I Was a Domme Once (Part Três, as in, strike three, get your ass outta here)

So there I was, straddled on top of him while he was finger fucking me, and I felt nothing. He was trying to please me after the funeral, but my body just wouldn’t allow any pleasure. I pushed off him, opened the door and got out of the car to straighten my skirt. I leaned against his car and didn’t say a word. I didn’t have any words left. My cheeks were raw from crying. My eyes burned. Then he opened his mouth and out came something that made me want to rip his face off. He complained about how long the funeral procession took. I had no idea he was going to follow after the service. I really didn’t care. I was in the limo with my family and I was glad it was an hour drive to the cemetery.

I turned to leave my father’s gravesite and get back in the limo for the miserable ride home and there he was, in his stupid fucking car, up on the hill overlooking the gravesite. This was wrong. He was wrong. He shouldn’t have been there. He didn’t belong. I told my family I was going back to the house with him because I knew he would get lost driving. They were all in too much of a fog to care what I did. We drove in silence and I made him park down the street in a secluded area near the causeway that crosses the reservoir. Here we were, in the same situation as on the day we met – me barking out orders, him going soft, then a finger fuck that led nowhere.

Our relationship lasted about eight months. This was never something that could have amounted to anything because it started out in such a bad way. My initial aggressiveness didn’t last long because it’s not who I really am. We agreed to meet at the same club the following week and I apologized for my behavior. He didn’t mind at all and said he liked assertiveness. I still don’t know why I didn’t leave it at that and move on with my life, but I decided to continue to see him. Maybe because I saw myself in him, the eager puppy following selfish boy-men. Maybe because I was lonely. Probably both. Our big problem (in hindsight) was that I was a submissive and I kept trying to get him to lead in some way. I would ask him to please make plans, but he always wanted me to do it. Basically, I used him for sex the whole time and the sex was always aggressive, like I was trying to get him to take me, but it was I who had to do all the taking in order to get my needs met. After a while I got bored and I should have broken up with him months earlier. On that sad, grey day in November, I told him to leave and that it was completely over. I walked up the long, steep hill to my house, breathing in the cool air deeply to clear my head. The house was filled with relatives and I immediately went to work serving and trying to please. I needed to serve someone, to please anyone.

A week later I started dating my ex and you can probably guess why. He took charge and I craved that. It was initially bliss, but I didn’t see the warning signs. The pendulum swung the opposite way with a powerful momentum. Of course that relationship couldn’t last long either. I was deemed much too needy and he wasn’t willing to invest in me. It would take Coach to come along and get me to work through my feelings. The question he would ask over and over was, “What do you really want?” No one had ever cared to ask. He wouldn’t have a relationship with me until I was sure of what I truly wanted and he was (still is) a patient man. I was allowed to feel whatever I wanted to feel, cry or laugh as much as I wanted, and was never thought of as too needy or too independent or just too much. I was allowed to be me and that’s all he ever really wanted. He would support me, no matter what, encourage me, no matter what, love me, no matter what. He’s remained true to his word for over 27 years and still asks me the question, “What do you really want?”