Page 52 of The Dommes

No pressure at all.

Chapter 22

Kathleen

My mind is so clear that I’m insecure about my sanity. When I woke up this morning, remembering what I had said to Ira last night, I thought about calling her to cancel. Thinking that made me angry. So I took a shower, cooked some breakfast, and am now sitting in front of my big, wide window doing some meditative yoga.

I’m a strong woman. I feel like I shouldn’t have to tell myself that, but it’s true. I’ve been through worse. I trust Ira – or as much as a woman can trust someone in that situation. Never have I heard a bad word about her in the club. Although I’m not privy to why she and her partners go separate ways, I’ve never believed it had to do with her behavior.

No, everything negative I feel is because of me.

It takes a lot of nerve and resolve to go up to someone and say dominate me. Perhaps too much. As a Domme, I don’t have to think about my pride or my self-worth. It’s ingrained into me as a part of my role. If I submit? It’s going to be at the forefront of my mind.

Even so, Ira said I didn’t have to do anything. She wanted some casual sex if I was up for it. Doesn’t matter. This whole submission thing is in my head.

If I’m ever going to try it, Ira is the only one I’ll trust.

Shit, don’t ask me why! I’m trying to meditate. Yet all I can think about is Ira shoving me against the wall and fucking me as if she’ll never have the chance again. Usually, when lovers act like that around me, it’s because I’m their Domme. It’s so different having a non-submissive partner slather you with attention like that.

It’s noon. People enjoy the park beyond my window. Here on my enclosed balcony, I can see their colorful heads moving around, playing games, eating, jogging… it’s peaceful.

I’m at peace.

It won’t be so bad. I’ll go to her place, I’ll do whatever she wants, but at the end of the day, I’ll still be the same person. Everyone experiments with something at some point in their sexual journeys. Me? Maybe I’m experimenting with submission.

A deep breath takes me over. Soon, it will be Ira Mathison taking over me.

Two hours later, I receive a text from her. “Instructions.” Hm. Well.

It’s a list of requests. Mostly apparel. I was going to dress girly, but it seems she has other ideas. Multiple lines of text, each one describing what she wants me to wear, appear before me.

She’s a meticulous Domme. I’ve never required my partners to wear anything other than their own skin. So, this is going to be interesting. Perhaps not as interesting as how much my body tingles as I go through my closet, looking for items close enough to fit her descriptions.

I’ve never dressed up for someone like this. I’ve never followed their instructions, knowing that what I’m doing is meant to arouse them. Her tastes, not mine. The way I do my hair, the jewelry I wear, even my underwear… it’s all for her. And me. We pretend it’s all for her.

Maybe this submitting thing is easier than I expected. A part of me can’t wait to see what tonight has in store.

Chapter 23

Ira

I’m a nervous wreck.

Me, a Domme. A woman who is used to being in control. Now I’m being given the ultimate control by the woman I least expected. The woman I expected to want me the least. And now the woman I expected to submit the least.

I want her so badly. She consumes my mind all day.

I eat lunch with my father and some of his friends. We take the old-man party to a lounge to waste away the afternoon. Men with forty years on me talk about the good ol’ days and chide me for still being… whatever I am. I’m masculine enough that they either think I’m a man or that I’m pretending to be one. Most don’t know the term non-binary. My father goes along with it because I behave and get the job done. He was never enamored with the idea of having a daughter anyway. So here I am, the weirdest of both worlds. A manly daughter. A girlish son.

They all go along with me being into women. They know I’m single. All forms of marriage are legal here, so what about it? All the more reason for my father’s oldest (and I mean oldest) friends to foist their daughters on me. Even the ones I know who vote and donate against such interests.

Yet they pour me more drinks, and my father clicks his tongue.

“Don’t want to hear any talk about women right now,” he mumbles. “Ira needs to be focusing on his work, or at least until the hotel is taken care of.” Of course, he beams at me in that know-how way. He’s a man. I’m his progeny. He wants proof of my romantic competence without actually knowing the details. I’m allowed to wait for marriage, however. I admit it’s not something I think about, even as I turn thirty.

Every man I’m sitting with has a daughter, granddaughter, or niece who is looking for a “nice” partner. I know that code talk. I also don’t doubt I’ve seen some of these young ladies at Midnight. Maybe I’ve screwed a couple without realizing it.

I’m not thinking of them. I’m thinking of Kathleen.

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