My feelings of dominance over guys really started developing seriously when I won a few beauty and wet t-shirt contests and began working as a figure model. I’m pretty “spectacularly endowed” (as more than one fellow has told me) and am in demand by photographers. I do some pretty sizzling stuff, if I do say so myself.

A lot of guys hang around these shoots — photographers and their assistants, magazine people, art directors, agency people, clients, etc. And they seem to fall into two groups — macho types who try to impress me and control me, and the shy, awe-struck ones who just seem to want to worship me. I find myself drawn more toward the shy ones; they’re generally sweeter and more sincere.

Donald was one of the cutest and shyest of these, and certainly the most worshipful. He brought me flowers and little gifts, even wrote me a poem. But I had to ask him out — pretty funny considering the number of propositions I would get in an average day and the hundreds of business cards I’d find whenever I dumped my purse upside-down. He was a writer and a friend of one of the photographers, so he wasn’t really in the business, which I also liked. I decided to make all his dreams come true.

We went out to dinner, and I dressed in a stylish but dramatically low-cut dress that drew a lot of stares and practically had Donald blushing. I loved it and reveled in his worshipful gaze across the table. I suspect that he was hard for me most of the evening, which isn’t unusual for my dates but was extra cute on him, since he was so shy. Then I took him home and took charge of everything, stripping him, then myself, and doing us both every which way.

Donald spent the night and the next morning, either making love to me, licking me all over, sucking on my much-photographed breasts, waiting on me, massaging me or just staring at me in love-struck wonder. I loved every minute of it. I knew then that I wanted more of the same kind of royal treatment.

After I’d asked him a few questions about his work schedule and found out how close he lived and that his time was pretty flexible, I made him an offer he couldn’t believe, let alone refuse. “I can’t have you move in yet, though that might come.” (If, I thought, he can handle my locking him in the closet when I have other guys over.) “But I want you to spend a lot of time here, like whenever I call you, which may be almost every morning, and a lot of time when I get off work. And what I want you for, sweetie, is to just worship me and pamper me and wait on me hand and foot.”

“Be your — ” he started but couldn’t get the next word out. So I said it for him: “Slave — that’s right, sweetie. I want you to be my little slave. I want you to belong to me.”

Which is how it has worked out. In the mornings, Donald comes to make my breakfast and my bed and be my little boudoir slave, running my bath, standing by to hand me my towel, laying out my toiletries and makeup and generally hovering around to do whatever I might need him to. He’s eager to learn — giving shampoos, brushing my hair, giving me pedicures. And his foot rubs and massages are already wonderful. I enjoy putting a leg up on the edge of the tub while I’m brushing my teeth, say, pointing to my pussy and having Donald drop to his knees and begin licking me. A girl couldn’t ask for a more devoted pussy slave.

The situation, in short, is ideal. He lives so close that I can have him over here in five minutes. He’s always to be ready and must let me know where he will be if he goes out, and ask permission if it might make him unavailable to me — something, I am happy to say, that rarely happens.

And he’s happy enough to live away. For one thing, he has covered his apartment walls with photo blow-ups of yours truly in all her provocative glory. And as much as I treasure my appearance and endowments, I don’t think I could take looking at myself that much. But Donald loves it.