“Let us engage the services of a dominatrix to instruct me on how to please you,” he proposed. My eyes sparkled with intrigue. “I find that idea quite appealing.”
To be entirely candid, I have always possessed an inherent fascination with power dynamics, dare I say, an inclination for such interactions. One method through which I have purposefully delved into self-discovery is by metaphorically immersing myself within the intricate labyrinth of life, intently observing my journey toward emancipation. This particular relationship presented itself as a captivating experiment: could I navigate this dynamic ethically, maintaining control over my emotions while indulging in some enjoyable moments? Considering his inclination to push boundaries or disregard them, coupled with his propensity to ignore inconvenient truths, I pondered my safety within this unconventional arrangement. After careful consideration, I arrived at a resolute answer: ‘Yes.’
During our initial encounter, we found ourselves entwined on his couch, passionately engaged in intimate exploration. In a sudden and unexpected manner, he inserted his dry index finger into my anus, without any prior discussion or consent. No inquiries such as ‘do you find this pleasurable?’ or ‘is this acceptable?’ Just an arid intrusion into an orifice that does not naturally lubricate itself. At that time, I struggled to assert myself, unable to advocate for my desires. I rationalized his actions in my mind, attributing them to his exploration of uncharted territory, assuming he was unaware. I decided that I would communicate my preferences during subsequent encounters.
The dry finger intrusion repeated itself once or twice, and I berated myself internally for not speaking up. I hesitated to voice my concerns, fearing that it would bruise his ego—an ever-present predicament of avoiding damage to a man’s self-esteem at any cost. Eventually, I summoned the courage to express myself.
“While I appreciate the stimulation of anal play, I kindly request the use of lubrication. Be it saliva or proper lubricant, but never in a dry manner,” I communicated assertively.
His response was a mumbled acknowledgment, barely audible.
Nearly two months passed. By this point, I had started dating someone else. My boss and I shared delightful moments together, both emotionally and sexually connected. However, I acknowledged that I did not harbor any romantic love for him. Our relationship provided valuable insights into my own desires and the treatment I deserved. He was admirably transparent about his emotions and insecurities, putting forth considerable effort to make me feel significant.
Yet, matters concerning his wife began to surface. He commenced complaining about their marriage and expressing discontent with her. I felt immensely uncomfortable with these discussions, but once again, I deferred to his wisdom, trusting his experienced perspective. In retrospect, I recognize this as a sign of relinquishing control and entering a state of vulnerability contrary to my better judgment. It became evident that I had discovered a boundary I hadn’t previously recognized—I had no interest in being privy to the intricacies of his relationship.
As events unfolded, it became apparent that his wife did not engage in extramarital affairs as he had suggested, and she had not initially desired an open relationship. The disconcerting truth was that their marriage was far from fulfilling, lacking both satisfaction and intimacy. I began to perceive myself as an escape—a temporary measure or a mere placeholder on the path toward their impending divorce. Nevertheless, I lingered for a while longer, unwilling to abandon my voyage of self-exploration just yet.
“Let us engage the services of a dominatrix to instruct me on how to please you,” he proposed.
My eyes glimmered with enthusiasm. “I find that idea immensely intriguing.”
I welcomed the notion of offloading the creative burden of instructing him onto someone else. It pleased me to envision him at the mercy of another, to be aware of forthcoming actions before they transpired. The prospect of being observed also piqued my curiosity. I reached out to a friend experienced in the art of domination, and she graciously agreed to assist.
“Listen, we are involved, but love does not bind us. He is married. Please refrain from urging us to exchange loving gazes or utter ‘I love you’—we seek a different kind of help. My predicament lies in his persistent use of a dry finger in my rectum,” I confided to my friend.
“Oh, my dear, fear not. I shall provide a solution,” she reassured me.
I anticipated that I would willingly partake in any activities that lay within our agreed boundaries.
The appointed night arrived. As my friend ascended the stairs, she commenced a discussion, inquiring about our preferences and limitations. We delved into the matter at hand. In a sultry, low voice, she instructed him to moisten his finger by first inserting it into my vagina, allowing him to gauge the level of arousal. Then, slowly, she directed him to navigate his finger downward, towards my anus.
The gentleman attempted a peculiar maneuver, employing his other hand to aid in the intricate task of penetrating my anus. Swiftly, I intervened, withdrawing his hand from my vagina, and whispered, “Use this hand instead.”
The following morning, this insatiable and inconsolable man roused me from slumber, initiating oral pleasure. Gazing up at me, he implored, “Tell me what to do.” I had grown accustomed to this routine.
“Could you please stimulate me with circular motions?” I murmured, still half-asleep.
“Do not ask, command me,” he insisted, urging me to assume the role of a dominant figure—a role I had no desire to play.
“Very well, lie down,” I acquiesced, as I crawled towards his face, assuming a dominant position.
As he attempted to support me by placing his hands on my buttocks, he mistakenly inserted one of his fingers—a dreadfully dry finger—into my rectum. In an instant, I leaped to my feet and shrieked, “Lube!” as if in mortal danger.
“I adore it when you’re angry with me.”
And thus, our intimate encounters ceased. Provoking my anger is by no means a consensual strategy to ignite my dominance. It is an unequivocal boundary.
However, there remains one incident that continues to trouble me. I persisted in working for him, and we had one final meeting in his home office. He positioned himself closest to the door and diverted the conversation toward my appearance—specifically, my hair.
“Are you growing out your hair? You should let it grow, but avoid dyeing it again. Alternatively, you could consider shaving your head once more—that was captivating,” he remarked.
“Using the word ‘should’ to dictate my physical appearance is inappropriate, boss,” I responded firmly.
“Are you offended now?” he quipped, a 51-year-old man challenging me. Gathering my belongings, I prepared to depart.
“Not offended, merely leaving,” I declared.
He swiftly rose from his chair, hastening to block the door, preventing my exit.
“Come on, I was only joking,” he implored.
From a retrospective standpoint, I recognize that the violation of my need for lubrication during anal play was only a fraction of the broader issue—consent was wholly disregarded. We never engaged in meaningful conversations regarding consent. He pursued his desires manipulatively, failing to communicate his intentions clearly or ascertain if his desires aligned with my own. Our interactions lacked authentic dialogue about our preferences and needs, aspects that I now
consider fundamental to the concept of consent.
Reflecting on the past, I wish I had asserted myself more in the moment. I regret deferring to his judgment and justifying his actions instead of advocating for myself. Even if he may not have comprehended, I would have maintained my integrity, feeling empowered by my self-advocacy.