The Dominant's Workshop

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In college, my friends were quick to blame their moodiness on scarce sex - I’m sorry I just bit your head off. It’s just that it’s been, like, three months since I got laid.

And I’d roll my eyes and nod, like - Hell, yeah, I know exactly what you mean.

But I’d always imagined that what would relieve my tension was something a little rougher than a romp in the sheets. Something that involved a little less, Yes, yes, oh god, yes! and more No, No, ow, No!

No, I’d never been spanked as a kid. My parents were far too progressive for that. I have no idea how I first stumbled upon this notion that I’d love nothing more than to be taken over a masculine thigh, have my bottom bared and be spoken to sternly while this caring but firm man spanked me. It’s always been the core of my sexual fantasies. My as-of-yet unfulfilled fantasies.

Because Lord knows Sam didn’t want any part of that.

I miss being married - I’ll admit that with no reluctance. I miss the friendship, the camaraderie, someone by my side to share life: chores, a sunset, a bad day, a bowl of ice cream at night. But I can’t say I particularly miss sex.

There had never been fireworks between Sam and me. I enjoyed sex like I enjoyed taking a nice long walk with him; which is to say, it’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time. He was so gentle, so tender, so...polite.

I wanted something more raw, primal–something impolite.

And the one time I tried to tell him so, he let me know in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t into anything like that, that he’d grown up seeing his mother battered by a long line of abusers and he didn’t want to do anything that might make him feel like he was playing the part of the men he’d hated so much.

I couldn’t find a way to explain to him that it wasn’t that I wanted to be battered. What I wanted was to be taken. I wanted to be free from the pressure of wondering what I could do that would please him, that would make him out-of-his-mind crazy for me. I wanted him to demand it of me and to stand his ground when the bitchy part of me - the one that sometimes seems to take even me by surprise - stamps its foot and says no.

All my life, not much had been expected of me. When it came to sex - the most primitive and raw expression of my personality - I wanted expectations, standards. I wanted to be lavished with reward when I met them and thoroughly punished when I didn’t.

If it sounds like I’ve spent a lot of time analyzing this, it’s because I have. Lots of hours fantasizing about the kind of sex I would like to have while performing the sex I could actually have with Sam. Feeling guilty about that led to many more hours of self-analyzing, of wondering if I could just will myself to get turned on by his tender kisses and sensitive: Am I hurting you?

I hover over the reply button. Am I actually looking for a relationship right now? Or just doing this to be able to tell Martina that I did? I don’t know, but I click and start typing.

Hi there,

Your posting was too good to pass up. The “good grammar” requirement was a particularly affecting hook.

Like you, I’d prefer to maintain the mystique of anonymity, so I’ll only reveal this much: I am between the ages of 30-35. Previously married, have progeny, widowed two years. I am new to the area (and to rural life, for that matter). I do not have a single tattoo, the only smoke in my life is a product of dinner burning, and my lifestyle is so healthy that I even use organic weed killer. If you are interested, please send me a few references and perhaps we can meet at Peralto’s sometime.

Cordially,

NOT a Native

I don’t know why I sign it that way. I don’t look down on anything so much as condescension. And it disturbs me that I’ve become so full of it since moving here. But I guess I want to see if he’s up for someone who might prove to be a little out of his box. I hit send with a smirk and get up to make myself a cup of tea before I have to leave. Over the clatter of the kettle and cup, I hear the ding! of an email alert.

It’s him.

Already.

Dear NOT a Native,

Here is your first lesson in submission: follow instructions. You’ll never impress me by frog-jumping three steps ahead. My post specified that any response must include references, which you have failed to provide. I’m disappointed, but will offer you a second chance to please me by following the simple instructions detailed in the original advertisement. Obeying me in this way will result in my willingness to send you three stellar references of my own.

Sincerely,

Jake

Jake? With a bossy email like that I would have expected him to sign off “Master” or “Sir”, or something similar that is equal parts corny and egomaniacal.

P.S. Peralto’s? Absolutely not. Here’s your second free tip: submissives don’t presume to set the meeting place.

I let out an indignant huff; and at the same time, I feel my pussy involuntarily clench. It’s such a ballsy thing to do - to come out of the gate giving an authoritarian lecture like that and I find that, to my consternation, it’s an irresistible turn on.

It’s not like I have a ton of time on my hands. And it’s not like I’m desperate to meet up with this guy. But my pride gets the best of me because it would grate on me to let any redneck think I’m the one who’s not worthy.

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