I am Domme of my decisions and Mistress of my bedtime.
I don’t need anyone to tell me when, or how, or yes or no. If I want to eat all of the frosting, I shall. If I want to spend all of my money on that handbag that doubles as a suitcase, I will. If I want to stay up so late that I’m bleary and intolerable the next day, then who is going to stop me?
I can have secrets. I am a champion of secrets. Nobody needs to know about that cigarette I sneaked with a coworker in a rare bonding moment — or the meager four hours sleep I got the night before last that had me heading straight for the coffee in the faculty lounge.
When I am by myself, with no one to raise a disapproving brow, I own my actions and consequences. Right?
Right.
Even if I somehow managed to keep those secrets from him, his barometer for baloney would measure the slightest change in pressure caused by my guilty conscience. Then, his keen interrogation techniques would have me spilling all before he finished his first question.
How disappointed would I be if he simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “you can do what you want”, offering no repercussions? I can picture it — me, jumping up and down, waving my arms, yelling, “but look at how I’m treating myself!”
So he, Dom that he is, takes his Mistress-of-her-bedtime over his knee and smacks her bottom red. His intention is not to squash her independence, but to guide her as she makes up her own mind.
Yes, I can be Domme of my own destiny — and he’d like me to be. But if I refuse to treat myself respectfully, the Dom of my derriere will strike, and this independent woman will be sleeping on her tummy when 9 o’clock rolls around.
Which reminds me…does anybody know what time it is?
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