When my boyfriend told me he wanted to visit a dominatrix, my first instinct was to assume that I wasn’t doing a good enough job of ordering him about at home. I immediately felt horrible for thinking like that, but if we were both completely honest with each other, it was true; the chances are he would never get anything done if I wasn’t around to give him a kick up the… well, you know. I was ambitious, career-motivated, and he may have been many wonderful things but he wasn’t that, bless him. So we had this de facto arrangement where I had to make nearly all the important decisions at home as well as at work, and trying to do everything was beginning to drain me.
Maybe he wanted to make it more formal, maybe he really wanted to be my… my servant? My slave? I giggled at the thought of that, and reflected that I was the only slave around here at the moment with all the responsibilities I had. If I could make him a little more useful around the house, where was the harm in it? He quickly assured me that these women didn’t offer any kind of sexual favours, that they catered strictly to the fantasies of their client – strictly was the operative word, I guess – and so I gave him my blessing.
We looked up sites together online and found a domme who worked in a place in the centre of town, only about half an hour’s drive from our home. The price was affordable too, on our income; well, largely my salary. Suddenly what seemed like an idle fantasy for him was now actually possible, and I could sense the nerves on his part. He hemmed and hawed over whether he should go through with it or not, until finally I told him that he should at least explore his feelings about it and see where they lead him. The thought of what might happen to him there certainly made me curious, and turned me on a little, but inside I was still thinking about what I could get out of it rather than what the sexual dimension would really be like.
I left him to make contact and sort out all the details with her, all the kinks that people want to explore in their sessions; he wanted to keep them private for the time being and I didn’t mind that. The following Tuesday I went off to work as usual knowing that in the middle of the day he’d be in a darkened chamber being worked over by a woman. It was really hard to concentrate on my job that afternoon.
When I got back around six, he was already sitting on the couch looking quite relaxed. I gave him a kiss and asked, “So, how did it go?”
“Oh, it was… OK,” he said phlegmatically, crossing his legs.
“OK?” He wasn’t the type of guy to make grand statements, but I thought he’d feel more strongly about it one way or the other.
“Well, it was enjoyable up to a point, but I couldn’t take it all seriously – I mean, the experience is a turn-on, but I don’t know whether I really believed everything she was saying. I kind of wished you were there towards the end.”
“What was she like?” I queried, wondering what sort of things she had done to him.
“She was good at what she did. Very firm. Controlling. Your kind of woman all right,” he grinned at me, and I felt like hitting him for the controlling comment until I saw he was half-joking. He was right, of course, but it’s funny how the things we enjoy doing don’t seem attractive when they’re pointed out to us.
“I’d like to see what she did for myself…” I wondered aloud; he heard me.
“Well, there’s only one way you can do that. Book a session yourself.”
“Oh Stuart, don’t be ridiculous,” I replied instantly. “They don’t do that kind of thing for women… do they?”