What makes me think that: accumulated evidence starting from our early days together and extending through our current activities with me wearing the “Slave” hat (err, cage).
Years ago, I would tie Molly to the frame of the futon we kept in our little, illicit “love nest” (we were both “encumbered” - putting it politely - with other relationships at the time, but our attraction to one another compelled finding suitable accommodations for our frequent rendezvous).
Molly would squirm and moan oh so remarkably when I tasted her tightly restrained body, then took my liberties. She liked it. Oh yeah.
She never complained when I took a hairbrush to her bottom on occasion. Heck, she provided the hairbrush.
I can even recall taking her for a walk on the decorous streets of our nation’s capitol one evening, her hands cuffed behind her back, under a tasteful Burberry trench coat. I clutched her at the elbow as we strolled, nodding politely to the passersby. She was dripping wet and ready for me after that adventure.
But we never formalized that relationship in D/s terms: it was just play. An occasional thrilling detour from what was more typically robust if vanilla sex. Once the ropes were untied, or the cuffs unlocked we quickly reverted to our roles as peers, partners, parents.
But now that I have taken on the role of Mistress’s devoted Slave, it’s become obvious to me that my Mistress has her own Slavish compulsions, which I could never exploit to their full extent.
Sure, we do our Sunday switch ritual, when the Slave gets to take charge for an hour or so. But that only seems to whet her appetite.
Take yesterday as an example. Mistress willingly submitted as I locked leather cuffs around her wrists, then tied them to the little eye-screw affixed to the head of our bed. It was a cold night here in River City, so Mistress was still wearing her black tights from our “date”, a movie and dancing, the night before. She also was adorned with a little silky top left over from those “love nest” days of yore.
Once suitably restrained, arms extended over her head, Mistress got all fidgety as I sidled up to her in bed. And of course I stiffened as I slid against the black, soft fabric stretched across her legs. We kissed passionately as Mistress pulled against the restraints holding her in place. Her body betrayed the pleasure she took in her helplessness.
Now Mistress was ready for her “punishment”. Rolled onto her stomach, her lovely bottom was forced to absorb repeated blows from my hand through those clinging tights.
Mistress let the pillow absorb her pitiful little moans. But the squirming of her hips against the bed, even when I paused in my spanking, told me how turned on she was by our little ritual.
I was sort of “relentless”, to the extent a Slave can be with his Mistress. I tried to mimic a cruel Master endeavoring to “break” his Slave.
But actually, I am way too easy in these moments. Too much the Slave, worried that I might impose any real pain on my Goddess. So I paused for a moment, letting my hand gently caress Mistress’s tenderized bottom.
“You like to be spanked, don’t you Mistress”.
“Yes, Slave”.
“How would it be to submit to a Master who pushed your limits Mistress. Who reduced you to tears, had you begging, breaking for him with a cruel spanking.”
“I’d like that, Slave”, she conceded with a little moan of delight at the very thought of it.
I reached for the Hitachi Magic Wand I had plugged in and ready next to the bed. She heard it come to life, and gave off a little sigh of anticipation. Her bottom was still facing up, and I slid the tool between her legs, teasing her. She responded like a little slut would, bucking, squirming, seeking more intense contact with the churning head of the vibrator right where it counted.
As I used the wand on her, my other hand administered a few more “cruel” blows on her bottom, resulting in more gyrations and moans from my increasingly desperate “slave”.
But I did not make her beg. It’s not in me, I guess. Instead, I was merciful, pressing the wand under her just a little more, giving it access to the “good parts”.
Soon this intimate contact tilted Mistress over the top, and she slid down into the depths of a moaning explosion that kept her breathing hard, head buried in her pillow, quivering with aftershocks for some time. It took her a while to request her release, long after I had my lustful way with her.
Some Dom, some day, will have his hands full with this one.
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