Another Night, Another Slut

To understand my weariness and cynicism, you must understand that there are insufficient Dommes in this world, that most of those are already committed to slaves and submissives, that of those remaining many are -- well -- not to everyone's tastes. Not that I am to everyone's taste, I might add, but I'm relatively young and still manage to look pretty good in a pvc catsuit and high boots.

And I like to make people come. Male, female, doesn't really worry me. Of course, I do have some preferences. I like my sluts pretty -- male or female -- and I have widely varying tastes. Love tall thin blondes (male) and shorter curvier blondes (female). Adore pretty Japanese girls and studly Italian boys. As long as they will get on their knees for me, we'll get along just fine.

Their personality? Well, there we have a problem.

I'm attracted to the unattainable. I want the brat, the tease, the one who keeps me wanting something that I have to fight to get. The one with hidden depths, the one who plays up a bit, who (while leaving me in doubt that I am their Mistress) manages to keep me intrigued, abashed and often frustrated and angry.

Yes, I know it's contradictory, but honestly, as my boy Adam once said to me, a package isn't interesting if someone else has already unwrapped it. He was talking about the mostly undressed girls outside clubs in Sydney at the time, but he had a point. I'm not interested in a package everyone else has unwrapped.

Oh, I don't want a virgin. Who does, these days? The responsibility, the stress ... no, but I do want someone with a brain. With a will to match mine and an imagination to pique my curiosity and drive me to greater heights myself. I want someone who obsesses me, because I obsess them, in a way they've never felt before and never will again.

Instead, I get yet another selfish little pain slut.

Each time she arrives, I go through the emotions of welcome, she provides the formalities of submission she has been taught. Stripping and folding up her clothes, kneeling for me with her knees spread open, head down, eyes shut.

It does not seem to matter to her whether I welcome her with a kiss or keep reading my book. Whether she is told to kiss my boots, or put on all fours and played with straight away. If I sigh, she does not ask why, or try to please. She is not here for my benefit.

Once upon a time, when I was younger and less experienced, I would have thought her submissiveness was a gift. Now I understand that this is something she would offer to any dominant. She did not choose me because she wanted me, wanted to please me. She chose me because I looked pretty and as a woman, was (in her words), not going to damage her.

So we go through the motions, or at least I do. It's hard to tell with her -- she is certainly wet from the moment she walks through the door. Hard nipples on her heavy breasts, quiver in her voice. She does not seem to notice my struggle to connect with her, the resignation in my voice and my eyes. She only notices the pain and pleasure that I inflict, the physical interaction that we have.

Over my lap, as I half recline in a leather armchair, stroking between her legs, or paddling her arse with a wooden paddle. Pushing a vibe into her cunt, pressing it against her clit, a plug in her arse, then the crop on her skin. She eats it up, the pain, the pleasure, wailing and gushing. And I get nothing back.

Some sluts are like a slot machine. You put your coin in, you get your game. This one is such a slut.

I remember one that wasn't. She was a brat, an evil and manipulative slut, who wept when I was angry and smiled when I was pleased. Who begged to please me, more effectively than anyone I'd ever known, who saved something for me that seemed real. Who held my hand in public and brushed my hair in private and told me a thousand times that she loved me ... admittedly then she hurt and betrayed me and broke my heart -- but she did have a little bit of it to start with, which this slut will never have.

It does not seem to matter what I do. She bores me. I have never allowed her to touch me -- she has scarcely asked. Clearly she thinks that I am getting great pleasure from this, or perhaps she doesn't think about it at all. Sad, really.

I find them at almost every turn. Male and female, keen to "experience" BDSM, as though it's a new hair colour or iPhone app. Kneeling at my feet all bright eyed and shiny new, thinking it's a lovely game, something to tell their friends about when they're pissed. And these are the ones I've vetted already, the ones who seem a bit more intelligent, or capable of depth of emotion.

I read the stories on this site, some of them genuinely erotic and startling in their intensity, in the feeling demonstrated by submissive for Domme and Domme for submissive. And so I sigh and try again, try another, keep hungrily looking for my soul mate.

The door buzzer goes, a timid voice asks for entry, a pretty girl walks through my door. Another night, another slut.