It Took Domming to Learn How to Be Fully Present During Sex
And now I’ve reunited with my ex, our connection stronger and more vulnerable than ever.
By Nau
Original illustration by Tara Savelo
I can smell her hair conditioner. It’s a very specific smell, bringing up images of joy and sadness, of hope and heartbreak: It filled my lungs when she kissed me for the first time, and it haunted me after we broke up, the smell lingering in my home when I couldn’t bring myself to return her belongings.
We’re together again after two months apart and several months of mutual miscommunication and misunderstanding. We’re learning to trust and understand each other, to talk about the needs and desires we couldn’t reveal before, held back by shame and fear of rejection. Despite the connection we felt immediately when we met, there were some parts we couldn’t and didn’t even know we needed to share. And eventually it corroded our relationship and broke it into pieces.
We are sitting and kissing on her–our–sofa. (She wants me to feel at home at her place.) I want to touch her, but my heart is racing as if I were a child, afraid of heights, about to jump off a 10-meter cliff into an ice-cold lake.
We touched before, touched very intimately. We had sex and scenes. Exactly one year ago, the very next day after our first date, I found myself attending the biggest kink party in Tokyo with her. She was wearing a bodysuit. Her beautiful, small, Mount Fuji-shaped breasts were on full display. I remember kissing her and touching her tender chest, nipples as soft as traditional Japanese sweets.
It was the first time I understood or accepted—the beauty and charm of the female body. I’m non-binary, and I used to feel resentful about my own body because of how female bodies are perceived by society. But there was no place for resentment when I touched her for the first time. There were no bolts of electricity or crazy lust either, but there was tenderness and desire to admire and worship. Being with her encouraged acceptance of my own body.
And now I’m afraid of touching her. What if she recoils the second I stretch my hand out to her? What if she disappears in thought, pretending I’m someone else?
I want so badly to caress her charming, miniature breasts, to stroke her nipples, to hear her moan, to peel off her dress and see how HRT changed her body in the two months we haven’t seen each other.
Funny, growing up with a female body, I didn’t even know there were stages to breast development until she told me. And now there is this part of me full of tenderness and positivity that can’t wait to see how her body changed. Are her nipples firmer now? Would they get erect and slice my palms like precious stones?
I slip my fingers from her cheek to her elongated neck and trace her defined collarbones. I always loved biting them and leaving marks on her pale skin, but now my mind is overwhelmed by the rollercoaster of having both the need to claim her and the fear of losing her.
I continue kissing her lips and finally build the courage to ask her, “May I?” She moans her “yes” in my mouth. And I, more confidently now, move my hand to her warm-as-the-rays-of-springtime-sunshine breast. I touch it through her silky dress, tracing her delicate nipple with my thumb and then tugging on it just the way I remember her liking it. She moans into my mouth again, and I bite her lower lip. I relax a bit—she isn’t going anywhere—and a warm, tingling sensation spreads in my chest and belly.
I straddle her lap and keep playing with her breasts, sucking and biting. Feeling her body move responsively under mine, I’m emboldened to slip my hands under her dress and gently touch her.
With my free hand, I sink my nails into her torso, teasing her soft skin. I don’t scratch her hard: I know she likes sensory stimulation more than pain. She’s squirming under me, her shuddering breath warming my cheeks. I bow my head and bite, then lick her neck. She moans louder. She is very vocal. I feel envious sometimes: I wish I could let my feelings out just as easily. I look at her face. Her gaze blurry, her lips parted.
She told me something recently. She said she wanted to be used–depersonalized.
I want to give it to her even though it won’t come naturally. For me, sex is all about the person I’m having it with. I want to see and be seen. I’m afraid of being confident, and I’m tired of control in everyday life.
But I want to try it with her—not just for her but also for myself–for us.
I take a deep breath. English is not my native language, and I’m always afraid of ruining the scene by stumbling over words or saying something off. (Just another worry swimming around in my brain when I attempt a dominant role.) Still, I enjoy it, and I want it now when there is more trust between us, when I’m not dissociating as badly as I used to.
I take another diaphragmatic breath and pull my dominant mask over my face. She’s half-lying on the cushions. I get up off the sofa and look down at her. She’s already utterly undone: her flushed cheeks are the color of the pink flowers on her white dress. I’m towering over her. It’s pretty hard to tower over anyone when you are 163 cm (roughly 5’4”), but the way she looks at me makes me feel like a giant.
I believe I’m in control, and she trusts me. One more deep breath. Finally, I order, “On your hands and knees.” She obeys. Her movements are slow and impeded as if she were moving underwater.
“Such a good girl,” I say.
“Yes,” she answers meekly.
I do a quick safeword check-in. We use a traffic light system.
“Now listen to me. If you feel like something goes wrong, you have to tell me. I don’t want my beautiful doll broken; it’s your job to take good care of this body. Understood?”
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