In my genuflected state, I can feel that the palms of my hands and my kneecaps have become entirely etched with the shapes of the carpet. I shift my left shoulder imperceptibly to relieve the pressure on my left hand, which has started to tingle. A few moments go by in relative comfort, but then my right hand starts to cramp up, my knees start to wobble, and my back starts to ache.
When I feel like I’m going to pass out from the pain, I lift my right hand off of the carpet, and her legs reluctantly slide off my back. I bow in front of her, and rub my hands and knees vigorously, carefully hiding myself so as not to offend her. She has been expressly clear about the rules—no erections, no displays of emotion, no displays of weakness, and especially no displays of dissent.
I am to do her bidding unequivocally, without complaint or question, and I am so eager to please her that my physical weakness shames me profoundly. It has taken me years to find her—the perfect Mistress—someone who understands my need to worship her wholly and completely. I don’t want to lose her.
Men like myself are interested in the female supremacy lifestyle, which is often mistaken for or confused with sadomasochism. For example, the three professional dominatrices whom I’d previously visited in hopes of fulfilling my desires were entirely uninterested in the concept of female empowerment. Their jobs were simply to cater to men’s sexual fetishes of being bound and gagged and spanked—the Shades of Grey vanilla variety of sexual fetishism that carried no deeper intellectual components. Their lackadaisical movement and only casual interest in the tasks at hand made it obvious that they achieved no pleasure or empowerment from the situation. And if they get no pleasure, I get no pleasure.
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