Processing an experience with a Pro-Domme who is not Mistress


Trigger warning: this post contains discussions of a more inherently sexual nature than one finds usually in this blog.

It was way more sexual than I am used to.  Although I am not capable of a physiological response that is typically male any longer, she was determined to make me cum, and she did. It was by far the most overtly sexual experience I ever had with a pro, including that with an FSSW. Most people reading this would think that was a good thing–after all, that’s the point isn’t it? But given my dabbling with SWers over the past few years, it is highly out of character. It was troubling. Yet, in a good way. It forced me to confront certain things about being a sexual being…and that, though not intended, was a profoundly healing and positive step in my life.

What do I mean? I have written about cherishing and protecting my own innocence. I have written about being an infantilist. Masturbation for me throughout life has been about edging. How many days, weeks, months could I go until it just happened? Of course, as a randy teen, it happened all the time. But as I aged, a mixture of self-control, expertise in edging, and also a simple balancing out of my libido ensured this possible. Sounds a bit like chastity? Indeed, only I have never needed a cage. I hated to have the cage as it was a heavy reminder of a piece of my anatomy which was triggering, but also it denied the exquisite torture that a full-on erection never to be tended to meant.

Innocence, infantilism, chastity, are all facets of the same thing. To be coy, an almost unwilling participant, that was always my kink. She made me do it. I had no choice. This is perhaps an unconscious processing of the inappropriate sexual contact and dynamic that existed between me and my mother, and my absolute and resolute denial of “taking” with a woman, not asking for consent explicitly at all times are all bound up in this horrible feeling of the mother as sex giver. To be sexualised as a child is horrific under any circumstances. To be sexualised by your own mother results in the kind of existential trauma that at times seems too great to overcome, to even try.

I didn’t really know so much about this particular domme other than that I found her very attractive, and when I found multiple safe connections to her, felt very comfortable in going to see her. What I discovered is that on many levels, she was a perfect fit. She is primal. She is deeply into shibari. She is also way more overtly dominatrix-like in her behaviour out and about than anyone else I have ever encountered, and so yes, she was a real Domme. In a way that makes me believe that she is absolutely, fundamentally a domme in her vanilla life too. And that is wonderful to experience.

You might also be amused to think that this was the domina that this slave decided to announce to, “I’m not feeling very submissive anymore,” as I munched away on the meal that she ordered for me, thereby already producing already rather submissive ecstasy in me. Her response, written about previously, also included her musings on trying to “figure me out.”

So, on several levels, you might say that she was just what the doctor ordered. Only she is certainly not what the doctor might have prescribed for myself. Do we always know what is best for us? Much of what we did made me uncomfortable, mostly as I thought about myself, and it boils down to this one thing. My sense of self is resolutely un-male. But I felt processed as male, as sexually male, and that was very challenging for me. Ultimately, in a good way. But boy, trying to work through my feelings from the encounter have taken longer than usual. Here is what happened.

Thankfully, she acquiesced to my reluctance to explore CBT, which is so not where I am.  Yes, I do want to punish them, hurt them, throw them away, cut them off, but I don’t want to be reminded that I even have them. She understood and respected that choice, but it felt also really off kilter to imagine her wanting to start with something that should clearly be a red zone for someone who is transgender and living out as trans-feminine.

In a way though, this was symbolic of what our session together has become for me: a final farewell to my masculinity. Actual Mistress helped me to figure it out as have my posse of therapists. And in this, our session was a wonderful gift.

Boy me had been turned on by so many aspects of BDSM, and this proved to be a romp through many of them–none of them done before. She spat in my mouth something I have always fantasised about as like kissing. She also whipped me, and I mean, really whipped me for the first time. When I say that females can take more pain than males, I can be sure it is true that oestrogen has increased my pain tolerance, for even though boy me was whipped and spanked from time to time, and I always felt I could take more, one must trust the Domina’s natural intuition and experience that they know better than you do when to stop. Right there on its own is a great reason to see professional rather than try this with your partner at home.

She also tied me using the beautiful technique of Shibari. Although I had experienced this before, this experience kindled a love for the art which is likely to have a course in the rest of my life. What a gift. She also introduced me to electro-stimulation, something I have always been curious about. Combining this with flogging and prostate massage was a kind of pleasure sensation that I had never felt before. I can’t say it any other way: being with her was a tour de force.  It was also deeply and utterly sexual. And that freaked me out a bit. I loved every minute of it, but would I want that to happen again? I think not, and yet, rational me says that is not a healthy reaction. That I should embrace being sexual in this way. That I should be willing to play in this way. That I should enjoy it. That I should let myself go. That innocence in the sense described above isn’t healthy for an adult sexual being. In other words, this session forced me to confront many things.  Many uncomfortable things.  And the truth is, that as uncomfortable as I felt them to be—after all, it was the first time ever with a pro-Domme that things were overtly sexual—that it was a necessary and healthy experience.

Something else took place that day.  Even though my whotsit doesn’t “respond” anymore, what happened was that I was milked, and had what may very well have been my last male orgasm.  It was a watershed moment for me.  I got to say goodbye to masculinity.  And that is how I processed all of it.  The things we did were all things that male me would have truly loved.  Female me is into different things.  She has taken over.  But not so much that she couldn’t recognise a goodbye for what it was.

In the end, there were three things that I cherished most: that she ordered for me in the restaurant, that she loves Shibari and that we spent a long time doing it, and that she was open and human to me, not making me feel distant because I was a client. In fact, she did the opposite. Despite feeling fetishised as a client, the byproduct of feeling as if I had been processed as a male pervert [please excuse my choice of language and feelings], I actually felt related to on a very honest, open and human level…even more so than I felt after year of playing with Ex-Mistress. And this contributed enormously to my sense of well-being both in the world of “client of Sex Worker” and in my vanilla life–that how I was treated by Ex-Mistress was not at all representative of the broader community, that accepting a violation of my own boundaries is not normal–that it is possible to be a client and treated as an equal and not actually be fetishised or degraded by the interaction. Again, an enormous gift.

There was something else. I’ve never been a pain slut. I am not a little bit masochist. But I had never been with a primal before. My confession to her at the outset that my developing breasts hurt, and were extremely sensitive did not provoke the expected gentleness and care. Rather she slapped them, pinched them, hit them, and bit them. She rode roughshod all over me. I was scratched, pummelled, spanked, flogged, whipped and bitten to a fever pitch. And after, as I was getting dressed, she rather big-sisterly taught me another and easier way to put my bra on, and left me with the warm glow of being fully and utterly sated.

And as I admired the purple welts all over my backside, the scratch and bite marks all over me, and the rope marks that were the result of being suspended, I let out a deep sigh of contentment. “I wanted to make sure you had something to remember me by on your long flight home.” And indeed, I could feel still the next day when I tucked myself into bed all the way across the Atlantic Ocean.

Would I see her again? You bet. Will I tell her about any of these feelings? Not really, though I did thank her especially for the Shibari. A professional domina is an artist and the scene she creates is performance art. I don’t want to play out my own fantasies. I would much rather let hers run wild and feel them unfold. If things go astray there is always a safe word, and I never felt close. And her parting words, “I was impressed by how much you could take,” she remarked about the whipping, “this is something to explore,” she continued, “it would be fun to see how far we can go.”

Linking the session back to the mental-emotional turmoil

The subtext of all of this is that I am not comfortable with my own sexuality. I am not comfortable being a sexual being. My whole erotic landscape is coloured by an inappropriate relationship that my mother maintained with me, inappropriate touch, and as I grew up, emotional psych games. Being sexual feels wrong for me because I link it back to mother love. Putting myself in diapers was a way to thwart that, to contain it, literally and figuratively. Getting off just felt wrong. Having an orgasm has always produced feelings of guilt afterwards with a very few exceptions when in healthy couple sexual love.

And this domme, through this session, has forced me to confront my existence as a sexual being. And no matter how little I liked liking it, enjoying it even, I can’t help but feel it was healthy and healing for me. It also highlighted that despite my enormous progress over the past year and a bit, I have a long way to go.

Thank goodness it’s the journey that counts not the destination.

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