Mazboori Ne Banaya Gigelo
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DominiqueChapter 6 free porn video
After the weekend, Andrew gave me some space to get my head together, which was good. To be honest, I was 'on autopilot' all week, and hardly able to concentrate. I was glad work hadn't noticed. The experience at Dean's tilted my world on its axis, and I started to wonder about all kinds of things.
Going up there was a good idea, I decided, even if it was only to open my eyes to the possibilities. I learned some good lessons there. Probably the best one was that if my head was in the right place, I could deep throat Andrew, which was pretty exciting. Discovering a depth of subspace that I didn't know existed was amazing too. My mind and body were capable of handling torments and pain much better than I thought. Though I was achy and marked for a few days afterwards, they soon went away.
Before going up there, I had a pretty good idea of what went on at Dean's, but I honestly thought I was going to get the option of getting involved. Like I could've just watched if I wanted. But it wasn't like that at all. I was in it from the start and I fucking loved it. That threw a spanner in the works. How dare I love it? What kind of a slut was I? God. Even the horrible feelings of being ignored faded from my selective memory. It was an incredible weekend, and thoughts and flashes from it haunted me for weeks.
And yet, my jealousy concerned me. I could drown in sensuality, but if Andrew received pleasure from someone else, I felt betrayed! Then I felt guilty about thinking such ridiculous thoughts. What was wrong with me? It was the only part of the weekend that left me with questions.
One time at work I giggled when I thought of writing, 'My Master's pleasure is my joy!' a hundred times on the whiteboard in the executive boardroom. I wished I were always so nonchalant and laid back about it. But I wasn't, and I hoped my jealousy wouldn't be my undoing.
Dominique and I had discussed many subjects over the previous year. I felt I knew what she was capable of, and I knew her limits. In the days following the weekend, we talked briefly about the night with Paul just prior to it, and about general conclusions from the weekend itself. She had nodded and agreed with things I pointed out to her, and added comments of her own. We even went to our first munch together during the week, and I was so proud of her. She'd been wonderful, demonstrating a depth and understanding of herself that I was proud to witness. She seemed to speak her mind in thoughtful ways and I enjoyed the maturity she was showing. I was pleased with her progress.
As the week wore on, it became clear new questions had been raised in her mind. She seemed to be wrestling with something she thought was important, but she didn't come to me about it. One time I was about to enter our bedroom and I hesitated in the doorway. She thought she was alone, and her brows were furrowed in deep concentration. She was sniffling, holding a tissue to her nose, tears trickling slowly down her cheeks. As I turned and allowed her some privacy, it became clear something serious was going on.
A few choice words still had their desired affect. Now that I think about it, in the days after the weekend at Dean's, I can't remember how often I said words like, 'Dominique, come here, ' but it was a few. I was increasingly worried about her, but I didn't sit her down and question her. I let her think it through, expecting her to come to me if she had an impasse.
After all, I reasoned, scening was still a relatively new concept to her. What we did together, to her, was simply how she submitted to me. Allowing herself to be used, to whatever degree I chose, during play, was 'her life'. But scening in full view of others, having others use her at my whim, or seeing me use another woman, was a pretty big step. A lot had happened, and she still hadn't come to me.
By Saturday evening I decided to get to the bottom of it. "Dominique? Come here, pet."
"Yes, Sir?" I replied, entering the lounge room from the kitchen, wiping my hands on my apron. I'd been peeling potatoes for Andrew's favourite potato salad. It was a bit weird how I threw myself into meal making.
"Come and kneel in front of me, pet."
"Oh, um," I hesitated, thinking about the water about to boil. "Yes, Sir." Andrew had arranged a cushion for me and I kneeled down on it, my eyes flicking at the kitchen door.
"I want you to tell me what is on your mind."
"Just that I have some water on the boil. I probably should turn it off if this is going to take some time." I noticed Andrew's eyes narrowing, but it was strange. It wasn't an angry look, more like he was trying to see inside my head. I thought, Uh oh.
"Go on," he said with a sideways nod.
"Yes, Sir," I said, springing to my feet. Trotting on tiptoes to the kitchen, I turned off the stove and took off my apron before hurrying back. As I settled, I looked up into Andrew's eyes and held my breath as he spoke.
"Good girl," he said, smiling softly down on me. "Okay, now what's on your mind?"
"Um," I replied stupidly, trying to buy some time. "What do you mean, Sir?"
"Don't answer a question with a question. Tell me."
I sighed and looked down at my hands. I wasn't being good and I knew it. "I'm sorry. I haven't been myself lately."
"I've noticed. It's okay. It's time to talk to me about it."
I wanted to... I really did... "I... I..."
"Dominique. See that door?" He pointed toward the front door and my eyes widened. "You may go through it at any time. Now talk, or walk."
Fuck!. "I just... I mean... I don't know what I mean to you!!!"
The weirdest silence settled over us as his shoulders slumped. He looked down at the floor for the longest time before raising his eyes to me. Tears threatened to spill onto my cheeks, I was so afraid. I don't know why, but I thought he was going to be angry. God, I was so wrong.
The look in his eyes floored me as he whispered, "You mean everything to me, pet."
"Oh, Master!" I cried.
"You are mine, and I am yours."
"I'm so sorry!"
"We are one entity. Two people, but we are one. Together. You and me."
"Forgive me!"
"We are on the same side. It's you and me against the world."
"I doubted you!"
"You are forgiven."
"I'm a terrible sub!"
"No, you are not. There is more to this life than you know. Your lessons are not ended."
"I'm so sorry, Sir!" I burst into tears at his feet. I don't know. I was wound up so tightly. With my fingernails tearing holes in the cuff of his dress pants, and my mascara running onto them, I heaved and cried my eyes out. My guilt had convinced me I wasn't good enough for him.
"Hush now," he said softly. "It's okay."
I could feel his fingers at the back of my head, sliding into my hair. Gently they tightened, but not to the point of pain. It was just short of that. It was exactly tight enough to halt my tears. As he raised my head with gentle pressure, I let go of his pants and moved up to all fours, following his desire for me. Backwards he bent my neck, arching my back and bringing my eyes to his. I must have looked a sight.
"Everything about you is wonderful. Know I love you."
My mouth opened but nothing came out. I'm sure my heart stopped. As I gazed into his eyes, trying to find a hint of doubt and finding none, I finally found my voice. "Thank you, Master," I whispered. His fingers slid from my hair, letting my head drop and giving me time to catch my breath. I sat back on my heels and spread my knees, placing my hands palms up on my thighs and arching my back. God. Joy filled the void in my heart and I longed for his touch.
Always reassure me like this. Always make me yours like this!
His eyes burnt into mine and I melted before him. I would never meet another like him. Only he touched me without touching. We both knew it. Oh God, we both knew it. The hair on my neck bristled as he rose from his chair and slid his fingers into my hair once more.
"Come, Dominique," he said, grinning and brushing a tear from his eye. "It's time for the works, pet."
I've always believed actions spoke louder than words. It's an old saying but so true. Discerning the veracity of Dominique's words wasn't hard. Her body language screamed the truth of them. Every heave of her shoulders, every sob into the carpet while holding the leg of my pants, told of her pain. How could I have been so stupid? I'd been so single-mindedly pursuing an outcome that I'd failed to recognise the danger signs. I guessed empathy wasn't my strong suit.
When she questioned her importance to me, her heart wasn't the only one that skipped a beat. Mine also stopped in time. In that split second I saw Rebecca, waving her finger and laughing at my foolishness. I barely had time to crush my guilt and listen to them both.
Move on, you big oaf.
So I did.
It was that easy.
The next morning, I was enjoying a few quiet minutes of solitude, lying in bed, my mind wandering. Andrew had driven to the local bakery for some Danish pastries to have with our leisurely morning coffee. Mmmmmm... I loved Sundays...
When I ran my fingers over my hip, I felt a couple of slightly raised and sensitive ridges of skin. Into my mind came the memory of being struck twice in the same place, and Andrew's voice, reminding me not to move. My eyes fluttered closed and I cooed as I brushed my fingertips along the ridge. I'd had lots of these before. I didn't mind. They were only tiny and didn't last long. I actually liked them.
Why did I like being 'marked'?
The reason I didn't tell my vanilla friends the details of my relationship with Andrew was because they would confuse what we did with physical abuse. As might any uninformed observer if they saw the marks. I'm sure they would equate what we did with Andrew physically abusing me. I wished I could cast a temporary spell over them so they felt what I felt. Maybe then they would understand.
For starters, Andrew has never hit me in anger. For example, I would never be struck across the face in the middle of a heated conversation. I was assured of that a couple of months ago when Andrew and I agreed to add it as a hard limit for me. Andrew said it was a hard limit for him too, and I was never to strike him across the face ever. I never thought of that. Blushing, I gulped and nodded!
Also, no matter what he uses, rarely if ever does it begin hard. This is where I think internal wiring comes into it. Most people call it subspace, and just about all submissives experience it. It's where time doesn't exist, only what you feel exists. And what you feel is somehow experienced in a way that makes sense. Subspace can come over me at a moments notice. A look or a word might be enough. Even at my most feisty, even when an inappropriate thought is bubbling away barely in control, when I first feel that toy or his hand touching my skin or my hair, something happens and I slide into the place where I am me.
When Andrew strikes my body, whether it be softly, medium or hard, every time it is measured to coincide with what I want or need at that particular moment. Sometimes what I need is not necessarily what I would choose. But that is what I give to my Master. I give him the right to choose what I need. It's true that most of the time we agree anyway. I wouldn't be here if we didn't. So when he tells me he is going to use something on me, I know he will 'warm me up' before using it with any force. I know he won't actually hurt me. And, to my delight, most of the time I get no less than I deserve.
So when I talk about being marked, I don't mean being beaten black and blue. God. I can't imagine what that is like, and I can see no parallels at all between the two. Andrew's dominance is measured and accurate. It's exactly what I like about the lifestyle: that it's structured and clear.
This is your place, and that is mine. I am like this, and you are like that. This is what excites me, and that is what excites you. We fit together.
Sometimes I've woken in the morning wondering why I'm aching. Later, I can feel what he has done through my clothes. It affects me, being able to feel them without touching them, knowing they are there with me. A part of him. Being marked makes me feel owned, and serves as a constant reminder of my submission.
Just last week, at my very first munch, we had an evening picnic with floodlights and barbeques. While sitting on blankets and munching hotdogs and steak sandwiches, one of the regular girls asked, "What is the difference between a slave and a submissive?" After a few protests that the subject had been beaten to death, two girls spoke up, saying they'd really like to know.
Without thinking I offered, "A submissive chooses." Everyone looked at me and I was very embarrassed. I think it was one of the first things I said in front of strangers. Maybe it was because I had given it some thought that I blurted. When everyone was quiet and waiting for a follow up, I was blushing madly and hoping Andrew would rescue me. But he didn't. I had to say something! "A... A submissive chooses her path. A slave's path is chosen for her."
Someone said, "That's pretty good, I like that..."
I looked up at Andrew and he smiled and nodded, then added for the group, "A slave and a submissive are close allies. They are very similar in thought processes. Often it is simply a self-image thing, where one prefers to think of themselves as 'slave', rather than 'submissive'."
A feisty sub asked, "Yes, but what, in your opinion, is the difference?"
"Well, the lifestyle being what it is, there are any number of possible answers. But mainstream thought says a submissive is one who, by a choice that may be revoked, relinquishes a limited and pre-defined amount of power over themselves; and with this, he or she is satisfied, and so is their dominant. A slave is considered to be one who puts his or her entire being at their Master's or Mistress' disposal, without limit, and nothing less would satisfy either of them. As far as my opinion goes, I think in some ways, the 'slave mindset' is a little deeper than the 'sub mindset'. Deeper in the sense that it is more assured. It is unquestioned. This may or may not be a good thing." He gazed down at me and I blushed. "For me, I enjoy watching Dominique's internal tug of war."
Someone yelled out, 'Write that down!' And people laughed and agreed. Some even clapped. While kneeling at his feet, I nodded and smiled back at them, proud as anything and wondering what he just said!
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