The first time with a Mistress - Femdom fantasy

“The first time with a Mistress - Femdom fantasy“ was written for BDSMforyou.nl by Mistress Moriah.

He had put it off so many times. For years. Every time he almost dared, he pulled back. An email written but never sent. A profile created but quickly deleted. Desire, yes, that had always been there. But doing it? Actually going? He hadn't been able to. Until now. Now he was standing there. For the first time. At the end of the path, in front of the black door, with his hands trembling in his coat pockets. The evening air was fresh. Or was it his nerves making him shiver?

Right on time

The instructions were clear. Right on time. Don't ring the bell before 7 pm. Shaved. Clean feet. Freshly showered. It was 6:59 pm. He waited. Waited one more minute. It felt like an eternity.

Then - finally - he raised his hand and pressed the bell. The sound hit his body like a spark. And then... silence. For a moment he thought he would turn around and run away. But before he got the chance, the door opened. She stood there. Silent. Poised. Elegant. Not over the top. Not made up like a caricature. But exactly as he had imagined Her. No... more beautiful.

“Come in.”

Her voice was warm. Not harsh. No shouting. No ‘on your knees’. Just. Warm. And that was perhaps the most unsettling thing of all. He stepped over the threshold. It smelled of incense. Of leather. Of something elusive. His heart pounded. Her gaze caught him. And he knew: there is no way back now.

The welcome

She let him hang up his coat. With a calm matter-of-factness. As if this were nothing special. But for him... for him it felt like a rite of passage. “I'm not going to tie you up straight away,” she said, “and I'm not going to hit you yet either. First we're going to talk.” He hadn't expected that. But it reassured him. She asked him to sit. Shoes off. Glasses of water between them.

“Why are you here?”
“What do you need?”
“What are you afraid of?”
“What do you secretly hope for?”

The questions cut softly, but deeply. He talked. Haltingly at first, then more fluently. About his desire. About his shame. His loneliness. His fiery fantasies. She listened. Without judgement. Without hurry. She didn't touch him yet. And yet he already felt touched.

The first touch

After a while - how long, he didn't know - she asked: “Do you want to go further?” He nodded. “Then I want you to undress down to your underpants. Not as an order. But as a choice. To show yourself.” He did it. His fingers trembled. He felt naked, but not stared at. She walked around him. Looked. Disapproved of nothing. She pointed to a soft leather mat. “Crawl over there.”

He felt strange, but also... good. Small. Real. And then, for the first time, she touched him. A hand on his shoulder. Her fingers glided over his back, his neck, his head. Not to arouse him. But to feel him. She whispered: “You are safe.”

An intense dance of his

What followed was not torture. No brute force. But a dance. She used a blindfold. A feather. A soft flogger. She tapped with a cane. Not hard. But precisely. She pinched his nipples. Stroked his thighs. Let him feel what it is like to determine nothing. She whispered instructions. Sometimes brief. Sometimes naughty. “I want you to store my voice.”
“Imagine you are becoming an object.” “Nothing more, nothing less.”

He lost track of time.
He lost himself.

At some point he felt himself begin to cry. Softly. Tears of tension, relief, confusion. She said nothing. Laid her hand on his back. Simply. Present. Like a beacon. Then she asked: “Would you like to come?”

He was startled. Hadn't thought that would happen. But yes - he wanted to. And she gave it to him. Not with her hand, but with her voice. Her permission. Her presence. He came. Deeply. Quietly. Like letting go of everything.

Dazed and grateful

Afterwards she let him rest. A blanket. Water. A soft cloth. When he opened his eyes, she smiled. Not mockingly. But with warmth. “It was your first time. And you did something big,” she said. He nodded. Dazed. Grateful. Full.

She helped him to his feet. Let him shower. He dried himself off. And then, just as he thought he was about to leave,
she said: “I want to show you something else.” She walked ahead of him to another room. The door opened. Inside: soft light. Candles. And on a sofa lay a woman. Also in lingerie. Also blindfolded.

She did not speak. But her presence was palpable. “She is just like you,” said the Mistress. “And do you know what she needs? Someone who shares with her what he has learned today. Calm. Attention. Patience.” He looked at her.

“Do you dare?”
He hesitated. But something inside him said: yes.

Connection

That evening changed everything. He had thought it would only be about him. But it was about connection. About giving and receiving. About passing on what you have received. The Mistress had him guided. Under her supervision, her watchful eye. And with whispered instructions. He learned to touch the way she had touched. Not to take. But to give.

And the woman on the sofa began to breathe. Softly. Relaxed. Trembling. The Mistress smiled. “You thought you came only to learn to bow. But you also came to learn to carry.”

Restored and opened

When he left, he felt different. Not broken. Not used. But restored. Opened. Embedded in something greater than his own desire. She gave him no number. No fixed appointment. She only whispered one sentence in his ear:

“Come back when you are ready to give again.”

He nodded.
And he knew:
He will return.

Mistress Moriah

Source

Text: Mistress Moriah
Photography: 123rf.com