Chapter 3: Our First Power Exchange
"Tell me what you fear, and I will show you what you serve."
-- Thomas Merton
We'd only known each other a month.
But in that short time, I had peeled him open with questions and silence and the calm, relentless pressure of presence.
Before the questions began, there were dates. Short, simple ones--but always chosen by me. I picked where, when, and for how long. He never suggested alternatives. He didn't have to--I knew exactly what I wanted.
A quiet jazz bar with low lights and two-person tables. A tiny movie theater where I could press my thigh against his in the dark. A dance class, where I let him hold my waist for the first time and feel my body under his hands--until I stepped away and reminded him we were just dancing.
He never pushed for more. He never asked when he'd see me again. He didn't have to. I always called. He somehow understood early on--not to contact me unless I said so. And that pleased me more than anything he could've done with words.
After each of those outings--after the wine, the music, the long, charged silences--I would lead him into deeper waters.
That's when the conversations began.
They weren't casual. They were auditions. Interrogations, even--structured, intentional, quietly exacting. I wanted everything. His history. His habits. The mistakes he was ashamed of. The fantasies he had never spoken aloud. What made him feel strong. What made him feel small. Whether he preferred to be praised or punished. The things he wanted from women but had never had the courage to ask for. And more than that--why.
He told me everything. Sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once, like he'd been waiting for someone to ask. I watched him come undone in layers, and I never flinched. When he looked down, I waited. When he finished, I asked another question. Calm. Clear. I never filled silences for him. They were his to sit in.
Our talks were often highly charged--sex was always in the room, even if I never gave him any. He spoke of it openly, vulnerably, as if I'd already earned the right to know his deepest cravings. But I offered almost nothing in return. I let him describe his hunger, then left it unanswered. And I watched him wrestle with that. He was starting to realize that with me, he didn't get what he wanted. He got what I chose to give. And sometimes, I gave him nothing but silence--and he learned to sit in that, too.
I gave him the occasional chance to ask me something--but only when I told him he could. "You may ask me one thing," I'd say, and he'd consider carefully, eyes searching mine for permission before the words even left his mouth. I rarely gave him more than a few details. Just enough to keep him tethered to my mystery.
And he loved it. Even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.
One evening, I said to him, "You seem restless. Say what you're thinking." He hesitated. "Say it anyway," I pressed. He admitted he didn't like not knowing what I wanted from him. That he didn't know the rules yet, and it was making him anxious... and hard. I smiled. "You're losing the ability to have private thoughts around me," I said quietly. "And that's not a problem. It's progress."
He looked startled--and then oddly relieved.
I noticed the way he started dressing differently. At first, it was casual--just jeans and a sweater. But after our second conversation, he wore a button-down. After the third, he was in slacks and polished shoes. It wasn't just about looking good. It was about pleasing me. He never said it, but the intent was obvious: "See me. Approve of me. Allow me."
I dressed for myself--but I knew the effect I had on him. I leaned into it slowly. Clean lines. Fitted black dresses. A silk blouse with sharp heels. A coat I never removed right away. Power in the silhouette. Simplicity as control. I didn't need to show skin to show dominance--I wore command the way other women wear perfume.
He began to anticipate the rhythm of our meetings. He'd show up a little more polished each time. I noticed him sitting straighter. Slowing his responses. Mirroring the stillness in my voice. I said once, "You may answer, but I don't need your justifications," and he nodded--grateful. Eager. Almost... relieved.
The first time I touched him, it was nothing dramatic. Just two fingers beneath his chin as I tilted his face up to meet mine. He held my gaze--then looked away, just a second too soon.
That was the first time I knew he had given me something.
He was sitting on the floor in front of me. I hadn't told him to kneel, but he lowered himself slowly as we spoke, like his body already knew. I asked him, "Why are you down there?" He looked up at me and said, "It feels right."
And it did.
I told him to stay there and just listen. I spoke--not about sex or love--but about power, and what it means to offer it freely. I told him I don't chase. That obedience is only erotic when it's real. That I'm not interested in fantasy--only truth. And his eyes stayed on mine the whole time, wide and unblinking.
When I paused, he whispered, "May I speak?"
And I smiled. "Yes. For now."
That was our first power exchange. There were no ropes. No contracts. No collar. Just the unmistakable, irrevocable shift between us--the giving, and the taking.
Chapter 4: Claiming the Role of Dominant
"Power isn't given. It's taken."
-- Anonymous
There's a difference between submission and ownership. Between someone choosing to yield in a moment--and someone being claimed.
We'd just finished one of our most intense sessions yet--not sexual, but intimate in its own way. Conversation, discipline, stillness. I had pressed him harder than usual with questions that cut deep, gave few answers, and left long silences. He was drained. His posture had softened, his eyes unfocused, his mouth slightly parted in that dazed, quiet way I was beginning to recognize. He was open.
I left the room without explanation.
