DOMINA
Reprinted with permission
Copyright 1998 Gloria Brame
http://gloria-brame.com/domidea/domina.htm

In service to Domina:

1. Every Sunday night, before I go to sleep, I will write a journal entry in this notebook. I'll date every new entry as follows: "The First Sunday," "The Second Sunday," and so on, until Domina gives me new orders.

2. I will maintain a weekly journal of my thoughts and feelings for the next three months.

3. I will write down my thoughts and feelings about experiences, observations, conversations, epiphanies, dreams, memories, and sexual fantasies during my service as fucktoy.

4. I will tell the truth. I won't lie about my thoughts or feelings. I will tell the truth.

5. I will read these five rules before writing every week until I know them by heart.

Arden finished copying the rules from the instruction sheet Prism had handed him earlier and put his pen down on the bed. He neatly folded the paper in half and slipped it inside the back cover of the notebook. The sheet said that Domina wanted him to keep a diary of his life as her fucktoy. But where to begin? He didn't want to get it wrong. Although Domina's instructions were good, they weren't enough. In graduate school, he had written reams of papers and assiduously studied the art of writing. This, however was DEFINITELY different. An erotic diary. A diary of his own thoughts and feelings.</p>

But what if he revealed the wrong feelings and Domina read it and saw right through him? He would definitely have to monitor himself. Not to lie, of course. But perhaps not necessarily to mention every single time he had a doubt or a negative feeling about something. Not that he would paint a rosy picture for her. No. That wouldn't be in the spirit of what she had commanded. He would just have to be a little selective. Not that he had serious doubts about being here. No. Definitely not. Still. There was no reason to bore her with his bellyaching.

Arden sighed and rolled onto his stomach, placing the notebook on the pillow. He ran his fingers sensuously along the lined paper, savoring the small stir of excitement he always felt when he touched a fresh page.

Today was the first day of my life as Domina's fucktoy. I can't describe the feelings. Too many sensations, too many reactions, too much to verbalize. There's barely time to recuperate from one shock before a new situation comes up.

This morning, I was sure that last night was all a dream. I woke up in this room, amazed and confused-- where was I? Did last night really happen? It didn't seem possible that I'd spent hours bound to a crucifix, flying over Domina's dungeon, watching people on the ground fifteen feet beneath me. Not sure if I felt like Peter Pan or a pterodactyl, hovering in the air like that.

No, the truth . . . It was frightening. I couldn't stop thinking this was the worst blasphemy I'd ever committed, that even He would have a hard time forgiving me for this one.

It's like everything keeps getting worse and worse. But the worse it gets, the more it excites me. Where will it end?

At one point, there were eight people attached to racks and crosses and stocks while Domina, Amethyst and Hercules walked around, going from one person to another, beating them, sticking sharp things into their bodies. Couldn't see what they were knives? razors? needles?--just saw the glint of light on metal and then the blood. Kept thinking that one day that could be me, being mutilated and tortured like that.

The screams and groans were so loud they echoed in the rafters. It was like standing on the Tower of Babel, listening to that ungodly noise. I either fainted or went into some kind of a trance. Can't remember when they finally lowered the cable and took me down. Just vague images a blur of naked humanity surrounding me, slowly unbinding me, gently carrying me in their arms. My arms and legs felt so light, like they wanted to float back to the heavens. After that, everything's black.

Hmmm . . . what to write . . .

I guess I could describe my room.

It is about nine feet long and seven feet wide. At each end is a rolling door. The front one opens into the main hall. The one at the rear goes to the Penitence Walk. Last night, I walked through that door and down the long Walk to Domina's chamber of cruelty. I still can't believe that I had the guts to go through with it.

Anyhow . . .

The walls of my room are white. The wood floorboards are also painted white. There is a small red rug beside the bed.

The bed frame is steel, painted white, with bars, like an old hospital bed. The mattress is lumpy, the linens are over-starched and covered by an old army blanket. The pillow is hard. (Almost reminds me of home! just kidding!) On the wall above the bed is a wood bookshelf (empty), painted white. Near the head of the bed is a small metal night stand, also white, also the kind you see in hospitals, with a truly evil alarm clock on it.

All night, it ticked so loud I kept waking up from dreams where my head was in a sink and water dripped, drop by deafening drop, into my ear. Then the face glowed so bright in the dark, it felt like the numerals were burning through my eyelids. When it went off this morning, I nearly had a seizure. The buzzer sounds like a chainsaw.

I am sure Domina selected this clock deliberately.

Across from the bed is a small dresser, also painted white. I don't know why there's a dresser here, since I don't have any clothes to put in it. Over the dresser is a big mirror. I can see myself in it when I sit up in bed. Not that I want to see myself, but I do anyhow. Next to the dresser is a small white sink and under the sink is what looks like a blue chamber pot. I guess I know what that's for.

When I got up today, I thought either I'd died and was in a waiting room in Heaven or that I'd been sent to a hospital operated by an order of nuns, that's how immaculate and institutional the room felt. Or maybe it was a continuation of the dream about riding a flying crucifix. But then I looked up at the ceiling and saw the same beautiful clouds I'd stared at from my cage, and I knew it was real.

@Copyright 1998, Gloria G. Brame