What do you call a gathering of dominatrixes?

I call it a delirium

There is a specific moment in time that I wish to capture.  It was more a wicked expression, a sparkle in the eye, a smirk.  Her expression as she side-eyed me whilst sitting on the face of the sub who was sandwiched between my legs spoke deeply.

And in that moment there was this delirious joy at what we were doing.  And I could feel him shivering in ecstasy as he lay utterly immobilised underneath me.  We had bound him, slipped his arms into leather sleeves, a kind of straight jacket, full body, rendering him helpless.  Such a good boy.

One buckle at a time, from his ankles to his neck, we zipped and buckled him in, loosely at first, and then cinched them down.  His cock was caged, as it had been for days now, a rule imposed by his wife if he were to come to us, but he was otherwise naked in there.  A fan blew on him to keep him from overheating.  But the room was just right.

He lay in an alcove, on a nice leather banquette.  The smell of leather from his body bag, from the banquette, from my leather corset, was very present.  Heady.  Full.

She was experienced and confident in her movement, and that opened doors for me.  A chance to dare.  He loved when she sat on his face.  I wondered if he would love it as much if I sat on his face.  I do know how yummy my pussy smells.   The things we think about.

I had been given an honour to play with an important slave.  After all, as a baby domme, I really don’t have much to go on…Especially given how little experience I have. Despite playing with some amazing dominatrixes over the past several years, often, I still have done so little.  There is far more that I have not done—so much to still try. But practising as a domme has exposed me to more kink practices in a few sessions than I would have likely learned in a lifetime of visits to domes.

Only, the more I dabble into the world of the dominatrix, the less I identify with being a slave, or a sub, at least in the way that play is characterized in porn, or in the situations I have come across.  I belong on top.  And to be honest, I exult in it.

After sitting on this man’s face, on our slave, our sub, she left the room, left me with a man totally immobilised, left only with trust.  I felt momentary butterflies in my stomach. Delicious power. The fear to wield it. I defaulted to my spiritual kinky self, and began to hold him in the way that I have been trained as a somatic therapist.  Only I cheated a bit.  I kept one hand on his cock.  Through the leather, through his cage.  And I said dirty things to him. Hissing hot, kinky breath in his ears that had hime moaning.  And made him confess his deepest and kinkiest and wildest fantasies. I toyed with him until he whimpered.

I traced my fingers across his lips, his cheeks, ran my fingers through his hair, and gently caressed his whole body through the sleep sack.  A giant leather strait-jacket.

My fellow domme came back with a wand, one of those relentless vibrators capable of shaking the mortar from a brick wall.  I had moved from his side to straddling his body, and once we plugged it in, started to play with him, teasing every inch of him with it.

I was sitting right on top of his caged cock, which was very present between my legs even though it was through the thickness of leather.  He began to buck and writhe underneath me. I could feel the hardness of the cage through the leather, as it landed right on my vulva, just there.

“Oh, you like that baby,” I cooed, and then sandwiched the wand between us, right on my clit.  I began to pleasure myself, to get myself off, and writhe and wriggle above him. Leaning my hand on his chest, throwing my head back and moving my hips and thighs, sighing, in time with his own thrusts.  He went wild and started to buck like a stuck animal.  His thrusts were powerful, and I could feel his male energy banging at the gates.  The thought that he would be forever outside was hot.

“Oh my God, that’s so hot,” my fellow domme said, and then pushed her fanny into his face, spreading her cheeks wide and pushing towards him as he buried his face between her legs.  “You’ve been such a good boy, you deserve a treat.”

“Oh God, thank you,” he moaned.

“Such a good boy,” she echoed.

“Don’t you wish you could fuck me baby?” I cooed.

“Yes,” he moaned.

“But you can’t can you?  You’re just our little cuck slave.  Our little bitch.  To use as we wish.”  He whimpered his assent.

I continued, “if you’re a good boy tonight, maybe we’ll fuck you instead.”  He moaned.  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I brought a strap-on,” he whispered.

“Did you now? Aren’t we confident,” I teased. “We did too.  Maybe we’ll spit roast you later.  Be a good boy and find out.”

I have no idea how long we were at it.  I rode him with the vibrator driving me nuts until I could barely feel my legs.  It was fucking amazing.  

When we decided that we/he had had enough of the body bag, we let him out, suggested he go and clean himself properly inside and then join us in the other room.  The other room had a bunch of other slaves and dommes working, and there was some added excitement to the proceedings.

We shall call it the mummification room, as there were three men who were completely mummified, with only their bits exposed. Several boxes worth of wooden clothes pins had been arrayed around one man’s genitals to make them look like a flower. Another was enjoying electro-shock. The third was being “tickled” with a pinwheel. All three were in ecstasy.

When our boy joined us he was going to get the seeing to of his life.  The topic of another post.

But I wish to return to the energy.  As someone who is somewhat shy, there is something about the theatricality of stepping into a dominatrix persona that is very liberating.  Sometimes I wonder why I do what I do, why I am motivated to do what I do….and even if my life is deliberate, I never have the sense of planning, of knowing where I am going.  I just let it flow and am “good” at surrendering to that flow.

For those of you who wonder what it means to be a witch, there is no clearer description in my mind.  We are surrounded by energies and magic.  All of us.  All the time.  Religions try to put this flow into a box.  But it cannot be boxed.  Cannot be controlled.  It is life force and life source energy.  It is life itself.  Creation.  And death.

To be a witch means to see these forces, to feel them, and to move with the supple energy it takes to flow alongside them.  To know how to read them.  To know what is auspicious and what is not, to know when to press ahead and when to wait, to stay silent, or to speak out.  When to hang on, when to let go.

I said above that I am “good” at it.  But the truth is, as with so many things, that I am just a baby.  I am getting better at it every day.  With every passing moment.  But mostly I know that I know nothing…and that helps me to listen.

The witch is an archetype.  The dominatrix is also an archetype.  Both share extraordinary power.  Perhaps the power is not the same, but it is quintessentially derived from the divine feminine.  And when I wrote of the sparkle in her eye at the beginning of this post, that is what I was referring to.  This insane magic that stems from a situational disbelief, that this wild stuff we are creating is so potent.  It is sexual theatre, and it sings straight up to the heavens.

I have never seen women have so much fun, and that became a boat that carried me along, that had me right in the heart of the maelstrom.  I don’t really need to look for reasons to be filled with joy for having become a woman.  Not at all.  But this is a gift which will last forever, when I think of the wild-ass joy had on top of a man, several men, as I, and several others, meted out whatever kinky, crazy thing we thought might turn them on, and most definitely turned us on.

And the rest of the time?  They massaged and licked our feet, acted as footstools, human ashtrays, and proper slaves.  And do you know what.  It was as fun as fxxk.