Living in Domnation: “Bernie”
For those of you who are squeamish about kink, or are uncertain if you really want to hear my stories, I advise you to go no further. However, if your curiosity will open you to a world of people and their “quirks”, maybe even help you get in touch with your own, please embrace the weird I am about to share. The single most important take-away I have gained from becoming a Dominatrix is, from day one, I judge people about 90% less than I did before I did this type of work (which I consider an alternative therapy). I truly feel honored to be someone that people are comfortable to let go some of their most secret desires, their most deep-rooted shame, or just their need to relent and be free of pressure.
For some odd reason I don’t feel like starting at the beginning with this development in my life. It just doesn’t feel organic enough to go back and reflect on it sequentially. Basically, my journey this past year has lead me to a life of doing P/T random jobs, and P/T Dominatrix work. I won’t lie, I struggle with the Dominatrix title a bit; not just for the scared, glassed over eyes that I receive the moment someone registers the word “dominatrix” after I tell them what I do, but also because I simply do not like titles at all. I never identified myself as anything until I became a mother. I was not the girl who became part of a group that was called anything (i.e. jocks, preps, nerds, even artists). School was agonizing for me, I was so uncomfortable and spent most of my time trying not to show it. That being said, I am open to all kinds of people, especially if you’re quirky.
My first story in my “Living in Domnation” series is going to be about Bernie. The thing about Bernie is that all the women, dominant and submissive, who have seen him have talked about his session. Bernie is OLD, as in 90 years old, not even kidding. He smells of pungent musk and rancid lunchmeat, and he has grabby hands that, half of the time, look petrified in the grabbing position.
A session with Bernie basically consists of an hour of playfully taming him. Like when you have a puppy that keeps jumping up and you have to kindly, but firmly, push the dog down and wag your finger, “oh you….” His profile is covered in warning notes made by all the Mistresses, and believe me he has seen us all.
“He likes his n/t (nipple torture) but watch out they drip!”
“CBT (cock and ball torture) but they’re soaking wet, MUST WEAR GLOVES the whole session!”,
“He grabs and claws at you, set boundaries and punish immediately!”
I admit, I was curious, don’t ask me why.
So yes, I agreed to meet the old fart. I guess I had to know what it was like to beat up, a little, on a 90 year old man. When I met him in the Welcome Room of the CoOp that I work out of, indeed I could see he was that of history. The skin of someone that old is so unique to age; the way a newborn baby fresh from the womb has a purple, embryonic tone to it, so does a very old person, no matter what your origin is. And truly his smell left much to be desired. I adjusted my breathing to breathe through my mouth and out my nose so I did not have to taste what I was smelling. When he first looked up at me, his bottom eye lids drooped just enough to flash their veiny, red insides, and his bottom lip also drooped just enough to reveal the tops of his purple gums below his thick stained bottom teeth, which solved a mystery that I have wondered about all of my life regarding old people and their teeth. Up until that moment I had always wondered why old people’s teeth seemed so thick and rounded, and then I realized that they are the stumps of what is left of the tooth, and that the gums have receded down. Isn’t that something to look forward to? Thank goodness that mystery is now solved.
Bernie says, “Ahh, you’re cute”, and proceeded to refer to me as such the entire session. It’s not the most powerful endearment, if you know what I mean? I lead him to the one first floor room meant to bring life to sissy or mommy type scenes, which boasts a metal twin sized, canopy bed, a vanity, and a mirrored wall cabinet equipped with “soft impact” tools and a variety of clamping and clipping devices. Bernie is probably about 5’11”, but I bet he was about 6’1” when he was in his prime. When he drops his trousers, he reveals thin legs, each with a bit of saggy inner thigh that resembles freshly piled whipping cream. He’s shaped like a lollipop with two sticks. When I start my sessions with someone for the first time, I like to take time to get to know their bodies; run my fingers over every inch, find their tickle spots, slap them hard suddenly to test out their threshold in a playful way, remind them when they complain of how hard it was that they just survived the pain just fine. But with Bernie I was conflicted and uncomfortable to go further with my natural way. His skin was covered in odd greyish patches of dry skin. None of it was soft. I felt by running my fingers across it, it would cause bits of skin to fall off. (This is what they meant by “gloves the whole session”), it seemed so humiliating to put gloves on when I am not touching anywhere near genitalia. Still, I understood the need as well. I decided to leave my sheer stockings on, and to use my legs as much as possible. I approached him in a burlesque sort of way, since he loves to see all the women, which to me meant he enjoyed the show or performance of us. While I was hanging from the bed and batting his grabby hands away and kicking them before he could touch me, I looked at his sweet, goofy old face watching me twirl above him, then slink over him from one side of the bed to the other, poking my head up the side of the bed like a kitten ready to pounce, and all I could think to myself was, “I might be the last woman that he plays with…I could be the last woman he ever sees!” This man is a veteran of motherfucking Word War II! Can you even wrap your mind around that? A thousand years ago, or rather 70 years ago in 1945, he fought in a war and came home, and some young woman in her 20’s probably climbed all over him then, too.
I became acutely aware of how much I wanted to be the most beautiful, sensual, playful woman he ever did see. I romanticized about how I would dance in and out of his final thoughts as he falls into an eternal slumber that night, this old kinky soldier who discovered his kink in the 50’s. What a time young Bernie must have had.
Bernie broke my imagination, bringing me back to the reality of the red wine colored carpet and the dated gold trimmed vanity, by stating he wanted to stand with his back against the wall to “finish up the session.”
“Okay….sure, of course.”
What came next I could have never in my perviest, wildest dreams imagined. With his back to the wall, like a crude question mark up against a straight line, and his legs in a permanent saddled, urban cowboy position, he reaches down, cradles his old cock with both stiff hands, as if lifting a fallen baby bird, then vigorously, violently starts to make his hands go back and forth in opposite directions, as if to warm and save the dying bird. I think during this particular moment I embodied no actual dominant role, nor did I pretend to find what he was doing sexy in any way. I just leaned my back against the metal post of the bed and watched in amazement as he gave his cock an “Indian Burn”. From the grunt and distorted face that followed, I assumed that he must have orgasmed, though nothing came out of his cock, save the constant drippiness that existed the whole session, which was exacerbated by my following him around putting a towel underneath his feet, again, like he was a puppy about to wet the carpet.
To a lot of people this doesn’t sound fun, and I will admit, it is by far not my favorite scene. But, he’s a human that will die living, and I support that.