GIRL 89
DOMINATRIX GIRL
In my mind, Dominatrix Girl was more of a life event than a woman I dated.
The tent-poles of my post-divorce life experience are Alayna, Girl 6; Corvette Girl, Girl 51; Dominatrix Girl; and two others to be explained later. Putting Dominatrix Girl in the hallowed halls of Alayna and Corvette Girl is major, but in many ways, in the entire experience, there was only Dominatrix Girl.
Although her profile had not a molecule of sexuality in it, my slut-detector was blaring a klaxon alarm. She was a tall, long haired redhead with blue eyes and thick cherry lips and perfect facial bone structure. I could imagine running my fingers over those cheekbones, down the curve of her face to the perfection of her chin. The woman had no real flaws, but for this - she was tall, and had that female aversion to being tall. Beautiful tall girls are therefore perfect targets - they're gorgeous but think that they are awkward. Swans who believe themselves to be ducks. I saw this many times, and it is like the door to a mansion left wide open to a burglar, because females like these lack a certain confidence, allowing players like me a way into them without being suspected of being players.
I rationalized that it was acceptable for me to use the tools of the playing burglar, because though I was a player, I was being one with the goal of getting a girlfriend. Did the ends justify the means? That question for me had been answered decades before in the Cold War, where we consciously fought dirty to beat theRussians. Does morality take the backseat to the objective? I believe that morality is in the selection of the objective. From that point, how that goal is attained can have no rules.
No rules - it's more than an Outback Steakhouse slogan. It's me. Which would explain all those lawsuit defeats, but the night I found and hit on the woman I then called Fashion Girl, I felt like a rebel movie star cracking the code to a bank vault and watching the door roll open.
Fashion Girl responded almost within minutes. She was online. Our emails attained a momentum, as if we both understood a part of the other's soul.
And then something happened, something even I can't describe. We started emailing each other photos, each one more revealing. She wrote me, "Mitchell, we will be VERY sexually compatible!"
I stared at the email, my eyes popping out, and called her. I was completely busy at work, and I had five dates lined up over the next ten days, with five different women, but for Fashion Girl I made a date for lunch the next day, and though I'd never spoken to her on the phone, I was so hot for her I asked her if we could skip lunch and simply proceed to the sex session. She laughed, and said, no, we needed to have lunch like the normal people we weren't.
The next day, I waited for her at a bar in north Jersey, and there she was, and she was beautiful, with those long red locks and blue eyes and luscious lips. She was dressed in a tight blouse that showed off her big boobs and tight pants. She looked cute, but there was trouble. Her shoes were flats (what was up with that, aftershe'd sent me photos of her in thigh-highs, high heels, with two fingers thrust into her pussy?). Where were the heels?
Almost immediately things calmed down. She told me stories from her life, and it had not been a happy life. There had been a bad car accident that left her in constant pain. Before the accident she'd been a domme, she told me. A dominatrix. She hung out in NYC sex clubs and spent her time whipping and spanking bound and gagged men who hung from the rafters in chains. It turned her on immensely.
I was stunned. Her stories of being a dominatrix fascinated me. I'd always wondered what that would be like, being on the business end of a dominatrix. Soon I'd find out. In the parking lot, I kissed her, and she nearly fainted.
"Oh my God, that was amazing," she said as she leaned against me. "I can't remember being kissed like that ever."
More where that came from, I said. And twenty minutes later I was in her apartment, tied up and gagged while Dominatrix Girl smiled at me as she pulled on her latex suit. I wish I could make an oil painting of that moment, I thought. I came so hard I think I may have passed out for a few seconds.
I came to with my ears ringing and every muscle tingling. When she untied me and I stood up, I felt physically better than I ever had in my life.
That was amazing, I said.
I lay her down, cradled her head in my hands, and I reached down to my crotch. My cock was rock hard again. I thrust it into her pussy and fucked her for a quarter hour, through two of her orgasms, and then I pulled it out and pushed it into her asshole, and then it was her turn to cum so hard she nearly lost consciousness.
Over the next three weeks I explored parts of myself I'd never visited before. I was tied up facedown and flogged for an hour by a "flog," which is in the whip family, a sort of short cat o'nine tails. Every square inch of my skin vibrated and throbbed, and the pain was pleasurable. I had no idea how the human body was wired, I thought. I looked back at her. Are you enjoying this, I asked.
"Oh my God," she said, "you can't imagine how sexy you look like that, your skin all red from the flogging." And then she hit me again.
Dominatrix Girl looked deep inside of me and came back to tell me it wasn't ugly, but rather beautiful. The part of me I thought was a duck was in fact a swan, and the knowledge made me whole.
It was as if I climbed out of a wheelchair and took my first steps. I am still limping, but I am no longer an emotional cripple.
Today, Dominatrix Girl and I are friends and we share more than most husbands and wives. She and I weren't to be boyfriend and girlfriend, but then, perhaps it turned out better this way.
Thank you, Dominatrix Girl. You made a world of difference to me. You changed my life. Go with God, honey.
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