I stepped into her studio space nervous, excited, curious. We had met several times before over a period of months, getting to know each other. That may seem strange for someone going to see a dominatrix, a professional. But there are so few that I would wish to submit to, and having tasted something divine for the past year, I was as much afraid that I would be somehow disappointed.
We are taught that often fantasy is better than reality. I think that is a sad thought. Here, once again, I discovered that fantasy is way better than reality. Why? Because it involves another person. And that person has taken control, or has been given control…either way, their creativity and inspiration feeds yours.
I’ve never liked the idea of a “dungeon”, all dripping wax candles and black lights, velvet, and other clichés. Her studio was fresh, airy, and well lit.
To serve. And in a way, it is ridiculous that I would even attempt to serve a professional dominatrix. And yet, I can’t think of anyone who I would rather serve. I don’t want a “relationship” in the traditional sense. I simply wish to serve. And that means to take care of, to support, to do things for…and to do it without expectation. Of course, on some level, that’s ridiculous. But on another, it is not.
To succeed it requires mutual trust. Mutual intimacy. What client goes to a pro-Domme and says, can we please explore your needs instead of mine? Is it okay that my need is actually to satisfy your need? That way, I will know this is real.
In this sense, I haven’t changed. I hope, however, that this time I will be better at it. More true. And just like my first Domme, she is an incredible person, one who I deeply respect, and one whom I am drawn to for so many reasons outside of kink.
“Take your clothes off,” she said. And I did so, deliberately and carefully, as I have been trained.
“How do you move in the presence of a Goddess,” previous Mistress had asked. And I take that to heart, and take care in disrobing and folding my clothes.
“Those are cute,” she says when she sees my panties, “why don’t you keep them on.” They are lacy pink with black trim—my favourite colour combination. I approach her, where she is sitting on the bed. “You have a beautiful body,” she says with an intake of breath, caressing my chest and belly. She puts a pillow on the floor and wordlessly gestures to it. I kneel.
“Make yourself comfortable,” she says, “I’d like you to be in a position you can hold for a while.” I do, and am glad for the time spent practicing kneeling and getting up, and repeating, and holding the position that I had time to do over the past months.
“Do you know shibari?” she asked.
“I’ve never done it before,” I said, “but it would be a treat.”
“I’d like to tie you up,” she said. She had seen the results of my BDSM test, which put being tied up as my absolute top favourite thing. A bit ironic in that I hadn’t done it ever before (at least not as an adult). Shibari takes time. It is a beautiful rope and knot technique from Japan, a true art form.
She started with my chest, creating a harness with windows around my “breasts” and giving a wonderfully snug and embracing feeling to me. For the next hour, in the soft light of the studio, neither of us spoke. She tied me little by little, more and more, until I was quite completely immobilised. I was in an open sitting position, caught like a bug in a spider’s web, my arms tied to my legs, but hands still free.
She admired her handiwork, and then she did something unexpected. She began to tie herself to me. She slipped her legs over mine and brought herself close…suddenly all of her body was next to my body. I could feel her warmth. The delicacy. The precision of her fingers with the rope was mirrored in how she carried herself up against me. She wrapped her legs around me, and there was little of us that was not touching. She held two ends of different rope in her hands, and these were connected to me like puppet strings. When she pulled on them, she could control my body. They were like the reins of a horse on its bridle, and I revelled in the feeling of her control and the incredible sensation of touch.
“Caress me,” she said, “not just with your hands, but with all of you. I want to feel your skin talk to mine.” And so we did. And it was like being in a hallucinatory trance, a dream state. Touching, not touching, caressing. Feeling each other’s breath on each other’s bodies. It felt like the most extraordinary privilege. We explored each other’s skin in this way for a long while as music played softly in the background.
After, she untied me, and again put a pillow down for me to kneel. She placed her foot on my thigh and gestured languorously down her leg and towards her foot. I understood. I caressed her leg, and asked if I might kiss her foot.
“I’ve never kissed a foot before,” I said, and she was surprised and amused in equal measure. And I kissed it, and then I trailed my lips to her ankles and calfs, and gently caressed her leg with face and hands, exploring the ridge of her calf muscle.
“You move like a cat,” she said. I smiled.
“Thank you,” I said. It is nice to be seen. Self-conscious me thinks about being a foot fetishist (it isn’t anything I am against at all, just never done before or thought about…and also thinking it is a sign of respect. Even in religion, the washing of the feet).
[Thankfully a domme friend specialises in foot fetishists, so I will ask her—and don’t have to worry because I’m not a client].
Looking around her studio after, there was just so much that I had never seen before or knew what was. She has promised to do a show and tell and has told me she wishes to explore the thing that scares me most. I said I would be willing to do that with her, knowing full well just how scary it is. We shall see. We shall see.