle in and get comfortable, after a fashion, bodies synchronizing to a primitive undercurrent. Eyes dilate. Breathing shallows, hinting of the shameless panting that will accompany the sexual acts we have yet to share. The inevitable exploration and explosion becoming more and more certain with every passing second. I speak boldly of dark desires. You tease me mercilessly. I blush furiously and sass you back because I am nervous. Because I’m turned on. You look forward to disciplining the blatant smart ass that sits on the edge of my tongue ever eagerly anticipating the next opportunity to traipse along the line that lies between flirtation and just plain insolence.

As we part ways, instead of a kiss, you decisively run your thumb over my bottom lip and stare filthy promises into my eyes. Romance novels would have me melting in a puddle but I prefer the sharp shudder that roots me as your thumb breaks contact with my mouth. If your erection, which you let me touch under the table, were half as demanding as the puddle in my panties we’d be shedding clothes on the sidewalk. Your self-control is infuriating.

Yours,
subordinate