Woman Seeking Dominatrix
Short Story by Sarah Loverock
You’ve been with him for six months now.
You remember your first date clearly. He was picking meat from his teeth with his dirty fingernails. He didn’t look at you for most of the meal and you were desperate.
He likes to play video games and you watch him and wonder why he won’t look at you like that—with the same level of joy and enthusiasm when he shoots a character in a game or finishes a mission. His whole body is animated in celebration, rocking backwards and forwards on the bed and beaming with pride. When he remembers you’re there, he’ll turn his head to you. The smile dies on his face.
There’s something about him, even when he’s not smiling. Something that holds you there, in his grasp, like a baby bird. He’s blonde and handsome and you deserve to be loved by someone handsome. You deserve it.
You deserve everything you get.
•
You’re in your bed and the lights are off. You want him to hold you but not like this.
You want to hug into his body, to feel the curve of his arms and his legs wrapped around yours. You want to run your hands through his hair, maybe tug on it. Show him who you are, what you mean. You want the heat of his body to feel like a warm blanket not a suffocating furnace. You want to be kissed, you want him to mean it. You want him to look you in the eyes.
He doesn’t touch you as he climbs on top of you. Your skin makes contact but he keeps his hands away, either side of your head. You reach up your hands to wrap around his shoulders, to pull him close to you. You want to hold him against your heart, feel the broadness of his body and know he’s there for you. That he loves you.
Even in the dark, he’s not looking at you.
There is no foreplay. He kisses you like your grandmother—short and wet— with far less love. You want to be entombed in the mattress.
When he starts fucking you, it hurts. It always hurts. It’s like a wall has gone up between you and his dick.
‘Go slow,’ you squeak, ‘please.’
‘You’re so fucking tight.’
You don’t think he’s listening.
When the pain is unbearable—and you think you’re going to pass out—you finally push him off.
‘What the fuck?’ He yells at you and you crawl down the bed, searching for the light. You don’t want to see him but you don’t want to be alone in the dark with him either.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say, over and over again. ‘I’m sorry. It just really hurt. We can - I can start again. I can—’
‘Just shut up,’ he gets out of bed. He’s gathering his clothes into a duffel bag. ‘I’m not the arsehole here. You’re the one who’s fucking frigid.’
•
‘You’ve changed,’ your friends say, ‘he’s changed you.’
You defend him—in the joking way you do, which is all the time.
‘He’s a dickhead,’ you explain, ‘but he’s my dickhead.’
You don’t smile at boys anymore. Or girls. He might take it the wrong way, like he did a couple of months ago, when he screamed at you outside Sainsburys for lending your lighter to a stranger. Afterwards, you walked with him through the city centre, arms hugged against you for warmth. Even as he berated you—called you fat, told you to stop being so easy, all you did was nod and grit your teeth. A weak defense against the tears.
You’ve learned not to argue with him.
He stops you by the war memorial, yanks on your arm.
‘You don’t do that to me, okay?’ He’s shaking you. ‘You don’t do that to me!’
You wait there in the cold, trembling and crying. A stone soldier stands to attention behind you, brandishing a bayonet. You want to lean into the statue. Its solid skin would be softer than his.
You want to go home with the soldier but you go home with him instead.
His flatmate is the one who tells you in the end.
You’ve spoken to this girl in passing only once or twice. You always got the impression that she didn’t like you or that she was self-absorbed. You used to see her on occasion cooking pasta in her kitchen, you sitting awkwardly on his couch trying to make small talk. She might offer up a comment about uni but she’d always sigh, tie up her hair and leave the room.
‘I thought you should see this,’ she says, while you’re waiting for him to get out of the shower. ‘It’s our group chat. Just don’t tell him I showed you.’
You take the phone from her hands and squint at the messages.
YorkshiresPride: her pussys so fucking tight i can barely get two inches in
Dirty Dave: So all of your dick?
YorkshiresPride: fuck you gaylord
killing strippers: thats what you get for dating a fat bitch, all her rolls blocking her pussy
killing strippers: whats the point in a side bitch if you can’t fuck her
YorkshiresPride: she told me she loved me the other day
Dirty Dave: Cringe.
killing strippers: faggot get out of there
You look up from the phone and stare at her. She’s got a scowl etched deep into her features and her eyes are red. Your throat hurts. You’re already crying before you can stop yourself. You don’t know why she’s showing you this. Maybe female responsibility trumps flatmate loyalty. Maybe she’s just a sadist.
She hugs you. You can’t remember the last time someone hugged you. You fall into her and sob. You push a hand into her hair. It’s inappropriate.
You leave and ignore his calls. You never see his flatmate again. You see him around university sometimes. He’s lingering just outside your vision, hanging out in the canteen when you walk across campus from the library. He’s got a new girlfriend almost a head shorter than he is, a stick insect. He takes great pleasure in looking you directly in the eyes and squeezing her bum.
You wonder if she has to beg him to stop, too.
•
‘Maybe you should try dating women,’ your friends suggest, ‘You’re bi, right? Maybe it would be good for you. Like a detox.’
None of them really know how to go about dating a woman. You don’t either. A profile is probably a good start. There are so many dating apps.
You met him on Tinder.
You try Bumble.
It’s a lot of work. And you’re already absorbed in your reading list, a mountain of books that have to be studied before the next class. Each ping of your phone makes you grip the book harder, the words blurring together until you throw your phone across the bed.
When you do check your matches, they’re either threesome requests, hook-ups or girls who can hold a conversation about as well as they can lift a car over their heads. You cycle through the usual: ‘Hi, how are you?’ ‘Good.’ ‘How are you?’ ‘Good.’
You get bored, debate deleting the app, leave your phone vibrating on the nightstand and go back to reading Dracula.
You’re in bed, eyes full of glue. It’s two in the morning and you should be sleeping. You’re thinking about him and your heart’s racing. He sent you a text. He wants to meet for a drink.
You’re left-swiping faster than boy-racers on the M1. Boring, boring, dickhead, boring, weird. Is this how people find dates?
You pause when you reach her. She’s dressed in a leather corset and her long, blonde hair falls in loose golden curls down her back. She’s got her finger lifted towards you, beckoning.
Aspiring fashion designer and dominatrix. Looking for a relationship and a little fun. Don’t talk to me if you’re a bitch.
You’re not a bitch. You’re fun. So you send her a message.
Hi how are you :)
This is what you lead with because she’s a goddess and you’re an idiot.
Hey babe x, she replies—hours later—and your heart still skips three beats, you like being tied down?
After talking for a couple of days, she asks you on a date.
She takes you to a vegan cafe. It’s not the type of place you picture a dominatrix hanging out. Then again, she isn’t the type of person you’d picture as a dominatrix. When she walks in out of the winter chill, she’s huddled up in a scarf, a coat and a thick woolen jumper with a llama on it. She’s deceptively wholesome.
You stand up with a tight-lipped smile, indicating who you are. When she sees you, she grins and hugs you. You’re so taken aback you almost forget where you are. Who you are.
‘It’s so great to finally meet you,’ she says, ‘you’re cuter in person.’
When she smiles it’s like the sun comes out.
‘Oh, um, thanks,’ you reply. You stare down at your menu, fiddle with the edges. You’re beautiful, you want to say, I love you. ‘You too.’
She orders a summer salad. The waiter loves her, everyone’s drinking her in, her words are like sugar and her freckles are pepper across her cheeks.
You order grilled peaches because they sound better than a fruit pizza.
She rests her elbows on the table and weaves her fingers together, head resting on the little perch she’s made. Her nails are painted yellow and long like talons.
‘So,’ she purrs, lips tilting up into a mischievous smile, ‘what do you want to know?’
Everything.
‘Is it your job?’
It’s like you’re talking about accounting or retail.
‘Business and pleasure,’ she laughs and bunches up her blonde hair, throwing it behind her. You swallow. ‘Rich, old idiots let me tie them up and kick them in the balls. It’s the best job I’ve ever had.’
‘What about you?’ she nudges you with her foot under the table. You sit up straighter. ‘What do you do?’
‘I work at Sainsburys,’ you say, as if it’s the pinnacle of your career. ‘In the bakery.’
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘that’s… fun?’
‘It sucks as much as you think it does.’ She’s laughing—wrinkling her nose. You did that. You made her laugh.
‘You’re a uni student, too, yeah? That’s cool. I always wanted to go to uni.’
‘I do English Lit,’ you say, ‘I like to write.’
Her summer salad arrives. It’s got beetroot and sun-dried tomatoes and lemon and lettuce in it. It’s less summery than you imagined. The grilled peaches taste burnt and you have to force them down but you don’t say anything because there are flowers growing in your chest.
•
‘You’ve changed,’ your friends say, ‘you look so much happier.’
You feel like spring and walk like you’re in heaven’s garden. You take the bus, far away from concrete high rises and dirty streets and city centres. When no one’s looking, you take her hand in yours, walking along the promenades and walkways of small villages you visit, full of carnations and wild berries.
The war memorials are allowed to be static in their grief. The stone soldiers no longer serve as your sentries.
You read more and you don’t think about the man who shouted at you outside Sainsburys. You even take up origami, creating little paper cranes and hearts and tigers in whites and pinks and purples. You imagine them coming alive, the tiger roaring and chasing the crane around your desk.
If he saw you folding paper into shapes, he’d laugh at you.
You don’t care what he thinks anymore.
You browse through the aisles of gift shops and think about things that you can buy her so she’ll shine like the sun and bathe you in that glow of hers.
You want to please her.
•
You’re on your back in her bed. Your stomach is doing somersaults and you feel like you could get up and run for miles. You feel like you could smile until your face falls off.
You have to be still. She told you to be still.
‘You’ve never done anything like this before?’
She’s knotting a red rope around your ankle and tying it to the bedpost. You try not to fidget but you’re bubbling with nervous energy. The more you try to relax the more you want to wriggle around.
You think about your ex-boyfriend, about him fucking you in the dark and choking you until stars shot across your vision. You don’t think that counts.
‘No, never.’
‘I’ll have to teach you a few things,’ she grins and tugs a little tighter on the rope binding your wrists. ‘It’s not like the stuff you see in porn. We’ll go slow, okay?’
You nod and swallow. Your mouth is dry.
She hovers above you, careful not to touch you. She leans down, plants a kiss on your lips and your whole body shivers with the warmth and love pouring out of her like honey. She smoothes back your hair, then pulls the blindfold down over your eyes.
She runs her nails across your stomach and you jolt up towards her like you’ve been electrocuted.
‘Are you going to be good for me?’
You hear the crack of the whip against her palm.
You want to say yes to the pain.
•
‘Are you sure about this?’ your friends say, ‘she seems like the exact opposite of your personality.’
They say, ‘why would you want this?’
They say, ‘she’s just in it for the sex. It’s not a real relationship.’
You’re at the florist and one of the clerks is bagging up her bonsai tree. The leaves are beginning to wilt on one of its branches but you don’t mention it. You always preferred cacti anyway.
‘You’re such a cute couple,’ cooes the young florist, no older than eighteen. You share inane, idle chatter—‘Where did you meet?’—’How long have you been together?’—the regular stuff. Then he asks what you two do for work.
‘Well, I’m a D—’
‘She’s a DM,’ you say quickly, ‘we met at a D&D night.’
She’s fixing you with an icy glare as you leave the shop. She reaches her gloved fingers towards you but you shove your hands deep into your pockets. The Autumn chill is returning.
‘Are you ashamed of me?’ She asks. There’s a wounded look in her eyes, like a fox caught in a bear trap. ‘Of what I do?’
‘No,’ you frown, ‘I just think we should keep the stuff we do in the bedroom private.’
When you get home and she puts the bonsai tree on the living room table, you wander over to her and thread your fingers along the lapel of her coat.
‘Will you stay tonight?’ You pout, ‘I want you to put me in my place.’
She takes you by the wrists. It doesn’t feel like when you’re in bed, when it's exciting and you’re waiting for the next touch, the next sensation. It feels like rejection.
‘Can’t,’ she says curtly, ‘I’m meeting with a client.’
‘What about me?’
She’s already heading for the door.
‘Do it yourself.’
You spend fifteen minutes trying to tie a knot around your ankle. It keeps coming loose whenever you attach it to the bedpost and you’re getting cold, sat there naked and alone in your room.
You can’t do this alone.
‘It’s over.’
The words hit you like a slap in the face. You cycle through anger, desperation, sadness and resignation like shattered glass flying from a crashing car. You’re on your knees in front of her, fully clothed and begging, taking her hands in yours.
‘Please, I’ll do anything you want. Anything.’
She takes your face in her hands. She brushes your hair and hums like she’s soothing a child. She’s crying.
‘That’s the problem.’
You stand up and start yelling, your face turning red.
‘I’m not frigid!’ You scream, ‘I’m not fucking frigid!’
‘You’re not frigid,’ she says. There’s pity in her eyes, ‘you’re insecure.’
When she leaves you, she leaves behind the red rope and the bonsai tree. You can’t bring yourself to throw away either, even as the rope frays and the bonsai tree’s leaves crumble to dust.
You’ve never been good at letting go.
You stay out of relationships for a while. You’re too busy with uni anyway. Stacks of books fill the space next to you in bed but they’re not warm like she is. Was.
You’re lonely and aching with it. You long to be vibrating with energy and unable to release it—forced to be patient, expected to listen.
You reinstall Bumble. You’re flicking through faces. You miss her blonde hair, the way it tickled your face when she kissed you. You miss feeling like the sun itself was burning in your presence.
Woman seeking dominatrix for kinky times, you type into your sad, empty profile. The messages roll in, threesomes and kinksters and nice girls who just want to be loved.
None of them are her.
Sarah Loverock is a writer and MA Creative Writing student from England. She writes across a wide range of fiction, creative non-fiction, and experimental works. Her debut story, Consider an Apartment in Washington, won first place in the Streetcake Magazine Prize for Experimental Writing in 2019. Her work is often informed by her own life experiences and causes that matter to her—ranging from abuse recovery to sexuality to British politics. She is currently working on a novel about rival witches and their misadventures in a strange town in East Sussex. Alongside writing, she also enjoys museums, folklore, period dramas, comic books and the music of Hozier, Neko Case, and Orville Peck.
A self-proclaimed lazy pagan, Sarah combines her beliefs in karma and reincarnation alongside callings to deities of the Roman pantheon including her favourite Gods, Mercury and Diana. She is still trying to work out her place in the universe but knows that writing is essential to her journey.