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Still His, Always His – And Ready for More

Forty-five. Married for twenty-six years. And still very much in control. Now? It’s art.

It’s funny how people assume that after a couple of decades together, the fire dies down. The sex softens. The rules relax. They imagine that dominance is a phase you grow out of, or something that fades with comfort. He collared himself to me before we even understood what this truly was—before we had the language, the rituals, the years of earned trust. Back then, it was just instinct: his need to kneel, and my desire to guide, own, and shape him. They have no idea. No idea what it truly means to be married and share a live together.

Our power exchange isn’t a weekend scene. It’s the air we breathe. He is my submissive. My husband. My beautiful, obedient, infuriatingly delicious man. It’s the rhythm of our day, the pulse in our dynamicAnd I am his Domina—not just in title, but in every breath of our life. From the way he lowers his eyes when I enter the room to the way he waits silently, naked and ready, when I say, “Tonight, you serve.”

He thrives under structure and ownership—and I? I thrive on control. On his surrender. On knowing exactly how far I can push him… and how far he wants me to push.
And now, 26 years in, we’re still hungry. Restless in the best way. I see the way he looks at me when I tighten the rules. When I remind him who he belongs to. When I leave marks on his thighs that he feels for days. He’s older now, more grounded—but more eager than ever to kneel, to serve, to please. Exploring what “next” looks like. Maybe a retreat. Maybe a third. Maybe something deeper, darker, more demanding.

Yes, he still wears my collar.
And it still makes him shiver.
We're not done—not even close. We're just beginning.