Dressing Room Domme

There is a fine, *fine* line between domming and rape. Usually, that line
is separated only by one party’s ability (if not willingness) to cease the
entirety of the scene by use of a signal. The signal might be a safe word;
a tap-out; the dropping of a scarf from one’s grip. In that instance, the
remaining parties, who have previously agreed to the notion, will stop
whatever it is they are doing. Commonplace examples include the uttering
of ¨red¨ when a spanking has surpassed the recipient’s threshhold, or
moving immediately from the previous action to a cuddling position if a
teddy bear is knocked off the bed.

The glory of this system, or one of its merits, anyway, is that
displays of opposition can thus be integrated into the experience. So
if you really get off on saying ‘no’ and meaning ‘yes,’ or just are
the sort who likes to believably struggle, thrash and resist while
getting fucked by a massive cock, being dommed just might be the thing
for you.

None of this is running through Alonna’s mind as she whimpers and
gasps against the wall of the Fredericks of Hollywood dressing room.
In point of fact, she is thinking about nothing at all, having been
reduced to a mewling mass of exquisitely exploding nerve endings by
her domme. Or rapist. The jury is still out on this one.

Being a distinction of incredible importance, one might imagine that
Alonna would be more worried about it. And for a while there, before
she was being fisted with wild abandon in the back of a trashy
lingerie store, she was. But as previously explained, it is a fine,
fine line, sometimes, this notion of consent, especially when it comes
to acts that you, yourself, are conflicted over.

Case in point: Alonna could stop this encounter in any number of ways.
Being that she is getting her brains fucked out a mere 50 feet from a
perky, if somewhat oblivious sales representative, it would be no work
at all to shout, scream, cry aloud, shriek, wail, ululate, or even
politely hollar for help, and it would come (ahem) with nary a
moment’s hesitation. Instead, she has her mouth firmly clamped, and is
attempting with all the will she can muster to keep the quietude of
the space undisturbed. Apart from her sub-vocal groaning, the
occasional whispered gasp that manages to escape, and the sotto voce
accusations emanating wickedly from the pouty lips of her, let’s
choose a neutral descriptor, partner, there is relative silence. If
the brightly smiling associate were to place her ear on the exterior
dressing room door, she might, with some straining, hear the
distinctly wet sounds of a slippery pussy being gleefully hammered, or
the susurrus of breathy moans, squeaks, and mindless cursing that is
consistent with a proper fucking, albeit a clandestine one. But the
eerily cheerful rep is blithely discussing her disaster of a date with
the cashier, and actually could care not a whit that there is a pair
smearing the wall with girl cum. Repeatedly. So, yes, Alonna is
cumming, at this point almost continuously, which is another point in
the favor of “being dommed.” There are a few other, quite blatant,
facts that would likewise color the decision of an unbiased third
party, or come to it, a panel of twelve persons, the whole of them
tasked with the burden of deciding the guilt or innocence (definitely
a subjective term, in this case) of the accused.

The most obvious of these is the fact that Alonna could overpower the
other party and be done with the whole exchange. Quite easily, in
fact. There is not a knife at Alonna’s throat, nor has some threat
been cast that prevents her from disentangling herself, dressing, and
leaving the premises with due haste. Apart from a goodly number of wet
spots of the clothes she’d need to redon, it is perfectly possible for
her to leave, right now.

The issue, really, is that she miiiight have inadvertently started the
scene, and that she miiiiiight be having some of the most mind-blowing
and effortless orgasms of her life.