It feels wonderful to be miserable. It feels very alive. To feel desire -- relentless desire -- for something I cannot even predict. I just know I want a man. A new man. I want a new taste. I want to identify, pursue, seduce, and conquer someone who walks this planet at this very moment without the faintest idea how his life will change.
Sometimes I am just miserable.
Miserable with desire, and need. And restlessness and distraction. One day I may be fine, then wake up the next day, frenzied and hot as if fevered, and all I can think about is that look.
The look in his eyes when he tilts his chin up. The fear, and sacrifice.
I go about my day — miserable, still. But it is a good kind of misery. It is passionate and alive. And I know it is not permanent, and that’s what makes it ok.
Because satisfying a burning hunger is best when it burns so deep that it almost hurts.
That’s when it is the best.
*
Like now. I had an affair with a man on the freeway on the way home from work yesterday.
This is when I know I have it bad.
I could see him in my rearview mirror. We were in slow to stop-and-go-traffic, and I was mesmerized by the way he held his hands on the steering wheel, and occasionally ran a hand, or both hands, through his hair.
This went on for nearly twenty minutes, and I found myself wet.
Wet because I was dreaming of what I could do to him. I liked the way his hair hung down over his dark glasses. I liked how he tilted his head to the side, almost resting it against the windshield.
I liked that I think he knew I was watching him.
It’s at times like this I wish I had a pair of handcuffs in my glove box. I could pull them out and hold them up, dangling them off one finger, so he could see. Wondering if he would smirk, or laugh out loud. Or just stare forward. Not showing his cards.
It’s at times like this I wish I had a personalized license plate that read something like “FEMDOM7” or “MYSTRSS”. Or a license plate frame that said, “A woman’s place is in control” or “You may kneel, but no excessive groveling.”
I imagined faking car trouble. After all, my new-found prince would be the first to pull over to assist me.
Then I could see his face up close. See how tall he was. I could possibly seduce him in my power suit, my spiked heels. Lifting my short skirt a little so he could see the tops of my stockings as he leaned down to look at my engine.
How I could lean forward to watch, allowing the top of my blouse to open just a little, revealing the lace of my bra and a glimpse of my ample cleavage.
Such aggressive behavior is not beyond me when I am in this mood. I am like a predatory cat, aiming to get what I want from my newest victim. And he was definitely it.
I saw no wedding ring on his finger when I was watching him in the rearview mirror. So he was fair game.
I could even lean up behind him as he looked under the hood of my car. I could put just the slightest bit of pressure against his back.
He was the one.
I wanted to see him bound, kneeling. Those eyes — whatever they looked like behind the dark sunglasses — begging me for some degree of mercy.
To rescue him from his own misery.
Not a chance.
*
It’s good to feel miserable again. I had been so busy at work and had exhausted myself after a few days of intense play, so it seemed that some time had passed when the femdom beast inside of me was at rest.
Then everything had color again, and the world changed, and all around me, I see potential playthings ready to be captured and enslaved.
The real vampires, I think, would have a little different way of life than what has been portrayed in fiction. I think the real vampire, after a night of bloodlust and a thorough feeding, could get up the next day and function as a completely normal human being. In the light. Without fangs. Not looking pale, and predatory.
But as the days passed between feedings, the vampire would start to become more distracted. Distracted by the slightly pink coloration of the skin. Distracted by the warmth of a soft human body as the beast’s own body started to cool.
Then the subtle changes, the returning of the fangs. The lack of tolerance for the light, and society.
Then, the vampire is a beast again. Thinking of nothing but feeding the hunger.
This is what it is like for me. But it is not evil, and twisted. It is a passionate and beautiful thing.
*
So here I am, intolerant of the light (so to speak) and feeling the fangs at full length now (so to speak). And every precious little man that crosses my path seems to be a potential victim.
I want to use my toys.
I want to see very tight, inescapable bondage. I want him (the mysterious “him”) in my chair — strapped down so tight that he can barely breathe.
And at first, I will only taunt my prey.
In a short latex skirt, in boots, still damp with sweat after a night of stalking — I mean, dancing.
To start, I would just sit on his lap, straddling him, and masturbate under my skirt. To watch him squirm. To hold his chin with the other hand, to growl at him and tell him he is my dinner.
To shove fingers into his mouth and make him lick, and to lick well, or to have a phallic object rammed between his teeth.
Closing my eyes to soak in the sounds and smells of his desperation. The breathing, choking a bit, perhaps from fear. The smell of his sweat, mixed with remaining traces of his sweet cologne.
This is when I am alive. Like a vampire with the blood of her victim literally pumping through her veins.
A connection beyond anything else in the world.
And knowing he is mine for the entire night.
*
I wonder sometimes if my would-be lifemate and forever victim would be amused and bewildered by my drastic mood changes. I am much like a vampire.
One day we might be enjoying breakfast and reading the newspaper, planning a weekend trip getaway, the next day I might wake him up by straddling his chest, having him open his eyes to see me pondering a large ball-gag with a crop in the other hand.
Or a random evening, a very nice quiet dinner, where halfway through I announce, after being fascinated with his mouth for the last twenty minutes, that I would be feeding him the rest of the meal.
Making him kneel at my side (he is grateful I am not hit with this mood at a public restaurant), hands behind his back, opening his mouth politely every time I bring the fork to his lips.
And he knows just the looks to give me. Just the way to move on his knees. Just the way to chew, politely, and swallow, precariously, to bring the rest of the beast out.
So that the dinner dishes remain, dirty, on the kitchen table, and we retire into the bedroom where my toys await.
And do not sleep until dawn.
*
It feels wonderful to be miserable. It feels very alive.
To feel desire — relentless desire — for something I cannot even predict. I just know I want a man. A new man. I want a new taste. I want to identify, pursue, seduce, and conquer someone who walks this planet at this very moment without the faintest idea how his life will change.
How the chair will feel. How the gag will nearly choke him, how my fingers will taste. How true desperation makes his heart race.
So now I am the vampire again. Agitated, hungry. Alive.
Looking forward to my next prey.
(c) Copyright 1998. All rights reserved.
