I must have jumped off the sofa a hundred times before midnight finally came.
With each sound out in the hall I leapt into position: face flushed, hands
trembling. Of course, I knew rationally that she was the sort that when she said
midnight, she meant midnight. Not that I harbored any illusions that our clocks
would be in perfect sync, mind you; just that it was unlikely they'd be an hour
to an hour and a half off. It didn't help that I was bouncing around the
apartment naked. It made me feel just the way it was supposed to: embarrassed,
vulnerable, and incredibly nervous. Still, the discomfort I felt from that was
child's play compared to not being logged on to my computer. It was the first
thing I did after getting home from the gym at night; and I'd sometimes stay up
till well past four, hoping to catch a glimpse of the screen name that had ruled
my world for the past two months. Sometimes she logged in, and sometimes she
left me dangling. But after midnight, I'd no longer be able to hide behind my
machine again. By 12 A.M. my pulse was racing like a jackrabbit. Exactly one
minute and thirty-five seconds later, it stopped altogether as I head the click
of a key at my door. I'd mailed it to a P.O. box she used for snail mail three
weeks ago when we'd finalized the details of this night. My interview. My
audition. I barked my shin against the coffee table by leaping into position:
feet spread wide, shoulders back, sweaty-palmed hands clenched together at the
small of my back, and my eyes shut tight. I wasn't unaware of the risk I was
opening myself up to. I knew her only from her words on a computer screen, and
it could be anybody behind that door about to see me exposed and relatively
helpless. Some snaky teen-aged boy could quickly snap a Polaroid and take off
running, bragging at leisure to his buddies about how he'd pulled one over on a
freak. But I'd thoroughly, maybe obsessively, researched everything she'd posted
on the net - every story and rambling discourse about sexuality - and as she'd
said herself as she laid out the terms of our meeting, You have to jump in the
water if you want to learn how to swim. The door opened and cold night air
washed over me. A chill ran down my spine, distinct and separate from the
nervous shakes that had been wracking me since 10:30; and my nipples and cock,
already hardened by anticipation, began to throb. I prayed fervently that none
of my neighbors had taken their dogs out for a late night walk and were just
getting in. She entered and closed the door behind her. I was disappointed
somewhat by the sounds she made - or rather didn't make - as she moved. I'd
expected the creak of leather or rubber, or at least the click of heels on the
floor. The latter being a bit much, I admit, since my apartment had carpeting.
Instead she moved quickly and quietly. The only way to mark her passage being
the whisper of what I pegged to be jeans and the subtly shifting air as it
wafted across my trembling, alert body. With that air came the scent of herbal
shampoo underscored with a touch of Channel and a hint of lilacs. Good evening
Michael, she said in a soft, silky voice that certainly did not disappoint. Good
evening, Mistress. I'm not your mistress yet, Michael. Then what should I, uh...
You may address me as Your Ladyship for now. Yes, of course, My Ladyship. Not My
Ladyship, Michael, Your Ladyship. You might become my slave, but I will never be
anything that belongs to you. Do you understand? Damn! Damn! Damn! After all
that dreaming and planning and waiting and I was already screwing myself over!
My face felt so hot I pictured it lighting up the room with a pulsating red
glow. Of course, your Ladyship! Please forgive me, your Ladyship! By the sound
of her voice, she was halfway to me by now. She didn't say anything or make a
sound for a minute, leaving me to twitch and writhe from the suspense. Finally,
she broke the silence by saying, Well, you certainly weren't being modest, were
you? The subject of her remark started to droop morosely, while the pit of my
stomach sank. A shooting pain began to build behind my eyes and at my temples,
putting the fear in me that I might very well stroke out under the pressure. She
closed the rest of the distance between us and, with a soft rustling of fabric
on fabric, sat on the sofa. She must have been sitting at the edge, as I could
feel her breath as she exhaled. It blew across the aching skin of my cock, like
a warm and gentle caress. Immediately the blood rushed back, swelling it back up
again to painful fullness. She made a rueful tch-tch sound and said, Modest and
with a mind of its own. My, my. My hands, still behind me, now clenched into
fists; my teeth ground together. I'd spent every free minute I had at the gym;
from the instant I finally worked up the courage to contact her openly, up
through the last, frantic three-week period where I'd nearly worked myself to
death just to get my body into shape for this tch-tch. For her. And now the
whole thing was falling apart over the one fucking thing I couldn't change. Fuck
her! I didn't need this shit. I wanted to snap my eyes open and take a good long
look at her! Just how pretty was she, anyway? How big were her tits? How long
were her legs? Before I could resolve to do anything, she broke into laughter.
Oh, Michael, relax, she purred, drawing out the X sound into one long sibilant
draft across my cock. Its not as if you were ever going to stick it into my
body. Not my pussy... She lingered on the S again. Certainly not my mouth. She
was close enough to me now that the slightest twitch from me would have belied
that statement; and in the state I was in, provoked an accident of Biblical
proportions. Not even up my ass. I'm afraid the only use I'd ever have for it
would be to use it to hurt you, Michael. And I'd certainly never let you stick
in someone else. She paused. Unless... She stood up, pressing her unbearably
warm body against my side. I could feel her breasts pushing against my arm
through the sheer cotton of her shirt. She ran one hand across my midriff,
gently stroking my hair with the other. Tell me Michael, have you ever thought
about having sex with another man? My gut twisted violently. I'd never
considered myself homophobic, and I'd had gay friends throughout high school and
college. But I viewed the act itself as something akin to eating snails or
jumping out of an airplane: it was fine if you enjoyed it, but it made me
queasy. Not even a little Bi? A special friend in college? All I could do was
shake my head no. Her voice had dropped to a whisper, her lips as close to my
ear as they had been to my prick. Well, then we'll have to find you a nice,
pretty one. A sweet soft sissy that'll help ease you into it. And when you're a
little loosened up, we'll find a big, hung stud to break you in back here! she
hissed, swatting my ass, making me jump. The hand on my abdomen clenched,
driving her nails into my skin. Her other hand swung back up and clutched a
fistful of hair. And you'll do it, too. She released me violently, striding away
across the room. Because while we'll play our share of games, your servitude to
me is not among them. There's only one punishment, and that's you being kicked
out on your ass. Understand that when I hurt you, it's because I get off on
watching you being hurt. Not because you were naughty. She hadn't drawn blood,
but the wounded flesh still burned with astonishing intensity. You're having
second thoughts, aren't you? she asked, echoing my thoughts with uncanny
precision. You probably want to know what you get out of this. Well, the fact is
I couldn't tell you, and what's more, I don't care. I couldn't believe what I
was hearing. Was this the woman who'd written all those posts, espoused all that
philosophy that I'd read with such care and devotion? I get what I want, and if
you don't get something from giving it to me, then you're wasting both our time.
You want to say something? I did, but I couldn't find the words to express my
sense of betrayal and disillusionment. I couldn't think of anything to say.
Except - What about love? She skipped a beat, then broke into incredulous
laughter. Christ! You are a virgin to this, aren't you? What about it, Michael?
I considered my reply for a good long minute. You wrote once about pony
training. You thought that it was so popular as a fetish because the Domme-slave
relationship was fundamentally similar to a horse and rider. One calling the
shots, the other bearing the brunt of the effort, but both eventually learning
to establish a rhythm, forming a bond, working together towards an ultimate
goal. She didn't say anything for a while. I was convinced I'd totally shot my
last chance. When at last she spoke, she startled me by the plain, unaffected
quality of her voice. You're pretty cheeky, using my own words like that to
seduce me. She lapsed into another long silence. I was growing tired and sore
from holding my stance so long. The muscles in my back were beginning to feel
the strain, my calves were stinging, and even my penis began to flag again.
Those were old posts you dug up, Michael. Most the Dommes I've met since then
tend to view their subs as just another trapping of their fetish; as faceless
and interchangeable as a whip or dildo or table. I guess I expected that; but so
damn many of the subs were that way to· worse even. They'd mouth off about
worshipping you and the like, but deep down it's just lip service to get what
they want. Hell, they don't even need us, they could do it to themselves if they
weren't so gutless. All they need one of us for is to strap I'm down and give
I'm a few whacks until they're ready to cry Safeword and then it's run along
home to jerk off in private. I wouldn't...ä I blurted, I don't need a safeword.
Why, she asked, bemused. Don't you have limits? I didn't know how to answer. I
wanted to say or do anything so desperately to impress her, yet I knew full well
that if my mouth wrote checks my butt literally couldn't cash, we'd both end up
bitterly disappointed. Luckily for me, she bailed me out. Bullshit! Everyone has
limits, Michael. That's where the real sensuality of it all lies. Exploring,
searching, finding those limits out. A good Domme will know how to skirt the
line, sometimes, maybe, even take a step or two over it. And a good sub trusts
his Domme to know what she's doing, not cry Safeword when his dirty little
fantasies get all too real. She finished with a long, heavy sigh. An eternity
passed before she said anything more. All right, Michael. I was wrong earlier. I
would like to know what you want out of this. For an instant, I was living that
age-old nightmare: called upon in class to give an answer you weren't quite sure
you knew. At least in my dreams I had on my jockeys to give me some modicum of
dignity. As I tried to form some kind of coherent response in my mind I thought
back to the analogy of the horse and rider. That, in turn led me to a notion
that suddenly struck me as summing it up nicely. My mouth was bone dry by this
time, and my voice cracked and hurt my throat as I started. I want a number·
your Ladyship. I'm fairly certain she wasn't expecting that. It took her a
moment to recover. How do you mean? I took a deep breath, and began. When people
buy a dog, a lot of the time they make a mistake and don't establish complete
dominance over it right from the start. Puppies are cute. People love puppies
and nobody wants to be mean to one. But just because they're smart and have
personalities, doesn't mean they're little humans. They're animals with their
own behavior patterns. When dogs meet they immediately establish a hierarchy.
Each one has a ranking within the pack, a number. They define themselves as
individuals by the role they occupy in the group. It lets them hunt efficiently,
which is good for the pack, good for the survival of dogs as a whole. I'm not
saying they understand all that, but they do get something from being a part of
it. Comfort· strength, maybe. Joy. By comparison, human behavior looks chaotic
and insane. There are only two positions in our society: Number One and trying
to be Number One; and people can't imagine anyone being satisfied with anything
less. Let alone happy. Of course, we see dogs as being subservient to us, but
owners make mistakes in how they express it. They're inconsistent, inattentive
or just don't understand. The dog gets away with jumping on the bed, but not the
sofa. Some days they get to lead, others you yank the chain. A sock with a knot
in it is a chew toy, a sock without one isn't. It's not that those people can't
be kind and loving, but by inadvertently messing up the dog's sense of order,
what they're really doing is negating the dog's very sense of self. He doesn't
feel like part of the family, because there's nothing to be a part of - just one
big, constantly churning mess. Without that sense of belonging, they feel
isolated, confused· grow despondent over time. That's how I feel around other
people. I'm just so tired of trying to puzzle every fucking thing out. I want a
number. I want to know my place and fulfill my role. And by knowing it, I hope,
more than anything, to reach that Ultimate Goal of yours. The end of my
soliloquy was met with utter, terrifying silence. I felt drained; like I'd been
running a marathon instead of standing in place all this time. In spite of the
dead calm, I didn't hear her move. I barely caught a strong whiff of herbs and
Chanel before soft, sweet lips were pressed to mine in an all-too-brief kiss.
The next sound I heard was the door to my apartment opening. Tomorrow morning,
Michael, you will receive an E-mail. It will contain an address. You are to go
to that address immediately after you get off work in the evening. Do you
understand? Yes, your Ladyship. Oh, and· Michael? Yes, your Ladyship? From now
on you will address me solely as Mistress. Yes, Mistress.ä END
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