Am I a soft Dom? The question lingered, curling seductively through my mind. I can be intense, certainly, but not the kind of intensity that leaves a sub bathing in your blood or hanging from hooks piercing their back. Those were extremes I’d heard about, whispered in dark corners or confessed over clandestine drinks.
This, however, was different. Sitting across from me, in the hushed elegance of Jin Yun Fu, was a man who seemed to embody an entirely different flavor of intensity. The tea ceremony unfolded with practiced grace, and yet, his words held me captive. “It’s when they introduce a metal rod through your urethra. Quite an experience for me,” he said casually, as though recounting a weekend hike.
I listened intently, both captivated and aroused in a way that felt foreign yet thrilling. His voice was rich, low, like a decadent melody that lingered long after the note was struck. And he was gorgeous—the kind of gorgeous that defied rational thought. He reminded me of Nicholas Galitzine, the kind of face that first disarmed you, then lingered in your dreams. My mind flitted briefly to past crushes, to fantasies conjured in the quiet hours.
“The Dom played with my prostate for a while before moving on to that,” he continued, “I had several orgasms. By then, I was completely relaxed.”
I sipped my tea, savoring the nuanced notes of the Fu Ding Pan Xi wild white—a flavor as complex and lingering as the man before me. A decade ago, I’d had similar teas in China, yet this moment made it taste somehow more vibrant. How do I keep my teeth so white and indulge in tea so religiously? It’s a delicate balance—like the one unfolding between us now.
“I’ve never tried that,” I admitted, setting my cup down with measured elegance. “The metal rod, I mean. My expertise leans toward a different realm—a psychological experience with physical undertones.”
He smiled, a subtle curve of his lips that sent heat rushing through me. “Do you miss seeing patients? Or do you see your subs as patients?”
I allowed the question to linger, choosing my response with care. “I don’t miss patients,” I said finally, my smile just shy of friendly. “But perhaps I do approach some of my subs as projects. There’s a certain pleasure in guiding someone toward their higher self.”
He nodded, clearly pleased with the answer. We drank our tea in companionable silence, the air between us taut with unspoken possibilities. For this encounter, I had chosen a modern cheongsam in a deep burgundy that clung to my curves with understated sensuality. Its long sleeves and high neckline lent an air of conservatism, offset by the sleek updo that exposed the graceful line of my neck. My legs were sheathed in black nylons, leading to red-bottomed Louboutins I’d gifted myself for Christmas.
“Perhaps I’m not the Dom for you,” I ventured, watching him closely. “I feel what you seek might surpass my comfort, might edge into something that deprives me of my own pleasure.”
He shook his head, his expression calm yet inviting. “I like to try things, to see if they’re for me. I don’t need intensity all the time. What I do need,” he paused, his all-American smile disarming me once again, “is a woman who knows what she wants.”
I arched a brow, intrigued despite myself. “You know what I’ve noticed about your blog?” he asked suddenly, his words catching me off guard. We’d joked earlier about his desire to make an appearance in my writing—a joke that felt ironic now.
“You only name the subs you actually like,” he continued. “Many of the men in your stories remain nameless.”
I smirked, hiding my amusement behind another sip of tea. “Adam is a lucky guy,” he added.
I shook my head slowly. “We’re not here to discuss me,” I said, my tone firm but playful. “We’re here to discuss you—what you want from me, and whether you’ll still want me after sitting in my presence for an extended time.”
He nodded, his gaze steady. “I wish we could sit all day like this,” he said, his voice soft yet loaded with intent. “I’d prefer to be on my knees, but alas, we’re in public.”
I held his gaze, my voice dropping to a velvet murmur. “And what would you do if we weren’t?”
His breath hitched, his green eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Whatever you ask of me, Master.”
Leaning forward, I let my words brush over him like silk. “I want to use you for my pleasure and amusement. And I want you to be grateful for it.”
He inhaled sharply, his excitement palpable. The tension between us coiled tighter, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the intoxicating interplay of dominance and surrender unfolding in the heart of a quiet tea room.
. . .
“This is our small art collection,” he said, gesturing to the two adjoining rooms in his beautiful home. Paintings, objects, and sculptures adorned the space, each piece curated by his family over generations.
“Part of your inheritance?” I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity.
He smiled, leading me to an adjacent room after we’d admired the art and exchanged thoughtful comments. I’d brought my tools, their weight a comforting presence, and the expansive view of Central Park lent an almost ethereal feeling to the moment. It was the kind of New York memory that defied description.
“Let’s try a mild level of pain today, shall we?” I said, my tone calm yet commanding.
He nodded, already attuned to the shift in energy. “Strip to your boxers.”
Piece by piece, he removed his Ralph Lauren winter catalog look. I watched him as I’d watched the paintings—with a discerning eye and quiet appreciation. He was handsome in a way that begged for closer study, the kind of beauty that revealed itself in details. His lips were soft, almost feminine, yet they framed a strong, masculine jaw with perfect symmetry.
When his shirt fell away, his defined back caught my attention. I traced the muscles with my fingers, savoring the contrast of hard and soft beneath my touch. “Lacrosse?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Swimming team. Inheriting the family business became more of a priority than an Olympic medal, eventually.”
I leaned in, pressing my lips to his back and letting them linger. “You have a beautiful body,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.
“Thank you, Mommy,” he replied, his words carrying a hint of irony. The title hung in the air, and I couldn’t help but think of the portrait near the entrance. His mother—regal and unapproachable—had been captured perfectly by the artist. The juxtaposition wasn’t lost on me.
“Open your legs, swim team captain,” I smirked, and he smiled back, complying without hesitation. The triangle shape between his legs invited my touch. I kissed his torso slowly, leaving crimson lipstick marks as I worked my way down. Finally, I placed shackles around both ankles, my fingers brushing his inner thighs as I fastened them. Occasionally, I let my nails dig into his skin, eliciting subtle reactions that betrayed his growing excitement, now evident against his fitted white boxers.
I straightened, retrieving a paddle adorned with sharp rubber spikes. Its weight was familiar, a tool I reserved for the most experienced masochists. But this time, I handed him a single flogger instead. “You will use this on your back,” I instructed. “Twenty-seven strikes—one for each year you’ve graced this earth.”
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