It is said and has become a cliché of sociology that men think about sex about once every two minutes or so. 

However, in the masochistic dynamic of a person who wants to submit to the demands of an overpowering woman, the erotic state of mind is constant, and it leads to continual arousal. One of the pleasures of submission to Domina Katherine is thinking about her all day long. 

The masochistic practice traffics in anticipation, waiting, tableaux, desire on hold until commanded; a whole catalog of nuances that unlike “regular” sexuality create a mental climate of non-stop reflection and longing. Often the S/m dyad resembles statuary. The slave is the supplicant, the stationary thing that awaits his Master’s pleasure; the Mistress is towering goddess, ignoring the creature at Her Feet as She gazes skyward at the domain She rules. 

The slave is a thing in isolation. Few others know of its desperate need to submit, and that forms a prison, in which the Mistress is the warden. The slave in its cage, ordered there by Domina to await instructions, or for punishment, or to perform a task, such as cleaning Her Boots, is only the physical manifestation of the mental cage in which the slave lives all day, one that is permanent, while the real cage is – frustratingly, agonizingly – temporary. 

It is a privilege granted to a Domina that She has many slaves. A slave has but one Mistress. Thus a slave must wait his turn, as his Domina amuses Herself with Her other property. A slave is generally in a position of waiting. The slave waits at home; the slave waits at work; the slave waits in bed at night while ticking off the minutes, waiting, waiting, always for that summons from Mistress to attend. A session can last an hour or two; but the other 22 hours of the day, the 168 hours of the week, are a prolonged act of waiting and anticipation. 

And waiting continues in the dungeon. 

The Domina in Her throne. The slave on his knees, eyes downcast. 

She considers the slave. Has he been good? Has he obeyed? Or would it be merely a whim that inspires Her to punish him? Whichever, he has no control over the outcome. She knows what he needs, and can grant or withhold it as She pleases. 

The slave for his part is on his knees, his wrists chafing against the coarse ropes, or cramped by the cold steel handcuffs. His knees weigh against the floor of the dungeon, and his naked flesh is chilled by the cool air. The wait seems long. The seconds tick. 

Is that a rustle of movement, the electric crackle of stockinged thighs rubbing together briefly, the squeak of Leather Boots flexing, the sound of heavy Boot Heels resounding across the long distance of the floor between slave and Owner? They approach. Slowly. One Heel before the other. There is no speech. There need not be any. The Boots pause before the slave. He can see them in the periphery of his downward eyes. The legs are spread apart, the tip of a whip quivers near the shaft of the Boots. 

Then finally, finally it comes: the order, the sentence that he has been dreaming of for weeks, a lifetime. 

“Kiss My Boots, slave, and show Me who is Master.”

A tremble goes through the slave’s body, his skin is flushed. Soon it will happen. He bows, perhaps awkwardly, and leans in. Soon, very soon, his lips will touch the toe of Her Boots, and it will begin. 

Please share with your friends: