Filthy/Gorgeous

When I first dabbled in BDSM I did so as Domme.  It seemed a good fit for me; in most areas of my life I ooze confidence and I’m happy to play mind games with people (I can be extremely manipulative when the mood takes me).  Since my last relationship had ended a decade earlier, and ended badly enough to necessitate a trip to A&E, I was extremely wary of being in a position of vulnerability with a man, so Domme seemed the perfect way to go.

As so often happens, reality proved me one hundred percent mistaken.  I was a shit Domme.  A truly awful, “what the hell are you doing?” Domme.  The final metaphorical straw was a session with one of my subs who wanted me to pinch his nipples and ended up screaming at me to pinch them harder.  Harder!  Make me feel it bitch!  Not really appropriate from a sub to his Domme but I hadn’t the heart to punish him because he made a good point – I really was being far too hesitant.

I had no trouble finding subs.  I was on Alt and due to the scarcity of female Dommes I had a multitude of messages from desperate prospective subs.  When I pulled away from the Domme role I knew none of my subs would find it easy to replace me, crap as I was in the role.  For some I wasn’t concerned; they were dabblers, they’d just get their kicks another way.  For A though I really felt sorry – he really needed the D/s dynamic and it was a key part of his maintaining good mental health.  I had attended a couple of munches and knew a couple of Dommes, and I took it on myself to find A another Domme.  It took a while but eventually I found a lovely lady who was prepared to tread on his balls on a pretty regular basis.

I stayed in touch with A to make sure everything went OK, and an odd sort of friendship formed.  I have OCD but have had significant help in dealing with it.  It was a long, uncomfortable and bloody expensive process (I’m surely not exaggerating when I say I had a million billion counselling sessions at £75 per session), but I have it under control and although when I’m under stress the compulsive tendencies are still there, I no longer feel that they control my life.  A also has OCD (cleaning in his case, whereas mine tends more toward ordering), but used the cleaning compulsion as a way to control stress and had no interest at all in getting help.  Chatting to him was incredibly frustrating at times.  He lost his job, was struggling to make ends meet and the stress drove him deep into his OCD in order to cope.  He once confided that he’d spent 6 hours cleaning a leather whip, because every single strand of leather had to be cleaned, treated and polished separately, and when a clean strand touched a dirty one he had to start the entire process again.

In the meantime another friend of mine (friend, not “friend”) whose name also starts with A (but for the purposes of this rambling anecdote that would be too confusing so I shall call her T) had at the age of 48 (35 on her Tinder profile) divorced her husband, moved into her own home and reverted to a teenager.  She bought herself a kitten and allowed it to piss all over her white chenille sofa with no thought of cleaning it up (“why should I spend my life cleaning?” well, because it’s your cat, your sofa and your home, but otherwise, fair point well made). Within a couple of months the beautiful Victorian end of terrace cottage was an unliveable hovel, and just visiting made me feel itchy.

T not being short of money but unwilling to clean, A being very short of money and desperate to clean, there seemed an obvious solution.  I tentatively broached the idea with T (how do you tell someone their home is a shithole without causing offence?) and she heartily approved, so I asked A whether he thought that would be OK for him or whether I would simply be enabling his OCD.  Since we agreed on his financial woes contributing to his stress and his stress exacerbating his OCD, we both agreed maybe he could give it a go and see how he felt.

Week one, T’s next door neighbour let him in while T was at work.  A steamed the couch and every carpet in the flat, and when T returned home she was delighted and singing his praises.  Week two, T had left almost double the agreed fee with her neighbour, and A deep cleaned both bathrooms (a brave man) and scrubbed the oven while the freezer was defrosting.  Once again, a delighted T.

Week three, I received a panicked phone call at work from T.  She’d received a text from A to say he hoped she didn’t mind, but he’d licked her ashtrays clean.  If she objected, he’d wait for her to arrive home and punish him.

It hadn’t occurred to me to tell A that T wasn’t a Domme, and since T had no idea about my exploration I hadn’t thought to tell her that A had been my sub.  It’s true that T wore leather high-heeled boots on a frequent basis, but it’s quite a leap to go from that to full on S&M.

I found the whole thing absolutely hilarious, and tried my best to calm T down.  Oddly, asking her “well, had you told him he could use his tongue?” didn’t seem to calm her down at all, and A never got to clean for her again.  He also never received a punishment, so for him it was a double blow.