Posts tagged ‘dominance’


In the past five months, my life has taken quite a turn. Met a man, fell in love, moved in together, merged our lives in all the messy ways couples do.

He’s given me a garden. A bare patch of dirt that we weeded together and have been busy filling in with herbs and flowers. On weekends he takes me to nurseries and buys plants with me, then we come home and get our hands dirty. Digging in, putting down roots.

On Sunday I found a soft silk halter top I’d forgotten about after my move last year, and wore it out on our most recent garden outing. The sun felt good on my bare back, and I felt liberated and free in the open air. Common sense told me to put on sunscreen, but I seldom listen to common sense. The result was a mild sunburn, but nothing so bad that I worried about it too much. Monday night after we’d had dinner and late night showers to wash off the dirt and sweat, he tackled me on the bed and bit into my shoulder. I gasped at the sensation, and relaxed into the pain. He bit more, harder, all around my back and shoulders, eliciting more gasps, sighs and shudders as I found myself happy to be at his mercy.

My first official night as a resident of his house, we both fell into bed exhausted after midnight. I assumed he’d be too tired for much more than snoring, but he surprised me by flipping me on my back and getting down to business for the next half hour. We spent several days adjusting to being around each other more often, and sex slowed down again. Sometimes the rhythm works for us both, and a break is good. Other times I find myself moody and withdrawn, wondering what it’s going to take to rekindle his interest. He’s learning to let me work through things on my own until I’m ready to talk to him about what’s bothering me, and he listens. “I can’t read you mind,” he reminds me, “so if you’re upset, you need to let me know what I can do about it.”

While washing dishes together yesterday, I dug down into what was bothering me, and broke my silence of many hours to let him know that I needed more sex, please. My body is tuned to a higher sex drive than most women, it would seem, and without it I can get seriously irritable and unpleasant to be around. I also mentioned missing some of the rougher aspects of our early sex life. The tender stuff is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but the pain, rough handling and domination that we’d be dabbling with before was more enjoyable than I’d ever imagined or experienced with other partners. He leaned over the sink and looked at me, still withdrawn, as I stared at the pan I was drying. “Okay,” he said. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Just talk to me.” He wiped his hands on a towel, took the pan out of my hands, put it on the counter and took my hands in his, then kissed them. A few hours later we lay in bed, tumbled and bitten, but very happy.

Communication is a wonderful thing. So is being honest with myself so I can be honest with him. The deep stuff can be disconcerting to look at, but it’s necessary to dig through it to see the other side.




Lately I’ve been having dreams about ex boyfriends and other awkward relationship situations. This morning I dreamt I had two lovers and had to choose one, but didn’t want to, so kept both. One was injured and had to go to the emergency room, and the other took him, leaving me alone to panic because I didn’t have a cell phone number for either one, and no way to contact them. I woke feeling awful, and found it difficult to look New Guy in the eye when he rolled towards me in the pre-dawn dark and blinked at me sleepily.

We were both raised Catholic, and although I’ve long since left the church, he teases me that something of the faith still remains in my system. It’s true, despite shifting all that guilt in therapy, I still feel as though I’ve been cheating on my lover when I dream of someone else.

I had the pleasure of welcoming in the First of May with him early after midnight, and felt the pangs of loss as he drove away this morning to help his mother for the next few days. Thinking of May Day and of Beltane, I was glad that we had at least a little time together before he went away, especially after not being together much over the past week. This page caught my eye this morning:

Beltane is the Sex Sabbat just as Samhain, held six months hence, is the Death Sabbat. All other Beltane (also called May Eve or Walpurgis Night) customs are minor compared with those that explicitly celebrate human sex and fertility. Up to the Protestant Reformation in the 16th Century, marriage vows were conveniently forgotten at Beltane in many rural European villages. Newly formed ‘couples’ went into the plowed fields at night to lie down together and copulate in order to ensure the fertility of the coming year’s crops. The Catholic Church could not stamp out this ancient pagan tradition. It took the dour Protestants who suppressed May Eve celebrations in England by passing and enforcing laws against public gatherings around Maypoles with their accompanying dances and fertility rites.

Kinda looks like the Catholic church missed out on the two of us, too. We’d spent much of the previous day weeding his garden and looking for new plants, so that counts as plowing the fields, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, shortly after I’d arrived yesterday to help with the weeding, he lured me into the house and upstairs… then brought out the handcuffs. Hinged ones, not the type with a chain between the bracelets.

Once the cuffs were on, I found myself quite compliant, really wanting him to dominate. He is a self-described dork (which I find very appealing) who has a lot of respect for women, so he doesn’t come across as the sort of man who gets off by humiliating anyone. In fact, it’s a fuzzy line for both of us, and we’re still figuring out where the borders actually are. Instead of humiliation, he seems to be drawn more to control, whereas I seem to like pain. He pointed this out as I lay on my back, still cuffed, by suggesting we try some nipple clamps. “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “What makes you think I’d like that?” I asked, actually wondering if they might be too painful for me. “Well,” he said, lying on his side, head propped up on one hand while with his other hand took one of my nipples and stretched it out, “you seem to like this quite a lot.” I sighed contentedly. “Oh yeah, that’s right, I do.”

After a few seconds of hard twisting and tweaking, he rolled onto his back and pulled me up to straddle him. Even when I’m on top, he’s still in control. His hands guide my rhythm and pull me close or push me away. Close in, his mouth on mine, we breathe into each other. I can scream or whisper then, and he drinks it all in. Pushed away, he looks into my eyes and we share that dazed, orgasmic look that lovers have when all the gears are meshing in the right ways. We have so much eye contact during sex that there are times when when simply sitting across a table from each other, a gaze can bring back a hint of that intimacy in an unguarded moment.

I’ll miss him while he’s away. There are physical pangs we both feel at the same time when we can’t spend time together, a yearning to indulge in sensory connection. When we’re together, we’re most often within reach of each other, if not actually touching. Right now, all I can do is write about it. He did tell me to, after all. “Now you can tell your readers we used the handcuffs,” he chuckled as he put them away yesterday. “You can ask for them anytime,” he said as he hung them on a hook in his closet, “but I won’t always say ‘yes’.”

Oh, go on and tease me, why don’t you. I can take it.


Because he told me to.

The new man in my life and I have been developing our relationship at a speed most of my friends find a bit dizzying. No matter. It’s like he can read my mind sometimes, asking if I’d be willing to try something that he wants to do or see me do, as if he’d somehow crawled through my head and found the little secrets I’d stashed away in little boxes, tucked under the rubble of my day-to-day worries and concerns. He finds them, each and every one, and opens them up to see inside, then asks, “would you do this? Would you do it for me?” Yes yes yes. I would. I will. I open up to him as I never have for anyone else, and welcome the intrusion. He takes no more than I’m willing to give, and is grateful for all that I share with him.

We’re apart during the week, living in different cities in the same region. It’s a 45 minute drive (we often do it in much less, traffic permitting) from his house to mine, and we both have day jobs. Arriving at his house last Friday, I carried my things upstairs to his room, and he watched me from a few steps behind, his desire palpable. After dinner downtown, he pulled me into a shop on the main street to inspect mattresses and bed frames, looking for a frame that would allow the use of restraints. Two weeks. It’s only been two weeks and already we’re looking for beds. The weekend before we’d gone browsing for restraints, so maybe it’s not all that surprising after all.

Last week during one of our daily phone conversations, he told me had questions he wanted to ask, but only when he could see my face and how I’d react. Saturday morning as we dressed for a luncheon with friends he wanted to introduce me to, he said “I want to see you dominate another woman. Is that something you’d be interested in?” I blinked at him, slightly unsettled not by the question, but by the fact that it’s always been a huge desire of mine to do that. “Yes, absolutely,” I smiled. “Good,” he replied, showing me the 3 x 5 card he’d written the question down on a few days before. “Got anyone in mind?” he asked as I wrapped my arms around him. I laughed.

Dominance and submission seem to flow easily between us. He finds it attractive that I’m a strong, independent woman, and I find it attractive that he can call a room to order just by saying something in his assertive, deep, resonant voice. While it’s gradually developing into a Master/slave relationship, I find myself feeling more empowered than ever before. Being dominated by him, possessed by him, I can let go. I’d always had an iffy grasp of D/s thanks to previous partners who didn’t care about me as much as he does, so I didn’t think I was really all that willing to try it. Now I can’t stop wanting it. He opens every door for me, plays the gentleman in public–because he truly is a gentleman–then in private holds my wrists and makes me say it, that I want him to be my Master, and I feel a lurch of fear in giving myself away to someone, mixed with a rush like falling out of a perfectly good airplane.

Saturday afternoon we found a sturdy metal cuff bracelet for me to wear, something non-fussy, light enough not to weigh me down, but heavy and solid enough for me to know it’s there. He put it on my left wrist, giving it a little squeeze to assert his authority over me. Looking at the gold ring on my right hand, he said “I hate that ring. I can’t wait to get it off your hand.” It’s an antique that I bought for myself as soon as my divorce was final back in 1999, the same year of his own divorce. “Why?” I asked, surprised at his statement. It’s my favorite ring, the one I never take off. “Because it reminds me that someone made you so unhappy. That you’ve been alone. I want to replace it with something that shows the world you belong to me.”

He doesn’t know it yet, but I took it off this morning as I stepped into my shower. I don’t need it anymore.