I met a man who was in SE Asia. He told me he was a Dom, sometimes gentle, sometimes sadistic. It depended on his sub – what she wanted.
He looked gentle, as such Doms often do. He had curly dark hair that he’d chopped short in a pointless exercise at control, and kind light eyes.
He wore a white t-shirt as though he were still at home in a Canadian summer and not, in fact, in the humid cesspool of the tropics. Behind him the people he was trying to save swirled, an endless crowd of humanity and, obviously, inhumanity. Otherwise I guess he’d have stayed home.
I liked him immediately, despite my initial attempt to use him for my own ulterior purposes. He was meant to write for me, but here I am doing the reverse. I think he’ll like it – Doms need spoiling sometimes too, even by brats.
I imagine myself as he’d desire: obedient, acquiescent, reclining in leather straps for his pleasure, my legs open and tethered. His tongue will lap between my butterflied wings as his fingers squeeze tighter and tighter on my pierced nipples until I’m spiralling so high on pleasure and pain I can’t tell the difference and I’m plunging off the cliff, flying into rapture and screaming his name.
But this is not what happens. We are oceans apart in a time of illness and flux. I have only these scribblings to offer.
Doms like him don’t usually like girls like me: who play to win; who are used to getting what they want; who, if they can’t get what they want with one man, find many.
I have many men, it’s true. Each satisfies a little part of that dark longing that pulls at my loins and my heart. I really only need one. But for now, I am splintered like a triangle with 18 points. I doubt there is a word for this. Maybe we’ll invent one, this Canuck writer Dom and I. Maybe not.
Maybe this is all there is. A few words on a page. I shall wish him well and hope he finds a girl who sets him at the centre of her circle. He is home now, and she is only a story away.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/ov5ws6/a_gift_of_the_gab