It’s not any one specific act. It’s not a singular expression of dominance, nor the receipt of a particular act of submission. It’s not just a feeling–it’s more than confidence, dominance, or control. It’s more than love, or want, or possession.

It’s not a way of thinking, but of being.

When I released him from the restraints, he was framed in the center of the bed by tangles of silky black rope, beautiful against the white linens. He stretched and flexed his wrists for a moment, arranged some pillows behind him, and leaned back with his head on his hands. He smiled slightly, looking relaxed and dreamy.

That morning, he took a shower first, and he was supposed to dress and go downstairs to make breakfast while I showered in peace. He knows that he isn’t supposed to watch me bathe unless I give him permission. I don’t like being “caught” scrubbing my pink parts while someone ogles me without my knowledge–I’m fairly easily embarrassed. I don’t mind being watched, but I prefer to know so that I can ensure my bathing is more sexy than utilitarian.

Twisting his face hard in her hand, she pushes her index finger and thumb into the hollows of his cheeks, squishing his lips into a mangled “O.” With her other hand, she shoves a finger into his mouth and and he yields immediately, unclenching his jaw to allow the intrusion. She withdraws her finger slowly and pushes again, deeper. She adds a second finger, then a third, and he chokes to accommodate the fourth as she shoves her hand as far into his mouth as it will go. Still gripping his face, she fucks his mouth with her hand and watches his eyes grow wide.

“May I lay my head in your lap, Ma’am?”

As always, I suspected he wanted more of me than that.

He’s not without good intentions–his want helps maintain my headspace and keeps me running hot. But his intent–is it good for me, or him? By now, I’m more than well-acquainted with the blurry line that separates maintenance from manipulation.

There’s no ember and no kindling. When my lips touch his, there’s no slow and steady smolder. The taste of him is spark to fuel, and I am quick to light.

I have a strap-on set up that I like, but on a recommendation, I bought a Tantus Feeldoe. The marketing materials suggest that it’s a “harness-free” dildo for tandem use–a strap on without the straps. Supposedly, any woman with adequate PC muscles should be able to “hold on” to the bulb end–no harness required. It sounded interesting to me, and so I ordered one.

I want you under me, where you belong. I want you within my reach, where I can control your body, your mind, and your heart. I want to feel your tension, your frustration, your longing, your absolute trust. I want to twist your cock and watch the smile fade from your beautiful face.

His mouth was too much and not enough and I couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer. I wish I could say I was satisfied, but I wasn’t. I always seem to need more or less or different.

Lying head down, naked, my face in the mattress, I can’t see her expression, can’t read her thoughts, but I know she’s more soft than angry by the padding of her feet, light on hardwood. More soft than angry, but more driven than distracted, as her movements are deliberate and focused tonight. She’s been quiet though, through dinner, through the drive, and the not-knowing of her mood makes me nervous. She wouldn’t look anyone but me in the eye, not looking away, not looking down, but barely acknowledging anyone else.

After a few short moments and four long strides, J was inside the room. I immediately regretted standing so close to the doorway. Even with four and a half inch heels, J still towers over me. Although he was naked and I was clothed, I felt oddly exposed.

I fantasize about ending my day by shoving you down onto my bed, tying your arms and legs, spread wide, bound tight. The cool slickness of the rope, the dueling concentration and mindlessness required of knots I tie with uncharacteristic grace. I shut my eyes and pace through the arrangement, the adjustments, the preparation of everything just so. The the ritual of it all organizes my thoughts and quiets my head back to peaceful working order.

Listen carefully, boy. I’m going to tell you what I want, so pay attention.

I’m feeling restless and selfish and I want your mouth. I need you to make me come.

To celebrate the successful outcome of a major year-long project at our company, I invited several of my colleagues and their significant others to a dinner party at my place.

I will end my day by shoving you down onto my bed, tying your arms and legs, spread wide, bound tight. The cool slickness of the rope, the dueling concentration and mindlessness required of knots I tie with uncharacteristic grace. I shut my eyes and pace through the arrangement, the adjustments, the preparation of everything just so. The the ritual of it all organizes my thoughts and quiets my head back to peaceful working order.

After sharing some wine and small talk about our week, I told J to go upstairs, undress, fetch his collar, and meet me in my office.

I put the wine glasses on the counter and went upstairs after him. As soon as I was in the office, I slipped off my panties under my skirt and stashed them in one of the desk drawers. I powered up my computer and opened a document with a longer piece of erotica I’ve been working on.

8:00 pm: You will enter my home and set your things down in the entryway. You will remove all of your clothes, fold them, and leave them with your other personal items.

8:05 pm: You will join me in the bedroom and kneel at my feet. We will make small talk.

After the soapy mess incident, I invited J over on a week night to help me clean the leather and the toys, to have a drink, and to spend a little time with me. I didn’t really need help cleaning everything, but since I’ve been missing him, I took the opportunity and called him over.

It was our first time playing house for the weekend, with me still playing Domme. Fake it ’til you make it, right? Or maybe just fake it.

I left the front door unlocked and he had instructions to let himself in and come upstairs. I heard the front door open and close behind him, and after a few short moments, he was upstairs. Without any hesitation, he walked through the open bedroom door in his Friday business casual, car keys in one hand, messenger bag in the other. He closed the door behind him without looking at me or saying hello. It seemed strange that he would close the door, as I live alone and there’s no reason to close it.

He lies with his head in my lap, on the margin of sleep, warm and soft and relaxed. I watch him there, tracing his features with my fingertips, studying his face, running my hands through his hair. It feels as if learning the slopes and angles of his profile might give me some insight as to what’s behind them.