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A Domme recently asked, "How can you please me?". Here is my answer: Above all, I would please you by getting to know you as a person, and understanding everything about you. Then, and only then, could I possibly please you to the greatest possible extent. Beyond this: By presenting my whole person to you.
By continually evolving, challenging myself and therefore you.
By communicating fearlessly on an ongoing basis, so I clearly understand your needs and wishes.
By knowing you so well that I am able to intuit your wishes, desires, or commands.
By knowing when to be a submissive, and when to be your companion, if so desired.
By using my gifts of humor, intelligence, inventiveness, and adventurousness to engage you every moment we are together.
By trusting in you.
By giving you my caring, devotion, obedience, loyalty, patience, and dependability.
By my ongoing attentiveness to you.
By owning my submissiveness, providing you a safe place in which to exert and stretch your Dominance. Other thoughts: I am alpha by day -- successful, secure, goal-oriented. I’m intuitive, empathic, and analytical,which explains a lifelong tendency towards giving of myself. Fetishes are below, but are secondary to my understanding of D/s emotional and power dynamics in concrete, experiential ways with you. I'm aware that my needs are secondary in a D/s relationship. However, for that relationship to be as robust and fulfilling as possible for you, please know that I must feel I can submit safely emotionally and physically. This is partially accomplished by clearly defining the nature, and boundaries, of our relationship so that we may both commit fully to our roles. I can then place my trust in you completely. I presently identify as sub. However, I am new to the community and my energy continues to evolve as I discover more about myself. Vanilla interests: the arts; Jungian psychology; watching football and live hockey; gym 4x/week; sci-fi geek; photography; finance, unique culinary experiences; travel. BDSM Experiences/Interests: bondage, spanking, flogging, anal play, wax, sensory dep, gags, hoods, collars. Best of all, I’m plenty curious, and am open to just about every fetish, except scat. Thank you for taking the time to visit. Ask me anything. I’d love to hear more about you, so please share.

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11/19/2013 10:57:48 PM

There are reasons why men do not, ideally, wear women’s underwear.  This is not something I'm actually into, but from the the story below, it certainly provided an early lesson in what pleasing my partner means.  Ahem.

I was dating this younger woman, and leaving for the airport on a business trip to New York. She wants me to “always be thinking of her”, and concocts the brilliant idea that I wear her underwear on the flight. And this is a bad idea, because I’m flying business class for a reason – so I can be comfortable – and despite her ample cup size, I will certainly not be comfortable under this arrangement and tell her as such.

And then she hits me with my own post-divorce, live-life-to-the-fullest mantra: “Say yes to everything that doesn't risk death, permanent injury or disease”. Examples: Ride a camel in Nepal? Yes. Handle this petri dish of Ebola virus? No. But there are exceptions to every rule, as I calmly explain, and this is a “no”. Except, she rightly challenges me with, “Well, are you a man of principle or aren’t you?”

This was supposed to be the value in dating someone younger, in that they aren’t concerned with this nonsense about principles.

Wear girlfriend’s underwear, as she challenges you as to whether or not you are a man of principle? Sigh. Yes. Fine. Whatever. And just so you have the complete image, it’s Victoria’s Secret black satin and, yes, it is uncomfortable.

I get to the airport and already my manhood feels like its trapped in a vise, and the bra straps are too damn tight and fortunately I’m wearing a sweatshirt over everything or it’d look like I have a serious case of either man-boobs or hormone replacement therapy. I get to the front of the security line and – shit -- these are the days when the TSA used those full-body scanners that reveal everything.

As if I wasn’t already cursing Radical Islam.

So I don’t have time to find a bathroom and get this stupid underwear off and get back in line, so I just suck it up and stand in that machine that is also probably irradiating me with pure cancer waves, with my hands held over my head in absolutely the most vulnerable position I’d ever been in, prostate exam included. The things swish-swish over my body, and I step out, pretending everything is normal, hoping my tachycardia will not result in a heart attack, further necessitating that paramedics tear open my shirt, revealing the surprise underneath prior to crash-carting me back to consciousness and eternal humiliation.

My peripheral vision is riveted to the TSA agents examining the image. I steel myself against the inevitable and there’s no reaction. None. No knowing glance. No smile. No guffaw. So either they are actually following their manuals lock-step and not reacting to non-threatening underwear, or a lot more men besides me are walking through these scanners wearing shit a whole lot weirder than I am.

A great weight lifts. My heart rate returns to normal. I gather my belongings from the conveyor belt and set them down on a bench. And then, as I lean over to tie my shoes, I hear it.

It’s a….snort.

That sound you make when you are trying to stifle a laugh and air gets caught between your nose and your throat. Snort.

I turn around, and there is this unbelievably smoking hot Hellcat in her mid-30’s, with cascading brunette hair, wearing this pin-striped business suit with short skirt, nylons, and stiletto heels. This is, like, a Fetish-Sent Angel. She may be the sexiest woman I have ever seen. And she is looking right at me. Even worse, she is in the direct line of sight of the TSA scanner’s image. And I look at her. And she looks at me.

Oh….no.

Oh, yes. She smiles. A knowing smile. As in, “I know what I saw. And you know I know what I saw”.

I’m sure I turned all different colors. I don’t really know. I just grab my stuff and run to the bathroom to change, and now my balls are so constricted that I’m going to pass out and those stupid bra straps are really digging into my skin and I’m sweating so I’m really having a lot of compassion for what women must live through.

I duck into the bathroom, ready to remove these undergarments, and like a goddamned romantic comedy, my girlfriend calls me at that exact moment and asks, “So, are you still wearing them?” Groan. And now the flight is boarding, and I just want to settle into my extra-wide business class seat, get my champagne and warm nuts, and watch some movies, and forget all this. So I get on the tail-end of the Priority Boarding line, and stalk down the jetway and drop into my seat.

Which just happens to be the seat next to the Hellcat.

And I feel like Charlie Brown, where my cheeks go all red, and there’s this little scribbly cloud over my head, and my mouth becomes this wiggly line, and my hand is clutching my chest. Oh, good grief.

There’s this exchange of awkward smiles, and if I don’t acknowledge our little secret in some humorous manner, the next six hours I’m going to have to fully recline, pull a blanket all the way up to my nose, and squeeze those adjustable headrests tight around my head, so I just vanish like a turtle, or the Elephant Man.

So I just turn to her and say, “Haha, well, back there at security, I know you got a laugh out of seeing the TSA scanner reveal me wearing my girlfriend’s bra and panties. I guess it is pretty funny, but you know, you make all kinds of sacrifices in relationships. Haha”.

And it looks like I may have pulled this off, because she gets this sheepish look, almost as if she is more embarrassed than I am, and she says, “Actually, I laughed because you still have that sticker with your waist size stuck on your jeans”.

I look to my right hamstring.

There is the sticker with my pants waist size.

Then I look around and, yeah, pretty much everyone in the vicinity has heard what I said as well as her reply, including the flight attendant, the guy in 5B, the woman in 6C, and a foreign couple in Coach who are probably thankful they didn’t get their upgrade.

I peel off the sticker and mumble, “thanks”, and as soon as the plane takes off, I fully recline, pull that blanket all the way up to my nose, and squeeze those adjustable headrests tight around my head, so I just vanish like the Elephant Man.

So, for the next six hours -- certain that my unnecessarily disclosed information is foremost in the Hellcat’s mind, and has been tweeted and Facebooked by everyone on the plane who heard -- every time the attendant comes by and says, “Mr. Smith,” (please don’t say my name out loud so everyone knows who the guy wearing women’s underwear is) “do you want some warm nuts?” “Mr. Smith,” (stop saying my name) “Which entrée do you prefer?” “Mr. Smith,” (if you say my name one more time I swear to fucking God I will rush the door of this plane, yank open the handle, and suck every last human being on this plane into a 37,000 foot drop, of which I hope I will be the first) “would you like a sourdough roll?”

Enough! I bolt for the bathroom, rip off my outerwear and go commando down under. Up top, however, there’s a problem. It was difficult enough learning how to undo a bra strap on a woman by age 28, but undoing it on myself is like that scene in Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much, where the guy gets stabbed dead center in his back, and the dagger is lodged there, and his arms are stretching and straining and grasping for the dagger where he can’t reach it. Worse, every time I get into an airplane bathroom, the flight hits turbulence. So now I’m alternately slamming against the wall and the sink while trying to get this proverbial knife out of my back. DING, “The captain has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. Please return to your seat. And would Mr. Smith stop undoing that bra strap in the forward lavatory?”

So FINALLY, I get the damn thing off, get dressed and realize that, while half the people in first and business class probably know, the other half may not and I can’t walk through the cabin holding a bra after exiting the bathroom unless someone else is in here with me, and there isn’t. And because my girlfriend was blessed with ample bounty, the thing is too big to stuff in my pocket and I’m not going to stuff it down my pants because it’s going to come out the bottom of my pants-leg in the middle of JFK airport.

So I do the only thing I can.

I put it back on.

Which is another huge problem because she put it on me in the first place, and while nobody reading this believes me at this point, it’s not a garment I customarily wear. So here we are, the remake to The Man Who Knew Too Much. Stretching, straining, grasping. The plane shudders and dips. I take a header into the mirror. DING. The captain has turned on the fasten seat belt light. DING. Everybody in business class is snorting in suppressed laughter at you. DING. Mr. Smith, are you a man of principle? DING.

I finally get myself sorted out, or rather, adjusted. I exit the bathroom, the turbulence instantly ceases, and I return to my turtle shell, pale, sweating, and wishing I was not a man of fucking principle but a lying, conniving sociopathic felon who strangles women he shouldn't be dating in the first place with their own bra.

And then…

Somewhere over Western Pennsylvania, fields of green below, sunshine bursting through the heavenly clouds, I realize that none of this has actually resulted in death, permanent injury, or disease. I have been a man of principle, and the only thing the past six hours of embarrassment and humiliation has done is build my resistance to the next round of embarrassment and humiliation which will be surely visited upon me.

And then, the most extraordinary thing happens as we arrive at the gate.

The Hellcat, in her insanely sexy pinstriped outfit with cascading brunette hair, nylons, and stiletto heels, hands me her business card and says, “When you break up with your kinky girlfriend, give me a call….”

“I think you’d look spectacular in my underwear”.

Oh, good grief.


11/19/2013 10:57:13 PM

Had an intriguing development regarding service. When I first discovered BDSM, I had trouble grasping this notion. While I have my moments of obtuseness, for some reason the concept eluded me. As often happens in life, however, one day I got thunderstruck and it all made sense.

I had always enjoyed pampering my girlfriends and ex-wife. I genuinely enjoyed making women happy. It was just in my nature. It was the nice thing to do, to show respect, and kindness. Yet there was no erotic component for me. Then, as the marriage caved, I found I was serving out of fear of abandonment as opposed to out of pure enjoyment...and all that energy went straight into a black hole. I realized -- SHIT -- all the kindness and service I'd delivered to my wife was never truly appreciated because her own deep mother-wound had so crippled her self-esteem that she felt unworthy of receiving it.

Whoa. That was heavy. Hold on while I get a drink....

So recently with BDSM I am reclaiming that joy of service. Then, suddenly -- just one night -- boing! It was there. Eroticism in the notion of service.

Thank God for small favors...and epiphanies.

Thank you for your kind attention.


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sweetwenchie
 
 Age: 27
 London, Ontario, Canada