Random thoughts about the experience, once and future, of being shared with a stranger.
There’s something about that first moment when I am standing at the door of a house owned by a dominant man, a stranger I’m about to be taken by. It’s a moment of no return, of fear and jitters and excitement.
I had this experience with Master McKenna, with Amanda/Kevin before, later with Kevin again, all different circumstances but still when my experience of them was nascent and foreign and standing at their doorway was a metaphor for so much.
Standing at such a door, my fear is not for my safety, as the dom-strangers I have been (and will be) shared with have been vetted and selected carefully. No, my fear is that I won’t be enough as a submissive — insufficient and not wonderful to him. I’m nervous about performing — yes, I know it is not about “putting on a show” and is about who I am at heart as a submissive, but still I worry that “what I truly am” will not be to his liking. At the same time, I am excited for what is ahead of me, my submissiveness yearning to be used, a kind of anticipation that goose-bumps my skin and flushes my chest.
Whether it’s a front step or porch or veranda I stand on, it’s a threshold into a new life, for a time, and a new relationship, of a kind.
I like my dom-stranger’s house to be on the larger side. It’s a trivial preference, not a matter of the man’s wealth and success, but something more personal and practical. If I am coming into a small space, I have a question of whether there is a space for me. I also wonder how we live together day to day if I am “always underfoot,” if our minutes together are always in the presence of the other. I tend to believe that the best D/s happens in a more expansive space and time.
I find that a dom’s house is likely a reflection of his own personality. I don’t mean in decoration, which is another consideration, but its design. It’s always interested me that Kevin’s house has two wings, one side customized for him, the other side a guest suite of rooms on the other far side of the house. It’s as if the house itself is saying to guests that Kevin chooses to remain separate and you have your own space apart. Master McKenna’s place is a mansion, as I’ve described, with large soaring spaces bearing cathedral ceilings on the main floor and many bedrooms and baths on the second floor. It seems to reflect Master McKenna’s “hosting” lifestyle, inviting many people to stay there and walk in and out at will. The mansion is also a maze of sorts, with hallways galore leading confusingly to places you don’t expect. I perhaps read too much into that, but I feel it reflects Master McKenna himself, a complicated man of many internal places and paths.
Standing at the doorway, I am aware I will be walking into this dom-stranger’s private space, a place he has molded around himself, his personality, and his dominance. As I step in, I am entering him.
You always have that fleeting panic thought: “What the hell am I doing?” On that front porch, I have an urge to back away, run off, leave this threshold. Of course, I am placed there by another, in my case Amanda, and for me to abandon ship would be an egregious break in my submission to her. To walk away would perhaps be walking away from my entire submissive life.
The panic passes quickly enough, and I’m left standing there in my trembling flush and blush, a holy mess of submissive needs, which is precisely the “what the hell” I’m doing this for. My appearance there at this doorway is really not about her or him, but about me: I am there really because I can do no other. I not only need the submissive life, but I need to be shared, and I somehow, bizarrely, need this man I do not know to treat me in dominant ways I dare not imagine.
I also have the odd passing thought that I‘m not wearing enough clothes. Of course, I’m never wearing enough clothes, so this is nothing new. But for some reason, standing there in my thin cotton shirtdress and wedge sandals with nothing underneath, I feel under-dressed in a new way, as if I had forgotten my costume, am naked, and now cued to walk on stage. This is probably my psychological reaction to the prospect of being exposed, physically and psychologically, by a dominant man.
All of these first moments on the doorstep are overwhelming. I try to dial it down by imagining myself as a maid starting a new job. I will enter and begin to dust and clean. It will be that simple. Nothing to it. My submissive life to him will involve some of that anyway, no doubt, I tell myself. It’s all just servitude, right?
But I know better. It is a profound thing for a woman to become slave to a man she does not know. I am doing the unthinkable.
I sigh. Everything swirls. I ring the doorbell.