Dominatrix in Training part one

I dreamed:

I’m In a college library looking for a book called “Bondage and the Feminine,” call number 83.6 Instead I come to a section of art supplies for sale, and then go into the ridiculously long entranceway of an opulent shop, and then back out. Next I go to the top of a water slide, which continues up through a hole torn through a massive, hanging canvas. The man who runs the slide signals that I can’t keep going up; that the only way to go is down, so I do, trusting it though I know I will be going faster than is comfortable. My stomach is in knots, plummeting down.

The dream preceded my first ever play date. I had looked all over for answers to the mystery behind the compulsion toward BDSM. I supposed that the libido divested into BDSM could be sublimated into art instead of BDSM, as the dream suggests. I search all over for other answers, not given. I search for the source, at the top of the slide, which is inaccessible. Apparently, the only way to learn what I need to is to dive right in – a little scary, but safe, like first times are.

I called Señor and instructed him to let himself in, lock the door behind him and go stand facing the corner beside the door, clothes on.

I was just finishing getting ready when I heard him enter; I was in a black mini, black, sheer stockings, black patent leather heels and a lushly rose-red high-necked sleeveless top, the material a stretchy, meshy texture. I took my time, lighted some incense, letting him hear the sounds of the lighter, my heels, and my rustling about. I came in to the room and told him to face me; and felt a rush of timidity at the imposing figure he cut: white T-shirt, blue jeans, and some workman’s boots he wears when he rides his motorcycle.

The T-shirt, I found out when we were finished, was for Sputnik, a local band he had seen the previous weekend. The print was bright orange and pictured a guy playing electric guitar while surfing the crest of a wave. “Awesome!” I responded.

“Strip,” I said from across the room to him. When he was done, I told him to turn around, back to me, and I walked up behind him, and said to his ear, “Do you know why I made you leave your clothes on when you came in?”

“No, Mistress.”

“Because when you came here yesterday you threw your clothes off without asking. Now, I know you did that to show how sincere you are, but I don’t care. This is my space. You don’t do anything unless I tell you to. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress, I understand.”

I smacked his butt a few times.

“Do you know what you also did to piss me off?”

Silence. “Do you?” I said raising my voice and smacking his butt.

“No, Mistress.”

“You kissed my hand twice without asking permission.” I smacked him again.

“You know what you also did?”

“No Mistress.”

“You left a shirt here. Why the [expletive] did you do that?”

“I don’t know, Mistress.”

Smack. Smack. Smack. “Girl, this is my space. You don’t even breathe in my space without my permission.”

“Yes, Mistress, I understand.”

“Don’t tell me ‘you understand.’ ‘Yes, Mistress,’ is fine.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

The session went something like this, instructing, admonishing, disciplining, smacking – some face smacking, not hard, just to be intimidating – nipple pinching, grabbing his erection, telling him I wanted him flaccid and intended to train him to stay flaccid, and I would pull it down toward the floor, a little uncomfortably. I would grab his balls, and ask, “Whose are these?” His were the first male genitalia aside from my own that I had ever touched. It was a decent introduction.

In the beginning, I instinctively kept wanting to push him down toward the ground from his shoulders, and when I realized I was doing it I’d think, “This couldn’t be very arousing for him.” I think the reason I was doing it was an instinctive impulse to ground him, because he wasn’t so grounded. He was very excited. I told him I am going to train him to be an extension of my will. I taught him that he is not ever to say, “you,” to me; that he is to address me in the third person, and I punished him when he screwed this up.

For the first several minutes of the session I had him keep his eyes shut – which was good to do. It helped me get my footing, get past my feeling of timidity. Then I sort of forgot to let him open them. “Mistress,” he said, “May I have permission to open my eyes?”

“Why?”

“Because you’re so beautiful, Mistress.”

I took his head in my hands and stroked it saying I was pleased with him, that I might not have to discipline him as much as I thought. I was good cop/bad cop in one actor.

At one point, he was lying supine and I was standing over him, his head viced in between my shoes. I said, “You can’t imagine how delicate and sensitive I am. You know, the reason I’m so skittish in the external world is because I am too sensitive for it, but now you’re in my space. When you’re in my space, you’re inside a vagina.”

This cut to the deep truth of the global suppression of the feminine; how the feminine of popular culture struggles to be anything more than a reflection of man’s desire; how the feminine of many cultures is mercilessly raped and abused; how misogyny is enculturated.

How can women deign to present femininely in front of men knowing how much many men hate the feminine? Hence, the burqa. Hence, the power of the dominatrix over the feminine in man.

He was bound and supine, so excited that he got dry mouth and requested some water - the straws I had bought to eat through after my cosmetic surgery would have another use. I knelt down beside him with a straw in a plastic bottle (sorry Earth) of water and stuck it in his mouth – which gave me an idea.

I was straddling his midsection, looking down sternly into his face, squeezing agave nectar from a plastic bottle (sorry Earth) into my hand. I said, “I’m gonna teach you to eat out of my hand, and that’s not a metaphor.” I lifted up his head, his mouth to my hand, and he wouldn’t go for it, out of respect and obedience – praise Jesus. “It’s ok,” I said, “You can lick me,” and he went for it, hungrily.

I turned around, toward his feet, was off to the side, holding his legs up, one of my legs across his belly, doing something painful to his nether region, when I looked back and noticed his raised face looking down at what I was doing. I whipped around and smacked him and said, “What the [expletive] are you looking at?”

I realized after the session that I don’t want to use expletives in play anymore. The only reason I did was because it is muscle memory to use them when I am expressing anger; but it didn’t feel natural. It felt forced.

He didn’t have an answer for me right away, so I kept smacking him and telling him to come up with one, but he never did and we moved on to something else.

Toward the end he was tied standing up to a chest-of-drawers. I had my arm around his neck, spanking him while I monologued into his ear: “You know, I had a dream about you last night. You were a little boy, following me around, and you took a crap in my guitar. You didn’t really know what you were doing. It wasn’t malicious. Do you know that symbolizes?”

“No, Mistress.”

“It symbolizes all the shit you did when you came in here yesterday, throwing off your clothes, kissing my hand without permission, leaving your shirt…So, then in the dream I can smell your ass because you haven’t wiped, and I make you wipe three times.” Then, I said, “One, two, three,” giving him three hard spanks.

He requested me I use a cucumber on him, which I was a little wary of because I didn’t really know what I was doing. I didn’t use enough lube. He pointed this out, that a lot of lube was needed on the cucumber and inside of him. I said I didn’t want put my fingers in him without gloves. He volunteered to do it himself and I permitted him to. He went to the bathroom, came back, and we got down to it. At this point I was almost out of gas, about 50 minutes into it. And this part was my least favorite because of how responded to it – getting an erection myself. When I realized this what enthusiasm was left in me drained away. I realized that some vestigial, bestial, unfeeling part of me was involved – yuck – aroused by the act of penetration. I lost focus and jammed it in too far and he went, “Whoa, too much, Mistress.” Oh, I felt so bad, and every time I think of it I feel sorrow. I think of the rectum of the little child whose feelings were long ago frightened into submission, and so s/he turned to BDSM as an adult.

I was thinking we were completely finished, but he then asked permission to masturbate. Now, I had gotten the impression from things he said (that I misunderstood) that orgasm would not be part of it. “Oh, you should have told me. I would have paced myself for that. I don’t want to if I can’t be present for it – and I can’t be now, so next time.”

I’m not going to let him do it. I’m going to do it myself, while forcing him to stay as relaxed as possible, telling him it will be the last orgasm he’ll ever have, because we’re taking him for a sex change right after, so he better enjoy it. When he’s getting close, I’ll hit him if he tenses up. When he’s almost there I’ll say, “Come on, Honey, let me see your colors.” Then, “Good girl, good girl.”

I asked him how it was. He said, “You were intense.”

I knew I’d be good at it. Aside from writing, it’s the only marketable skill I have.

Just before he left I said, “Give me a person-to-person hug,” and he said, “Ok, ‘Senor’ and Amy,” and I said, “Yeah.”

Hug – smile - wave goodbye – door shut - deep breath – have to get out of the house, away from the BDSM energy back to regular life. I went down the street to Schoolhouse Ice Cream – a two-minute walk, but I have not once been there in the 4.5 years I have lived here because I have been too skittish.

In the summer, the parlor is non-stop-crowded with vacationing kids & parents. I wanted their gleeful company. I went inside without any anxiety, got a sugar cone of cheesecake-blueberry ice cream; sat down outside and watched and listened and licked.

On Monday, Wednesday and Friday updates are posted to Amy George’s other blog Ask the Dream Queen, for which she interprets reader-submitted dreams.