He had called earlier that day, his voice careful but insistent. We spoke of expectations, of boundaries, of what each of us secretly craved. He wanted a woman who could lead him firmly, yet still soften in the right places. I, if I’m honest, was in the mood to dominate. The symmetry felt too tempting to ignore.
We met in a Lancaster Gate hotel restaurant that evening. He was already waiting, a little too neatly arranged, as though nervous energy had been keeping him from settling. When he saw me, he stood at once, almost too quickly.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, kissing my hand in a gesture that was charming, if slightly outdated.
Cocktails helped loosen the air. I asked questions, listened carefully, mapping out his hesitations and his curiosities. Being a dominatrix is never just about control — it’s about knowledge, about listening so deeply you can almost predict the tremor in someone’s breath before it arrives. Yet even after we’d finished our drinks, I sensed his reluctance.
“We don’t have to go upstairs,” I told him lightly. “Tonight can be nothing more than a conversation if that’s what you want.”
He laughed, awkward and boyish. “No, I want to… I’m just nervous.”
“Then let me help with that,” I replied, taking his hand.
The bedroom carried a quiet tension. He obeyed easily when I guided him to sit down. He watched me with wide eyes, uncertain, waiting. I enjoyed the stillness, the way he seemed to hold back until told otherwise. Permission can be more powerful than touch.
At one point I picked up the silk tie I had left by the bed and wrapped it lightly around his wrists. It was a symbolic knot — weak enough that he could have escaped, strong enough that he chose not to. That was the point. He was surrendering, but on my terms.
When I climbed over him, his eyes glittered with something close to awe. I pressed my nails into his chest, drawing faint red lines that made him gasp. The sound thrilled me more than I expected. His restraint, his willingness to be still under me, became its own form of worship.
I traced fingers along his body, pausing at his throat. For a moment, I hesitated. There’s always a delicate line between power and cruelty. Then, slowly, I closed my hand around his neck — not to harm, but to remind him who was in control. His eyes met mine with absolute clarity, no fear, only trust. That was all the permission I needed.
The rhythm between us grew urgent, a battle of surrender and command. Every time I loosened my grip, he gasped for air like it was the sweetest gift I could give. Every breath he took seemed to belong to me.
When it was finally over, we collapsed into each other, laughter and relief tangled together. I kissed him softly, no longer the strict mistress but simply a woman who had shared something raw, something strange and tender.
Sometimes the most intoxicating nights are the late night encounters where control and tenderness meet in unexpected harmony.
If you enjoyed this story, you may also like exploring another side of roleplay: Threesome Roleplay on Halloween Night.