I had tried just about everything I could do on my own, and none of it was enough
I put myself in a cock and ball harness, to feel the teasing tension build up, and of course I got hard. I felt those moments of bliss with the enhanced tightness around me. But there was something missing. There was no escaping the constant awareness that it was just me choosing when it went on, when it came off and whether or not there would be release afterwards.
I filled myself up with an anal plug in desperate moments, even making myself endure its presence for a few hours while at work, but the brief experience of the physical sensations of it didn’t come close to filling the void of what was missing. No one told me when it had to go in. I had picked which plug to use. I hadn’t had to strip slowly or carefully. I hadn’t had to kneel and display myself, waiting for permission to start inserting it. No one told me when I was allowed to remove it. No one to make me last just one more hour past the time I thought I might explode. Taking it out felt cold and clinical.
Plugs had always had a way of sending me into subspace, but not like that. There was a particular stainless-steel plug I wanted to try out so much, but I couldn’t build up any enthusiasm to actually make the purchase now. Without being beyond my own control and whims, it seemed as empty as masturbation.
At times, I’d slip into an almost subconscious chastity. The bit of ache between orgasms, if the gap was long enough, seemed to be as close as I could get to the feelings I craved, and it wasn’t all that close. When I’d become aware that it had been a while, I’d find little reasons to last a bit longer, or set some milestone to reach, and that sensation helped for a while, but then I’d cave. No one would push me farther than I thought I could go. No one would demand it.
I tried just about everything that had been part of my best experiences in the past.
I spent an entire afternoon setting up a self-bondage predicament, cobbling together a spreader bar for my ankles, with a chair set up in the middle of my living room. I got myself into place one bit a time: locking my ankles into the cuffs at the end of the bar, filling my mouth with a ball gag, pressing play on repeating video to tease me, then putting on a blindfold, limiting myself to just the sounds. Finally, I cuffed one wrist to the back of the chair and tried to get myself out of my reality.
It was useless. All I could think about was my free hand. I sat there for maybe 20 minutes before freeing myself, all the while wracked with feelings of self-loathing.
My hunger, unfed, just kept growing and tormenting me.
I looked over at my laptop, but then pushed it away.
I’d tried to find someone before. Over and over. Online experiences had sometimes given a bit of respite and were certainly easier to find, but they seemed only a hair above being alone. I had no idea how someone hundreds of miles away could give the visceral feeling of helplessness that I couldn’t escape my need for.
What did that leave? Did I really want to try to find a Domme of my own again? I had tried before, over and over. When I didn’t chicken out and walk right past a munch location, I would go in and feel so much less than those around me. Less experienced, less handsome, less fit, less young, less worthy.
I’d tried everything else, I told myself, so what did I have to lose? The other half of my brain would remind me of shame and frustration and all the times I’d cursed this part of me, to the point of throwing out toys and videos and clothing, only to feel like an idiot six months later when I was back in the kink shops restocking.
I lay awake, arguing with myself until about 3am, and then I gave in.
I pulled the laptop into bed with me, it’s glow the only light in the room, and I started to hunt once more for someone who might be the lost puzzle piece to fit with me.
I started a new search of the kinky folks nearby, trying to check the right boxes of interests and desires to at least have some chance of compatibility.
It was never easy, as there were always too many subs and not enough Dommes, and I was hardly the kind of man to see my reflection in the mirror and think of myself as a catch. It didn’t matter though, as I needed to do something.
I didn’t find “the one” but I made a start. There were people to talk to, and to commiserate with at least.
My first messages to Dommes went mostly ignored. It reminded me of my previous times on the site, but they were probably flooded with quick messages from men trying to get some quick attention before disappearing. I forced myself to stick around.
I decided that I might distinguish myself from the others through perseverance. I found my niches, sought out others with my interests, and started contributing to chats.
Later, when browsing through the site and my conversations, I noticed someone new replying, and a Domme, which immediately caught my attention. Queen Laura, hadn’t replied to me directly, but she had included a quote from one of my favourite movies in her reply. It wasn’t that often that anyone other than me managed to work in a quote from Buckaroo Banzai in their general conversation.
I brought up her profile, noting from the text that she was local, from her interests that she was intriguing, and from her images that she was stunning. Definitely too stunning to be in my league, but I decided to take a chance. I set her in my sights.
I tried my best to play things calm, starting to interact with her directly only now and then, but each time she replied I felt a rush of joy. It limited myself to small talk, and over time I seemed to be developing a rapport with her, chatting about local events, favourite stories, and shared enthusiasm for bits of pop culture or kink viewpoints when opportunities arose.
I felt joy as the relationship seemed to grow.
I had to forcefully calm myself when she mentioned that she was going to be attending an upcoming fetish event and even asked me if I’d be there too. I was so proud of myself for waiting a full hour before replying that I likely would. Panic set in for me, however, when I realized the event was already sold out.
I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass. I couldn’t. I’d worked too hard to get here.
I started sending private messages to everyone I knew, stopping barely short of begging to obtain someone’s extra ticket. Finally, the day before, I was able to get a hold of Tim, a sub friend I’d know for years who had to cancel due to illness. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my heart.
The party was a dream, though I hid my single-minded focus. I saw her immediately, looking more stunning than I’d dared imagine. But I had to bide my time, like a hunter in the rough, waiting for just the right moment to happen to be near her, and to introduce myself. I overcame the jitters of the minute and in return she was lovely, polite and kind. She remembered our interactions once I’d referenced one of the movies we’d discussed, and she smiled.
She was in a discussion with some friends, and I saw her gaze dart back to them, so after she’d smiled once more, commenting on how she was glad to be able to attach a face to my name, I excused myself and took the win.
I allowed myself to finally become part of the party then, and it was thrilling. There was an ache, for sure, as I saw so many interactions around me I’d have loved to be a part of. Dommes and subs, engaged in light bondage or impact play, or demonstrations of their subservience.
There was just a bit of a dark mark on things, as one younger Domme tried to assume a role with me, grabbing me too intimately for someone who’d not consented to being hers, but I stood my ground as respectfully as I could, and made my exit soon after.
Queen Laura was near the exit as I slid out, and I was genuinely touched that she had seen the incident and actually asked me if I was okay.
I knew then I’d made the right choice, as I valued this indication of kind and caring control so highly.
It also gave me a perfect reason to contact her again, to thank her more completely.
We continued to keep in occasional touch. I kept myself from initiating too many conversations, as I was already getting nervous that I was getting too quick to like or comment on her twitter posts. I didn’t want to make the same mistakes I’d made in the past, but she didn’t give any indication that I had, and she wasn’t the kind to her hide her feelings.
I was making mental notes about her, wanting to make sure I kept track of her likes and dislikes, from artist and authors to the way she like her coffee. Attention was important to me.
I even made little offers of service, nothing too overt and certainly nothing sexual, but I knew I’d be close to her, I’d offer to pick up a coffee for her or pick up some delivery.
My circle of friends, especially my twitter follows, grew, with her at the unseen centre. She seemed to know such intelligent and kind folks, especially other subs. New sub friends hadn’t been my part of my plan, but they were certainly an added bonus.
I ran into her at more parties, and she was always just as kind to me, though I kept my ego in check, noting that I never saw her be anything less that caring with any of the subs she interacted with.
Keeping emotions in check was the most difficult after the times I’d actually been a part of service or submission to her at these parties. I cherished the marks on my ass from one of her caning demonstrations, even taking a photo of them to keep. After one session where she had drifted close to me, securing my wrists over my head in some predicament bondage, I carried the memory of her perfume with me for weeks.
I kicked myself for wanting more still. She was stunning, in beauty and mind, served by men much younger and more handsome than I, but still my heart ached I tried to make myself take breaks from twitter and fetlife, but I always came back.
And then, out of the blue, a chance arose. She was hungry, as she got at times, and none of her collared or regular subs were around. She offered me the chance to serve, to feed her, she said, and I leapt at it, hoping she didn’t notice just how quickly I did. I couldn’t believe after all this time my plans and perseverance were paying off.
I was a wreck for days beforehand. I dieted and worked out, vainly trying to make the best of myself. I groomed and scrubbed my body nearly raw, cleaning myself in every way I could imagine.
When the day finally came, I felt like I was going to vibrate out of my skin. I barely ate, but I made myself take some nutrition and I drank plenty of water. The hours took forever to pass. I arrived far too early, and had to walk some more, circling the block and pacing.
When the second hand on my watch finally crawled past 12, I knocked on the door.
I’d been near her before. I’d been part of public play with her before, but none of those things properly prepared me. To be alone with her was altogether new.
She was the same, but different. She was lovely, of course, but there was less performance in the way that she had dressed. She didn’t need anything but her presence to command my attention.
I felt immediately lucky, honoured, to be there alone with her. No distractions. No audience. No one to compete with for her attention. The room was quiet, but there seemed to be a buzz in the air. It made me feel like we could both hear my heart pounding.
I was at once nervous and calm. She was totally at ease at having me as hers, which was a feeling that radiated into me too, even as I was haunted by doubts that I deserved to be there.
There was barely a touch of small talk, but even then, I could feel that my submission had begun. The first tasks were simple, ordinary, and felt like service rather than display.
It was like nothing I’d experienced before.
There were no games. No costumes. No role play. Just her and me, with her showing me in innumerable ways how complete her control could be.
She forced me to be still without the crutch of bondage.
She demanded me to be silent with the help of any gag.
I sank deeper and deeper into the bliss of subspace before her. It was intoxicating. Overwhelming. Transformative. She melted my mind.
She demanded perfection in the way I moved and spoke. I was made to beg for the slightest touch from her hand, with a sincerity that grew beyond my ability to control my emotions.
She had me pleading with no less honesty for the touch of her crop, her whip, her cane. Pain that I’d never believed that I could endure or want became my desperate need before her.
The ache was pure and total.
There was simply nothing but that need. I was probably crying, maybe sobbing, but I couldn’t think of anything but her. The world sank away.
My body was marked and trembling when I became aware that I was on my knees at her feet.
“Tell me what you want,” she commanded.
None of the usual answers were enough.
I begged for the crop again, the paddle, for bondage or humiliation, but she saw through the superficiality of all of that. They were surface requests, and I felt a panic rising inside me that I wouldn’t be able to find the right answer.
“Whatever you want,” I sobbed but that was a cop out and she saw right through me.
“I just want to please you,” I said, feeling broken and desperate.
She kept digging, demanding to see me expose every bit of my soul to her.
I finally crumpled to the floor, naked, broken, and undeniably sobbing.
I felt the soft touch of her hand, pushing my sweat-soaked hair out of my eyes. Her words reached out as a lifeline to me.
“I’ll tell you what I think you want. You want my collar around your neck. You want my voice in your ear telling you that you’re mine.”
The sobbing returned. She was right, of course, but I was overwhelmed by the realization that I didn’t deserve her. I’d seen her subs, and the other men who’d lined up just to pour her wine.
Who was I? Middle-aged, overweight, with greying hair and average looks at best. I wasn’t rugged or fit or even wealthy. My flesh was marked by flaws instead of defined muscles.
What did it matter that I wanted her collar, even if I wanted it with everything I was? She wouldn’t want me. She could do better, and had. Any man she wanted would be here asking for the same.
I felt my naked body on the cold floor mocking me with its pathetic flaws.
Her hands lifted my eyes to hers.
“It’s okay to want that,” she said with a voice that immediately warmed me.
She wiped the line of tears from my cheek.
“Why do you think you’re here?” she smiled.
I shook my head, and closed my eyes tightly, not wanting to know the answer. In my mind, I could already hear her tell me that I was only here because no one else was available. A last resort.
“Let me tell you a story,” she said.
“I commented on that very first thread knowing you would check my profile. It was bait. By that point I already knew everything about you I could find online. Including your favourite movie. Did you think that was a coincidence?”
My eyes widened.
“I told you about the party. I bought an extra ticket and arranged for Timothy to sell it to you.”
My heart was loud in my chest.
“I have been watching you, luring you in for months. Does that sound like something I would do if I wasn’t interested?”
It was all too much to take in and every detail and memory was trying make its way into my mind at once.
She pulled a slip of paper from a pocket behind the belt of her skirt.
“Check the date,” she instructed.
It was from months and months ago, dated even before our first interaction - a date I knew all too well, having reread every word she’d shared with me over and over.
The receipt was from the finest of the city’s kink shops, and it listed just one item: “Collar - Custom.”
I lifted my eyes back up to her in confused shock.
“Did you think you were the hunter, little man?” She smiled.
My heart thudded with a deafening totality, driving out thought.
She held the perfect new collar in her upturned hands.
Engraved into the gleaming steel was my name.