Over the past years, I’ve become more and more obsessed by complicated power dynamics. Recently by reading The Image (1956) by Jean de Berg. A dear friend gifted it to me in New York City with a handwritten note on the inside cover. Apparently it’s one of the first published fictions on femdom written about a woman, from a woman’s perspective by a woman.

Throughout the pages the protagonist forms a platonic relationship with an older dominant by first observing and eventually falling in love with her much younger submissive muse. This young nymph’s seductive beauty never really touches the older dominatrix. Never in the same way her lips touches the protagonists lips. Instead if anything it taunts the mistress to mistreat the youthful innocent flesh with ever greater passion, and using it to ensnare the protagonist deeper into their complex game of power. I could only imagine how different it would be if she fell for the youthful beauty herself, becoming evermore infatuated and possessive. Now instead she seems to find great sadistic pleasure in orchestrating hardships for her young slave.

Over the past years, I’ve orchestrated erotic adventures for my submissives, but it has either always been with the side thought, maybe I would rather do this, whatever, to them myself, maybe it has been impossible at the time, due to my very nomadic lifestyle. Or it has been something of a tease watching two submissives tenderly wash each other and then make love, or reading their handwritten diary entries afterwards. Taking both pleasure and pride in my orchestration.

But reading The Image, another idea buried itself deep in my mind. What if I had a young beautiful man, maybe in his mid-late twenties. Fairly straight but curious enough to be taught by an older man. He could be my plaything. To borrow, and humiliate, to punish and make my friends and lovers happy. Like the old Greeks taking a young apprentice, for my pleasure, to passionately destroy and rebuild into something even more beautiful. Conscious, consensual, caring and clearly communicated of course.

I remember when I was twenty something and met my first mistress in this arty pretentious bookstore in Stockholm. I was to kneel by her feet to reach for a book on the lower shelves. And stay there while she conversed a friend, or maybe a lover, what do I know. If they talked about me by their feet, how eager I was to please, or the latest poetry collection being read by its author that very same night. He too would have to be obedient too, my future sweet boi.

Years later, the very same mistress made me promise that in the future, when I met and attracted a younger submissive soul, because she knew that I would; that I would leave them in better shape than I found them. And I would, with my young sweet boi. Maybe dazed and confused by our adventures, by all the rituals and paradoxes he never before knew existed, but also feeling more loved and a little wiser. My young sweet boi.