Reposted with permission from fetlife guest blogger: MS_TAU See original post here!
I’m a really horrible domme.
I have absolutely no desire to micromanage anyone. The pet has been on this earth 21 more years than I have. In that time he’s perfected the art of managing himself. He’s done pretty well before I came along and if a rogue city bus were to flatten me tomorrow, he’d be sad but he’d manage. I have no time to tell him what to eat and when to eat it. I have to make sure my youngest doesn’t eat peanut butter and nutella every single meal. That’s enough dietary monitoring for me.
He looks awesome in all shades of purple, blue and red. The purple wouldn’t even register on my radar as a color for him to wear. Like a grown up he’s great at dressing himself. I’ll let you have a glimpse into our life. If I’m out with him chances are whatever I have on he picked for me to wear. Shocking isn’t it. Most submissive undress their domme he gets to dress me and does a great job at it.
I have no desire for him to do all the housework.
I love doing the laundry, something about measuring out the precise amount of ingredients in the precise order appeals to me. The thought of teaching someone how to do this fills me with anxiety. Why should I give up watching the bubbles form as the bin fulls waiting for just the right moment to add the other ingredients? I could write him specific instructions and he’d still never get it right. Folding the laundry now that he can keep. Then there is the cooking.
I love being in the kitchen. All that chopping and measuring and mixing and kneading and pinching, heavenly. He can keep the chopping of onions. It takes me four hours to clean two bathrooms. It takes my twelve year old one. They look the same when we’re both done so why does mine take longer? I clean the same thing more than once. It use to be a manifestation of my OCD or so they thought until wearing a heart monitor they realized I actually enjoy doing it. Nice calm heart beats when I clean.
I refuse to belittle, degrade and humiliate him.
The names I call him reflect the fact that I adore him. I have no desire to make him feel inferior. I rule with a kiss. I don’t force him to do things. He does what he does because he knows they bring me joy. That’s it, pure and simple. I don’t have to snarl at him or have him keep a journal of his every infraction.
I tell him “please” and “thank you” because as much as he’s perfectly content serving me I make sure he knows I appreciate what he does. He does something I don’t appreciate I don’t even raise my voice. We do this weird foreign thing call talking.
I’m not perfect.
I have days where I’d like nothing better than to not get out of bed, moments where my beast wants nothing to do with the world. In those moments he’s there a light to help me find my way.
It does nothing to our dynamic for him to watch me fall apart. He serves me by being my strength.
I hate the domme uniform.
Ok hate is a strong word. I like aspects of it but the rest, nope. I hate the smell of leather. Like I turn gray and exit stage left hate. I can handle it on my feet because that’s far enough from my nose. The thought of being in latex, well that would require a trip to the emergency room, allergies and all. All that vinyl and rubber, I’m claustrophobic so never going to happen. I suffer through winter bundled up. I’m not about to suffer through wearing something I’m “suppose to” just to “prove” I’m a domme.
The boots through, hmmmm. I love some boots and heels but mostly boots. I also love corsets except when I have a panic attack and cut myself out of one. We play with me in jeans and t-shirt, a pink and black babydoll outfit, a red and yellow teddy. Basically whatever I feel like wearing that day. He doesn’t need the frills to fall into a role. Being a submissive isn’t something he turns on and off depending on what I’m wearing.
I refuse to waste perfectly good rice.
My mother would probably disown me if she were ever to get wind of me pouring perfectly good rice on the ground and having him kneel on it. WTF! There are kids right where I live that would gladly eat the rice I’d waste.
Okay the ginger thing sounds cool and I do love the smell of ginger. But again waste not want not. I suppose I could feed it to him after we’re done but that seems like just so much work.
I’ll admit it I’m a little obsessed with his cock.
Okay, A-L-O-T. I had to ask him to send pictures of him so I could show people what he looks like because majority of the ones I had were of his cock. I don’t want him locked up for extended periods of time. A day at most. Weeks and months on end without watching him jerk-off. Yeah I’ll pass.
I’m somewhat of a cum slut. And yeah I know I could milk it out of him but the sounds he makes the closer he gets. Delicious. Not so sure I’ll get the same effect if his orgasm is forced from his body. Don’t get me wrong the occasional milking is very erotic. Did I mention I’m obsessed with his lingam? Well I am.
As his dominant my role is to make sure he is the best him that he can be.
Not bludgeon him to death with rules on ending. I’m not about to shove us into a box just so we can fit into other people’s view of how we should be. He wants to fit into my life in the way that causes me the least amount of stress. No need to “train” him. He adds value to my life by simply being himself. His goal is to empower me so I might accomplish what I set out to.
In him I have a teammate not a follower. Having to exert my authority, reprimand him and remind him of what needs to be done sounds like a job no one is paying me for and that has no appeal to me.