rush to reveal it, because if he did that too fast, he would lose his power over her. And power had to be the very essence of dominance.
Iâve always believed that many dominants are passionate, emotional men who permanently wear armor and protect their innermost selves behind high walls and impenetrable screens. The reason for the high walls and the impenetrable screens? The burning, high-octane emotions that the majority of dominants harbor for their submissives but wonât allow themselves to reveal, lest the revelation result in their being viewed as less than dominant.
So when Miranda made it clear to me that she was dying to go back in the dungeons again, out of habit I disguised my delight, my enthusiasm, yet secretly formulated my plans with great relish.
After a great deal of reflection, I decided to start in Dungeon 2 and to put her through a vanilla scene with undertones of BDSM. So I made her get on top of meâa vanilla convention, having a woman fuck you from on top, but one that I knew would embarrass her because of her big breasts. And the journey from embarrassment to sexual humiliation is a short one. The desire to submit to sexual humiliation drives many a submissive, and Miranda had shown every sign of being that type of sub.
So I had her sit on top of me and fuck me in that position, so that she was unable to escape the image of her breasts bouncing up and down, which she was forced to view in the mirror. Strangely enough, she rarely ever looked at herself in the mirror. Unlike Georgiana, who even wore a gold and amethyst mirror on a chain around her neck so that she could admire herself constantly.
Miranda only wanted to look at me, and not herself. In the process she proved to me that she was the classic submissive who is dedicated to her dominant.
After I fucked her, I tied her to the Falcon Chair (an iconic design that conveniently happens to have two large silver rings attached to the seat, and two to the back), not just because I loved seeing her immobilized, helpless, and in my power, but because I planned to start educating her regarding the use of everyday items in BDSM to enhance my pleasure, and hers: a flyswatter spied in the windows of a hardware store, a slatted wooden spoon in a kitchen shop, a skirt hanger with rubber-ended clips in a hotel room, a bottle opener that can be hung from the chain between cloverleaf nipple clamps so as to increase the weight. I wanted her to become aware of all the possibilities, so that she could point more out to me and, in effect, make a habit of colluding in her own training/punishment.
And then I told her about the Pit and watched while she paledâyet at the same time she was also visibly turned on, a testament to the addictive tension which can be so exciting for both the dominant and the submissive.
We were on our way, I was convinced, to forming the basis of our life as dominant and submissive, and so it would have continued had I not had to fly up to Montreal for a meeting and leave her alone at the castle all day.
Why didnât I take her with me?
Why didnât I leave her under the protection of a bodyguard?
Because I genuinely believed that she was no longer in danger. After all, Tamara was dead, so why would she have been?
The nightmare started to unfold when I arrived home from my meetings in Montreal, bringing with me on the plane a wardrobe of fur coats I thought Miranda might like (mostly red fox, as I thought that would complement her hair), and I discovered that sheâd disappeared again and, just like before, had left no trace, not even a note.
All the security cameras showed was Miranda climbing into a white stretch Mercedes driven by a blond man in a white suit and dark glasses. Naturally, we immediately ran the license number, but the plates, of course, turned out to be false. Her trail went cold, and I went crazy.
Then Mary Ellen put a call through to me from Angel, the professional submissive I
Iâve always believed that many dominants are passionate, emotional men who permanently wear armor and protect their innermost selves behind high walls and impenetrable screens. The reason for the high walls and the impenetrable screens? The burning, high-octane emotions that the majority of dominants harbor for their submissives but wonât allow themselves to reveal, lest the revelation result in their being viewed as less than dominant.
So when Miranda made it clear to me that she was dying to go back in the dungeons again, out of habit I disguised my delight, my enthusiasm, yet secretly formulated my plans with great relish.
After a great deal of reflection, I decided to start in Dungeon 2 and to put her through a vanilla scene with undertones of BDSM. So I made her get on top of meâa vanilla convention, having a woman fuck you from on top, but one that I knew would embarrass her because of her big breasts. And the journey from embarrassment to sexual humiliation is a short one. The desire to submit to sexual humiliation drives many a submissive, and Miranda had shown every sign of being that type of sub.
So I had her sit on top of me and fuck me in that position, so that she was unable to escape the image of her breasts bouncing up and down, which she was forced to view in the mirror. Strangely enough, she rarely ever looked at herself in the mirror. Unlike Georgiana, who even wore a gold and amethyst mirror on a chain around her neck so that she could admire herself constantly.
Miranda only wanted to look at me, and not herself. In the process she proved to me that she was the classic submissive who is dedicated to her dominant.
After I fucked her, I tied her to the Falcon Chair (an iconic design that conveniently happens to have two large silver rings attached to the seat, and two to the back), not just because I loved seeing her immobilized, helpless, and in my power, but because I planned to start educating her regarding the use of everyday items in BDSM to enhance my pleasure, and hers: a flyswatter spied in the windows of a hardware store, a slatted wooden spoon in a kitchen shop, a skirt hanger with rubber-ended clips in a hotel room, a bottle opener that can be hung from the chain between cloverleaf nipple clamps so as to increase the weight. I wanted her to become aware of all the possibilities, so that she could point more out to me and, in effect, make a habit of colluding in her own training/punishment.
And then I told her about the Pit and watched while she paledâyet at the same time she was also visibly turned on, a testament to the addictive tension which can be so exciting for both the dominant and the submissive.
We were on our way, I was convinced, to forming the basis of our life as dominant and submissive, and so it would have continued had I not had to fly up to Montreal for a meeting and leave her alone at the castle all day.
Why didnât I take her with me?
Why didnât I leave her under the protection of a bodyguard?
Because I genuinely believed that she was no longer in danger. After all, Tamara was dead, so why would she have been?
The nightmare started to unfold when I arrived home from my meetings in Montreal, bringing with me on the plane a wardrobe of fur coats I thought Miranda might like (mostly red fox, as I thought that would complement her hair), and I discovered that sheâd disappeared again and, just like before, had left no trace, not even a note.
All the security cameras showed was Miranda climbing into a white stretch Mercedes driven by a blond man in a white suit and dark glasses. Naturally, we immediately ran the license number, but the plates, of course, turned out to be false. Her trail went cold, and I went crazy.
Then Mary Ellen put a call through to me from Angel, the professional submissive I
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