The Lamp (Dating a Domme continued)

"You would like me to what?" I asked him in disbelief. Since my training as a submissive had led to my eventual and unexpected training as a Dominant, I had seen and heard things that most people would find exceptionally offensive, incredibly insane and sometimes completely laughable. This was something that I had often heard about from the other Ladies who would play at our club but had never personally come across it. This man was, after all, one of my first paying clients and I still had a lot to experience. I could never let him know that but I was finding it next to impossible to expose my utter fascination with what he was telling me. I tried to play it cool and collected as though it was a story I heard a million times before but my insides were riddled with the incessant need to giggle. It almost hurt.

"I have a fantasy about being used as furniture," he responded, pushing his glasses up on his nose and folding his hands again on the table. We had finished signing confidentiality forms and reviewing all of the rules of play; it was now time to discuss fantasies and roles. This was usually an easy subject as it was usually the same old "tie me up, spank me, flog me, call me names, make me submit" stuff. Don't get me wrong here, I love it but it's nice when you get someone who throws you for a little bit of a fetish loop and comes to you with something so damn different.

"Is there any furniture in particular that you prefer to be?" I asked him, a little nervous of the response. I was positive I could make him an ottoman or an ashtray but a little scared of trying to turn him into a vase or an entertainment centre as these could prove a little difficult.  Being new and still rather inexperienced when compared to my fellow co-workers, it seemed that my nerves could possibly get the best of me with this man.  I folded my hands into my lap and started playing with my ring, hoping that he wouldn't read into me too much.  One thing I did learn is that people experienced in the this lifestyle could spot the inexperienced and the fakers a mile away.  At this moment, even though I was trained and under the tutelage of the best in the business, I was still a little bit of both of those things.

"Again," I said to him, "don't make me repeat myself.  Is there anything in particular you like to be?"

"If I give you a list, would you choose randomly during my sessions?" he asked rather sheepishly.  Reaching his hand into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, sliding it to me across the table, I could see the small grin on his face as if he had found something he had been looking for and that something had been me.

I took the list from him, unfolded it and began to read:

Ma’am:

This is a list of things that I would hope you will consider as proper punishments and uses for me during our meetings.  I do find great pleasure in the acts of bondage.  I do believe that there is freedom in submission.  I do find pleasure in being used.  I have not been used as furniture thus far but it is a great fantasy for me.  However, I am nervous to bring this up to my wife as she is a very straight-laced Christian woman who, despite her feelings has been kind enough to oblige me in bondage but this I fear would prove to much for her.  I am hoping that you will help me to achieve this freedom by including the following in our play:

I would like to try being a table either an end table or a dinner table for one.  I have also found pictures online of a man being used as an ashtray and a foot stool.  The things that we are able to turn our bodies into are limited and so my fantasy is limited but the biggest thing I would like to try is to become a lamp.

I hope you don’t find me too offensive and that you are able to help me to fulfill this fantasy.  I am willing to provide all necessary equipment or pay extra so that you would be able to obtain it.  Thank you for your kindness,

~your slave

I mulled the letter over in me head thinking lamp, a lamp … how the hell do I turn a man into a lamp?  I put the letter down on the table in front of me, reached into my bag and took out my planner.

“When would you be available for your first session?” I asked him.  Unsmiling, unwavering in my persona as a complete and utter bitch as I clicked my pen, almost contemptuous in him wasting my time with his inability to respond quickly.  In all honestly, I was smiling inside, nervous inside but quickly taking a liking to the submissive sitting across from me.  I liked his demeanour, his honesty.  I knew in this first meeting that this client and I were going to be friends despite the Dominant/submissive relationship which we were going to be sharing.  I knew that when the ropes were untied we would both meet with smiles, that we could both hold our sense of humour and that my bitch persona would be broken down through his willingness to please. 

He smiled at me and gave me his answer.  I wrote the appointment in my planner and slammed it shut. 

Mr. Lamp, Friday @ 2100

============================================

I arranged my ropes and cuffs while he changed into the leather briefs I had bought for him.  They were tight and uncomfortable but they made him listen.  Odd, but it worked.  In my bag I had a surprise for my exceptionally obedient submissive man.  Six months of one session per week had past and I thought it was finally time for the big finale.

Our first session and one of our most memorable had me take him to what became one of his favourite places – kneeling at my side while I flick ashes from my cigarette into his mouth.  To do this I had him kneel, wrapping his ankles with leather cuffs and attaching them to either end of a spreader bar.  At that point I roughly yet lovingly laced up his arms behind his back in a brand new and beautiful set of leather arm binders.  His elbows touched behind him as I laced him up.  He winced through the gag I had used while I was busy with his restraints.  I had a leash tethered to one of the poles in my studio with the end of it attached to a lovely metal collar that I had a fellow Domme make specifically for him.

Once I would have him hobbled and laced, I’d give him his blindfold and keep him gagged and waiting.  I wouldn’t necessarily use him right away but rather leave him waiting in anticipation as to what was to come.  Anticipation can be the sexiest feeling one could ever have.

This night was different.  He knew there was something different when he walked out of the back room in his briefs and kneeled at my feet.  I could sense his wonderment when I grabbed his hair, pulling him forward to place his collar on him.  I was abnormally quiet when I came in and didn’t look directly at him but rather waved him off to get ready.   I gave the illusion of being in an unkind mood but I was rather excited for this night to happen.  I was going to give my slave exactly what he wanted, exactly what he deserved for the months of almost flawless submission he had shown me.

A week before I was browsing an antique furniture shop and found, to my delight, a tall lamp.  It was a long pole with a fixture for a light bulb directly on top.  The best part was that  it could screw apart in the middle.  I bought it, took it home and set it up.  I could only smile at what fate had brought to me.

“You’ve been good,” I said to him quietly as a stroked the top of his head.  He didn’t move.  I didn’t ask for him to respond and so, he did nothing.  I smiled down at him, my obedient slave.

“I have a surprise for you.  Would you like to know what it is?”

He nodded yes without a glance in my direction.  I leaned down to him, putting my hand under his chin and raising his face to mine.  We stared eye to eye and he quietly whispered, “yes, Mistress”.

“I will blindfold you and you will remain kneeling while I prepare.  Do you understand?”

Again, the obedient whisper, “yes, Mistress”.  I tied the blindfold.

I got up from my chair and hastily went to the lamp folded under a sheet and put it together quickly, making sure the base was steady.  I took out my favourite device, my arm binders, and laid them down next to the rope, the gag and the lamp shade that was still hidden.  I had everything laid out when I turned and walked to my sub, linked my finger through the loop of his collar and pulled him to stand.

“Walk with me,” I commanded as I led him to the lamp, plugged in and waiting.  I backed him up to the pole and straightened him out,  and had him raise his arms.  I took my rope and made him a beautiful, tightly wrapped body suit which linked his torso to the pole of the lamp, making sure to pinch the right places.  I lifted my nipple clamps from the neatly laid out spread and slowly attached them to him.  I loved his wince as I did so but, he didn’t utter a sound.  I flicked the chain that hung across his chest as I reached for my arm binders.  The cool leather in my hands gave me a chill as I walked behind him, pulling his arms together around the pole and attaching the binders tightly.  I walked back to my stash and found my two sets of ankle cuffs – one on his ankle, one on the pole until both feet were tethered.  I gagged him with a brand new bit gag, something I knew he didn’t enjoy.

I stood back admiring my work and my antique shop find.  There I was staring at a man who was gagged, blindfolded, cuffed, bound and clamped to a lamp.  I let him enjoy his anticipation.  I saw the chills run up and down his body.  I could hear his breathing becoming heavier.

I walked back over to him and pulled down his blindfold, “Are you ready?”  He nodded in agreement while I pulled the sheet off of the final piece.  His face lit up like the lamp he was tied to when he saw the shade.  I brought it over and put it on the light bulb which was up higher than his head.  It was a large enough shade that it just covered his eyes.  His breathing was slower, deeper.  I reached over him and pulled the cord for the power over his shoulder, through the rings of the chain on his chest.

“Are you ready?” I whispered again with my hand on the chain.  He nodded and I pulled that chain, the clamps tugged his nipples and that lamp lit up. 

 

 

 

 

Long Journey Home….

So…  Picture it:  Halifax, 2009.  A single girl walking around downtown alone, finding her way to a temp agency hoping for administration positions.  Tests, interviews and then a chat ensues.  A chat that makes her realize once again just how much rests on her shoulders.  Alone.  Three children.  Limited family contact even when living at home.  Friends she doesn’t want to burden, they have lives of their own.  The interviewer makes it a point to tell her that she’s glad she’s not her because the burden is so great for someone still very young.  What a thing to say to someone.  On that token, a pity job.  Government.  Just call when she gets there and it’s hers.

Walking out of that building with new shoes clacking on the tile floors, feeling a little empowered in new dress clothes, passing business men who didn’t look at her as a tattooed little girl but as if she was someone they would be working with, one of their esteemed colleagues,  lifted her spirits.  But she knew the difference.  She knew that if they saw her outside of this building wearing her sweaters, jeans, showing off her ink, her braids, her sarcastic and sometimes dark sense of  humour with her three babies in tow from her tiny apartment, they would change their mind and turn away.  She felt empowered but she didn’t feel real, the better term to describe her at this moment was out of body and splendidly surreal. 

Oddly enough.  This wasn’t bothering her, it wasn’t depressing her and it was very, very far from getting her down.  She felt pride in her abilities to do a good job at any job she’d obtain.  She felt good that she was a capable, loving mother regardless if she was single or not.  She was content in her abilities to make the best decisions for her family at the time.  Sure, they could be bad ones but at least she did what she felt was right and stayed true to that… for the most part.  We all waiver and do things that make us put our face in our hands and shake our heads and she was not without her share of those weak moments.

Here she was feeling like she was in front of the whole world.  A new girl in a big city looking for her place, her niche, that little carved out space she could call her own for herself and her little family.  Three babies all waiting on the one person in the world they could count on to be there for them and she was standing all alone with the burdens that the interviewer had so kindly pointed out.  These burdens gave her strength, they gave her hope, they made her smile and laugh and cry.  These burdens were her reasons for pushing forward and fighting.

She smiled a coy little smile and walked tall out of that office building.  Putting her best face forward and hailing a cab like she had been a city girl her whole life.  She arrived at her friend’s apartment where she was staying and took a deep breath as she changed into her usual hoodie and jeans.  The make-up that made her feel pretty yet fake was washed away and she stood in the mirror feeling refreshed and at home in her own skin.  She grabbed her bags and ran for the cab to take her to catch her shuttle bus home.

Could it be called home anymore? Or was it more of a transitional dwelling?  A little bit of both maybe.  A home until a home could be found.  A safety net until the safety was established and whole.

The shuttle waited for her as she ran from her taxi saying her goodbyes to the friendly driver who spoke to her so kindly.  She tipped him well and jumped into the front seat of the waiting van, quietly buckling her belt and feeling oddly at ease.  Somewhere Over the Rainbow was playing on the way up, a song that had become the beacon of her childhood happiness and reminder of her mother.  This time she quietly sat as she heard the voices of Foster & Allen waft from the windows of a nearby apartment building.  This was a group who was a favourite of her father’s and songs she had listened to on many many drives to this city in the back seat of his big blue station wagon.  She closed her eyes and pictured his strong hands on the steering wheel while he hummed along to his favourites just as she had imagined her mother the night before, playing the piano in the basement of their house and singing to her while she sat and watched. 

She missed them.  Wanted nothing more in this moment than to run to them, to run home and ask for help with her decisions.  At the same time she felt that being sandwiched in nostalgia for her childhood had helped her come closer to her decision.  Would she take these songs as a sign of their love and approval?  Of course.  Even though she had lost their parental guidance, she had not lost the ability to see through coincidence.

The feeling of calm in her did not dissipate during her five hour journey to home.  Having the feeling of everything going to be alright grew stronger.  Somehow, the next steps were going to be the right steps and the fears and worries for her families’ future dissolved into sense of ease and peacefulness.  The day turned to night on the drive and she closed her eyes until she could walk through her door and see her babies again …

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She was nervous, could feel the butterflies filling up her stomach. She hadn't been with anyone in a couple of years and was starting to think twice about being with someone again. She was sitting in a beautiful black leather chair, legs tucked beneath her and wringing her hands in her lap and could still almost feel the ring that was once lovingly wrapped around that important finger. She threw the thought aside, it was another time and place. Another life.

She could feel the heat of the leather beneath her and the butter softness on her arms, the small of her back where her shirt has lifted slightly. She wasn't sure if she was getting warm because of the heat in the house, her nerves or anticipation. She unclasped her hands from one another and started twisting the the collar of her shirt. She watched the room as if something in it was going to move, give her a reason to speak, something to talk about. The chair across from her was empty, the couch beside her was empty except for a small, orange tabby sleeping close to the heater in a small ball. The end table to her immediate left held nothing but a remote control for the TV that was blabbering in front of her. On the other side of that end table sat what was making her stomach twist. In a matching leather armchair, he quietly watched the TV, a slight smile on his face. Calm. Relaxed. Comfortable.

She slid her legs from the chair, crossed her legs and folded her hands on her knee. Right over left. He looked at her from the corner of his eye, watched her fidget and thought it may be due to boredom. He couldn't be more wrong in that assumption. He asked her if she needed anything or wanted anything - a beer, Pepsi, water. Nothing for her, she was fine. She answered with a smile and honest appreciation. With that he grasped the ends of both arms of the chair he was in, lifting himself to his feet and looked down on her. She felt small, she felt safe, she felt beautiful just from that simple gaze. He walked past her and up the stairs where she could hear him get a drink for himself, possibly a beer.

He came back down, stopping in front of her on his way back to his armchair and looked down at her again. He leaned and placed his beer gently on the end table that had been separating them. She smiled, pretending to be watching the television by looking around him. The butterflies got a little worse and she couldn't help but bite her lip. He giggled, knowing that she was enjoying being a little silly, knowing that a little laughter was just what she needed. He stopped smiling and reached his hand to her, she stopped dead with her smile disappating from her face and reached her hand to his. He tugged her gently, a hint to rise out of her chair.

Her stomach turned over, the butterflies had bred, she knew what to expect but it had been so long that her schoolgirl naivity had crept back into her psyche. She uncrossed her legs - right off of left - and planted both feet onto the floor, rising to meet him. He pulled her close to him, there was almost no space between them but he was still only holding her hand. Right over left. His over hers. With his other hand he brushed her long hair away from her neck, moved it behind her, exposing the softness of her nape. His gentle touch sent a shiver through her.

The butterflies were being replaced with twinges of excitement, with anticipation, with impatience. He leaned down to her and gently touched his lips to hers, gently kissing her while, with deliberate and tender movement moving his hand from her neck to her face and from her hand to her face so that he was cupping her features. He held her face and she melted. She became his in that moment with the memory of the ring completely fleeing from her mind. She was becoming renewed.

Their kiss became more impassioned, more intense. She lifted her hand to his waist and pulled his frame into her while she slid her fingers up his back, still pulling him close, almost trying to absorb him into her. He moved his hands from her face, letting them trickle to her shoulders, down her arms and around her where he followed her lead and pulled her into him. They had engulfed one another, became one within that kiss but neither had been satisfied just yet.

The parted lips and looked at one another, taking in each other's essence, each wanting to know more of the other. With swollen lips parted, her breathing was becoming deep, awaiting his kiss to coninue. He looked at her, sensing the arousal within her he leaned to her again, brushing his lips with hers and drifting to her neck. He hit the spot that made her weak and she grasped him, clenching his back, holding onto to fistfuls of his shirt which had been neatly tucked into his pants but was no longer. She let out a soft sigh of compliance and he continued his kiss from her right to her left. She kissed him back in spurts of the need to taste him. He enjoyed her lips, he enjoyed that his kiss could make her forget all else going on.

She pulled on his shirt wanting to feel his skin as he made his way back to her lips. His kiss was washing away all her years of lonliness, all her sadness, all the frustration and heartache. Because of this she did not want him to stop, did not want to let him go, did not want the moment to end but only extend and move into something more. Without a further thought she made the final move and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the body she had expected. He left her lips and stood in front of her, drinking her in with his gaze. Standing before her was a man. Tall and strong and longing for her. He reached for her and repeated her motion and before she realized it they were standing in front of each other, topless, exposed and free.

She reached up to his face and pulled him into her again. She kissed him with the passion that she felt she couldn't muster for anyone else and would find it difficult to find again. Their lips were perfectly suited to one another, their hands were built to touch the other. She ran her hands up his chest and danced her fingers down, finding the waistband of his pants and his belt, grasping with both of her hands and pulling him into her.

His face left hers and he smiled. He wrapped his hands around her hips and lifted her and, as she relinquished her grasp on his pants, wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. She kissed his cheeks, pecked his lips as he carried her into his bedroom.`

The darkness carried her away as he layed her softly on his bed. There was no speaking, just exploration, tenderness, tousled hair, thrown clothes, bodies and sweat and satisfaction. His hands touched her in ways that she could never expect and her mouth made him clench his jaw with pure thrill in the idea that she was completely his. He held her hair when her mouth found what made him a man and he let out a groan of amazement at his girl's talent. He grabbed her so that she let go and he pulled her up to him, finding her mouth and kissing her hard while she kissed him back with just as much fuel and heat.

He flipped her over and she squirmed under his touch to find the pillows at the top of the bed. He followed her, hovering over her and there they stayed just looking at each other. The insides of her thighs were rubbing on the outsides of his. Left over right. Right over left. She was breathing deeply, moving herself towards him, her body begging for him. He drank her in. He looked at every inch of her body and loved it all. The imperfections that made her perfect, the perfections that made her human. The ability to submit to him that made her his and him, hers.

Finally, she reached up and touched his face. They both stopped and he leaned down to her. His breathing matched her own heavy breaths and finally, the anticipation was over and he entered her. She closed her eyes, lifted her head back on the pillow and inhaled deeply while he put his head on her chest between her soft breasts, closed his eyes and felt her breathe. Their movements were deliberate, subtle and as he pushed into her, she rose to meet him, taking as much of him into as she could.

They were finally satisfied and please one another more completely than either expected. She shook from his roughness, he shook from her surprising acceptance. They said not one word but curled up together, falling asleep in each other's arms, still sharing gentle kisses. In that moment she became his. He became hers. Right over left. Their past was gone including the heartache, the hurt, the lonliness.

Dating a Domme

“You really don't want to know what I do for a job,” I told my date and then chomped a piece of beautiful rare steak off of my fork. He sat across from me at the table in the local steakhouse, admiring my ability to eat a bloody chunk of meat without flinching. The atmosphere in the restaurant was typical with young, svelte waitresses wandering around, dark lighting, the smell of A1 Steak Sauce floating around and mingling with the smell of draft beer. He looked at me with big, baby blues and laughed at me. I knew him only a few weeks but had been out together only once before because we both had very busy schedules, keeping in touch only through daily emails. I knew his profession as we had just finished the discussion on his years of education, mountains of diplomas and certifications.

“Come on now, it can't be all that bad. Are you worried that I may think it's unimportant?” he asked, to which I quickly quipped, “No.” He asked for an explanation or a hint and so, I gave him one.

“I help people. I'm a counsellor, of sorts,” I proceeded to explain, “I also give demonstrations on particular lifestyle choices and their safety.”

I thought that was enough of an explanation, it usually is. Most of the men I see on a personal basis I rarely see more than once and me explaining my profession as a counseling service usually keeps them at bay. They assume I'm a life coach from that answer or I flat out tell them that it's none of their business or maybe that I prefer not to talk about work or that it's confidential which, in all honesty, it is.

“What kind of counseling do you do? Family?” he asked. Looking at me intensely and giving me the feeling that he knew there was a lot more to the story. He really was interested in me, wanted to know me and this sort of took me by surprise. I tend to come across as distant, guarded and uninterested but this guy was seeing right through my carefully compiled facade. I have to admit that I liked that he made me uneasy, he made me twitch a little in my seat just by asking simple questions. All of this in my mind, coupled with the fact that he had been very open and honest with me, came across as a very open-minded person and was unusually easy to talk to, I decided to just lay it all out on the line. So, I finished chewing, put my fork down and folded my hands neatly on the table. I squirmed my way into a proper sitting position, collecting my posture and composing myself. Then I began that one sentence that usually makes people, men and women alike, turn from me like I'm walking around with Ebola.

“Honestly, I'm actually a Professional Dominatrix.”

Silence.

He just looked across the table at me for a moment and, although I'm normally able to get a good read on people and what they may be thinking, I could not tell what he thought as he sat there just staring at me. I wanted to start explaining myself and start rambling on and on about my whole history, how I got into and why, etc. but there was no way I could. I could pride myself on my composure no matter what the situation but, for some unknown reason, I just wanted to explain to him why I did what I did.

“I don't know if this is going to offend you,” he finally began, glancing down at his plate and pushing a carrot around with his fork, “but are you serious? And if you are serious, I'm sorry, but I thought that a Dominatrix was just something people wrote about in Penthouse Forums.”

“I'm serious. Very serious actually,” was the only way I could respond.

More silence except for the chatter of the other couples, friends and families that were around us in the restaurant. It suddenly became a strange and unique atmosphere that encompassed us, like we were in the centre of an immediate and very loud universe that had stolen our concentration on one another.

“Can I ask you a question?” he finally piped up after a long, drawn-out and awkward silence.

“Of course you can,” I answered, “I really have nothing to hide.”

“Why did you tell me?”

I can honestly say that it wasn't the question I was expecting considering I usually get asked if I have sex for money. (The answer is no.) I was taken aback, contemplating my answer and trying to figure out exactly how I tell this man that I just blurted it out but only after careful consideration. It didn't make sense, I didn't make any sense and I was starting to find myself intrigued that he was able to put me on such an edge.

“I'm not quite sure,” I responded and smiled, “Wasn't something I was exactly planning on doing but you seem like an honest and open-minded person.”

He smiled. It was sincere and disarming. “Thank you.”

The conversation of our chosen careers died with that that and we went on laughing and talking about other things, finishing our supper and drinks. We left the restaurant, walking to our respective cars and preparing to part ways when he stopped walking and took my hand. I stopped, turned and looked up at him, waiting for him to say something.

“We must meet for a coffee tomorrow afternoon. You have me quite smitten with you and I really want to know you better. I'm going to say coffee in the afternoon because I don't want you to think that your 'job' has anything to do with me asking you out again, I have no ulterior motives here and I'm rambling like a fool so, coffee tomorrow??”

All I could do was squeeze the hand that was holding mine, gentle yet firm and smile at the knowledge that I had thrown him for a loop as much, if not more so, than he had thrown me.

“Of course I will. Where and when? I have no appointments tomorrow.” His eyebrows raised at the word appointments and I gave him a knowing crooked smile.

“Charlston's Cafe at two?” he questioned, leaning himself back as if he was afraid to ask.

“I'll be there,” I answered and pulled my hand away. I smiled at him and spun on my heel, walking to my car and leaving him standing in the parking lot. I didn't want anymore conversation, didn't want any more time with him that night which was making my business habits become personal ones for me. I was quick to leave, quick to take control and quick to finish any personal interaction when I deemed it was time.

I know he watched me walk to the car and only went to his when he heard me rev the engine of my little Mazda. I pulled out of the parking lot, turning on my radio and catching the weather for tomorrow. It was starting to get cold and I was trying to decide to put my RX-8 away for the winter but my brain somehow went directly to Charlston's and what the hell was I going to wear?