The Domesticated Dom

By Ashley Zacharias

Three beautiful, masochistic women want to be dominated. After examining a few candidates, they chose you. Now that you’re their dom, you can do anything you like with your three subs. As much kinky sex as you imagine, any time you want. But there is a catch. You should have known that there’s always a catch.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ashley Zacharias
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005582319

Ashley Zacharias

I am a post-modern woman who lives a vanilla life but fantasizes about adventures in masochism. I appreciate readers who purchase my books but, more than money, I need your honest response to my writing. Review my books or contact me at ashleyzacharias.com and let me know what you think of my stories. Good or bad, as long as you are not indifferent, your honest response will help me to write more and better stories.You can find my thoughts about my own stories athttp://ashleyzachariascommentary.wordpress.com/Yours, Ashley

Book preview

THE DOMESTICATED DOM

by Ashley Zacharias

Copyright (c) 2022 Ashley Zacharias

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, either in whole or in part, in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy.

1

What you have to know about me is that I’m a sadist, but I’m not a sociopath. I could try to explain what that means, but I don’t think you’ll really understand unless I tell you my whole story. So that’s what I’m going to do.

As you’ll see soon enough, there are three women in my story who are not sadists, in fact, they’re masochists, but they are sociopaths. That’s something else you should keep in mind.

As a sadist who’s not a sociopath, I used to spend a lot of time on social media. Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, all the big ones. I used a fake name, of course, because I was posting about my sadistic desires and that’s not safe for work. Not that I ever posted anything when I was working, but I didn’t want anyone who knew me to stumble across my posts and out me to the boss. We live in the era of cancel culture, and being a sadist is not socially acceptable because people believe that sadists are automatically dangerous sociopaths, which as I’m explaining to you, is not true at all. I’m not saying there is no such thing as a sadist who is also a sociopath—that happens for sure—but those two things, sadism and sociopathy, don’t automatically go together.

But enough about that. I’ve got to get on my story before I bore you.

I have a lot of followers on Twitter, more than five thousand, so when I post a tweet like, I’m just a normal guy who’d love to caress your ass with a birch switch and watch you yelp and twitch, I usually get a few likes and sometimes a retweet. Often enough, I get negative public replies and private direct messages, but when I do, they aren’t worth reading. A lot of self-styled feminists like to pile on and call me an abusive misogynist, usually in more colorful language than that. And then a certain proportion block me, but that’s life, and I don’t fuss about it.

When I get a comment or message, I always reply. I try to make people understand the difference between sadism and sociopathy, but that never goes well. It’s not something you can explain in a couple of sentences. You can’t even explain it in a couple of paragraphs. Which is why I’m writing the entire story of my recent experiences.

My story really begins one day a while back when I got a different kind of private message. Someone who called herself, Suzy Sub said she likes my posts. I don’t get a positive response from women very often. Dominant men are more likely to share their lust for subservient women than subservient women admitting their interest in me and my kink.

Now, I couldn’t be sure that Suzy Sub was a woman just because she called herself Suzy. There are plenty of men trying to catfish other men by pretending to be women. And there are any number of honest transvestite, transsexual, transgender, and non-binary persons who aren’t trying to scam anyone. They genuinely identify as female some or all the time, even if they have the Y chromosome.

So, I appreciated Suzy Sub’s compliment, but I didn’t get too excited about it. I just DM’ed back a simple thanks. She replied more fully. She said she’d been following me for a while, not just on Twitter, but on Facebook and Instagram, too. She was something of a fan.

I replied again, a little more elaborately this time, but still conservatively. I had some reservations. In retrospect, I should have had a lot more.

Over the course of a couple of weeks, Suzy Sub and I developed an online relationship of sorts. I still didn’t know if she was biologically female, by which I mean having two X chromosomes and all her sexual equipment unaltered by hormone treatments or surgery, but it didn’t matter. Realistically, as long as we never met in person, and as long as she didn’t start asking me for money, it was irrelevant. She acted like a woman online, so I could fantasize about her as a woman.

The more we corresponded, the more she revealed her feelings about sadomasochism. She was reluctant to say right out that she was a masochist who was looking for a man to dominate her sexually, but that was the impression she gave when she responded positively to my descriptions of dominating submissive women with bondage, discipline, and assorted forms of sexual penetration. And, of course, when she hinted and later asked outright for more explicit descriptions, I was encouraged to elaborate.

Now, I should confess that I’d not done all the things I was describing. Or any of them, for that matter. I was telling her my fantasies, not reciting my sexual history. But I’m sure she understood because she must have noticed that I never said I did these things, only that these were the things that excited me.

I’m twenty-six years old, so I’ve dated my share of women, but I’d only had regular, ordinary sex. I’d never dared tell any of my dates what I really wanted to do. I knew instinctively that they’d run away as fast as their lovely, lithe legs could carry them. Genuinely masochistic women are a rare breed.

A couple of times, I tried kissing women a little roughly. Not so hard that I bruised them. I just grabbed them and pulled them close like you sometimes see in old Hollywood movies. That never went well. Both times I tried that, the women refused a second date.

One other time, after I’d been dating a woman for a month and we’d made love a few times, I gave her a playful slap on her butt. Not a full over-the-knee spanking, but just a quick smack that, I’m sure, didn’t sting much and certainly didn’t leave a mark.

She turned on me and told me not to do that. She didn’t like it.

I believed her and didn’t try anything like that again. We dated for another couple of weeks but lost interest in each other after that episode. Going our separate ways was a mutual decision because it had become clear that we weren’t as compatible as two lovers should be.

Let me be explicit. I’ve never raped a woman. I’ve never beaten a woman. I’ve never done anything that wasn’t completely consensual, with the sole exceptions of two stolen kisses at the end of two first dates and one light slap on a lover’s ass.

Not only have I never beaten or raped women, I don’t even fantasize about doing those things. The idea of punching a woman with a closed fist, breaking her nose or blackening her eye, is revolting. It’s not sexually stimulating for me at all.

I do fantasize about having a woman who will consent to being bound, spanked, and sexually penetrated every way possible, even if she doesn’t get any pleasure from it.

Basically, I fantasize about having a woman who will submit to my will and give me pleasure on demand, which I expect is most men’s basic fantasy. It’s only the details that distinguish sadists from other men.

I would treat such a woman like a princess. A princess who I would keep in chains much of the time. A princess who will suffer discomfort and submit to punishment at my discretion. A princess who will live to serve my every whim. But a princess, nonetheless.

I explained this in explicit detail to Suzy Sub. And she didn’t ghost me. Rather, she kept writing and asking for more.

I was falling in love with this woman, and I didn’t even know her name, just the pseudonym she used online.

Over the course of our correspondence, we kept crossing lines. A big line was crossed when she sent me a selfie. It was only a portrait, not a nude or anything like that. The woman in the picture was almost beautiful. She wore her hair long and blonde. She had clear, pale skin. Her lips were full, and her eyes were blue.

So why do I say almost beautiful instead of just saying beautiful? Only for the most minor reasons. Her eyes were a little narrow and her nose was a little large. Her chin was weak. Her eyebrows were dark, indicating that her blonde hair came out of a bottle. She should have done her eyebrows, too.

As you can see, I have high standards. I’d give her a solid eight and a half. Maybe she’d make it to nine on a good day if she put a little more effort into her makeup and got her hair styled, but nothing would make her a ten. Perfect tens are rare. Maybe one woman in a hundred deserves a ten.

I have to admit that I’m not a ten myself. I’d say I’m about an eight, give or take a half point, so yes, I was in about the same ballpark as Suzy Sub: handsome enough but not quite up to her level.

Of course, when I responded to her selfie, I didn’t tell her that she was any less than exceptional. I’m not a moron.

It was only natural that she ask me for a selfie in return.

I took a trip to the barber, put on my best shirt, and struck a dominating pose. When I saw the result, I have to say I looked like an alpha male, no doubt about it. I was pleased to send her my selfie.

Of course, she wrote back that I was handsome.

I’d given her an honest selfie and could only hope that she’d done the same. I’m sure you realize that there’s nothing to stop a woman from googling, beautiful woman, and sending a picture of some other woman on the internet. But if she’d done that, she’d been smart enough to send a picture that looked like a real woman, not a photoshopped image of a Vogue fashion model.

She responded to my full-length picture with a full-length picture of herself in a sundress. Her body was as desirable as her face. Again, somewhere between and eight and a nine. Her legs were little short and her breasts a little small. Actually, they were probably about average, but I’m fond of long legs and big breasts, and I’m the one who was rating her, so I had the right to decide that she wasn’t my perfect ideal. Even so, I was impressed by how close she came.

I sent her a picture of myself wearing a tight black tee shirt and blue jeans. The black shirt was a strategic decision. I don’t exactly have six-pack abs. Sadly, I’ve developed a bit of a paunch in the last couple of years. Too many carbs. A black tee shirt hides the contours whereas a white tee shirt would emphasize them. But my arms are good, so the tee shirt showed them off to my advantage when I crossed them over my belly.

Looking at my photo objectively, I think I captured the alpha male personality once again.

Suzy must have agreed because she said she’d like to meet me sometime.

That was another hard, bright line crossed. Meeting your virtual crush in the real world is a major step. We were going to see if the other had sent honest pictures or fakes.

The problem with the world wide web is that it’s world wide. The woman in the picture could live anywhere from Norway to Australia. What are the chances that she’d live near me? Slim, to say the least.

Then she blew me away. She messaged that she’d noticed the CN Tower in the background of one of my Instagram posts. And I’d mentioned the Distillery District on Facebook. Did I live in Toronto?

She was quite the little Sherlock.

I replied that I did live in TO. There are ten million people in the region, so I figured admitting that didn’t compromise my privacy.

She said she lived in Whitby, which is just a half hour west on the 401. Maybe I’d like to meet for a drink sometime.

I was astounded and couldn’t agree fast enough.

I was going to meet the woman of my fantasies in person.

She suggested we meet downtown at the Old Stone Pub on Irwin west of Yonge at nine o’clock on Saturday night.

I’d never been there, but I looked it up on Google. It looked all right. Not upscale, but acceptable. I replied that I looked forward to meeting her.

Looked forward was a weak way to say I was already desperately in lust with her. My heart was pounding as I typed my reply.

ab

The Old Stone Pub was a spartan watering hole. The only concession to stonework was texturing on the exterior concrete walls to make them vaguely resemble fieldstone. The effect was far from convincing.

Inside, the light was dim. The walls were painted a dingy brown and studded with neon signs for Labatt’s 50 and Labatt’s Blue, standard mass-produced Canadian lagers. There were no craft beers on the menu; this was no brewpub. And the only service option was quart bottles. This place didn’t bother with drawing mugs from a tap. They gave you the quart; they gave you the glass; and you poured your own.

The place was busy. Most of the seats will filled with middle-aged men. I saw only a couple of tables with girls at them, and none of their faces resembled Suzy Sub’s selfie in the slightest.

I sat at one of the few empty tables and waited for service. The chair was steel but not uncomfortable. The table was a circle of scarred wood supported by a steel pillar. The furniture could survive a war, and it looked like it already had.

Whad’a ya want?

The server was a hard-looking woman in her late thirties, wearing a white cotton blouse and black jeans. You might say she was slender but wiry was a better description. She had small dark eyes above a nose that was sharp as a splitting maul. Her hair was dyed midnight black and pulled into a tight ponytail. Her eyebrows were plucked bald and redrawn as thin lines above bright blue eyeshadow.

I’d like a beer.

Yeah. Blue or Fifty? She had a slight Quebecois accent, but being this was Toronto and not Montreal, she didn’t call the Fifty a Cinquante.

I said, Blue, only because she’d listed that first. I didn’t have the slightest preference for either one.

She walked away without another word. All charm, she was.

I watched the door while I waited for my beer, wondering if Suzy Sub was going to stand me up. I wouldn’t have been surprised. If she didn’t show up by the time I finished my beer, I was out of there. Of course, it was going to take me a while to finish the bottle. I’m not one to chug my beer and a quart is a fair amount of liquid.

Two women entered together. Neither of them was Suzy.

One of them was on the heavy side. Not obese, just a little plump for my taste. Her breasts were sizable, and her ass was heavy on the chair. Mousy brown hair framed her round, soft face. I’d give her an even five. Not pretty, not ugly, right in the middle.

Whereas the first woman was about my age,