by D. M. Dewey
It was like I was addicted to dick. I could seriously have been, but I’m thinking I wasn’t literally forming a sex addiction; I was just making up for lost time. I was having so much fun, but then one day Janet said, “You’ve had your fun. I think it’s time for you to calm down now.”
Boo! I suppose she was right. So I did. I disabled my dating account and twiddled my thumbs. I would go back on for a day or two just to check in and see if there was anything worth meeting. And no, I didn’t mistype that…
Sometimes I would get an interesting message. One came from a guy claiming to be a Dominant male. His name was Paul. He wrote how he liked my pictures and thought it would be nice to chat a bit. His torso picture was pretty nice, so I accepted. Little did I know that Paul would be the person to put me in touch with my inner Goddess.
We chatted online at great length, sometimes by chat and sometimes via video. He always wanted me to watch him on camera whacking off and he was always careful never to include his face while he did so. I would watch patiently because it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. It was just part of our dynamic. He would order me to say things to him and I would shrug and say them. Sometimes he would order me to do things to myself, and I would. I wanted to be able to let someone take control that way, but it felt really wrong.
Paul would confess all sorts of sordid stories to me, all of which were probably lies, but they were fascinating nevertheless. One day he would claim to be in L.A. and a few days later he would say he was in Hong Kong. I would ask why his furniture was the same at both places. He would say something like, “I have the same furniture in all of my offices.” I always replied that he was full of shit and that it was okay to just be a lonely loser in one place.
He liked that I always called him out. He thought it was funny that I didn’t show any true signs of interest in him. Paul’s dick wasn’t even that great, so that wasn’t even a draw. He was right, I really didn’t have any interest in him other than for personal entertainment. It made him feel unsettled and it caused him to work harder for my attention. I would yawn and tell him I had some TV to watch. That would really get him going.
“I’ll let you tell me what to do to myself,” he would eagerly suggest.
“But I thought you were a big ol' Dom. Why would you want me to do that?” I asked, curious why he wanted to change this game we’d been playing for a couple of weeks now.
“I’m feeling submissive today,” he replied. “I want you to take control over me.” I suddenly felt very self-conscious. There are so many things that I could tell him to do. Where did I begin? How far could I take it? What if he got bored? What if I didn’t do it right?
“Get on your back, bitch!” A voice I had never heard come out of me was now ready to play. “Move it!”
He slowly lowered himself onto his back and a wave of good vibrations washed over me. I was about to have a lot of fun.
After I worked him over with my voice for a while, he finally got himself off, and as soon as he did, I clicked the video off. I was done for the day and I didn’t want to talk about it. I wasn’t exactly sure what had come over me, but one thing was for certain: my panties were soaked.
For a few days, I was pretty turned on at all times just thinking about that video chat. The only problem was I was broke as a joke and desperately needed money. I had been determined to never work an office job again after I left the Midwest, so I needed to get creative, and like so many other Los Angeles newbies, I turned to webcam modeling. Now this was just bizarre, but I was so glad that I did it because it was hilarious.
I would sit in a nighty in front of my webcam for hours and random guys would peek in at me. Some of them would never speak; others would just jump up and down dying for me to acknowledge them. “Please, miss, say hello to me!” They could hear and see me, but I could only see what they wrote. The only way you got money was if they tipped you or took you into a private chat. If they did that, it would cost them about five bucks a minute to be alone with you, and you would get about two dollars out of it. My neck would get all sore from trying to find my “good light” so I didn’t look like a raging hag on camera.
Turns out I was a terrible salesman and had no skill luring men into a private chat, so after about twenty-five hours of doing this and $2.32 earned, I decided webcam modeling wasn’t my calling. I quite possibly could be the absolute worst webcam model on the planet. Who knew? I give credit to those women who can market themselves and have the patience to sit there and pose for hours, looking all gorgeous and perfect. It ain’t easy.
I told my webcam buddy, Paul, about how I was failing miserably as a sex model, and he laughed. He told me to try another website and suggested one. I told him I was done with that. He then said, “Did you know there is a fetish that is all about women taking money from men? It's called Financial Domination. You should totally check it out. There is even a website just for it.”
WHAT? What is up?! “No way! Men get off on that?” I said in disbelief.
“Some do!” he replied. “It's crazy; you should totally do that if you’re hard up for cash. You’d be great at it. I have faith in you, and you will pay me ten percent.”
Could I do that? Use men for money? I have never been dependent on a man for money and I am not a “user” so it goes against my nature. But I was really broke, so I thought I would at least look and see what I would find.
What I found was a whole new world. A world where women demanded to be spoiled and men begged to be used. Men were known as pay-piggies, cash cows, or ATMs. Women were known as Goddess, Mistress, or Ma’am. These women were righteous and powerful. Posting pictures of themselves with fists full of cash and wearing expensive gifts they had just received in the mail from their money slave. The tones of the women on the site were very harsh and demanding. Posts said things like, “I feel like raping your wallet, bitch!” or “All of you pathetic losers can wipe my ass with a hundred-dollar bill. Now give me your fucking money, slut!”
I signed up for the site and became a member of their community. I chatted with the other Dommes and quickly learned the language of the fetish. The same Dommes were usually online and chatting about this or that, while a sub or two would try to eek out a word in edgewise. One of the Ladies would snap at them, “Mind your place, loser!” and get back to the conversation at hand. These were smart, funny successful women. Not con artists or users like I had originally thought. They truly got off being treated to things and being showered with gifts and cash. Okay, most of the women were not into conning the men. The owner of the site was quick to identify someone who was there for the wrong reason and would throw them out of the community fast.
I felt like most of the men on there were more likely to con the women. “Flash me your tits and I’ll send you an Amazon gift card.” Me being the naive one fell for that a couple of times. Yes… I said a couple of times. What was I thinking? This wasn’t me at all. I wasn’t a money-loving whore who wanted to flash her tits for gift cards! I could tell after a week or so that I was teetering on some trouble if I didn’t bail out now. My self-respect had already been undergoing some permanent reconstruction; I didn’t need to add “whore” to my growing list of professions. To be clear, I don’t think these women who are into Fin Domming are whores, but in the world of BDSM, the Fin Dom is considered the lowest form of existence, the absolute worst. People don’t believe that it is an actual fetish. So again, I am not saying they are whores; I am just saying that because it was not a fetish of mine and I was desperate for cash, it represented a slippery slope for me. I did really enjoy my conversations with these women and felt a loving connection to some of them, and also felt they deserved not to be exploited by the likes of me. So I slithered away and crawled over to another popular site for fellow BDMS’ers. Finally, I was home.
Okay, I confess… I did try to squeeze a couple bucks out of a guy who liked to be blackmailed, but I had no idea how one goes about blackmailing someone so it was just sort
of embarrassing and not very sexy at all. Epic fail.
“Serving my Goddess, being used and abused by Her, it is both liberating and stifling. No words can describe the control, the addictive energy that She exudes. The suffering is rarely pleasant, yet still so satisfyingly tormentful. Her gaze, a raised eyebrow, Her commanding voice—all designed to make my heart pump stronger and my knees grow weaker. She is soothing and intoxicating. Scolding and humiliating. Carefully nurturing my place below Her, at Her heels. Knowing She is pleased soothes every ache and pain in the world.
While in Her presence, Her power burns through my skin like a hot iron on flesh. It is a necessary burn. Nothing can ever go wrong while under Her mesmerizing spell. Her natural dominance is a guiding light of pure supremacy that only reminds me of where I belong. She never lets me forget where I belong. I belong at Her heels because no other place is more suitable. I am Her bitch.”
—slave
Chapter 9
So in a roundabout way, we are back to where we had left off. I had just had a successful session with Sam. I was still missing Gavin.
I was so excited with my clean kitchen and my feeling of newly found power that I wanted more. I had hundreds of male submissives from all over the world clamoring for my attention. Some asking me to use them in any way I saw fit; others wanting to smell my feet; some hoping I could use a good sissy maid. Men asked me if they could be my errand slaves, be my ass whores, be my pain sluts. It was all very overwhelming. All I had to say was, “Kneel, bitch!” and they would.
I had men kneeling in all different corners of the world. I would forget about one and a message would appear, “May I get up, Goddess?” Oh shit! I had him on his knees for two hours! I needed to learn to take better care of my subs. Owning a sub is a big responsibility, as I was quickly finding out, even if they were in Saudi Arabia. This is not something to take lightly. You can’t go into this all willy-nilly just like that, having subs kneel on your command. You need a plan. I needed some training myself.
I read and read and read about Female Domination. There are some great books that give the average Jane a fair stab at becoming a super Goddess. I was a focused student. I soaked it in like blood soaks into a… maxi pad? That was bad, but it was the only thing that came to mind other than the usual sponge reference.
After I had done my homework and had a much better understanding of what owning a slave actually entails, I was much more prepared to actually find one that would suit my needs. Luckily, there was a cute young slut named Mark who was all too eager to get his freak on with a mature dominant woman such as myself. He was in his mid-twenties, shy, and pretty sweet looking.
He contacted me online with the usual first message. “I think you’re very pretty.” I know you may feel that I am taking a sort of blasé tone to a young man commenting on how pretty I am, but I, just like most women, think they must be lying. Especially if they are saying something about how pretty I am. Have they seen what I look like when I get out of bed in the morning? Can’t they guess how disgusting the roll of fat on my stomach is when I’m sitting down on the toilet? Do they not know how hideous my ass looks when I’m cramming it into a pair of jeans? I mean, seriously… get real, guys. Pretty? Try to sell me something I’m buying. But okay, I can play pretty if that’s what you want.
I sent back a message that read, “Address me properly, slut!” How dare he think he could just throw that compliment out there without at least asking permission to speak first AND not even attempt to address me with respect? I was insulted. Not really, but I knew my place and he obviously did not.
“Sorry, Ma’am. Yes, Ma’am. I think you are very pretty, Ma’am,” he wrote back. I could almost feel the tremble in his hands as he wrote that.
“Better. What do you want, slut?” I asked.
Being called a slut in the BDSM world is not the same as being called a slut in the vanilla world. Being someone’s slut in the world of kink is practically a term of endearment. It is insulting, sure, but it is used mostly in a way that indicates that they are yours to be used, and the very nature of a sub is one that wants to be used by their Dominant. It is what they live for. All of their being wants nothing more than to please their Dominant and to be of use to them.
“Thank you, Ma’am.” He wrote, “I want to be your slut.”
I wrote back quickly. “What kind of training do you have, loser?”
“I don’t have very much, Ma’am,” he replied. “I have a little strap-on training and I am very good with household chores. I would like to be trained by you, Ma’am.”
Ugh… Ma’am. I needed to put an end to that and fast.
“First of all, slut,” I wrote back, “you should always ask a Domina how she prefers to be addressed. You may call me Goddess. Second of all, why would I want to train a loser like you?”
“Yes, Goddess. Sorry, Goddess.” He was shaking in his boots. “I can be very helpful and I am clean, smart, and open to all training.”
“All right, bitch,” I wrote back. “I can see you on Saturday for inspection.”
Now the lovely thing that I had found to be deliciously decadent was the aspect of “consideration” in the BDSM community. When a sub was being vetted by a Dominant, the Dominant would tell the sub when and where to go to be considered. It's a critical time in the forming of the relationship and will decide whether the sub is up to the Dominant's standards. If they were, then they were that much closer to being owned.
To be inspected was basically the same thing, but I was not looking for a sub to own. I was just looking for playthings to amuse me. So inspection was a more appropriate term to use. I am not trying to teach you about this lifestyle; I am merely trying to explain how some aspects work so that you can follow along with my story. I don’t want you to think that I’m writing this as an authority or that I feel I have it all figured out. I am really very new to all of this.
“Oh, thank you, Goddess! May I please see you on webcam for a minute to verify?” he wrote.
“I suppose so,” I responded.
So we reconvened on Skype where—POP!—up came the image of a young man standing at his desk.
“Hello, Goddess,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to cam verify for me.” He looked nervous and small.
“Of course, slut," I replied sternly. “Let me see your body. Turn around.”
He turned around for me. He was only wearing some black boxer briefs and a smile.
“Now slap your balls five times!” I demanded.
“Yes, Goddess,” he replied. He began slapping his balls as I had instructed. He winced.
“Harder, slut. That was barely a tap!” I pushed him.
He smacked harder this time and he doubled over in pain and groaned.
“Good boy,” I said. “Now piss off, I have important things to do. I will see you Saturday.”
“Yes, Goddess,” he said, still recovering from the hit.
I clicked off the video call.
Ahhh, Saturday… here you are again, you little bitch…
Mark had asked if he could come at 10:00 a.m. to serve. Jesus, what’s wrong with people? Who wakes up on a weekend morning and immediately wants to get abused? Mark did, that’s who. So I reluctantly got up, showered, and started putting on my clothes. I dragged my seven-inch baby doll heels out of my closet, then sucked in my gut as I took about twenty minutes to fasten my corset. By the way, those things are a fucking pain in the ass to put on. No wonder in the days when it was customary to wear one at all times, a woman needed four people to help her get dressed. I may just have to get myself a handmaiden slut… or a corset with a zipper. I had gotten this full fishnet body suit and it took me about another twenty minutes to figure out how to put that on, and then I realized I should have put it on UNDER the corset. My day was a royal pain in the ass already.
I’m not so sure why I’m always so ornery when I get ready to see a sub. Maybe it's because I need to get all pissed off for when they show up. It’s als
o just a lot of work. There’s a lot of shaving, washing, plucking, and styling that’s involved with becoming a Goddess. It’s not easy. Some might say that if I were a true Goddess, then it should be all about my comfort and that I should be wearing flip-flops and sweat pants if I wanted, but I am too vain for that. I wanted to look flawless and fierce.
The hour had arrived for my new slut to show. I had given him the same instructions as Sam. He was to enter my patio, strip, kneel at the door, and knock.
He walked in my front door. My dog Charlie went ape shit. I forgot to lock it. Damn it! He saw me sitting on my couch, legs crossed and swinging impatiently with my crop in hand. At least I hadn’t been wrist deep in my nose or something equally horrifying.
He quickly apologized and backed out, then closed the door. Charlie was beside himself and barking up a storm. I heard the patio door being forced open. Okay, now he was on the right track. Too bad he was going to have to pay for that rather large mistake. I heard a timid knock on the back door. I saw Mark, kneeling and shivering a bit, as I opened the door. Charlie immediately pushed his nose up to Mark excitedly.
“Sorry, Goddess,” he said breathlessly. “I got confused.” He started petting Charlie. Charlie, now satisfied that this man was not an intruder, went back to his comfy spot on the couch.
“Get your sorry ass in here!” I yelled sternly.
He shuffled into my apartment on all fours. Charlie raised an eyebrow at him as if to say, “Seriously, dude, you are pathetic.”
I told Mark to crawl with his nose to the ground and to follow my crop as I led him to the center of the room. I ordered him to stand up so I could inspect him.
Mark stood up, looking helpless and scared. He looked at me.
