N gets a sadistic domme

Preamble: I wrote this post in pain. It’s not nice. And while it contains some truth, it also contains a lot of self-serving, selfish, and ultimately simply deluded perspective. I hope to follow it with another post, one that is more reflective. In particular – but not exclusively – the notion that somehow there’s an opposition between “generous, gentle, sensitive, and loving,” me and “sadistic and brutal” Marina is just… wrong. The very writing of this post, and the sharing of it with her, not to mention the context in which it arose – are all the evidence you need to see my capacity for sadism and brutality. So don’t be fooled by my words. Understand them for what they are – a snapshot of my feelings in a moment. NOT a description of some objective reality.

I would have preferred, right now, to be writing about Marina‘s and my exquisite, delicious, complicated 48 hours in which she generously granted me ownership of her cunt. I want to tell you all about it – about the Zoom meetings with which we began and ended the 48 hours, about the edging, the orgasms, the modeling, the fun that we had between when we started and when we stopped.

I hope, one day, to tell you about all that.

Today, though, I inhabit an unfamiliar space.

I find myself recognizing that:

as much as Marina enjoys complying with my sexual requests, posing her body this way or that, producing this or that image, film, or audio; and

as much as she is open to, willing to, challenge herself relationally for me, whether as it regards our mode of communication – we text; she normally hates texting – or the content of our communication – I provide, and seek, a level, or at least a form, of emotional honesty and transparency she finds unfamiliar;

Marina, ultimately, cannot tolerate my dominance in the relationship part of our relationship. In that part, she needs to feel a degree of control. And not just control; a sadistic, cruel form of control. And I, it seems, have colluded with her in establishing a sadomasochistic relationship in which we both inflict suffering on the other. I stress her out with my demands; she stresses me out with her unwillingness and inability to meet even the simplest ones, at her moments of greatest emotional distance. A recent example: “Let your last text be good night,” I said. “I certainly will say good night,” she replied. Even as I read that text, I thought to myself, “FUCK, N., you just laid a trap and walked into it. NO WAY she’s going to say good night.” I thought about saying that, to her. I thought about memorializing it to myself, in writing, or in audio – as if having a timestamp on the thought would make it somehow more real.

I didn’t feel I was asking much. I wasn’t asking much.

She could have replied – “Ok – I’m gonna take the rest of the evening off – good night!” She could have pulled herself away from the action where she was at any point over the subsequent six or seven hours and simply texted, “I’m off to bed – good night!” or “I hope you’re sleeping well – good night.” It would have cost her an incremental second or two. And it would have meant giving me what I wanted, what I had asked for; it would have meant giving me control of that moment of her attention. (Never mind that the next day, she told me she had typed a text, recorded an audio, and failed, somehow, to transmit them. Never mind because, as I said, it all was overdetermined from the start.)

As I’ve written elsewhere, edges are where the action happens.

When I tell Marina that I need something that’s not specifically, explicitly, sexual from her, when I depart from needing her body to needing her mind, her thoughts, her feelings – Marina chafes. She chafed in our first 24-hour period of “cunt control,” at my request that, once an hour, she send me a couple of photos. She found it uncomfortable to “have to” think of me, to have to serve me in this way. Giving me an hour, two hours, four hours? That’s easy. Having to come to, rather than for, me in her mind, on her own? That was hard.

In that context, Marina did as asked. But she didn’t like it. And when, after the 24 hours had ended, we debriefed, she told me that. In my eagerness to be responsive to her needs, I dispensed with that requirement in our 48-hour period. At the time, I didn’t experience this as “topping from the bottom,” as Marina dictating the terms, rather than the edges, of my dominance of her. But that was what it was, I now see.

Shortly (an hour or three) after our 48-hour period of cunt ownership, Marina told me she would – for the first time since the quarantine began – be having sex. With someone other than me, obvs. She regretted the timing, she told me. I didn’t, I told her. I had just had her for 48 hours; it seemed reasonable for her (or someone else) to have her now.

During the 48 hours I had owned her cunt, Marina had given me everything I had asked for. And I had asked for a lot. Her delivery, her compliance, her generosity all had been beyond exquisite. She had, honestly, been perfect.

After the 48 hours, I made a couple of requests of Marina as it related to her upcoming departure from me – one I knew would fill me with anxiety, sadness, and longing. They felt like simple requests to me. To her, they felt impossibly confining.

It was nearly 36 hours later, hours in which she had been fucked a dozen times – well, six that she had told me of, but, by the time I wrote this, likely six more – that I said – “Just say good night to me.” A pleading, insipid, weak request. I was giving her the begging that she has denied me.

We had, fully, switched places in our power dynamic. And not just places. Styles.

You see, I like to imagine that I’m a generous, gentle dom; that I’m sensitive and sensual. Many women, over the years, have complained that I’m not a “Dom” (whatever that is). And I’ve never really claimed to be. What I do claim to be is dominant. Demanding. Commanding. Communicative. My dominance consists primarily in saying what I want – and expecting to receive it.

When we first started interacting, Marina told me that, prior to me, she had thought herself a “switch,” that she slid easily back and forth between dominant and submissive roles. She continually surprised herself with her response to inhabiting the submissive role, exclusively, in her relationship with me.

I wasn’t interested in her dominance. I don’t want (I tell myself) to be dominated by a woman. And yet… and yet… Marina and I have concocted a relationship in which, from time to time – and typically, but not exclusively, around moments of her engagement with other men – we switch places.

Marina, to my mind, demonstrated her power, her dominance, by systematically, repeatedly, refusing to, or failing to, honor my requests.

And I submit to her, in these instances. Not only do I submit to her; I create the opportunity to submit to her. I make requests that, on some level, I know – as with the “say good night to me” request above – she will disregard. Or maybe not disregard. But fail to comply with.

I don’t know if the request caused her affirmative, conscious suffering; I do know that her non-compliance – and her non-compliance at this particular point, given how strenuously I’ve communicated my wishes, and how many times we’ve been over it, was over-determined, and communicative.

This is one of a series of posts on my various somewhat unstructured, undisciplined, and poorly organized thoughts on this subject, but the bottom line, here, is that, in Marina’s and my relationship, we seem to have organized things so, in the virtual bedroom, I’m a considerate, sensitive, loving dominant figure, and in the rest of the relationship, my dominance recedes, replaced with a masochistic submission, in the fact of what I experience as her sadistic assertions of dominance.

I’d like to say with confidence, “And that’s all about to change….” I can’t, alas, say it with the confidence for which I long.

Still, though… all that is about to change.

Stay tuned.

[Postscript: this post was written some time ago. All that did change.]

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