Becoming Mistress:

Prologue -- "I Wasn't Born A Dominant"

I wasn't born a Dominant.

I became one the same way any woman becomes anything:

By watching.

By listening.

And by noticing what no one else thought was important.

I wasn't a brat. I wasn't a bully. I wasn't the loud girl who shoved people on the playground or made boys cry at recess.

I was quiet. Funny. Good at school. Always polite.

I didn't need attention. I already had mine.

I was the kind of girl who could sit at a lunch table with three other girls, listen to them talk about boys or babysitting or which seventh grader was "hot," and just smile--because I wasn't confused.

I wasn't looking to be chosen.

I was already choosing.

I didn't have a crowd. I had a circle. Loyal, funny girls who felt like family.

We weren't mean. We were observant.

And I was loyal to them with a kind of fierce devotion that sometimes surprised even me.

But inside?

I was a storm with a smile.

-----

My body changed early.

Breasts before most of the other girls.

Hips that made the boys stare before I even knew what they were staring at.

I remember walking across the schoolyard and feeling a pause--just a second--when a group of boys turned to watch me pass.

They didn't say anything.

But something in my chest lit up.

Not like fear.

Not like pride.

Something else.

The first flicker of power as sensation.

-----

I walked through the world knowing I was seen.

And from the very beginning, I decided that was my power--not theirs.

I was athletic, graceful, and aware of every inch of myself.

My teachers called it poise.

I called it being in control.

I liked knowing how I looked when I entered a room.

I liked the pause.

The awareness.

The sense that I could turn attention off and on like a light switch.

Even before I had a name for it, I knew:

I liked being the one who made the rules.

Who set the tone.

Who people looked to before they made their next move.

-----

This story isn't about childhood kink.

Let's be clear.

It's not that kind of confession.

It's about the quiet, honest, unmistakable becoming of a woman who saw power everywhere--and slowly learned how to wield it.

It didn't happen all at once.

It happened in pieces.

A cartoon that thrilled me.

A TV show that left me breathless.

A line in a book that made my skin prickle.

A truth no one told me--but I read anyway.

It started with sparkle.

It turned into strategy.

And somewhere along the way, it became me.

-----

This is the story of how I became a Femdom.

Not through trauma.

Through attention.

Through pleasure.

And--let's be real--through a Muppet named Miss Piggy.

Chapter 1: Miss Piggy Was My First Role Model

She Took Up Space--and Smiled While Doing It

Miss Piggy was my first contradiction--brash, unapologetic, and dramatic. Everything I'd been taught to avoid, she wore like a crown. And the result? She was worshipped. She didn't downplay her intensity--she magnified it. And the result? She was loved. Worshipped, even. Somehow, all that flamboyance made her magnetic, not monstrous.

She didn't wait her turn. She announced her entrance. She flirted, fought, and demanded attention. And then she batted her lashes as if none of it had been her fault. Watching her on television became more than a Saturday ritual--it was a quiet education in the theater of female power.

As a child, I didn't understand exactly why she fascinated me. I just knew she stirred something in me that I didn't yet have language for. I didn't want to be her--I wanted what she had. Command. Presence. An authority so strong it made men pause and women lean closer.

Learning to Watch

While other girls talked about ballerinas and princesses, I watched Piggy. I didn't tell anyone. It didn't seem worth explaining that a puppet in heels and pearls felt like a map. But I studied her. Her voice, her hips, her timing. She didn't just enter a room--she owned it. She didn't just argue--she delivered monologues with punchlines and karate kicks.

At school, I tried to copy the way she tossed her head and planted her feet like she was about to launch into a dramatic aria. I remember a moment in third grade during show-and-tell, when I brought in my grandmother's gaudy pink scarf and tied it around my neck like a diva. I swished into the circle, paused for dramatic effect, and declared, "This scarf is for when I'm being worshipped."

The teacher blinked. My classmates laughed--but not at me. They clapped.

For a second, I stood frozen, startled by the rush of warmth in my chest. Approval, sharp and sudden, felt like power. It wasn't just that they liked the performance--it was that they liked me for daring to own the space. I felt seen, not for shrinking, but for swelling past the edges I'd been told to stay within. A few girls asked if they could try it on. I remember the heat in my cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the buzz of control. I had made them watch. I had made them react.

At home, I would act out entire scenes for the bathroom mirror. I choreographed entrances. I practiced the way Piggy's eyes narrowed when someone crossed her. I experimented with ways of pointing, of pausing, of saying "Moi?" like I was the center of the universe. No one saw. But those rehearsals felt like rites of passage.

When she yelled, people listened. When she got angry, she wasn't shamed--she was indulged. I was too young to articulate it, but what I saw was a woman who broke rules and was still loved for it. That was revolutionary.

My First Experiments

The lessons I learned through the screen started slipping into real life. In second grade, a boy pushed ahead of me in the lunch line. Instead of stepping back like usual, I squared my shoulders, looked him in the eye, and said, "You must be confused. That's not your place."

He looked shocked. Then he moved.

The teacher gave me a raised eyebrow. But I saw the edge of a smile she didn't quite suppress.

At a birthday party not long after, during a game of musical chairs, a boy tried to shove past me to the last chair. I didn't fight. I just stood in front of him, arms crossed. "Move," I said.

He did.

And I didn't sit. I didn't want the chair. I wanted the win. The moment. I wanted to feel what it meant to make someone yield.

In the bathroom mirror that night, I practiced the look she gave Kermit. Eyes narrowed, mouth curved, knowing. It felt like I was tapping into something ancient. Something forbidden. Something mine.

The Wrong Kind of Loud

One weekend at a sleepover in middle school, the girls turned the TV to a teen idol movie. I changed the channel when no one was looking--to an old episode of The Muppet Show. The room filled with groans.

"Why do you like her? She's so extra," one girl sneered.

I remember locking eyes with her and saying, "Because she always gets what she wants."

She rolled her eyes. But later that night, I caught her trying on the lip gloss I brought--bubblegum pink, shiny, unapologetic.

We pretend not to want what we fear we'll never be allowed to have.

And then there was the eighth-grade talent show. I was supposed to recite a poem. Instead, I walked onto the stage in a vintage faux-fur coat, blew a kiss, and said, "I changed my mind. I'll be conducting this show instead."

The teachers didn't know whether to be horrified or amused. The audience howled. And when I walked off stage, I didn't just feel noticed. I felt powerful.

Not every girl who tried to be bold got the same results. Angela, in my class, shouted a lot. She stomped her feet, bossed people around, made a scene.

But no one admired her. She wasn't seductive. She was annoying.

That confused me at first. Wasn't she doing the same thing Piggy did?

No. Angela lacked finesse. Timing. Control. What Piggy had--and what I was beginning to understand--was performance. Angela begged for attention. Piggy commanded it. And I was determined to learn the difference.

Building the Archive

Piggy was the first. But once I recognized what I was looking for, the world filled with examples. Lucille Ball, who turned slapstick into seduction. Jessica Rabbit, who purred her way through danger. Madonna, who reinvented herself every time the world tried to pin her down.

I began collecting these women. Not physically, but mentally. I stored them in a kind of internal library of authority. They became reference points--how to walk, how to pause, how to speak low and still be heard.

In high school, I added real women to the archive. A teacher who made the boys sit straighter when she entered the room. She once said, "Your voice is a tool. Don't waste it on things that don't matter." I wrote it in the margins of my notebook, surrounded by stars. She never raised her voice, but we all fell silent when she began to speak.

There was a girl in debate club who wore her hair up like royalty and spoke in slow, measured syllables. When challenged, she didn't blink--she leaned back and smiled. I remember watching her respond to a boy who accused her of being bossy. "You confuse direction with domination," she replied, and won the round.

Then there was a woman at a coffee shop I visited after school--always alone, always poised. She never looked rushed. When she ordered, the baristas moved faster. I once heard her say, "Thank you, darling," and it didn't sound flirty--it sounded like a command wrapped in velvet.

None of them were loud. They didn't shout. They didn't ask. They just... expected.

And people delivered.

Other Ways of Learning Power

As I got older, I realized there were other models too--more dangerous ones. There was the aunt who weaponized guilt. The boss who micromanaged out of fear. The girlfriend who used tears like currency.

None of these felt like power to me. They felt like scarcity, manipulation born of desperation. Real power, the kind I had glimpsed in Piggy, was abundant. It didn't need to be taken from someone else. It radiated outward.

But there was a time I almost forgot that. In college, I dated someone who was slippery with his affection--affection that came in bursts when I was quiet and compliant, and vanished when I spoke too sharply. One day, after he ignored a boundary I had clearly set, I found myself imagining how easy it would be to guilt him. To cry, to make him feel like a monster, to pull sympathy over myself like a cloak. I even started the performance--a long silence, a shaky breath.

And then I stopped.

I remember thinking, "This isn't how she would do it." Piggy didn't manipulate. She announced. She demanded. She made people want to make her happy, not afraid not to. I got up, walked across the room, and said with a calmness I didn't feel, "You crossed a line. You don't get to do that again."

He blinked. He tried to turn it into a joke. I didn't laugh. I watched him flinch under the silence.

That was the moment I reclaimed the lesson.

So I made a decision. I wouldn't trade one trap for another. I wouldn't be cruel. I wouldn't be petty. I would be commanding and kind. Demanding and generous. Dominant and still deeply, humanly feminine.

What Piggy Actually Taught Me

It wasn't about being aggressive. It was about being inevitable. Piggy wasn't simply loud--she was unapologetic. She wanted things and didn't pretend otherwise. And instead of being punished for that hunger, she was celebrated. I began to understand how rare that was for women.

So I stopped softening my voice. I stopped apologizing before asking a question in class. I stopped letting people finish my sentences. And I watched. I watched how people changed when I didn't flinch.

That's when it really began. The understanding that dominance could be quiet. That control could look like stillness. That power was not given--it was taken, gracefully.

The First Time It Worked

When I was twelve, a boy passed me a note in class. "You're kind of scary. But pretty."

I smiled. I didn't respond. I folded it and tucked it into my pocket like a trophy. It felt like a small coronation, like I had been named something--dangerous, desirable, different--and I liked how it sat on my skin.

Another boy asked if he could sit next to me at lunch. I said, "Only if you're quiet."

He nodded and obeyed. He didn't try to make a joke or negotiate. He just listened. And that moment--that tiny, strange yielding--thrilled me. I didn't yet understand what was happening between us, but I knew it was something I had caused.

Later, at dinner, I waited for a lull in conversation and said something pointed and dry. Everyone laughed. Even my father, who usually talked over me, paused. Not for long. But enough for me to feel it--the shift. The awareness.

That night, I lay in bed and replayed it all in my head. Not with guilt. With fascination. There was no shame, just a sense of unfolding. Like discovering a new sense--sight, touch, control. It wasn't just that I had influenced the room. It was that I had enjoyed doing it.

It felt like I had discovered a kind of electricity. Invisible, but real. And mine.

Practicing in the Mirror

My mirror wasn't just a mirror--it was a stage, a lab, a confessional. I practiced my entrances: slow turns, pauses at doorways, the tilt of my chin that said you may speak now. I mouthed lines from movies, sharpened by my own cadence.

Sometimes I'd close the door and narrate an entire date aloud--his nervous compliments, my cool dismissal, the moment he realized I wasn't asking for his desire--I was orchestrating it.

There was even a ritual I created: each Sunday evening, I'd light a candle, put on a silk robe, and rehearse a scene I hadn't yet lived. I'd gesture to the wall like commanding a lover to kneel. I'd whisper a sentence meant to buckle knees.

At the time, it was just fantasy. But looking back? I was building muscle. Rehearsing fluency. Becoming fluent in the language of command, long before I ever spoke it aloud.

I stopped trying to be cute. I started trying to be commanding. At first, it felt like wearing a costume stitched from ambition and rebellion. But soon, it wasn't a role. It was muscle memory. I'd stand in front of the mirror and experiment with posture, with stillness, with the art of delay. I'd raise one eyebrow and see how long I could hold a stare. I studied how to withhold a smile, how to draw people in with silence instead of noise.

Years later, those same techniques would make men ache.

From Childhood Lessons to Adult Scenes

When I began exploring power exchange in my adult life, I was surprised how often those early lessons surfaced. A lover once asked what made me so confident in control. I told him the truth.

"Miss Piggy taught me."

He laughed. I didn't.

Everything I needed to know had been there. You could be beautiful and demanding. You could be playful and feared. You could raise your hand for a slap and get kissed instead.

Piggy didn't hide her wants. She paraded them. And somehow, the world made room.

One night, I orchestrated a scene with full intention and mischief. A boa. Long gloves. Lacy black lingerie beneath a silk robe that I didn't plan to remove. He was already on his knees when I entered, cock stiff, lips parted. His eyes tracked my every move like a hungry pet waiting for a signal.

I circled him, slowly, the floor echoing each step of my heels. A feather traced his shoulder blade. I let it linger at his lower back.

"Tonight, darling," I purred, "you are my decoration. My plaything. My entertainment. But if you make one sound without permission--I will send you to the corner, flaccid and forgotten."

His body shivered.

I paused to let the tension thicken. Then broke it with a flourish.

"Do you understand?" I said in the singsong voice of a cartoon queen.

He nodded, straining not to grin. I rewarded him with a soft pat on the cheek and a whisper. "Good boy."

Theatrics weren't just an aesthetic--they were a tool. Humor became my scalpel. Camp became my crown. I learned I could turn a grown man into putty using a little costume, a lot of timing, and the echo of a line I'd first heard as a child.

I wasn't just performing--I was playing with expectation. Blending absurdity with intensity. Making his need feel like theater, and then letting the spotlight burn.

And when I finally let him touch me--only after he'd begged so sweetly, silently, with his eyes--I felt the full arc of power close.

I wasn't interested in mimicking her anymore. I had become the show. And I knew, with a slow-burning certainty, that every moment of practice, of silence, of daring had brought me to this--commanding with nothing but presence. I had grown past her theatrics. But I still honored what she gave me: permission. Permission to be too much. To be adored and obeyed. To be loud and still lovely.

The Moment I Knew

I once knelt on a bed, a man before me--nude, breath caught, cock flushed and twitching with anticipation. He waited for instruction, lips parted, his need exposed and unhidden.

I said nothing at first. I just looked at him. Not with affection. Not even with amusement. With ownership.

The silence wrapped around us like silk. Long enough for the room to tighten.

He swallowed hard. The muscles in his thighs trembled from holding still. I saw him glance down, almost reflexively, as if searching for permission he knew wouldn't come until I gave it.

And then, absurdly, gloriously, all I could think about was a puppet in pink heels. The toss of her hair. The ridiculous confidence. The way she made every spotlight hers.

I smiled.

"I hope you've been practicing patience," I said at last. "You'll need it."

He whimpered. Just a little.

And that was it--that was the moment. Not when he moaned. Not when I finally touched him. But that breath before. The pause. The power I didn't have to prove.

That's when I knew. This wasn't a role. This was my language.

And I spoke it fluently.

She Was the First

Miss Piggy didn't raise me. But she shaped me.

The night I knew I had gone beyond imitation was one I still replay when I close my eyes. He had asked to be broken. Not bruised, not bound--broken. Not with pain, but with need.

So I choreographed it. I told him to cook me dinner first--nude, of course. He burned the garlic. I didn't correct him. I just laughed softly, and told him to plate it like he meant it. He did, his hands trembling slightly as he obeyed. I watched the flush on his chest rise, the sharpness of his breath. The air felt heavy with anticipation, like the moment before thunder.

Afterward, I led him to the bedroom. A red light warmed the space with theatrical intimacy. The music hummed, barely audible, threading through the room like a pulse I could feel at the base of my spine. It didn't just underscore the scene--it deepened it. The moment was dense with anticipation. I told him to kneel by the bed, arms behind his back, and wait. I read. I sipped wine. I let the silence thicken like honey. Every few minutes, I glanced at him with a half-smile that said: not yet.

When I finally rose, I moved like a tide--slow, inevitable. I trailed a scarf across his chest. He closed his eyes.

"No," I whispered. "You watch."

He did.

And I gave him a show. Satin gloves on bare thighs. A slow uncrossing of legs. A single finger traced from hip to mouth. I didn't touch him. I didn't need to. His breath caught with every detail. He was aching, whimpering.

Then, and only then, I walked behind him. One hand on his shoulder. The other between his thighs--hovering.

"You haven't earned this," I said. "But I'm going to let you beg anyway."