D is for Domination

It's not what you think

Yesterday, for Mothers Day, since I’m an airhead, I spent the day in the dungeon. Over a month ago, I scheduled this session with my panty slave who comes from out of town and had made air and hotel reservations by the time I realized my mistake. And since I had already booked something with one slave, I went ahead and booked a session with my darling sweater fetishist as well. Two long sessions would, after all, go a long way to financing my Mother Day trip to Disneyland which was what I REALLY wanted for Mothers Day anyway.

Plans were made and play was negotiated. Both slaves has a variety of interests and I’ve known each for several years. They are both terribly submissive and looking forward to an afternoon in the dungeon being dominated.

I’m sure you, dear reader are conjuring up images of dark leather filled room filled with screams of pain. Truthfully, so was I. Both sessions went awry though, reminding me, once again of what I’ve known for years.

Domination is more then standing over someone in expensive fetish gear, whipping them into submission while they beg to kiss your boot. Oh, it can be. And it often is. But that’s just one aspect of it.

Sweater slave sat on the floor and and told me about how his wife had recently left him. For a woman. The woman he wishes he was. This inspired a long conversation of where he is mentally and where he wishes to go in his submission. Hopes and goals were discussed, among them, the realities of actually having a sex change.

Even though, for the most part, I simply sat and listened, I was exhausted at the end of the conversation. Not in a physical way. In a mental, trying REALLY hard not to say the wrong thing for two hours, kind of way.

I was looking forward to the physical play with my stoic panty slave. I was pretty sure no emotional chit chat would be in order as he has a really hard time even showing any emotion at all, and must examine each feeling with care before expressing it.

I slowly and methodically restrained him, letting him enjoy the sensation of the rope settling in firmly against his skin. Once he was completely bound with rope, I used leather straps to make sure every wiggle was met with a comforting firm pressure. We had never experimented with hoods before, and after a quick check to make sure he didn’t have any issues with claustrophobia, I awkwardly struggled to slide the hood on over his head and zip it up.

PROTIP: The hood goes on before the rest of the body is restrained.

I slowly slid his panties up against the rope exposing his ass and slide the cane across it. Cool. Threatening. A bound subs most delicious nightmare. I asked him a question, more to listen to the tone and timbre of his voice then the actual answer. He answers. Stoic. As always. He conveyed all the emotion of having been asked to pass the milk.

Warm up strokes become warning strokes become quick red stripes.

And the sobs begin.

From underneath the leather and the rope, he tells me that a friend just passed away. I remove the hood, place a towel under his head and a calming hand on his back and let him cry.