We walked back from the park in silence. I didn’t mind that. Just a few minutes earlier, Diane had come, from being taken to a park, stripped near-naked in a public place and whipped. So she had that to think about, and although there were some self-revelations that might have surprised her, I was sure she was enjoying the memory.
I was confident, too, that she was looking forward to the moment when we got to her apartment and I closed the door behind us. She was expecting that our session back home, where I’d have more privacy to do painful and sexual things to her and she’d have privacy to writhe and struggle and squeal, would be even better.
I wasn’t unhappy, but my thoughts weren’t quite as sunny as hers. I was about to birch Diane till I drew blood. I knew that was what she wanted, and that she’d be very disappointed if I didn’t. But I’d never drawn blood. I was proud of being careful and accurate when I used any instrument on a submissive.
I don’t think I’d even broken a submissive’s skin, or drawn the most modest spot of blood. Part of my definition of being good at domming was not doing what I was about to try to do.
I couldn’t talk about these doubts with Diane, or at least I felt that I shouldn’t. Although most submissives will be ready to talk through any doubts, fears or insecurities a dom may have, she’d prefer not to have to. Diane wanted my certainty and my power, not my doubts and weaknesses.
So I slipped my hand under Diane’s torn siort and patted, then gripped her right buttock, feeling the warmth from the last time my hand had landed there, and enjoying the muscular action as she walked. She smiled at me and we walked together, hip to hip. She was proud. She’d been brave, she’d pushed her own boundaries, and she was about to push them further, she expected. I wasn’t so sure I felt pride, but I walked proudly. With her.