Alex was there on time.
But he was there naked. Well, under a robe. He showed up at my door in a robe, and he opened it when I yanked him inside, embarrassed for him (luckily no one saw) and he flung open his robe to reveal his newly shaved genitals.
It’s funny how you find something when you aren’t even looking for it.
David wrote to me as a result of my website. It was about two months ago, when I was knee-deep at work. And usually I just let emails like that slide, but it was short, and interesting, and it wasn’t too kiss-ass.
He asked me to meet him for lunch.
I’d never said yes to an offer like that. But I did. I did because he picked a restaurant I loved and missed, and I would just meet him there anyway. It was the next day, and we chatted on the phone for ten minutes before I finally said yes.
I said yes because I liked his voice and I liked the way he laughed. He didn’t ask me about S&M or my website or anything. He just said one thing.
“You seem like a really interesting person.”
**
I met him, and I immediately knew David was not my type. He was in his thirties, and he was 20 pounds heavier than I like men, and his hair was way too short. He looked handsome in a — well, a yuppie kinda…kinda button down way.
Don’t get me wrong – great guy. And when I say 20 pounds too heavy, I should qualify that it’s about just right for most women. That is – built. In shape, broad shoulders. That super short hair. All dark, and these weird kinda blue eyes.
He was a good looking man. But not my type. I didn’t regret doing it though.
I guess deep down inside I hoped I would set my eyes on him and have to have him. That he’d be a 35-year-old pretty boy in a 22-year-old body, complete with a real job and college education, and we’d have this whirlwind romance and I’d be married in a year.
But he was stocky. And his hair was short. And when we said goodbye, it was a little awkward (probably more my part than his, I was let down that he wasn’t the pretty boy of my dreams), so I gave him a hug.
And I could smell his cologne all the way back to the office.
**
It was the next day that I had Alex on all fours, the tip of my boot firmly wedged between his teeth. Alex is my 21-year-old boy in training, my gorgeous little fuck toy. He isn’t much for conversations about world politics, but he shows tremendous promise as a slave.
It was one of those sessions where I just had to rip what I needed from him. All this pent-up desire was killing me at work, I was getting little sleep and my focus was fading in the office. The call to him was with little notice. I wanted him to meet me for dinner (“We only have twenty minutes to eat, I’m on a tight schedule,”) and then back to my place for a beating.
A series of tight bondage challenges I put him through, some erotic teasing, a thrashing on his nipples that I am sure he would pay for the next day. Then I had him wrap me in a big blanket and put me to bed with distinct orders not to leave until I was sound asleep.
And only having good dreams.
**
David called me at work a few days later. He had my phone number, I realized with a sigh, rubbing my brows, eyes closed, my other lines already ringing.
Apparently, he just wanted to chat.
I can’t tell you how that call went. Honestly, I don’t remember. Something about his voice. I was ticked when he called me and already trying to figure out a way to get off the phone, but somewhere in his voice I got lost in it all.
He was a broadcaster, in college, I later found out. That explains the voice. But an engineer now, with a pencil behind his ear. He held the phone up so I could listen to him toss it up to the ceiling and stick to it.
I could not help but snicker, thinking of the pencil stuck in his ceiling.
His voice was a sudden whisper, “They want to fire me for this. Holes all over the fucking ceiling.”
Then I heard it bounce on his desk and he said, “oops,”.
And the rest of my afternoon was light.
**
That night, I had Alex go through his first training period with the dog collar. Leash training. I am very particular about that kind of thing.
But he made me proud. I had him collared and leashed, and he held the leash between his teeth as I padded across the floor in bare feet and a little silk mini (my jams for the night), holding a glass of wine in one hand and a leather flogger in the other.
There was a fire in the fireplace (I made him build it. It took him a while; apparently, he’d never had to do that before. He got soot on his nose, and the cats seemed to watch him with a sense of sympathy). That warmed the entire room.
With my leash hanging from between his teeth, I stroked his chin affectionately. His big eyes fluttered up to me, and he looked at me so carefully, so cautiously. He was shivering just a bit.
All that existed to me at that moment was him – his submission. He was a sight to behold, a golden boy. Such promise and potential.
“How can I please you?” he asked, talking between clenched teeth. I frowned at him, at the bend on my leash between his teeth, and the forced nature of his silly question.
I pulled the leash from his mouth and asked him where he came up with such a question.
He bit his lip and looked at me boyishly. “Sorry.”
He knew better than to ask such silly questions. So forced, so — theatric. And never, never talk with your mouth full.
**
I managed to get a pencil stuck into my own ceiling the next day, and I was so excited that I called David and had to tell him.
“It’s all downhill from this point,” he told me. Then he had to go into a meeting, but he said he was going to be down my way around lunchtime and wanted to know if I felt like grabbing a bite to eat.
So I said yes. But I thought nothing of it.
**
You see, David was just this man. Nothing more than a man. A man like my older brother or the guy my sister married or a guy at my office.
But Alex was my slave. My soon-to-be-property. I hand-picked him at a party, I courted him, I danced with him. I took him to fancy places to eat (you should have seen his big eyes) and tried to pull it off with him at work functions (but took too much heat afterward – after all, he looked even younger than his age, and he was horrible at conversation – just too shy. He’d just look to me for answers, and I ended up doing all the talking for him.)
And when he was bound, his body strained so beautifully.
See, I have to really feel lust for a man to want to see him helpless for me. And the minute I met Alex, I wanted that from him. It is like an animal kind of lust, more powerful than the drive for sex.
I can feel it in me. I just want to say, “I need you bound and gagged for me. Begging.”
It makes me want to masturbate and plan kidnappings and buy special shackles just because they would look good on him. This all hits me like a ton of bricks.
And that is how it was with Alex. I saw him. Boom. It hit me. The first time I kissed him, he quivered. His lips literally trembled.
“Your stories make me hard,” he confessed to me the day after I showed him my website.
I was flattered. But I just watched his mouth. I wanted to gag him.
**
I was with David at our second lunch get-together and it hit me. This man found me from my website. I choked on a pickle. I had totally forgotten.
“You ok?” he asked. “Need the Heimlich?”
I grabbed my napkin. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I just realized. You know about my website.”
He looked around and lowered his voice. “Oh, that thing. Yeah.”
“I keep forgetting. I feel like…like I know you from someplace else.”
“Maybe we knew each other in a different life,” he pondered, making some condiment adjustments on his burger. He licked his pinky finger. “Who knows, maybe you were a princess and I was your personal — whatchamacallit guy.”
I can’t remember the details of this conversation now, but what he went into, right then, of that image, had me in hysterics. And I guess that’s part of his experience as a bad college DJ on the 2-5 am shift where he’d rattle off a story and kill air time but still be amusing – at least to himself. But he had me going with his explanation of his past life, my servant, and taking care of things like – – brushing the sand out of my flip flops (“Do you know when the flip flop was originated? There’s a story behind that, Akasha.”).
And I was choking down my chocolate milkshake. He said to me, “You know the moral of this story, right.”
I shook my head. I did not know.
He told me he would get back to me on that.
**
He took me back to my office and we said our goodbyes. No hugs or anything, but I still could smell his cologne. Going upstairs to my office I realized that was the first real acknowledgment that he made to me about his submissive desires, even though it was kind of a big joke anyway.
I pondered that he really did read my website, and he had fetishes, and was into who-knows-what. It just seemed very unlike him.
And – well, just because of the creature I am – it slipped into my mind briefly the thought that maybe I’d have him submit to me someday.
But that made me feel silly. And weird. Like a sister thinking about necking with her brother, or an awkward goodbye after a blind date. No, just don’t go there.
He was cute. But not in an S&M lust kind of way. Maybe in a conventional peck-on-the-cheek kind of way, maybe.
Maybe…maybe in a “holding hands at night on the beach” kind of way.
Well, maybe. Maybe in a long, deep hug kind of way.
After all, I loved his cologne.
**
I called Alex that afternoon. I said, “Slut baby, your domina needs you tonight.”
“oh, no,” he said. I could hear him plucking at keys on his keyboard. He was a data entry guy at the college. For his day job. It was his second month.
“Come over tonight around 9, ok? I want to romp you.”
“Are you feeling hungry?” he asked me. “I read your website this morning. I read what you wrote last night. Hmmm. Is that any hint?”
I blinked for a second. Thinking back..what did I write, what was it..Oh.
I shook my head. “Oh, uh. No, that was something that I just finished up finally. I wrote that a while ago.”
“The part about the strapon…that got me really hot. Is it ok that I tell you that, my lady?”
Someone brought paperwork into my office. Another person was pointing to the phone, apparently I had a call waiting.
“That’s…that’s fine, yes. Ok, Alex. How about 9? Ok? We can talk then.”
“Mmmmm..” he cooed. “I’d like that.”
I was about to say my goodbyes, a contract shoved under my nose and a pen put into my hand, a catering deal I was not ready to sign and knew was going to result in a long drawn out deal after the call.
But before I could get to my, “See ya’s,” he cut in.
“Do you want me to wear my cock cage tonight when I come over?”
“uhhhh…” I said, and my mind was three lines down on the contract. Definitely not. No way was I signing. “No…no, just show up, we can go from there.”
Then we said our goodbyes and hung up.
An hour later I read an email from him that was sweet, and earnest. He said he would be there at 9 as told (my heart went pitter patter), and he asked how he should prepare.
I looked at my clock, my watch, and the little time meter on my PC. Prepare. Prepare?
“Baby, just show up,” I said out loud.
Preparation. It’s always for the slave’s sake, isn’t it?
**
Alex was there on time.
But he was there naked. Well, under a robe. He showed up at my door in a robe, and he opened it when I yanked him inside, embarrassed for him (luckily no one saw) and he flung open his robe to reveal his newly shaved genitals.
I blushed and I covered my face with my hand but he was laughing and giggling like a thrilled school boy. “I read about it in one of your stories. You like shaved balls.”
I can’t explain what makes that whole scenario all wrong. Maybe it was because I had just gotten home from work literally 5 minutes prior and had not even had a chance to breathe let alone shift gears.
Or maybe it was that I get a certain pleasure out of the stripping away of normalcy from my partners. Whether it be their clothes, boots, or the hair on their genitals.
So there he was. Naked. But in boots.
“But I didn’t shave my ass..yet…” he said to me, sheepishly.
And at that moment, for the first time, he just wasn’t so handsome anymore.
**
I guess there comes that point. There is a point that lust can’t drive a relationship anymore. We had very little in the way of core friendship (after all, we had about as much in common as — well — a 30-year-old corporate exec and a 21-year-old guy who worked part-time in a record store).
We had little in common when it came to long-term outlook on life. But he started out as a slave, and goddamn, I was determined to make him a slave. Our negotiations had limited our agreement to play only anyway, and as a submissive, he was simply beautiful.
As long as he wasn’t reading my web page too much and showing up shaved without warning.
So we had a little talk that night. And I suggested he just listen, obey, and not try to guess about what I wanted and needed.
And that he needed to know that I would not hesitate to tell him what I wanted and needed – after all, that’s what made me a femdom.
**
But we never quite clicked that night. He kept trying to do things like licking my toes (bless his heart, but jesus, that kind of thing just feels all bad when it isn’t provoked. It’s the S&M equivalent of shoving a dick into a dry pussy, to be blunt. Timing is everything. Otherwise, it just feels like sandpaper and forced intimacy).
I knew what I needed. I needed to go out dancing. I needed to dance all night, say fuck it to my work day the next day, and deal with the fact that I would feel like shit the next day.
I needed it for myself.
But Alex had lost his driver’s license when he lost his wallet the week before. And MissBlue was entertaining an out-of-town guest. It was almost 11 pm when this all hit me, and much too late to call someone to go out on a weeknight.
Then David called me. Out of the blue.
And I said, before he could even give me the update on how many pencils were stuck in his ceiling at work, “Do you feel like going dancing?”
“Oh, Akasha,” he said. I could hear him laughing. I could hear him walking around in his kitchen. His house. The fridge opening. The bottle cap coming off of something. “Akasha, I don’t dance. I mean, wars in third world countries have been started as a result of my vile attempts at what most people consider rhythm.”
“You don’t need to dance with me,” I said. I realized David had never BEEN to a club like the ones I go to. He was imagining boy-girl dancing, or frat/sorority hangouts. He had no idea what kind of club I went to. “Just go with me, sit at the bar, have some drinks. Hang with the locals. I just want to dance, do a little stalking, a little ..you know.”
“Why do I get the feeling I will kick myself even harder tomorrow if I do not do this to see what the HELL it is you do when you go out. Good lord Akasha. Ok. Wait, what do I wear, what do I wear?”
“Do you have anything black?”
“Good lord.”
“Can you pick me up in a half hour?”
I heard him sigh, and I heard the hangars in his closet being pushed aside as he inventoried his wardrobe.
I didn’t care. I was thrilled. I was going dancing. That’s all that mattered.
**
“Wow,” he said to me when I opened the front door. “You’re…uh…shiny.”
I guess David had never seen a woman all dressed in vinyl. I was hopping on one foot, holding a boot in my right hand, my hair half finished. Typical woman. “I just need to get my shoe on and pin up my hair then I’m ready. Come on in.”
He entered my place and my various animals greeted and sniffed him, then immediately lost interest. I was sitting on my couch, shoving my foot into a thigh-high boot. The kind with laces all the way up to kingdom come.
He just stood there. And I expected him to ask if I needed help with that lacing. Either because it was the funny, ha-ha, S&M kind of sarcastic thing to do, or because that would be his first official ‘line’ to me.
But he said nothing.
And deep down, I guess I kind of liked that.
Because, after all, I would have no problem telling a guy to lace my boots. If I wanted it.
**
I guess there are these unsaid rules of etiquette between man and woman and between domina and slave.
For example, it is one thing to ask to lace boots and help with clothes and basically kiss ass in a servant kind of way. If you have to ask permission, it’s already all wrong. If it’s expected, you should already know, and it’s a done deal.
But if you have to ask, well, then, you are in that bad category of no-man’s land. If you have to ask, chances are, she won’t be beaming that you schlepped over and offered your services. You either are expected to, or aren’t. And if you aren’t, don’t ask. You only risk embarrassing yourself.
David was more interested in looking at the things I had on my walls. And I could smell his cologne. I liked it.
He was wearing a black button down shirt and jeans. I pondered the shoes – they might be a problem at the door.
**
He cracked a joke that made the doorman laugh, and attention was drawn away from David’s shoes.
He was more like a fish out of water than I had expected, but he found comfort and solitude in the side room shooting pool with a few of the other locals that looked a bit out of place.
As for me, I went off to dance. And I saw him watching out for me, kind of peering over from along the way now and then, drinking his Coors Lite.
I prowled and stalked and did my thing. I had a lovely blonde boy on his knees in a dark corner for some time, sucking each of my fingers while I closed my eyes, imagining his lips someplace else entirely.
I mostly danced, though. Danced until my legs hurt and my hair was a mop on my head.
David was still shooting pool in the back room when I found him, now with some of the club regulars. A man in a skirt with running eyeliner and black lace gloves. When David saw me stumbling over he said his goodbyes to his new found gay friend, Gary, and wordlessly took my vinyl trench from my arm and draped it over my shoulders as we made our way to the door.
**
I slept on the way home. I was out like a light. In fact, I have no idea if he even tried to make small talk. He listened to sports radio, as I remember, and never even put his hand on my knee.
When we arrived at my place it was close to 3 in the morning. I think he let me sleep there in the passenger seat of his car for a few minutes, I have this surreal recollection of that.
“Hey,” he said, “Akasha. You’re home.”
And he scooped me up from the passenger side. By then I was waking up and I stretched, made my way up the stairs, and at the doorway I asked him to come see me to bed.
**
I wasn’t drunk or anything. And when I ask a man to see me to bed, it doesn’t really mean anything. It’s just that I feel comfortable falling asleep with a man in the place, even if he is in the next room, or just sitting next to me on the bed.
I explained this to him while I was brushing my teeth and taking off my makeup. I put on jams that were more conservative and slid into my bed, and he was creeping around in the hallway.
“Come in here,” I called him. “Just come talk to me for a few minutes. I’m sorry for keeping you. Just talk for a few minutes.”
“Sure,” he said. When he talked softly like that, his broadcast voice went away and he had this boy voice instead. He kind of awkwardly found a place on the floor next to my bed, and it was almost as if he was going to kneel but realized kneeling was — well — kneeling — and that was maybe suggestive to a woman like me – so he sat semi-indian style instead.
My eyes were already closed. I found his hand with mine and just held it. My head was a little fuzzy. I could smell his cologne, and I liked that. I felt strangely protected.
Protected, rather than protector.
“Talk to me,” I said.
It was a slur, I think.
He cleared his throat. “Maybe I could ask you some questions. I guess, I’ve had some questions I’ve always wanted to ask you, Akasha.”
My eyes were still closed. And I remember thinking, oh shit, here they come, the questions that will ruin it all. My image of him as just..as just a guy –about to be shattered when he asks me what it feels like to take a guy up the ass, or what my favorite clamp was, or ..god..even worse. The ones you don’t suspect always shock you the most. Maybe he would ask if I would let him suck my toes or something.
I shuddered and curled up in my blanket a little more. “Is it an SM question?” I asked.
I heard him breathing. Slow. Careful. Breathing.
“Yeah, it is. Is that..I mean, is that ok? If you don’t feel comfortable, that’s ok.”
My eyes were still closed. I just didn’t want to look at him, because maybe that would mean it never happened. Ask the incriminating questions, I thought to myself, then I answer, and fall asleep. And maybe it just never happened.
I felt his chin on the bedside.
His question – the first one – was something I could never have predicted.
“If you could actualize any superhuman power in the world, make it real, like, a tool to use in — well, in what you do – what would it be? What have you always wished you had the power to do, or fantasized about?”
There was a silence. A silence to let me figure out first what the hell he meant. Second, to recover from the shock that he was asking more about my desires and my drive, and less about my toys, my body, or what he might be eligible for as the man who stayed up til 3am on a work night to give me a night of dancing.
Then I giggled. Late-night giggles more than drunk giggles. “Like…super Akasha? What would my superhuman power be?”
And he laughed too. We both laughed.
But looking back, that was a really revealing question.
He wanted to know what the power would be that I would embrace if I could. What did I value as the most significant tool I could use. And the reasons for that choice would reveal worlds about my motivation as a domina, as a woman seeking power.
No one had ever asked me anything nearly so revealing in my life.
He wanted to know what really made my mind tick.
We talked until dawn.
And that’s when things started to change.
to be continued
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