Dominique (21 page)

     
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.