Dominique

by Sir Nathan

  A few choice words still had their desired affect. Now that I think about it, in the days after the weekend at Dean’s, I can’t remember how often I said words like, ‘Dominique, come here,’ but it was a few. I was increasingly worried about her, but I didn’t sit her down and question her. I let her think it through, expecting her to come to me if she had an impasse.

  After all, I reasoned, scening was still a relatively new concept to her. What we did together, to her, was simply how she submitted to me. Allowing herself to be used, to whatever degree I chose, during play, was ‘her life’. But scening in full view of others, having others use her at my whim, or seeing me use another woman, was a pretty big step. A lot had happened, and she still hadn’t come to me.

  By Saturday evening I decided to get to the bottom of it. “Dominique? Come here, pet.”

  “Yes, Sir?” I replied, entering the lounge room from the kitchen, wiping my hands on my apron. I’d been peeling potatoes for Andrew’s favourite potato salad. It was a bit weird how I threw myself into meal making.

  “Come and kneel in front of me, pet.”

  “Oh, um,” I hesitated, thinking about the water about to boil. “Yes, Sir.” Andrew had arranged a cushion for me and I kneeled down on it, my eyes flicking at the kitchen door.

  “I want you to tell me what is on your mind.”

  “Just that I have some water on the boil. I probably should turn it off if this is going to take some time.” I noticed Andrew’s eyes narrowing, but it was strange. It wasn’t an angry look, more like he was trying to see inside my head. I thought, Uh oh.

  “Go on,” he said with a sideways nod.

  “Yes, Sir,” I said, springing to my feet. Trotting on tiptoes to the kitchen, I turned off the stove and took off my apron before hurrying back. As I settled, I looked up into Andrew’s eyes and held my breath as he spoke.

  “Good girl,” he said, smiling softly down on me. “Okay, now what’s on your mind?”

  “Um,” I replied stupidly, trying to buy some time. “What do you mean, Sir?”

  “Don’t answer a question with a question. Tell me.”

  I sighed and looked down at my hands. I wasn’t being good and I knew it. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been myself lately.”

  “I’ve noticed. It’s okay. It’s time to talk to me about it.”

  I wanted to ... I really did ... “I ... I ...”

  “Dominique. See that door?” He pointed toward the front door and my eyes widened. “You may go through it at any time. Now talk, or walk.”

  Fuck! “I just ... I mean ... I don’t know what I mean to you!”

  The weirdest silence settled over us as his shoulders slumped. He looked down at the floor for the longest time before raising his eyes to me. Tears threatened to spill onto my cheeks, I was so afraid. I don’t know why, but I thought he was going to be angry. God, I was so wrong.

  The look in his eyes floored me as he whispered, “You mean everything to me, pet.”

  “Oh, Master!” I cried.

  “You are mine, and I am yours.”

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “We are one entity. Two people, but we are one. Together. You and me.”

  “Forgive me!”

  “We are on the same side. It’s you and me against the world.”

  “I doubted you!”

  “You are forgiven.”

  “I’m a terrible sub!”

  “No, you are not. There is more to this life than you know. Your lessons are not ended.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sir!” I burst into tears at his feet. I don’t know. I was wound up so tightly. With my fingernails tearing holes in the cuff of his dress pants, and my mascara running onto them, I heaved and cried my eyes out. My guilt had convinced me I wasn’t good enough for him.

  “Hush now,” he said softly. “It’s okay.”

  I could feel his fingers at the back of my head, sliding into my hair. Gently they tightened, but not to the point of pain. It was just short of that. It was exactly tight enough to halt my tears. As he raised my head with gentle pressure, I let go of his pants and moved up to all fours, following his desire for me. Backwards he bent my neck, arching my back and bringing my eyes to his. I must have looked a sight.

  “Everything about you is wonderful. Know I love you.”

  My mouth opened but nothing came out. I’m sure my heart stopped. As I gazed into his eyes, trying to find a hint of doubt and finding none, I finally found my voice. “Thank you, Master,” I whispered. His fingers slid from my hair, letting my head drop and giving me time to catch my breath. I sat back on my heels and spread my knees, placing my hands palms up on my thighs and arching my back. God. Joy filled the void in my heart and I longed for his touch.

  Always reassure me like this. Always make me yours like this!

  His eyes burnt into mine and I melted before him. I would never meet another like him. Only he touched me without touching. We both knew it. Oh God, we both knew it. The hair on my neck bristled as he rose from his chair and slid his fingers into my hair once more.

  “Come, Dominique,” he said, grinning and brushing a tear from his eye. “It’s time for the works, pet.”

  I’ve always believed actions spoke louder than words. It’s an old saying but so true. Discerning the veracity of Dominique’s words wasn’t hard. Her body language screamed the truth of them. Every heave of her shoulders, every sob into the carpet while holding the leg of my pants, told of her pain. How could I have been so stupid? I’d been so single-mindedly pursuing an outcome that I’d failed to recognise the danger signs. I guessed empathy wasn’t my strong suit.

  When she questioned her importance to me, her heart wasn’t the only one that skipped a beat. Mine also stopped in time. In that split second I saw Rebecca, waving her finger and laughing at my foolishness. I barely had time to crush my guilt and listen to them both.

  Move on, you big oaf.

  So I did.

  It was that easy.

  The next morning, I was enjoying a few quiet minutes of solitude, lying in bed, my mind wandering. Andrew had driven to the local bakery for some Danish pastries to have with our leisurely morning coffee. Mmmmmm ... I loved Sundays ...

  When I ran my fingers over my hip, I felt a couple of slightly raised and sensitive ridges of skin. Into my mind came the memory of being struck twice in the same place, and Andrew’s voice, reminding me not to move. My eyes fluttered closed and I cooed as I brushed my fingertips along the ridge. I’d had lots of these before. I didn’t mind. They were only tiny and didn’t last long. I actually liked them.

  Why did I like being ‘marked’?

  The reason I didn’t tell my vanilla friends the details of my relationship with Andrew was because they would confuse what we did with physical abuse. As might any uninformed observer if they saw the marks. I’m sure they would equate what we did with Andrew physically abusing me. I wished I could cast a temporary spell over them so they felt what I felt. Maybe then they would understand.

  For starters, Andrew has never hit me in anger. For example, I would never be struck across the face in the middle of a heated conversation. I was assured of that a couple of months ago when Andrew and I agreed to add it as a hard limit for me. Andrew said it was a hard limit for him too, and I was never to strike him across the face ever. I never thought of that. Blushing, I gulped and nodded!

  Also, no matter what he uses, rarely if ever does it begin hard. This is where I think internal wiring comes into it. Most people call it subspace, and just about all submissives experience it. It’s where time doesn’t exist, only what you feel exists. And what you feel is somehow experienced in a way that makes sense. Subspace can come over me at a moments notice. A look or a word might be enough. Even at my most feisty, even when an inappropriate thought is bubbling away barely in control, when I first feel that toy or his hand touching my skin or my hair, something happens and I slide into the place where I am me.

  When Andrew strikes my body
, whether it be softly, medium or hard, every time it is measured to coincide with what I want or need at that particular moment. Sometimes what I need is not necessarily what I would choose. But that is what I give to my Master. I give him the right to choose what I need. It’s true that most of the time we agree anyway. I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t. So when he tells me he is going to use something on me, I know he will ‘warm me up’ before using it with any force. I know he won’t actually hurt me. And, to my delight, most of the time I get no less than I deserve.

  So when I talk about being marked, I don’t mean being beaten black and blue. God. I can’t imagine what that is like, and I can see no parallels at all between the two. Andrew’s dominance is measured and accurate. It’s exactly what I like about the lifestyle: that it’s structured and clear.

  This is your place, and that is mine. I am like this, and you are like that. This is what excites me, and that is what excites you. We fit together.

  Sometimes I’ve woken in the morning wondering why I’m aching. Later, I can feel what he has done through my clothes. It affects me, being able to feel them without touching them, knowing they are there with me. A part of him. Being marked makes me feel owned, and serves as a constant reminder of my submission.

  Just last week, at my very first munch, we had an evening picnic with floodlights and barbeques. While sitting on blankets and munching hotdogs and steak sandwiches, one of the regular girls asked, “What is the difference between a slave and a submissive?” After a few protests that the subject had been beaten to death, two girls spoke up, saying they’d really like to know.

  Without thinking I offered, “A submissive chooses.” Everyone looked at me and I was very embarrassed. I think it was one of the first things I said in front of strangers. Maybe it was because I had given it some thought that I blurted. When everyone was quiet and waiting for a follow up, I was blushing madly and hoping Andrew would rescue me. But he didn’t. I had to say something! “A-A submissive chooses her path. A slave’s path is chosen for her.”

  Someone said, “That’s pretty good, I like that ...”

  I looked up at Andrew and he smiled and nodded, then added for the group, “A slave and a submissive are close allies. They are very similar in thought processes. Often it is simply a self-image thing, where one prefers to think of themselves as ‘slave’, rather than ‘submissive’.”

  A feisty sub asked, “Yes, but what, in your opinion, is the difference?”

  “Well, the lifestyle being what it is, there are any number of possible answers. But mainstream thought says a submissive is one who, by a choice that may be revoked, relinquishes a limited and pre-defined amount of power over themselves; and with this, he or she is satisfied, and so is their dominant. A slave is considered to be one who puts his or her entire being at their Master’s or Mistress’ disposal, without limit, and nothing less would satisfy either of them. As far as my opinion goes, I think in some ways, the ‘slave mindset’ is a little deeper than the ‘sub mindset’. Deeper in the sense that it is more assured. It is unquestioned. This may or may not be a good thing.” He gazed down at me and I blushed. “For me, I enjoy watching Dominique’s internal tug of war.”

  Someone yelled out, “Write that down!” and people laughed and agreed. Some even clapped. While kneeling at his feet, I nodded and smiled back at them, proud as anything and wondering what he just said!

  I’ve thought about what he said the last couple of days, wondering if I am more sub than slave, or vice versa. In terms of consensuality, I feel a real sense of control over my destiny. I have chosen how I want to live my life. I chose to submit. I don’t choose when or where. But I did choose to submit in the first place. I guess it comes down to degrees. So, does that mean a submissive is more independent than a slave? Is being independent a good thing? What about being ‘strong’? Can one be a ‘strong’ sub or slave? Is that a good thing?

  These thoughts and more wandered through my mind as my fingers wandered over my skin. I felt the welts again and wondered if I was bruised. I was a bit sore, but not too bad. It was more just numb and tingly, and my skin was a bit bumpy. Andrew had cropped me very firmly last night. Particularly on my ass and the upper part of the back of my thighs.

  From the bed I looked across at my full-length mirror and decided to take a look. Wincing, I slid out and walked over to the mirror. Turning around and looking over my shoulder, I cast my eyes over my reflection. Despite my light olive skin, my ass was still pretty white, and I do bruise fairly easily. My butt and the back of my thighs were dotted with blotchy red marks, some of which were edged with thin short lines of darker bruising. I thought they might take a day or so to go away. I ran my cupped hands tentatively over my ass and sighed in pleasure as visions of last night came flooding back.

  I crawled back into bed, remembering how I was kneeling right here with my head down and my ass up. Andrew wanted my forehead resting on the bed. My knees were spread very widely, wrists cuffed behind my back. I was naked except for my collar. He told me he wanted me prepared before he fucked me. Just like that. “I want your ass nice and red before I fuck you, pet. Yeah, curve your back like that. Damn. That’s lovely.”

  I think he also said something about it pleasing him to crop me. When he started it was so gentle. He took his time, building so slowly and finding his rhythm. It made me squirm. I couldn’t help it. I moaned and groaned. Some of the words I used made me blush. Mmmm ...

  The feelings escalated. Like a wave approaching the shore, they gathered strength and speed in time with the warming taps of the crop and my descent into subspace. When Andrew stood over me, with a crop or something in his hand, I could honestly say there were few other moments when I felt my submission more acutely. And God how I loved it.

  “I want you to keep me informed, pet. Tell me what you are feeling and ask if you want more or less.”

  “Yes, Sir,” I breathed, shuddering in pleasure. Just being bent over like that, on my knees with my wrists cuffed behind me, gave me tingles of delight over my warmed skin. Trying to describe how I felt made it even more intense.

  “Tell me if it’s good, or just right, pet, by your words and your actions. Push your ass back if you want more. Tell me if it’s a bit too hard, and certainly tell me if it’s too much.” He always subtly reminded me of my safe words. It was like a ritual.

  “Mmmm ... Yes, Sir,” I replied, trying to relax.

  “Good girl.” The warm up was finished and he started smoothing the end of the crop over my ass and down my legs. Barely touching me, gliding slowly. The folded tip of leather was cooler than my skin. I could feel my own breath gather pace as it glided up and down my back again. It won’t be long now. Easing into the warm embrace of my space, I moaned when he twisted the crop and drew a line with it down the length of my spine.

  “How does that feel pet?” he asked, smoothing it over my ass again.

  “Mmmm ... Nice, Sir. I-I’m ready.” Pop. “Ohhh ...” I squirmed, clenching inside. Automatically I pressed back against the crop as it smoothed over the light pink welt left on my skin. I didn’t even think about it. I didn’t have to wait long for the next one either.

  Pop.

  “I am going to colour in your ass, pet. I think red tonight. Do you understand?”

  Pop.

  “Mmmm ... Yessss ...” I hissed, pressing back against the tip of the soothing crop.

  Pop.

  “You like this, don’t you?” Andrew asked.

  “I-I love it, Master. It makes me so hot. More please. Please ...” I pressed back, swaying my ass invitingly.

  Pop.

  “Good girl.”

  Pop.

  “My pussy is already so wet, Sir. I’m so hot inside I can feel it pulsing.”

  “Use stronger language tonight, Dominique.”

  “My cunt is so wet, Sir.” Pop! “Ohhh ... Mmmmm ...” Pressing back again, I bit my lip when Andrew reached between my legs, lightly stroking the moistened and sligh
tly parted lips of my pussy. I rolled my hips against his fingers making it obvious I wanted more, but he withdrew them. The crop returned and I groaned, unable to stop myself pressing back against it. I was hunching and trying to get him to touch my clit with it. Andrew noticed of course.

  Pop.

  “Keep a little more still pet.”

  Pop.

  “Ohhh ... S-Sorry, Master,” I breathed.

  Pop. Pop.

  “Mmmmm ... That’s just right, Sir.” I closed my eyes and swooned.

  Pop. Pop.

  Pop!

  “Ooohhh ...”

  Pop! Pop! “Oh, Goddd ...” I clenched my teeth, groaning, “My cunt is-” Pop! Pop! Pop! “Oohhhh ... Your slut’s cunt is very-” Pop! “Ooohhhh!! Oh ... Mmmmm ... Very fucking wet ...” I ended in a whisper.

  “I’ll have to check again, pet.”

  He put the crop down next to me on the bed. His warm hands spread my ass cheeks and I felt his breath as he examined my skin closely. My breath caught in my chest when I felt his kiss. He ran his fingers firmly up and down the opening of my pussy, parting the lips and spreading the juices all over me. Pressing two fingers more firmly against me, I arched and trembled as he pushed them into me. There was no way I was going to be able to keep still, and I shuddered and gasped as his fingers slid back out. He firmly forced them back in, all the way. I gripped them tightly and had a small orgasm. “Oooohhhh ...”

  “Slut,” he whispered, no doubt feeling the light spasms fluttering through my cunt.

  “Y-Yes!” I agreed. His fingers started squelching as he thrust them firmly back and forth, faster and faster. Suddenly I felt like I was hurtling toward orgasm, and it was going to be huge. At the last moment he withdrew his fingers, leaving me teetering on the edge. His fingers ran over my asshole, wetting me there too, and I ground back against them. “Please, Master! Please!”