Dominista (F-27, Virginia)

When I was home from college one summer maybe 10 years ago, I remember browsing through my mom’s magazines and reading an article in Redbook.  It was about woman who paid off college loans by working as dominatrix at a bondage club, or as she called it, a “dungeon.”  There were only a few photos in the article.  I clearly remember in one photo, she was standing tall and confident in black leather adorned lots of silver snaps, wearing tall, shiny boots with stiletto heels, and holding a horse riding crop.  Her smile was more like a sensual smirk.  I greatly admire her courageous career path and obvious joy for her work.

A second photo showed inside her “dungeon” room, with plenty of black leather-wrapped “furnishings,” for lack of a better word.  A padded table centered itself in the room, with a bench on one side and what looked like a contractor’s sawhorse on either side.  Hanging neatly inline was an assortment of wooden and leather paddles, whips, and restraints.

The thought of doing what she did crosses my mind from time to time, well at least monthly when my student loan statement arrives.  Honestly, I think about it more than once a month and not just to pay off college debt.  It became my fantasy the same night I read the article.  I want the power of a man’s trust, the control of his attention.  It makes me wet just thinking about it, but not something I will ever act on, I think.  I married my college sweetheart, and we have two beautiful children.  Being a dominatrix is not the type of career path that is family friendly, or is it?

The thought of dressing in tall heels and leather, holding my head high and, for that moment in time, controlling a man’s every action.  His eyes fill with lust, thirsting for my attention and a deep desire for pain and pleasure.  When I have these thoughts, I am more than aroused.  My nipples harden, becoming sensitive to touch, and my breathing deepens.  The overwhelming sense of power and control push my entire body near the edge of orgasm.

He tenses when I cup his balls with a commanding grip.  High-pitch moans from an otherwise strong masculine guy, his throbbing erection so in need of attention.  Ignoring his arousal while glistening pre-cum drips.  His hands wanting to touch me, and my stern looks making him know better.  Listening to him beg me, whimpering like the little bitch he is.  The thought of a grown man helpless under me is such a turn on.

I use his hard cock as a leash to lead him around the room.  Despite the thought of getting fucked with his rock hardness, I take even more pleasure in sending him back into public with an aching boner poking from his suit trousers, with the frustration of his balls so full of cum.

I command obedience as he kneels before me, the restraint he shows when I stand with my panty-soaked pussy at his nose.  “Good boy,” just the words are his reward.  Don’t forget the pain.  God, yes, inflicting pain with my hands, my teeth, my toys.  The lovely shades of pink that turn to red and scarlet.

Sometimes, it’s claw marks on his back or the glow of red from a flogger while his hands are bound overhead.  Or, he bends over a leather “horse” for a spanking that even my hand isn’t strong enough to give.  The wooden paddle quickly delivers the pain he secretly desires.  I also love using the belt from his trousers to whip is ass, but sometimes a thicker strap is what he truly needs.  All along, knowing he will rub his sore tush and admire my work like the paintbrush of an artist always brings me a powerful orgasm.