He binds her in what has become one of their favorite predicaments. Simple. Difficult. Her collar is turned so that the steel ring that normally graces her throat is at the back of her neck. Her leather cuffs encircle her wrists. Her arms rest in the small of her back. He connects the collar to the cuffs with a loop of twine. A small loop. Her arms are hoisted from her lumbar to her shoulder blades.

The position rapidly becomes a struggle. She must lift her arms to relieve the pressure on her throat. Light pressure. It does not impair her respiration. But it is uncomfortable. It is very uncomfortable. And this is far from the sole pleasure of the position. She is utterly, completely helpless thusly bound. Thoroughly confounded in movement, she is nevertheless completely exposed. She can cover neither her breasts nor her ass.

The blindfold ensures she will not know whether her next torment will be applied to those breasts, or that ass. She is desperately aroused. Fear and anticipation build until she feels the rough palm of his hand caressing her cheek. He builds the anticipation slowly. Cupping her breast lovingly. Briefly lifting her elbows to relieve her strain. She can smell his proximity. Her heart seems to quiver rather than beat.

The slicing sound of the crop through the air and the yellow blossom of pain in her breast come in the same moment. She gasps and bites her bottom lip gently. The hand returns. The pain is replaced with the warm pleasure of his touch. Her body floods with arousal. He nudges her knees apart with his foot. Presses the cool leather of his cordovan monk-strap into her dripping pussy. Another blow of the crop lands.

The alternation of blows to her breasts and gentle caresses repeats. How long? She can’t know. A minute. An hour. Finally, he releases her arms from their strictures. And issues his first instruction.

“You’ve gotten your juices on my shoe, slave. Lick it clean.”

She places her hands on the floor in front of her. Arches her back, lifting her cream-colored ass into the air, her smooth pink lips peeking between her lean and immaculate thighs. Blindfolded, it takes a moment for her to locate the foot. She can smell herself, now, on its supple leather. Her tongue caresses the horsehide as a shiver of humiliation runs through her, releasing another deluge from her core. As she expected, he takes the opportunity to direct the crop to her upturned ass.

“Well done, my pretty little slave. Now, thank me for your torment.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers.

She rises to her knees again. Unzips his trousers. His heavy member falls free and she takes it in her mouth. He is supremely aroused. It takes little effort for her to coax his climax from him. She swallows him. He catches his breath.

“Well done, my darling captive,” he pronounces, as he lifts her to her feet and removes her blindfold. “Well done indeed. Now, bow for your audience.”

The room erupts in applause. A waiter brings her a glass of champagne at her master’s indication. She smiles bashfully and takes a modest sip. He leans down into her, kisses her, and whispers into her ear: “I think you’ve earned an orgasm of your own for that performance. Probably.”

-The Refined Dominant

Expanding Our Collection.

In a relatively short time, my darling Rafe has accumulated quite the collection for his time with me. It’s certainly been an investment – financially, yes, but also romantically.

First, it was a supple silk scarf graced by a lovely blue and white pattern. He used this to bind me, gently, loosely, when he first began to introduce me to this side of sexuality. It has occasionally served as a blindfold, softly caressing my face as my master pleases and torments me.

Next we acquired the cuffs – wide, soft leather dyed red, a thinner black strap to secure them. We also picked out a simple crop. It was our second visit to our favored shop. On the first, I had been too bashful to speak.

The Japanese clover clamps he picked up one week while I was away and had them waiting for me when I returned.

Then came the collar, another joint selection, one that came with a bit of ceremony.

One day, rather spontaneously, we found the ankle cuffs.

Then another weekend, I arrived to a brand new leash – an elegant but sturdy chain with a leather strap on the end. That night, my master had arranged our collection on the floor of the living room. Then he had me crawl on hands and knees, bringing each item, secured in my teeth, to him in the bedroom, where he adorned his slave, piece by piece. That was a most arousing game – for both of us.

Last weekend, we selected a cane. Rafe enjoys dispensing a good old-fashioned spanking with his hand or belt or wide, flat-bottomed hairbrush (and much as I may protest, so do I). But he deemed it was time for something that might carry more weight as punishment.

We had just left our first instructional event. We stood together by the window of the store. I looked across the street as he tried out the different options with a good thwack across the front of my thigh. The simple unfinished thin dowel was a mere tingle. The thick, sturdy polished wood made me jump and, as evidenced later, bruised me. The thin, translucent plastic rod evoked a stronger reaction, a pronounced sting. He noted the tenor of my response, though admittedly it was hard to miss. He tried one more; I think it was a slender metal rod coated with black rubber. It struck where all the others had. “Shit,” I hissed quietly.

He gazed at me with admonishment. “Comport yourself, young lady,” he reprimanded.

We left the shop with the plastic rod.

When we returned home, my master tried out his new tool. And then I received my proscribed punishment – six strikes of the cane, a stroke for each time I had failed to address him as “sir” while we were in the shop and at the event. The cane did not fall particularly hard. It didn’t need to. The sting was sharp and lasting. I counted the strokes, as is my responsibility during my punishments. But it took more effort to expel some of the numbers and gratitudes, as I had to gain control of my breath and voice. My master ascribes some of my laments during punishments as “crocodile tears”, but my lacrimation that afternoon was very real.

And yet… despite – or, loathe as I may to admit it, perhaps because of – the pain, my caning was incredibly arousing. On some level, I wish I could explain it. On another, I’m rather glad I cannot. I have a strong reaction to that cane. Incredible that something so seemingly flimsy, something so fragile that I could snap it easily if I chose, should command such dread – and excitement.

At this moment, I know the next time I see Rafe I have a session with that cane. See, I was supposed to have this assignment done half an hour ago. But I left work a bit late. I had to prepare and consume dinner. I could have rushed. I could have made the deadline if I had pushed. But I didn’t. And I have a peculiar satisfaction that I didn’t.

– The Elegant Submissive

The Interview.

Yesterday, Ella and I attended our first instructional course. It was a demonstration of some edge-play techniques, including breath play. A dominant taught the class with three of his female subs as instructional subjects. Prior to the class starting Ella tried on a beautiful corset that absolutely flattered her already stunning figure. The class itself was two hours long and was very talky. It was sparsely attended, and as a result there was a lot of back and forth with the instructor. One woman, a domme, asked a lot of very pointed questions. To the point that I ended up being mildly annoyed. I wanted to see a class, not hear a conversation. But it didn’t seem to anoy Ella as much. So, here then, is my interview of Ella after the class:

This foray into a public environment was your first as a submissive (or at all!). What are your first impressions?

First impressions, meaning, out in public as your sub? 


It was mostly comfortable. And I think that’s because our interaction really made it so.

You say “mostly comfortable”. What was slightly uncomfortable?

The dynamic of the room being such that at times the attention was focussed on me. And I’m generally not super-comfortable with having attention on me in public. And this is the first time that there was attention focussed on me where it was very clear to everyone in the room that I was your sub. 

Yes it was. You were wearing your collar, and it was locked on. Although with your hair, the lock couldn’t be seen. But when you were trying on the corset, it was obvious to everyone that I was in charge. How was that? Putting on the corset in public, wearing your collar, with your master directing it?

That was…. perfectly comfortable. It was also what made the demo dynamic more comfortable for me.

Meaning it made you more comfortable not to have to be in charge?

That it was clear the relationship between us. And so it rather logical that I didn’t speak up, but instead sat quietly. 

There were a couple of times the other dominant addressed you directly. How did that make you feel? Did you feel like you had to obey him?


Well, good. You only obey me. But what did you think of him as a dominant? Did he seem like he had characteristics that you think of as appropriate for a dom?

Well. You’re the only dom I’ve ever known. He seemed to have a very different style. 

What was different about it?

Hmmmm. Yes. He lacked charisma and the commanding presence that you have. 

You flatter me. But then, a good slave does that. While always being honest, of course. OK. Let’s talk about the actual events. There were a couple of times he struck a slave with his cane harder than I’ve ever struck you. What was it like seeing that?

I’m trying to find the right word. I suppose it made me feel like I wasn’t so unusual. This is a very new exploration for me. And I suppose that sometimes it seems to run counter to the idea of normal that I’ve constructed. Or had constructed. And so then it was, in an odd way, it was almost a little calming to see that type of interaction. 

He had one slave stand on her tiptoes against the wall for a long time. And then had her kneel on with her face on the floor for a long time as well, while he spoke to the class and answered questions. What was going through your head, seeing her like that?

I don’t know that I felt anything particular about that exhibition. You’ve certainly had me in uncomfortable positions for extended periods of time. 

Was it arousing to watch?

Not particularly. I think it was interesting and beneficial to observe some of the interactions. But it wasn’t arousing to me. Were you? 

Impertinent. (You should see her grin, friends.) One of the demonstrations he did was placing a plastic bag over his sub’s head until she thrashed in obvious distress. However, she also very clearly enjoyed the experience, indicating so both by words and body language. How did it feel to see that?

That was more uncomfortable. Because there’s an element of real danger involved, meaning physical harm. But while it was an extreme version of  breath-play that they demonstrated, that is something that I’ve found arousing. 

Yes. We’ve done a little bit of that. Including after the event. You clearly found it arousing (as evidenced by the sluice of liquid between your legs), but also very very intense, so that afterward, we needed to talk about it and recuperate a bit.

Yes. Much of which goes back to the internal conflict between what clearly excites me and what I would consider unacceptable in a number of other situations. 

When the event was over, I was preparing to take off your collar for the walk home. But you indicated that you’d prefer to keep it on. Why so?

It simply didn’t bother me to be wearing that subtle symbol of submission in public. 

Are you interested in taking other classes? And if so, what sort?

Yes. What sort? I like the idea of learning about other approaches or types of play. And I am intrigued by the idea of taking a bondage class together. I’d much rather have you tying me up than someone else. 

Well, no one but me is going to be tying you. However, I can imagine that an instructor would need to touch you in order to check my knots, or give personal instruction. Does that sound acceptable?

Yes. Only because I know it would be a very limited and completely professional interaction, not to mention there’s a good chance it’s a female instructor. 

There’s an idea! But you like the idea of being bound by me in public?

With a limited audience.

That does sound fun. However, for the time being, you’re going to have to be satisfied with being bound privately.

That’s certainly satisfying enough. 

Last thing. On our way out, we bought a plastic cane. And I had to give you six strokes for your infractions during the event (forgetting to call me “sir”). You seemed to have a very powerful reaction to the cane. You found it extremely painful, but you also were incredibly aroused. What are your feelings about the cane, really? (She’s smiling shyly and giggling. I should mention we’re doing this interview out at a coffee-shop…)

It’s something I hope to avoid. But. I know it will be incredibly arousing when I do get it as my punishment. 

Ah, yes. And it is, of course, a master’s obligation to keep his slave aroused.

-The Refined Dominant and The Elegant Submissive


My beloved slave and I will be attending our first live show this weekend. A local sex shop, which has rope classes and bondage demonstrations and various general sorts of kink-on-display, is having a live show in which a male dom is demonstrating play with his female sub. Ella and I will be attending. I’m very excited. I look forward to sharing this experience with her, and we’ve already decided that we will do a joint post afterward to discuss our feelings and experience. So look for that this weekend.

In order to make sure that Ella is as excited as I am, she has been forbidden from orgasm until after the event. It’s been several days. To ensure that she is as aroused as possible – and this was Ella’s idea – she will be spanked and cropped thoroughly before the event. Then she will kneel and thank me, sucking me off and swallowing me. But she will not be allowed to come. The wettest I’ve ever seen her was when she was whipped with the belt before going to buy her collar. She wasn’t allowed to come then either.

These are the basic aspects of my Ella’s slavery. She is frequently bound. Always shaven. Regularly tortured. Often denied satisfaction, often overwhlemed with it. She is required to keep me satisfied according to my desires. To receive my cock, my discipline, my punishments, however they arrive. And she is incredibly adept at this. In return, she is cherished and adored. Prized and admired. Protected and owned. Claimed.

And when the event is over, my Ella will, in a fever of intolerable arousal, be driven past pleasure to madness. And I will ride the crest of her desire to my own satisfaction. Again, and again, and again. Until she begs me for the mercy she knows I offer only when I am ready, and not when she asks. This is the love of a master and a slave. Of lovers living in the moment of their ecstasy; partners who choose to surrender and accept the power of their desire a little differently from others, perhaps. But with intensity that few otherwise can muster.

Our love ascends from mystery, certainly. But it is a magnificent mystery.

-The Refined Dominant




Longing is the most constant state in our relationship. Circumstances are such that my darling Rafe and I do not see each other frequently or long enough. Do not mistake me. I am grateful for the abundance of time we have together. It could be far worse under these circumstances. But it simply isn’t enough. The spaces between our times together are enough to turn desire to yearning to deep aching…


But something wonderful follows those separations.



Each time, when we reunite, there are no words. Literally. I practically fling myself in my lover’s arms. His hands slide into place. One behind my back, pulling my body close to his. One at the base of my skull, drawing me to his mouth for that first long, passionate kiss in days. We breathe through it, each inhaling the other’s presence. After several moments, we release but remain close, leaning into one another. Only then do we speak, usually a simple, breathless, “Hi.” Inordinate emotion and beauty and longing spoken in that tiny syllable.



To home. To privacy. To where our intimacy is not limited by societal bounds. To our space, where Rafe claims me and I proclaim his dominion over me. Sometimes he makes me wait – disrobes me, places me in my bonds, punishes me before giving me what I’ve been waiting for. But other times, he takes me immediately, quietly, gently, in such a way that the yearning, the softness, the intimacy coalesce to overwhelm me, to bring me to radiant tears. I don’t know how, but my Rafe seems to always know the treatment I need – mentally, emotionally, sexually.

I confess, although we have continued our play in recent weeks, I have not been fully engaged. I had a big deadline this week and have been distracted by preparation, stress, and anxiety. Rafe inquired – Was everything OK? Was there anything bothering me about the power exchange? I only then realized the level of my stress, that it had bled into our time together.



The deadline has passed. The weight has lifted. I am returning to my lover. An unusual pining has emerged this week. A desire that part of me is ashamed to admit. A fixation of thought…I crave to feel the sting of my master’s crop. The snap of leather against my breasts, my stomach, my legs… I yearn for the roughness of my master’s domination. His hard grip on my breasts. The firm slap of his hand against my ass. The coarse fondling of my clit as he demonstrates how much my pussy loves the pain other parts of my body protest. I hunger for his commands. His order to crawl before him. His demand that I thank and pleasure him with my mouth – though at this moment I cannot describe how I intend to satisfy.



Yet, as much as I thirst to give myself over to his punishments, to submit to his every whim, I also need now that profound connection. That union of intense desire and longing. That connection that feeds not only my sexual being, but my very soul. To let ourselves be consumed by the fire of our love and our passion.

The ember of longing given over to the inferno of devotion.

– The Elegant Submissive