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“I trust her.”

That’s what I kept saying.

That’s what I said to myself when I asked her when she might be able to play next. There is something different about her. There isn’t the same theatre or show about her, in real life or in dominance. It took me a while to put words to it, but I finally saw it as simple confidence. She knew her value, her strength and her skills and she didn’t need to advertise or try to convince those who didn’t see it.

I trust her, I told myself when, during the course of comparing schedules and responsibilities, she happened to say, “Oh, and I know what you need this time, so don’t worry about the details.”

What could I say to that but “yes”? She has proven over and over that she sees into me in a way I can’t even see myself. Not to mention, she is very difficult to say no to.

In the past, I’ve had to prepare myself before appointments. There have been requirements for bits of clothing to be brought along, or I’ve been asked to be freshly clean-shaven, not to …
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The Journal

Even living alone, I hid my journal.

I hid it better than I hid the fetish porn DVDs. I hid it better than the locked duffel bag full of sex toys and neatly bundled lengths of rope.

My journal was the record of my experiences. It held the secrets that those other objects couldn’t tell. I might have been able to explain away a pair of leather cuffs, a blindfold, or even a pair of stockings, but the journal’s heartfelt scribbles laid bare my truest self.

From the first time I dared to admit to my desires, I had wanted some kind of record. My first thoughts of nervous planning became itemized lists of desires. I kept notes on a Dominant’s responses, so that I wouldn’t forget her instructions or overlook her preferences. After a session, sometimes not even waiting until I made it home, I would pull out the book and jot down notes so that I wouldn’t forget a single detail. Later, over days, I would expand the notes, recording my emotional responses, my pleasures, my questions, and even the d…

A Working Day

Part 1: Morning Michael Davis was just opening the front door from his house and stepping outside as his limousine pulled around to meet him. It hadn't stopped for a second before his driver stepped out to open his door. He smiles and says a quick hello and good morning. A warm smile on her red lips and a “Good morning, Sir,” was his gift in return.

Denise, his driver, was dressed with a purpose. Her skirt was dangerously short and must have Lycra in it to grip her perfect ass that tight. Her smooth legs were perfectly displaying the pattern on her stockings. Her short black jacket barely covered her crisp white blouse, fitted to her curves perfectly. There were enough buttons on the blouse open to just show the top of the black lace bra. He smiled. This woman knew how to dress for effect. His cock ached with lust.

As she closed his door and climbed into her own seat, his mind suddenly drifted to the image of that skirt trying to stay in place as she drove. It must slide up around …

The First Time: a shared secret

The third look back in an occasional series regarding personal milestones.

It strikes me as perhaps a bit funny that for two posts in a row that are “looking back” I find myself talking about toys in my backside. I find it interesting for me, personally, to also be getting to the start of a kind of service and use that I have found so recently transformative... but that is getting ahead of myself.

Mistress Butterfly (see The First Time: my own taste) loved to tease me and to see me teased. She loved to create predicaments for me where I’d be squirming from her mixture of mental and physical torments.

It was no wonder, then, that she chose a butt plug as the first toy she ever sent me shopping for. She liked to know that I was wearing it for her when I was home, requiring me to get a webcam back in the days when they were little round orbs you had buy and aim. She would often have me put it in for my drive to her as well, something that made that 45 minutes in and out of traffic both…

The First Time: take that

The second look back in an occasional series regarding personal milestones.
Male submissives don’t seem to go too far into their exploration of kink without getting their backside filled up. There are just so many potent experiences and sensations to be had. They are given so much power thanks to the ingrained taboos about what it means, in my case, to be a straight man raised in an era when words were used very differently than they are now.

The first time I felt the pressure of a vibe pressed up against the rosebud of my ass, while I just so happened to be bound to my Domiant’s bed and not wearing a whole hell of a lot more than a pair of pink panties, it felt scary and strange, and my tension only made it feel more so, I’m sure. I recall her telling me that she was going to love fucking me, and the idea seemed so foreign, scary and exciting as well.

Life and circumstances in their way made it so that she never did. She loved me filled up, plugged and teased, but she never got her ch…

The First Time: my own taste

A small look back, and perhaps the first in an occasional series.

I was new, young (at this), and I had so much to learn. I was only just transitioning into any real expression of the kinks I was trying to understand and figure out my place within. Like just about every at that time, I played online, roleplaying on IRC channels. I was also only beginning to realize that, after mostly taking on the role of Dom or bondage Top, I was feeling submission to be much more in tune with the voices inside my head.

I had met Delilah, a submissive woman, online and had met her on a couple occasions in person as well, as we lived perhaps 45 minutes away by car. We had played a lot online, with me always as the Top and her as the eager and enthusiastic submissive. She was married to her Master (who was fully aware of our friendship), and just just seemed to know so much about this world I was entering, while still finding a way to appreciate what I could provide her. When I talked to her about my c…

Just an Hour

1: The Bet

“One hour?” he asked.

“Yup. If I win, you have to do whatever I want for one hour. You do whatever I say; no backtalk, no hesitation, no matter what,” she wasn’t smiling, but she seemed calm – no big plans hidden behind her eyes as far as he could see.

“OK, but anything? Come on, that seems a bit open-ended.”

“You don’t have to agree. It’s just a bet you can take or not.”

“And if I win?”

“What do you want?”

“I want an hour too, but I know what I want you to do already.” Now he was smiling.

“I’ll bet you do.” Even Tasha let out a smile with that one. “So? It’s a bet?” She extended her hand, with a smile.

Davis smiled as he gripped her cool soft hand and shook it. “Deal.” He was already undressing her with his thoughts.

Davis had met Tasha years ago in an evening writing class at the local college and despite the fact that she was a few years younger than him they struck up a lasting friendship. They found their interests in literature were similar enough to have a lot of overlap but s…