W/we in a story

(:(:(:~i read this story somewhere online and thought of my Mistress~ :) :) :) yup thats most of Her and U/us.

I don't consider myself a "lifestyle" domina.

That is, I don't order my beau around 24 hours a day, hell, I don't
even get final say in all of our arguments. In fact, just the other
night we were arguing about 4th of July plans (we both have pretty
intense families and often rub horns when we try to make plans to
appease both), and I got a little unrational in a female kind of way,
and he said to me, his eyes kind of glazing, "Are you INSANE?"

Mind you, we were just having a squabble, and after reflecting, I do
realize I was being unreasonable. I wanted things my way, and like
women tend to do, I saw it only my way, and threw a fit when he stood
up to me.

Now, you may think - what kind of a femdom takes that from her man?
She should have said, "You will do it this way, my way, and LIKE IT!
Now, go to your cage!" and storm off, only to deliver 25 lashes to him
later for calling me a loon.

But our relationship is more normal than that. We spat, we snipped,
and eventually ended up having really good, hot sex (lots of pent up
passion from the argument) with the agreement to talk about it later,
and I woke up realizing I was being silly.

But I am a lifestyle domina in that when I want it -- that is,
domination -- I must have it, I must have it NOW, and I must have it
on my terms.

In other words, if I came home in that mood, and he said to me, "Are
you INSANE!?", I would have a serious relationship issue on my hands.

When I need it, I need it. He understands this.

He understands the subtle differences between telling me it's my turn
to load the dishwasher and telling me "get those things away from me,"
when I take out the shackles.

I don't want a robot for a man, I don't want a mindless servant for a
mate. We share everything, including responsibility in our
relationship.

In fact, as far as domestic slavery goes, about the most hardcore I'd
ever go in that direction is to force him to be the one to pay for my
maid.

And even that's not likely.

**

I even feel weird when I see him dealing with laundry. Not even my
laundry - but his own. I guess it's because we spend so little time
together, I don't want to watch him do laundry. I want to fuck him.

Needless to say, we don't do much laundry together.

We have had sex on the washing machine, though.

**

And then, it just hits me.

Two nights ago, he came over, and I had the table set for dinner.
That's right, I cooked. Well, I catered, but that's another story.
But I was in dom-mode, and you'll see the subtle differences.

"Hey hon," he said, and he hung up his suit jacket and was reaching up
to take off his tie (artist boy had done a presentation that day, so
he was looking fancy).

"Wait," I said, walking up to him, giving him the obligatory kiss on
the lips. He froze his movements and watched me, humoring me. "Don't
undress. You look nice. Keep the tie."

"The tie is uncomfortable, Akasha," he reminded me. The man HATES
ties.

I smiled. "What do you want to drink with dinner?"

See, that set the tone. At that point, he knew. He pulled out his
chair, sat at the dining room table, letting out his breath. It was
obvious to him that I wanted him to remain uncomfortable, but sexy,
for me. However, at that point, he did not know if that was the
extent of it, or if after dinner he'd be in shackles being beaten,
tied to my bed and teased mercilessly, or humiliated horribly. It
could be a little thing, or it could be a big thing.

He looked good, I have to brag, just sitting there in his shirt and
tie. He looked a little worn from his day, and I could sense he was
tense about just how far this mood of mine would go.

I brought the food to the table. The wine was already set.

As I sat down, he looked at me.

"You forgot my silverware," he commented, nodding that I had a fork
and spoon and knife but he did not. He probably figured it was my bad
domestic skills; I can barely set a table to save my life, and it was
rare I went through the trouble; we usually grabbed our own from the
drawer.

I smiled. "I didn't forget."

He looked at me.

That bumped it all up a notch, I could see he realized that.

And then, we moved to the next level.

**

We went from normal 30something dating lovers having a dinner after
work to a woman tying a man's wrists behind his chair at the dining
room table.

"So you're going to feed me, is that what this is about?" he asked me,
sighing a little, trying to at least get leverage and find out what my
game was Trying to figure out how much strength to reserve. Was this
going to be a fun little dinner diversion, or the start of an
all-night torture session? Would it lead to beating, or lead to sex?

My grip on his hair gave him a little clue. "Shut up."

That was the second clue.

He swallowed. He got real quiet. That's what he tends to do, at the
start, he kind of slithers away, emotionally, recoils, protects
himself. His eyes went down, I just saw a mop of hair there, that
white shirt and hot tie, and he looked like he was pondering the meal
before him.

I leaned over. I slammed a fist on the table, and the glasses shook,
and the plates rattled. "I'm going to feed you. Then I'm going to
fuck you. I'm going to take you to the bedroom, and I'm going to have
my way with you. I want to make sure you have energy for that. Do
you understand me?"

He gets this look, sometimes. Bites his bottom lip. Nods, but just
barely.

His voice was solemn, but still had spirit in it. "Yeah," he said.

And I can never know if the flippant, snotty "yeah" is because he is
pissed at the timing of my stint, or if he is trying to provoke me to
hurt him because he knows I LOVE to hurt him but can never actually do
it unless really provoked.

So I took him by the chin, half-diving over the table actually, and
made him look at my eyes. That's when he can see it, I think. The look
in my eyes. I said to him, "What did you say?" I was half on fire,
buzzing already from seeing him bound there at the dinner table, half
just wanting to nail him and get it over with -- I was fucking horny.

"I said," he started, slow, deliberate, "Yes."

I held his chin hard, tight, until he flinched a little and gave a
jerk back of his head to get away.

But I grabbed him again, kissed him hard on the mouth, and it ended up
lasting for some time.

This is where the lines get blurred. Because domination, in this case
alone, is not absolute. I didn't turn immediately cold, removed, and
make him endure it and other tortures; however, I could have, if I
were in that mood.

This time, it took a sexual, sensual turn. I kept him tied up, no
doubt. I actually straddled his lap, and I slapped him once, then
twice, to get rid of his snobbish demeanor.

Then I forced him to eat, from my hands, his entire meal. I hand-fed
him, I force fed him, I at one point pried his mouth open and made him
take it.

It ended up being a messy, long, drawn-out ordeal.

And by the end I was totally wet, his shirt and tie were soiled and a
pair of my panties were duct taped into his mouth.

Then, I fucked him.

**

Not typical couple behavior, I know. A man bound to a dining room
chair, his girlfriend fucking him upright, and a mess of food just
about everywhere.

I had poured water over his head (I have a thing for that - wet hair)
and switched him to a ballgag, which he hated.

Could he say to me, right then, "Are you INSANE?"?

No.

And that is the beauty of an equal, but femdom relationship. I had
broken him to the point that he was hypnotized. He would not resist.
He could not. He could not look into my eyes and deny me. Partly
because I scared him in that mode, and partly because he had such
respect for that side of me that is animal and uncompromising.

When I need it, when the time is right, we have a pure femdom
relationship. That is when he sees it in my eyes.

And he knows when he can squabble, and he knows when he must just
obey.

But we have never, ever discussed it. He just knows.

That's why he's my ultimate treasure.

**

On this night, it did end up stretching out. He rode the whole wave.
It went from the dining room to the bedroom, where he was bound and
gagged there. It went from hair pulling to nipple clamps and
humiliation, which he took, eyes squeezed shut and little tears
escaping, biting back the need to beg.

It went from equality to this man, who I adore so much, crawling to
me, on hands and knees, to place a single kiss on my foot, his tie
hanging down, his white shirt soiled. His eyes, wide, but red. Like
two roses.

I held him that night when we finally went to sleep. Nearly 1 in the
morning, as he sorely eased out of his shirt, curled up, slightly
trembling, and nuzzled my breasts. I held him, kissed his head, and I
said to him that he meant the world to me.

Like an intense buzz, the most amazing drug high, my mind looked back
at the snapshots of his submission. With each image, my stomach
tightened, my pussy throbbed and my little heart fluttered. I
squeezed him harder, stroking his hair.

I don't think any woman has ever made him feel so cherished. So
unique. So valuable.

So much like -- to put it simply -- a prized possession.

I can see where the "ownership" fetish comes from.

I wanted to own him,

I do own him.

I do.

Same concept, different terms.

When he looks at me, he blinks sweetly, and he says, "You know I will
do anything for you."

I do own him.

And I am the wealthiest woman in the world.