From Timid Student To Dominant Wife - Part I

Posted 9 October 2005

I first met Martin twelve years ago, when we were seated together at a wedding reception. I was only there because I'd been cajoled into it by my mother, who seemed to think that it would be extremely discourteous if her daughter didn't drag herself halfway across the country from university to attend the marriage of a cousin she hadn't seen for more than a decade. At that time I was extremely self-conscious in the company of people I didn't know, and the thought of sitting at a table full of strangers for several hours had caused growing anxiety in me in the week before the event.

Dressed for sex. How did a shy, unassuming young girl end up as a leather and rubber clad domina who gets intense sexual pleasure from punishing and humiliating her husband?
Maria the dominatrix

Martin had been placed next to me at the table, and I've often wondered whether this was a deliberate move on some Cupid's part or whether it was just down to the roll of the dice. Whatever fate brought us together, my afternoon of dread changed within minutes to one of memorable enjoyment as Martin and his friends entertained everyone with their merciless and irreverent black humour. Fortunately for the rest of us on the table their almost savage character assassination was directed only at each other, and I can remember being left completely spellbound by the speed and sharpness of their wit. Even after nearly three years at a top university, I'd never come across any group to match this one, and I never have done since.

I didn't completely avoid embarrassment, as Martin's friends made some jokes about him always having the luck - lucky in business, lucky at sport, and lucky in life generally, as evidenced by the fact that he was the "lucky sod" who'd been seated next to the "looker". At that time I genuinely didn't like this sort of attention. Everyone was always telling me what great looks I had, but I was never able to see what they did when I stood in front of a mirror. I was even worse about my body. I'm quite tall for a woman (5' 9"), and although I can now count my disproportionately long legs as an asset, when I was in my teens they were painfully thin, something that led to some cruel taunts at school which did nothing for my self-confidence.

However, whatever my own misgivings about my attractiveness, I could tell that Martin was struck on me. As the afternoon wore on his attention increasingly turned away from his friends towards me, until by the time they started clearing the room for the evening party we were pretty much locked in a one-on-one conversation. When he wasn't in jousting mode with his buddies I found he had desirable characteristics which went beyond his wit: he was thoughtful, perceptive, extremely knowledgeable, and completely devoid of any self-aggrandisement. Physically he wasn't particularly imposing - average height with quite a light frame and fairly good-looking - but to me his personality alone made him by far the most interesting man I had ever met. The fact that he was ten years older than me merely added to his appeal. It's probably true to say that within just hours of meeting Martin I had a genuine crush on him, and I'm sure that this feeling was reciprocated on his part.

When I was back at university Martin began phoning me and I found myself looking forward more and more to this contact, however distant it might be. We would speak for over an hour at a time and neither of us ever found ourselves short of things to talk about. It was perhaps a strange way for a relationship to develop, a remote courtship, but I felt comfortable with Martin in a way that I had never experienced with any other man or boy. However trite it may sound, I had fallen in love with him.

Despite the mutual affection that had so quickly developed between us, we only managed to meet occasionally during the early months of our relationship. I was busy studying for my finals and Martin was working crazy hours running his own business. He had set this up in his mid-twenties, and by the time I met him it had become very successful. Since this is something he would never brag about, I didn't find out for quite some time just how well respected he was as a businessman, or how well off he was financially. I've always been glad of this - glad that I fell in love with him for what he is rather than what he may have owned. However others now interpret my relationship with him, I know (and so does he) that materialism played no part in our coming together.

I have remarkably little memory of our first sexual trysts together, which probably tells you that the earth didn't exactly move for me, but that was likely due as much to my own timidity as it was to any shortcomings on Martin's part. I remember that he was far more adventurous with his mouth than previous, younger boyfriends had been, but his efforts left a lot to be desired. The obvious thing to have done would have been to guide him to greater proficiency, but at the time I was too scared of damaging his ego to even hint that he might want to change his technique. I also don't recall having much opinion at that time about the size of Martin's penis. Certainly I didn't regard him as being much different from other boyfriends I'd had. I think I can fairly confidently say that when erect he's of average length, and slightly less than average girth. Thoughts about how he measured up and whether he was adequate for my needs simply never entered my head in those early days, and even if they had, I doubt it would seriously have bothered me. Our lovemaking was passionate and rewarding, and he gave me all the pleasure I could have wished for. The notion that bigger might be better would have seemed puerile to me, a wholly male concept that had no basis in reality.

My intention after finishing university had originally been to move somewhere far away from home in order to break free from my parochial upbringing. However this all changed after I met Martin. He lived within a dozen miles of my parents' house, so I was more than happy to live at home again for a while so I could be close to him.

He had a very desirable home for someone only thirty-two years old: an old renovated cottage in a fairly small village outside of town. I fell in love with the place and within just a few weeks I was as good as living there. My mother didn't wholly approve - I think she was a little suspicious of Martin at first, especially because of the age difference, but her view gradually changed. She adores him now and in her eyes he can do no wrong, often to my considerable annoyance.

I managed to get quite a reasonable job working for a large financial consultancy firm, which as far as I was concerned was just a stepping-stone to better things. I worked very hard to make my presence felt, and with Martin busy with his own business we never had much time for socialising in the first couple of years together. However we always went out on a Friday night and this was something I used to look forward to all week. A group of us would congregate at a bar or restaurant somewhere, and just have a great time. The atmosphere was very similar to that of the wedding reception - Martin and his friends playfully ribbing each other, with various girlfriends trying to match them but never coming close to their dizzying heights. It was all very lightweight - no putting the world to rights, no deep political discussions, the perfect way to wind down after a busy and often stressful week at work.

I was by far the youngest person present at these gatherings and sometimes I felt both a little left out and overawed. Martin was always aware of this though and he never allowed me to be ignored. He has always made me feel very special and this is something that I don't think should be underestimated as a contributory factor to how I've developed as a person.

It was around the time that we started going out for these Friday night get-togethers that Martin began to work on me. He was happy enough with the way I dressed when we went to a local bar, but he obviously had some sort of mental image of what he wanted me to look like when we went somewhere more formal. Gradually I was steered in this direction. I'm in danger here of making it sound as though he had some sort of sinister master plan, some carefully thought out subterfuge to manipulate his girlfriend, but this would be a misleading impression. I believe he simply wanted me to look more provocative and sexy than I then was, and he reasoned that it would be counterproductive to try to completely change me overnight, hence the incremental alterations to my appearance. Once he'd made some progress then hey, why not go for some more?

You have to bear in mind that at that time he was mentally stronger than me and he was certainly the dominant partner in our relationship. In the end he knew he could batter me down, but that wasn't what he wanted. His aim was to make me enjoy dressing to his design, not resent it.

He started by constantly boosting my confidence about my looks and figure. He would tell me how jealous his friends were that he had such a good-looking girlfriend. It was just a plus that she was younger as well. And my body was great too. Stunning, incredible. Fantastic boobs, great bum (he must have had myopia), and those legs... oh, man, those legs... those legs were made in heaven. And yet you hide them all the time... you must be nuts! Guys would freak out if they saw you in a short skirt. They'd cream in their pants... no, I mean it, Maria, I'm not kidding... if you walked down the street in a really short mini-skirt, I can tell you now that most men would get a massive hard-on and when they got home they'd just jerk themselves stupid thinking about you. Those legs are simply unreal.

Martin wasn't acting under any pretence when he said these things. No actor could have feigned his sincerity. No, he really meant what he said, and you have to understand that over time this constant praise and encouragement did wonders for my self-image. Martin made me feel like a goddess, and he melted away the doubts I had about my body and looks. It's a wonderful thing for a woman to be put up so high on a pedestal. It's also very dangerous.

Despite this growing improvement in my self-esteem, Martin still had to work hard to change my taste in clothes. I was very much a jeans-and-cotton-shirt sort of girl when we went out and if I ever did wear a skirt it would be very plain - almost designed to avoid attracting any attention. Martin was unrelenting in attempting to change me in this regard. He would accompany me on shopping trips, sometimes actually insisting that we go on one (when was the last time your man did that to you?).

It was the same story in each shop. I would go to the racks where I felt safe - the plain, dreary, practical designs which were guaranteed to leave me (thankfully) unnoticed. Martin meanwhile would be hanging around the daring stuff. Really short skirts with plenty of zips, splits, and buttons, and tight-fitting basque or corset tops. I'm sure you get the general idea.

Martin would pull out some ridiculously short skirt that could have doubled as a wide belt.

"How about this one?"

"You've got to be kidding, Martin."

"Why? You'd look great in it. C'mon Maria, try it on."

"No."

"Please. Just for me."

"No."

"Look, there's no chance you're going to buy this thing. I just want to see what you'd look like in it. I'll hang around near the changing room and no one else will see you. I just want to see you in it."

This is how Martin would badger me every time. I'd eventually capitulate and try on the skirt just to shut him up and avoid a scene. I'd come out of the changing room petrified that someone I knew would recognise me.

"Bloody hell, Maria, that's unbelievable. I thought it might look sexy, but... well, bloody hell! Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Sex on legs."

"I look like a tart."

"Rubbish, of course you don't. It would look tarty on most women, but not on you. You've got the looks, the figure, the poise. You could never be mistaken for a tart."

"Can I get out of this thing now?"

"Er, oh yes, sure. Oh, and... just try on these two while you're in there. You'll like these. Much longer, not nearly as tight, and much better quality."

And this is how I would end up leaving the shop with a new skirt that I would never in a million years have dreamed of buying had I been on my own. In the shop it somehow hadn't seemed particularly short, especially after wearing the belt. Once I tried it on at home though I'd feel a shudder of fear as I realised just how revealing it was. I can't go out in this. I'll have to take it back.

But Martin was always there to dispel any doubts. Once again he'd beat me down mentally until I agreed to wear it at least once.

"If you still feel uncomfortable after you've worn it when we're out, then I'll never press you to wear a skirt like that again. You've just got to try it out first."

And the amazing, infuriating truth is that Martin is always right. I cannot think of a single instance where I have bought something in his presence that I have subsequently realised was a big mistake. Compare that with the trash I've ended up buying when I've been shopping alone.

I would always be very nervous when I prepared to go out in some new outfit that Martin had chosen for me. It would inevitably be daring, and I would be terribly fearful of what others might think, especially other girls. It would get to the state where I would be visibly shaking as we approached the entrance to the nightclub or restaurant where we were spending the evening. Shaking that is until I walked through the door...

There is something sublimely intoxicating about entering a room and immediately becoming the centre of attention; to see a man's head turn to look, turn again to his partner, and then snap back as the realisation of what his eyes have just set sight upon flashes into his brain; to see those eyes dance as they struggle to focus on the part that excites them most: face, breasts, skirt, bum, legs, shoes; the look of irritation on madam's face as she tries, and fails, to regain the attention of her escort; to see this same comical scenario played out at numerous tables around the room; above all, to know that when the shock of the initial sighting has died down, many of those men will be left with just a single thought that will prey on them for the rest of the night and beyond: I want to fuck her.

Martin says that I become a different person when this happens. He says there's a sparkle in my eyes that tells him that I'm getting high on the attention. I don't doubt him for a moment, because I can feel the change come over me. Even if I never return a look, never focus on any single individual, I'm still somehow aware of every stare that comes my way, and after an evening of these admiring and lustful glances, I'm incredibly turned on. It's not a case of just wanting sexual release, I simply have to have it. Even in the early days of our relationship, once Martin had shown me how I could dress to excite it became impossible for me to wait until we got home before I could get some relief. If Martin didn't start playing with me as soon as we got into the car then I'd have to do it myself as he drove.

Sex when we got home was fantastic, somehow so much more exciting than a normal lovemaking session. Even before we were through the door Martin would start groping me.

"Like that, do you? Like the thought of someone sticking his hand up your skirt and having a good feel? That's what you wanted at the restaurant wasn't it... you saw those men getting hard looking at you and you wanted them to play with you while you rubbed their big dicks. You're a dirty bitch once you get turned on, Maria."

I loved this sort of talk, and Martin was so right. That's exactly what I would have liked. Those men would have worked their hands higher and higher up my legs, and if they were so excited by what I was wearing on the outside, what would it do to them when they discovered what I had on underneath?

Unlike my visible clothing, Martin never had any trouble getting me to wear sexy and unusual underwear. As far as I was concerned no one was going to see it apart from him, and if it made him happy then what was the harm? In any case, I enjoyed the surprise of getting new underwear bought for me and the sexy feeling it gave me when I wore it outside the house.

At first the underwear he bought was the usual lacy stuff: bra, panties, suspender belt. I'd never worn stockings before I met Martin, and I had trouble at first getting used to them. I was very aware of the suspenders rubbing against my legs, and it always felt as if the stockings were falling down. In the summer months I would just go out barelegged in short skirts, but once the cooler weather arrived (plenty of that in the UK!) Martin preferred me to wear slightly longer skirts and dresses so that I could wear stockings underneath.

I don't know what it's like elsewhere in the world, but in the UK stockings and suspenders [garters] have a very special place in the male psyche, even with younger men. I remember my father used to like watching those old British-made St. Trinian's films, a series of comedies which centred around events at a traditional private girls' school. The younger schoolgirls were bedraggled, rebellious brats who amazingly metamorphosised into sexy, voluptuous sirens once they reached the sixth form. These older girls would wear very short uniforms, black stockings and high-heeled shoes, but what seemed to appeal to my dad most was the fact that their suspenders were significantly longer than their skirts, leaving the stocking tops in full view with a tantalising glimpse of the flesh of their legs. My mother and I just used to laugh at him, playfully calling him a dirty old man.

The visible outline of suspenders is guaranteed to get you noticed and raise more than just a smile.
visible suspender outline

These days we have women going out wearing only a black thong under a see-through dress, but I know for a fact that such an outfit will not produce anything like the sexual arousal that is generated when a man suddenly realises that the small raised bumps he can see on the front of a woman's skirt are her suspender clips, and that therefore she's wearing stockings, not tights [pantyhose]. And of course a woman only allows those raised bumps to be visible if she wants them to be, in which case she's sending a message. In later diary entries you'll probably find me going into what seems like unnecessary detail about my stockings and suspenders, but that's because I've experienced time and time again the involuntary physical reaction from men who've realised that I'm wearing them.

It wasn't long before Martin bought me the first of many more exotic underwear items. I remember the surprise when I opened a package he gave me and found a pair of leather briefs inside. The leather was beautiful - very, very shiny - and they were so well made that I still wear them today. Martin looked extremely nervous as he waited for my reaction, and it was then that I recalled a comment that had been made by one of the girls that went out with us on a Friday night. What exactly she said escapes me now and it didn't register properly at the time anyway, but I know it was something about Martin and leather. I was able to put two and two together in an instant, but it didn't bother me in the least. If Martin had a thing for leather then so what? I therefore gave him my own gift - not mere acceptance, but enthusiasm:

"Wow, they're fabulous, Martin. The leather's gorgeous. Thank you so much," and I got up and gave him a long kiss. His expression was one of absolute delight and relief, and I know I had an inner laugh as a thought came into my mind: Oh well, Maria, prepare yourself for the deluge.

Martin was actually too cautious to start a deluge, but longer term the result was much the same. Next came a leather bra and suspender belt, then a corset, then more briefs with different fastenings: side-laced, front-zipped, rear-zipped, buttoned, studded. Eventually on a Friday night I would always wear leather underwear. Even on a hot summer evening I would be sitting at the table with a tight pair of black leather panties on. The clothing would always make Martin highly aroused, and the erection he got when I was in leather was noticeably more powerful than at other times.

Soon after we got married Martin began adding latex and PVC underwear to the collection, but once again I didn't in any way object. The tightness and smoothness of rubber makes it a very sensual material to wear and through experimentation I soon found that a leather strap bra worn with a thin latex bra was an unbeatable combination, both in the way they held my breasts and the exciting feel they gave. These days men perhaps wonder why I so often wear high-necked rather than lower cut tops, but if they unbuttoned my blouse or cardigan they'd immediately understand why.

Although I had some slight misgivings about Martin's motives, I found I loved wearing fetish underwear. Martin's goading 'dirty talk' was so skilfully attuned to my desires: he'd describe the roving hands that would lift up the back of my skirt and tease my suspenders. Then they'd work their way up the back of my thighs until they touched and stroked the smooth black leather encasing my bottom. After a long, searching feel, I'd realise that the rear metal zip was slowly being undone. Then I'd have to wait... so expectantly wait... until at last I felt the hardness against my rear.

In due course Martin also managed to persuade me to wear leather skirts. Now, a leather skirt is a very risky item to wear in public. You can look a million dollars in one or you can look like a complete fashion disaster. Fortunately I have both the height and the figure to get away with wearing one and I have a husband who is a master at picking out the very best examples, both in terms of style and quality.

The sort of leather skirt look I have used at business meetings and for general daytime wear. The plain high-necked sweater offsets the blatant sexiness of the rest of the outfit.
leather skirt look

Leather skirts make you extremely popular with men. They also make you highly unpopular with women. Even if what you're wearing has been featured on the front cover of Vogue magazine, as far as most women are concerned two simple equations explain the phenomenon of a woman over the age of twenty-five who's wearing such a garment:

Leather skirt + dumpy plain woman = complete joke
Leather skirt + highly attractive woman = whore

As far as men are concerned, the interpretation depends on the individual. For a man with submissive tendencies the leather spells power and control; a normal man is attracted by what he sees as one of the hallmark adverts of a prostitute, no matter how elegant the look; and a dominant man sees the tight leather stretched across the woman's rear and he wants to put her over his knee and spank her.

If you want to be comfortable wearing a leather skirt in public you have to become immune to the disdain of women and the fantasy imaginings of men. From what I've written already you will probably realise that I have never had a problem with this once I overcame the initial fear of wearing such a skirt outside the house. I'm careful not to overdo it - I wear leather skirts relatively infrequently in my immediate social circle but this still leaves me free to wear them regularly at work, when I'm meeting new clients or those whom I only visit once or twice a year.

The one area where Martin really struggled to 'convert' me was with footwear. He was determined to have me stepping out in very high heels, and I was totally resistant. This time I had more rational grounds. I asked him to point out all the women who were walking around in stilettos; perhaps he could show them to me. Oh, and of course they're so practical aren't they? I mean, it's no problem spending several hours walking around in three or even four-inch heels, is it? And how tall are you Martin? Five-ten? And how will it look when I'm six feet or over?

Martin could see my point, but this didn't deter him in the long run. At first he said he wouldn't pressurise me if I agreed to wear 'semi-high-heels' outside the house, and 'ultra-high-heels' inside. I reluctantly consented, but I think I knew this wouldn't be the end of it. In any case though, what I hadn't realised is how difficult it would be for me to walk in high heels. Martin bought me some black court shoes with four-and-a-half inch heels and I nearly fell over when I first tried to walk in them. At university high heels were a no-no except for college balls (which I used to avoid) and I'd never really worn any in my teens, so the whole experience was relatively new to me.

I felt pretty ridiculous as I teetered around the bedroom with these killers on, and the last thing I must have looked was sexy. I would start laughing at the absurdity of it all, which really irritated Martin. As time went on though I began to get the hang of things and eventually I even started to practise wearing them when Martin wasn't at home. I tried to figure out why I was walking so badly. My knees were bent rather than straight, which made me take small, unbalanced steps with my body in a somewhat crouched position. I realised that what was preventing me from walking properly was fear of putting all my weight on the very thin stiletto heel when my leading foot first touched the ground. It felt like the heel would snap.

I reasoned that the makers of these shoes had to make them robust enough to take more than just my weight, so I learned to trust the heel and this was the breakthrough that enabled me to at least begin to walk sensibly in skyscrapers. Once this fear of collapse was gone I could concentrate on just balance alone and develop the sort of stride that would create an elegant, sexy walk with my body straight and hips thrust forward. In the end I spent many hours doing this, and I'm so thankful now that I made such an effort.

These days I can walk in five-inch heels without even thinking about it, and for a long time too, but it's about more than just being able to get by. It's about walking sexily, gliding along with balance and poise as if the shoes are part of you. If a woman is walking well in high heels then at first glance you shouldn't be aware that they are so high. Only when you actually catch sight of her footwear should the height of the heel strike you.

You need absolute confidence to wear thigh boots in public. If you can handle the attention, the thrill of walking down the street dressed like this is incredible.
thigh boots in public

As I'm sure you can imagine, boots entered on to the scene in due course. I didn't particularly like wearing boots at first, but nowadays they are by far my favourite clothing item. High-heeled leather boots have a profound effect on men; there's nothing that can really compare, except maybe stockings and suspenders. And thigh boots are the ultimate expression of a domina's power. On days when I'm not working, often the first thing I will do after I've showered is to put on a pair of thigh boots and I may not take them off again for many hours. I'm wearing thigh boots as I write these words and the wonderful, erotic feeling of the leather encasing my legs and the seven-inch heels biting into the carpet means that I'm going to need a break in a moment and I'll have to continue this another day.

I have worn thigh boots in public on many occasions and the thrill of doing so is almost indescribable. It's the consummate cock-tease, but to pull it off you need enormous self-confidence and must enjoy being stared at and even followed. The key is to act as though you're completely oblivious to all the fuss you're creating, and it's also imperative that you can walk effortlessly in very high heels. The greatest impact comes when you wear them in an everyday situation rather than at say a nightclub, and particularly when you're not with anyone. I sometimes wear thigh boots when visiting business clients and before or after such a meeting I like to go into a bar where professional men are having lunchtime drinks. I take my briefcase with me and sit either at a table on my own or on a bar stool. I cross my legs and give everyone an eyeful of my high, tight leather boots. I don't look at anyone at all - I appear totally disinterested in my surroundings and instead I'll study some papers from my case or read a newspaper. If I was 'on the game' I'd be looking around for customers, but it's clear I'm not aiming to pick up anyone.

In a situation like this I always get offers from men to buy me drinks, and some can't help making a comment. If you don't mind me saying so, those boots you're wearing look fantastic on you. I politely decline all offers, thank them for any compliments, and turn back to my reading without showing any further interest. If only they knew just how excited I was getting...

Perhaps the biggest thrill of all is to go shopping wearing a fashionable half-length coat which ends a few inches above the top of my thigh boots, with only a microskirt and a mixture of kinky leather and rubber underwear underneath. The loud 'click-click' of my heels on the pavement... the turning heads, the gasps, the dropped jaws, the whistles... Even better when I once stopped in a department store to examine some clothes and witnessed a male assistant become uncontrollably erect as his eyes became locked to my booted legs... For a woman who enjoys turning on men, this is the stuff of dreams.

If only every day could be like that one.



To contact me, email maria at this site