Why I Domme

Part 1 (Circa 2020, wrote this back then but primary sentiments still stand true today)

Squeaky-clean, pristine Singapore. Mention the term, and millenials’ eyebrows shoot up into their hairlines, gawking, “Huh, there are such things here? I thought these only existed in Fifty Shades of Grey (terrible representation of the craft, by the way).” Let slip by accident to boomers, like an unfortunate time I did so while drunk in my father’s car as he was sending me home, and they take to Google instantly. The search results often warrant strange looks and, in my case, “Girl, why do you always like all these kinds of weird things? Stop it, it’s not good for your image.”

I have no shame in whatever I do, because I am only showing an undeniable truth. Let me tell you that everyone is weird as fuck-- even your boss probably is in some way or other. They all, perhaps even you, hide it so as to not get judged by others. Our 7 million masks then contribute to the collective perfect facade of our country.

Pain, suffering and trauma are part of human nature, and these often manifest as kinks and fetishes. Dominatrices are only catalysts in creating a safe space for people to reunite with their shadow harmlessly, to reconcile these parts of them that have been broken beyond repair and mutated into something else altogether that is easier accepted by the Self. We all seek control of their own lives. Willingly entering a session with me to stage out a time of helplessness and humiliation is an act of reclaiming choice and hence, becoming empowered.

I do not offer any forms of sexual services. Personally, I am not comfortable with doing so despite having utmost respect for those who do, as a profession. On the other hand, it is precisely that these desires are so far removed from sex, that interests me.

Sex is cold and direct. It is hard-coded into our tendencies-- the drive to preserve our genes by reproduction is exactly what brought our kind from the depths of the primordial soup to where we stand today. Sex is an instinct. Ironic as it may sound, sexual deviations are born of the complexities of our minds, maladapted associations, crutches, a twisted energy exchange; they are neither of the aforementioned two.

I am just a girl of age 24 who writes in her free time, gets some money off that, and when that’s done, I stand tall in front of snivelling men, sometimes twice my size, who kneel and cower at my feet. For the most part of their lives I recognise that they are powerful men, heads of their families and companies, renowned CEOs with exceptional Linkedin profiles spearheading gargantuan projects in their crisp business outfits. They work at exactly those towering, shiny buildings that have become so idiosyncratic with Singapore’s skyline, a sight that has put us on the world map and an icon of prestige.

Yet for an hour they surrender all of that to reconnect with an inner, unhealed child by prostrating in front of an ingenue.

“I want you to kneel, and beg for permission to serve me.”

“Yes Queen.”

It has been eye-opening for sure. I’ve had one submissive who just wanted to be forced to exercise. The entire time, I just lounged on my couch and gave him work out instructions. A guilty pleasure of mine was having slaves-- those who I could simply summon and who were at my beck and call. They paid me to clean my house, run errands for me, drive me to where I wanted, give me foot massages, and so forth.

What crafted me a name in this underground scene was my knack for caning. I could deliver swift, parallel lines whenever I flicked my wrist, apparently a feat not many could achieve. Masochists flocked to me. I remember the best yet was this one guy who told me to go all out, and he took every blow I rained upon him, each one charged up with all the might possible in my slim body. His buttock cheeks were not a pretty sight by the end of when I was done with him. Raw, red and deeply lacerated, he got up with a chuckle and dabbed his weeping wounds with cotton gauze he had specially brought along, as though it was routine. Later I realised that his blood had even splattered onto the white bedsheets and the adjacent white wall!

Sometimes, they are shy. Before commencement, I’ve encountered sheepish glances.

“Am I weird for liking these things? Do you judge me?” And I say, “No, definitely not.” They may be surrendering to me, but we are equals in this correspondence. I would never damn anyone for baring their soul to me. If anything, that kind of bravery to acknowledge and account for even what they deem as the ugliest edges of their identity is to be applauded.

What about you, have you?

Dear reader, I want you to know that in the coalescence of what makes us who we are, your darkness supports your light, and vice versa. We are never just made of one, or a few things. Conscious or not, our entire being and psyche consists of overlapping systems that unwittingly impact one another to produce results.

Honour even the things you might find difficult to love about yourself. This is also a reflection on how you treat others.