What this lifestyle means

Identifying oneself as a Dominant in Bdsm is not about the bedroom door component. If that is all that someone can think about, that’s a red flag. At best it means that they are for fun but are not a relationship. At worst it means that they are an abuser who is drawn to the idea of a “willing” victim.

No. A Dominant creates a mental safe space so that their partner is free to drop the burden of being in control. Of being the person who is responsible for themselves and those around them. It is taking the care to make their hearts and minds feel inviolate. To feel as if they can and will be taken care of.

There are bedroom door aspects but those are private. That is what the bedroom door means.
If someone disrespect your privacy in this regard, either by leaping to a conclusion or ‘researching’ on the internet as a way of attacking what you have said…then it should be addressed as a privacy violation.

I see being a Dominant as being a part of my being. It’s not a hobby or an interest. It is a part of my soul.
It is part of what allows me to navigate through the world. A bedrock principle.

That is why I talk about it. Why I am open about it. Why I write and post about it. Because, to me, hiding a piece of my soul is a wound that will not close. What is hidden cannot be healed. Cannot become strength. Cannot grow in healthy ways.

So I have the talking points of what it means. Publicly. To take care of and give space to someone you love and care for. To give them the freedom to let go of control and just be. Which I know is anathema to some. And I know it’s where misunderstanding creeps in. Because, they can always tell me stop. And stop is inviolate.
It is a way of being and communicating when it is at its best.

But, private questions are private.

A fantasy

I want to go to your work and sit under your desk. I want to run my hands up your legs, kneading them. Slide my hands to your thighs, denim jeans impeding, run my nails across the fabric with enough pressure that individual lines of force dance across the sensitive skin.

Reach up, still hidden, unzip the jeans. The sound loud and clear to anyone passing by. I push my fingers through the slit. The rough teeth against the back of my hand. I trace you and hear your breath catch. I grow hard. Unable to do anything but touch you. I slide my hands over your panties until they are soaked with you.

The scent of sex hangs heavy over your desk. People who pass by look at you, effort on your face to maintain. To not gasp and grunt. When you can’t take it anymore you make your way to the ladies room. Making sure that the coast is clear, I follow. Putting a out of order sign on the door I slip in. Water is running and you are splashing water on your face. Trying to come down. That won’t do.

I sit you on the high counter. I remove your shoes, then your pants. I run my hands across the goosebumps from the too cold air. I remove my shoes, then my pants and underwear. I stand erect, precum dripping from me, I put on a condom. Thin walled, to feel you.

You are right at waist height, I spread your legs, holding them apart at the knees. Pulling your panties to the side, I step in, guiding myself into the warm, wet center of you. You clamp your cunt over me. I thrust into you. I put your legs around my waist. Inviting you to clamp down. I thrust, pause, unbutton one button on your blouse. You undo your bra, freeing your tits to be squeezed and tweaked as we fuck in the center of your work. Only an out of order sign keeping us from discovery.

I can’t hold back and start thrusting faster, your tits bouncing, hard in the cold air. I cum, but you don’t. Not yet. I pull off the condom, dick semi hard and covered in cum. I order you to your knees, a compromise to what I need, “suck me clean”, I order. You kneel on my pants, looking up, you place your mouth over me. Licking me like a lollipop, sucking the last drop of cum, I watch you swallow.

Then back on the counter for your turn. I sink down on my knees, head between your thighs, tongue thrust into you, tasting where my cock had been. Licking and sucking. Nipping and setting teeth on, using my hands and tongue until you start to shudder. I slip another condom on, hard again from hearing your animalistic groans and yips.

Then quickly stand, hand still working, keeping you right at the edge. I thrust into you, left hand thumbing the upraised nub of your pleasure, right holding and squeezing your tit. I thrust into you, you spasm around me, orgasm rocking you, I keep thrusting frenzied, needing to cum, needing to feel the orgasm as you ride the high of yours.

A minute, an hour. Panting, sweating. Nothing but the warmth, the wet and you. When you cum the third time, pushing, grinding down on my hard but sensitive cock. I know I’m not going to cum again. I stop thrusting and kiss you. Your need, and kiss, hard. Sucking my tongue. I stroke into you, just wanting to savor this. To feel connected to you.

What I see

I want to make love to you in a room full of strangers. I want to show these people that your sensuality cannot be quenched. That you are sex itself and my desire for you burns like plasma. I want you to feel their eyes on you as you orgasm again and again. I want you to see the envy of your pleasure, their eyes flashing as my tongue and hands and cock bring you to climax again and again and again. I want you to see that you are a queen. I want you to see in their eyes, in their lust what I say about you. That my words are all true. That you are sex and lust itself. I ache to burn in your fire.