In Which I Meet An OkCupid Dom

My Dom and I met on OkCupid when I first moved to New York in September.

His profile was long and devoid of any real information about himself. I was bored one night and so sent him a message saying simply “????”

I got a flippant reply. Silly girls always fall for this. In my curiosity to figure him out, it prompted me to ask “what are you looking for?”

He responded quickly.

“I want a mature, willing submissive. A girl willing to listen and obey when I command her. A girl who gets wet having me in control, humiliating, degrading her, bringing her to orgasm in whatever way I please.”

I wondered how someone could be so ridiculous. But the message had turned me on. I wanted to learn what he’d be like in person. A few more messages and then texts and we agreed to meet one Saturday night.


A typical meeting went like this: I walked in, he told me to take off my coat, get on my knees. Then he gagged and blindfolded me. He yelled, “I don’t want you seeing shit,” and put a collar and lead around my neck. I felt excited, but worried his roommate would see me. He led me by the leash to his room.

He let go of the leash and walked across the room. “Find my cock. Then you can take the blindfold off.”

It was truly embarrassing to slowly crawl across his floor, trying to listen for his breath, or footsteps, in order to find him. Eventually, I outstretched my arms and felt his legs; unbuttoned and took down his jeans and boxers. I took the blindfold and gag off.

“Good Bitch,” he said, as I put his cock in my mouth. He gripped the collar and facefucked me violently. He told me to stick my tongue out and hum, I gagged loudly. “Suck it like you haven’t eaten for weeks.”

This article comes from the Thought Catalog ebook, Girls?

His goal was always to make me vomit, and I had a strong gag reflex. When I vomited repeatedly, he told me to lick it off his balls. He dragged my face into it when I threw up on the floor.

I liked the complete intensity that came with being made to throw up, nothing held back.

He gagged me roughly holding my nose: my whole body convulsed, desperate for air. He let me breathe, and I let out a huge gasp.

“Do you know how much that turns me on, you struggling for air?” He asked.

After he was satisfied with face fucking me, he told me to turn away from him and take off my clothes. Then I was to bend over and grab my ankles. He smacked my ass until it was bright red and raw. He made a game of seeing how red and bruised he could make my ass and breasts. “I’ve never met anyone who bruises as easily as you,” he said, grinning.

I didn’t enjoy being hit while it was happening. In fact, sometimes I would try to block his hand from hitting me. Eventually he hit me so hard that I fell to my knees and cowered on the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He yelled, and lifted my head up by my hair. “Actually, no, that’s right, if you can’t take it get on the fucking floor,” he said. He dropped my head back to the ground and stepped on my neck. He applied enough pressure that I struggled to breathe. After I began clawing at his leg he let up, asking, “why do you deserve pleasure?”

I was too embarrassed to answer. He asked me again. When I didn’t respond he said, “you fucking suck at this,” grabbing me by my hair, maneuvering me into his bed.

He went down on me and fingered me roughly until a little blood ran down my thighs. He jammed his fingers down my throat until I gagged, saying, “Taste yourself, whore.”

Finally, he put me on my knees and gripped my ass tightly to fuck me from behind. We changed positions, face to face, him on top of me. He strangled me lightly then slowly increased in pressure. He liked to hear my breathing and voice grow more and more shallow.

He put me on the floor on my knees. He face fucked me more and ejaculated all over my face. He rubbed his cock across my face, smearing his cum across. “Perfect,” he said, smiling. I hated the smell, but I liked the feeling I got, as if he owned me.

After sex we showered together and I brushed my teeth. In bed he held me and stroked my hair.

Remembering our meetings made me extremely turned on. I usually enjoyed them despite that I often felt afraid, embarrassed, or physically hurt, but the most recent time that we met things changed.

The sex was fine at first.

I had promised him total obedience, and had delivered, to the extent that I enthusiastically sucked on his toes when he told me to. But after he came and we cleaned up and were lying in bed I felt upset. The sexual degradation had been especially intense and then he had refused to let me smoke a cigarette. He yelled when I moved too much in bed. I wondered if he thought he was actually in charge of me.

Looking for comfort, I asked him if I had been obedient enough. He said I had done “okay,” but that he wished I could act more “insatiable” like Porn Star X, Y, or Z.

In the morning, he woke me up by saying, “spread your fucking legs.”

I did. He penetrated me and fucked me roughly. I was very sore, dry from the night before. It was incredibly painful. I didn’t tell him to stop. Part of me liked the idea of being totally used in this way. Finally I started to whimper and my face must have looked pained.

“Does that hurt?” He asked.

“Yes,” I sobbed.

“Good,” he said firmly and kept going.

I started to cry. I was in so much pain and I felt afraid and devalued. It was beginning to blur the line between play and reality. I wondered how he could still be aroused when I was heavily crying.

Soon, he realized that I was upset and stopped. I sat up on the bed, crying, with my face in my hands.

He told me to let him hold me and he whispered that he wouldn’t hurt me. Eventually I fell into his arms and he stroked my hair. He told me that I was okay and that he wouldn’t hurt me. After I calmed down slightly, he started to talk straight.

“Is this fun and exciting, or scary and bad?”

“I don’t know,” I said, still sobbing.

The truth is that it was and always had been all of those things. If it weren’t “scary” in parts, it would cease to feel real, and thus wouldn’t any longer be “fun.” We want experiences to push limits and feel uncontrived, we want to feel genuine emotions during sex.

And therein lies the rub.

I wonder–where is the line between wanting sexual play to feel natural and real, but not wanting to actually feel like less of a person? I wonder–how can you ever totally anticipate your boundaries? Where is the line between a woman choosing to pursue sexual autonomy, and caving to a misogynistic society that encourages the sexual degradation of women? Thought Catalog Logo Mark

This article is an excerpt from Girls? A Collection of Essays, available here.


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