MISTRESS IN A DRESS – or out of it

If I use words like Mistress or Dominatrix what picture do you have? My guess is that you will imagine a beautiful woman, an authoritative presence, perhaps carrying a whip. But what is this woman wearing? Is she in tight fitting, body enhancing clothes of leather or rubber? Clothes that seem to mark her out as a High Priestess of her order. Such clothes make her enticing, yet also imperious and untouchable; ready to play games of dominance and submission, of pain and punishment

Or perhaps, if you imagine a more sensual style of domination, she wears matching lingerie; a pretty bra, panties, suspenders, stockings, high heels. Her dress is ostentatiously sexual, designed to make the victim want her so much that it hurts. She’s ready to play games of teasing and sensuality, of desire and denial

I have played with Mistresses whose dress has conformed to these ideas and I love both. It’s the way this type of clothing accentuates the body; forces you to look at it; fetishizes the female form. Also, if I’m honest with myself, it’s the notion that she has dressed that way for me; that for the hour or two we are together she wants to turn me on, wants me to want her. I’m shallow enough for that to feel good.

So far: so normal male fantasyland.

However, one of the hottest, most memorable sessions I ever experienced, was with a Mistress in a famous New York dungeon who wore a white cocktail dress. She looked fantastic; elegantly sophisticated, exuding confident sexuality that needed no figure hugging basque or lacy bra. At a party, all eyes would have been drawn to her. I felt submissive, aroused and desperate to please immediately she walked into the room and spent the next 90 minutes suffering horribly, allowing her to push the limits of both my pain and my submission for no other reason than she was just so impossibly, fuckably gorgeous.

Early in the session she lit a candle and, looking into my eyes from just inches away, dropped large pools of hot wax directly onto each nipple. I was so desperate to hold her gaze that I managed to limit my reaction to a deep intake of breath.

“Ooh, you’re good!” she whispered into my ear and I was lost. She could have done anything to me. Anything.

A Mistress once started a session in a long silk robe. As the session progressed I found myself wondering what she would be wearing during the beating that I knew was to come, what kinky, erotic lingerie from her glorious collection she was concealing from me.

She pushed me over a chair and I heard the robe fall to the floor. I turned round to find her naked; completely, beautifully naked.

I found it profoundly shocking.

A naked woman with a cane.

We associate nakedness with vulnerability. A woman in black lingerie is sexy, erotic, in control. The underwear entices us, yet is somehow also a defence, both drawing our eyes to her most intimate parts and hiding them. A woman completely naked has lost these defences and, to me at any rate, appears vulnerable. I am more likely to want to protect her than to imagine I need protecting from her. Yet there she was, standing behind me, her long cane tapping threateningly on my backside.

In her nakedness I saw her as a beautiful whole rather than as a series of nicely shaped, lace covered components. In lingerie I would have been drawn to the swell of her breasts, the beautiful curve of her bottom, her fine, long legs.

Naked,  I saw all of her.

I saw her composure and her grace; the way she held herself and her natural poise. I relished her beautifully smooth turn as she drew the cane up and the perfect balance with which she paused at the top of her swing. I admired the way she channelled the strength of her finely toned body to bring it down hard and fast. I appreciated the power and the precision with which she was able to return it exactly to its starting point.

Twenty four times I watched her make that turn.

I wasn’t oblivious to the waves of pain she was causing. In truth by the end I was approaching distress. But the pain, intense though it was, occupied only part of my consciousness, allowing me to marvel at the wonderful image of a beautiful woman in absolute control of her naked body.

However, I never quite understood how so seemingly vulnerable a creature could be causing me so much anguish.

 

More, though perhaps less naked, wickedness here:

Note: All images in this post are licensed from Shutterstock