Dominance...

I appraise the dangerous feminine creature in front of me. A seeming remnant of Tolkien high-elven ancestry. Black hair, piercing blue eyes and a striking countenance. Stunningly beautiful and fierce. A femme fatale - my femme fatale. The black widow that shares my bed. 

 

She begins stripping in front of me. I tell her to stop, "I want to take your clothes off", my sexual arrogance is very assumptive of my role in this matter. I'm asserting my right as "man" in this relationship, and believe me when I tell you I'm used to it. But that doesn't help me here. 

 

"No" she says dismissively. She doesn't even look at me, just continues what she's doing. Her body reveals itself to me in layers. Tiny waist, hips that flare out in that perfect feminine love triangle that captivates me so much. Huge boobs. Tasteful tattoos.

 

In other words we've just arrived at Boner City, Nevada.

 

She stands there naked, regarding me coolly with those stunning blue eyes. An ex-finance director with a penchant for leather and lace. And whips, if I'd allowed it. (Hell no) Apparently corporate life had been too boring so she'd picked up a side hobby. Being a dominatrix had fit her very well. 

 

I'm laid back on the bed, propped up on pillows admiring the spectacle, almost serene, arms outstretched on either side of me. She steps towards the bed and takes aim at me with a nicely delivered NEG. "You wouldn't have your experiences if you didn't look like you do." 

 

Now this is "girlfriend shorthand" so I better explain. I'm known for having a certain kind of preternatural calmness during situations that would make most people blow their top. It served me well in the military, sports, even fights. And it has definitely served me well when it comes to dealing with women. There are plenty of soldiers and warriors of every type that would face down enemy gunfire, but go in absolute dread of situations involving strange women they don't know. The self-doubt and intense introspection "unknown" women, especially beautiful ones, invokes in them strikes them with dread. 

 

She's definitely used to men kowtowing before her, fulfilling her every demand and going in fear of her disapproval. But though I adore this woman, I am not one of those.

 

It seems she has to justify why I act the way I do. That's fine. I don't respond to her double-edged quip. I don't need to. I don't believe it, and I don't care if she believes it. 

 

She leans over the bed putting her hands down on it, then seems to glide across it towards me. Like a vampire descending on its prey. I don't move a muscle. I smell her as she comes close, feel her hands planted softly on either side of my hips then her fingers curling into the waistband of my boxers as she begins sliding them down. She takes care not to unnecessarily snag my "throbbing member", then pulls them off me and throws them over the side of the bed. I'm naked.

 

There is something utterly alluring about the way she undresses me. Her assumed dominion over my body, the calm control in the way her hands touch me, how she matter of factly removes my last bit of clothing. Never asking, never hesitating. Fully exposed with no say in the matter whatsoever.

 

Some men might be put off by someone taking such acute control over their bodies, to be made so vulnerable. I'm not. I'm enthralled by it. It softens me inside, makes me feel warm.

 

It's things like this that make you fall in love with a woman.  

 

But she's nowhere near done. She gets down low on her tummy, looks at me, almost glaring, then goes to work. Nibbling on my choice parts, gazing into my eyes, making me watch as she feasts on my more delicate masculine parts. 

 

My first thought is, "Wow." My second thought is, "Damn. She's using all my moves on me."