My Dream Domme Dates #1: The Perfect Toilet

As a pro-domme and unapologetic lifestyle pervert, I spend a lot of time in my own head, daydreaming about scenes: ones I’ve lived, ones I long to explore, and the kinds of wild fantasies I’d create if nothing were off-limits. I’ve decided it’s time to start sharing some of those dreams, with the hope of bringing them to life in my work, and maybe sparking a little inspiration along the way.

The Perfect Toilet

I see him waiting for me outside the romantic little tapas restaurant I insisted he book for us. It’s the first time we’ve met in person, and I didn’t even see a photo beforehand, but I know it’s him; it’s late November, yet he’s visibly sweating. His eyes dart over the crowd, scanning every passerby, searching for Me. I know what he’s thinking; "has this has all been an elaborate ruse?" They never quite believe their luck, that I would agree to be seen on a date with them.

He’s in his late forties, greying, soft around the edges, still shackled to the woman he married in his twenties. She could never know his secret. She would never understand.

I decide to put him out of his misery and approach. My warmth always catches them off guard. They expect a Cruel Mistress, and instead they’re greeted by a tiny blonde with a magnetic smile.

“Let’s get inside!” I say brightly. “I’m absolutely starving.”

I see a flicker cross his face—a little flash of excitement at the thought of what I’ll be eating, and where that food will eventually end up. The waitress leads us to our table, softly lit by candles in jars. Naturally, I chose one of the nicest restaurants in town. I deserve the best.

My order is always generous, and I adore variety (hence the tapas choice!). I tell him I want at least six dishes. I always include something well-spiced, plenty of vegetable and lentil-based options, bread (obviously), and something sweet to finish.

Soon, everything but dessert is spread out across the table. Before I begin, I lock eyes with him for a long moment—a subtle power play before I make him watch me eat. I tell him to take it all in: the sight of me, the sight of the feast before us. Then I lean in and whisper, “I wonder how this will all taste on the other side?” His face flushes instantly, and I’m certain blood is rushing somewhere else as well.

I take a huge mouthful and tease him: “Your dinner will be ready in a couple of days. Toilets don’t eat food, do they?” I giggle. He watches, spellbound, as I polish off spicy patatas bravas, fried vegetable croquettes with corn, blistered padrón peppers, stewed garbanzos, a hearty Spanish tortilla, and a crisp salad. Finally, I finish with a decadent slice of creamy Basque cheesecake, licking the spoon in a deliberately tantalizing way.

I know the servers have noticed that only I ate tonight, and I revel in how emasculated he must feel.

When the bill arrives, he pays. Hungry and humbled. I smile sweetly as we step out into the cold winter night. On tiptoe, I press a kiss to his cheek and whisper that I’ll see him again in forty-eight hours, to finish our date.

Next time, he’ll be the one eating, as I sit above him, looking down lovingly at my perfect toilet.