by Jessi Bond
“Exactly,” I said. “I take...well, a sort of a professional interest in the whole phenomenon. It’s not often you get the chance to learn exactly what fantasies are running through a woman’s head, in lurid detail. Unless you’re already in bed with her.”
“A professional interest?” she repeated, looking up at me. “What do you mean by that?”
Shrugging, I took one more step, so that I was standing just inches from her. “Like I said - not exactly. I’m a dominant. A Master. It’s not my job, but I take it very seriously. I’m always looking to improve.”
Now, she was very intrigued. Her face got a little pinker, but now, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from me. “Really?” she breathed. “I never thought I’d actually...you know. I mean - of course, I’ve...” she drifted off, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. God. I’m being rude. I don’t mean to act like it’s...strange, or anything like that.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t too forward of me to share with you.”
“Of course not.” She was shaking her head, vigorously. “It’s just...I’ve never met someone like you before. At least, not in real life.”
I had to smile at that. “It’s quite likely that you have, actually,” I said. “You just didn’t know it.”
She was taken with me. If I hadn’t told her who I was, what I was, there was no question in my mind that I could have taken her to bed, that very same day. But now, she knew the truth about me. And while it intrigued her, it also intimidated her. Perhaps even frightened her, a little.
“Have you ever read any of these books?” she wanted to know, with a secretive smile. I told her that I had, and of course, the next question was predictable enough: “Are they accurate? I mean, is it really like that?”
I smiled. “Yes and no,” I said. “Would you like to continue this conversation, somewhere we can talk more freely?”
Blushing, she glanced down at her feet. “I would,” she said. “I’d like that very much.”
Reaching out towards her, I plucked the book from her hands and turned it over. “If we were in a bar, perhaps I’d offer to buy you a drink. But being as we’re in a bookstore - would you allow me to buy you a book?”
Her blush deepened. “Well, if you put it like that, how can I say no?”
At the register, she scrawled her number on the back of the receipt and handed it to me.
“I’d love to have coffee sometime,” she said. “Talk some more about that ‘professional interest’ of yours.”
When I walked away, I could feel her eyes on me.
She was anxious. All the same, I waited a few days to call. Giving her some time to speculate, to fantasize, certainly couldn’t hurt - and anyway, I was busy.
But when I did call, she answered on the second ring.
I invited her to coffee at the same bookstore where we met. She seemed surprised - like she’d been expecting something more exotic, or unfamiliar, from a Dom. The first lesson I had to teach her, it turns out, is that we’re just ordinary people.
She was stunning, but she hadn’t overdone it. In fact, she was dressed very similarly to when we first met. I’d liked what I saw then, so she figured she’d give me more of it. Very smart. I’d underestimated her, which wasn’t like me at all.
Very deliberately, I kept our conversation to mundane topics at first. We got to know each other. I asked her a lot of questions, but the answers were shallow; she was hiding something of herself from me, and I wasn’t sure how much. That bothered me. I’d hoped for some hint of that sadness I could see lurking behind her eyes, even a casual reference to a failed relationship or some tragedy in her past. But there was nothing. She told me about her professional life, her schooling, and her hobbies, all with a casual detachment.
Her eyes didn’t really light up until she started talking about books.
“At first, I almost felt ashamed.” Her eyelids fluttered as she glanced down at her coffee, then up at me. “But then I realized. These books wouldn’t even exist if there weren’t plenty of women out there like me, wanting to read about the same things I did.”
I nodded. “You’re absolutely right. But I have a feeling you’re talking about something other than the books I’ve seen on these shelves.”
Madison’s cheeks colored, and she looked down at the table. “Yes,” she said, softly. “It started with these kinds of stories - light bondage, domination, maybe a little creepy and stalker-y, but you know, it’s pretty tame stuff overall. I started getting annoyed by it. These heroes acting like they were severely dysfunctional in some way, just because they liked riding crops and handcuffs. I mean, I get it. The audience for these books, well...it’s women like me. Women like I used to be.”
Smiling, I mentally noted the distinction she’d so carefully made.
She went on. “So you have to ease them into it. And it sure worked on me. But after a while, I wanted more. I was annoyed with these heroes and their promises of dark possession that ended in boring old happily-ever-after relationships.”
Now, I sensed, we were getting to the good stuff.
Her voice grew quieter as she continued. “Before I knew it, I was reading the kinds of things that I used to think were sick and twisted. Something had happened. Something changed inside me, and it made me want to read about true sadists. Women who were really afraid. Everything still ended happily, but with a healthy dose of fear and pain along the way. And I loved it. I started devouring these books, and I’m still not sure why.” She looked up at me, plaintively.
I leaned forward, watching her carefully as I spoke.
“Well, Madison - these books are fantasies. The loss of control, being broken down and remade, having every choice and human dignity stripped from you...these are all things that people fear. And one of the ways the human brain deals with fear, of course, is to eroticize it.” I grinned. “And before you make a snide comment about spiders or earthquakes, I said ‘one of the ways.’”
“I wasn’t going to,” she murmured, looking down into her cup, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile. “But I have heard that before.”
“It’s nearly universal,” I said. “Not everyone eroticizes the same things, of course. But think of all the kinks that have their roots in fear, and shame, and humiliation. It’s a way of regaining control.” I took another sip of my coffee. “A submissive doesn’t truly want to be kidnapped by a cruel man with no conscience; it would be just as terrifying for her as it would be for anyone else. But in fiction, everything is safe.”
Madison nodded. “You can identify with a woman who does have that happen. But it’s okay. It always turns out all right in the end, even if it’s a little bit twisted.”
“Exactly,” I said. “How many ordinary wives and mothers with kind, loving husbands find themselves breathlessly reading about a sadistic human trafficker and wishing he would tie her up? If he suddenly materialized in her real life, she’d run away screaming.”
Laughing, she picked up another sugar packet. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “But is that where all of this comes from, do you think?”
“All of what?”
She made a vague gesture. “This, you know. What you do. BDSM. Is it just about eroticizing what you fear? When people play like that, is it because they wish it was happening for real?”
“Yes and no.” I stirred my coffee absent-mindedly, having lost interest in the drink a long time ago. It had been a long time since someone actually challenged me like this, forcing me to think about the lifestyle in new ways. “I think that’s an oversimplification.” Smiling at her, I thought through my answer carefully before I continued. “Some people would be offended by that question. Don’t apologize - I know that’s not how you meant it. But a lot of people are used to being judged and treated like degenerates - or worse than judged, diagnosed.”
Understanding was beginning to dawn on her face.
“And that’s the rub.” I shrugged. “If you want my personal opinion, of course, sometime
s people are practicing BDSM in order to gratify darker urges that can’t safely happen in real life. But they’re not defective, and their urges aren’t wrong. BDSM is a valid form of self-expression, no matter what your reasons for doing it.”
“I see,” she said, softly. “It’s starting to make a little more sense now.” She was biting her lip, slightly. “I can see how people might use it to work through real-life issues, but that doesn’t mean it’s any different from someone who just wants it for no particular reason.”
“Exactly,” I said, smiling at her. “So what’s your reason, Madison?”
She smiled back, slowly. “Nothing in particular.”
Maddening. I knew she was lying. She licked her lips, eyes darting all over me. Just waiting for an invitation.
“So tell me,” she said. “What’s it really like, being a Master?”
I leaned closer over the table. “As much as I’d love to tell you all the sordid details, I’m afraid it might get us kicked out of this fine establishment. And then I don’t know where we’d buy our books.”
“Tragic,” she agreed, her eyes sparkling.
“But we can go somewhere more private,” I suggested, leaning back in my chair. If my feet brushed against hers under the table when I extended my legs out, so be it. “Just to talk.”
“Just to talk, of course.” Her smile was full of secrets and wicked promises.
“I don’t live far from here,” I said, with a casual gesture. “It’s actually a nice walk.”
The “yes” was in her eyes even before it passed her lips.
While we walked, I kept my hands in my pockets, making light conversation. Long ago, I’d learned how precarious these moments could be. Too many men assume that once a woman has decided to sleep with you, she won’t change her mind unless something horrible happens. They get nervous, or worse, they get cocky. Sometimes both. They turn into someone completely different from the man she was attracted to before.
I’m always very careful not to let that happen. Madison had grown quiet and cautious, even more so than I was used to. She’d been betrayed before.
Someone she loved wasn’t the person she thought they were.
The pieces were coming together. Instinctively, I knew I’d have plenty of time to work out the rest. Once Madison had a taste, she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. And me - I was unattached. Even the most casual of submissives had moved on, leaving me with a lot of time on my hands.
I had all sorts of wicked ideas for Madison. But the time wasn’t right. Not yet. First, we had to develop trust between us. I needed to learn her limits, and she needed to understand that I would never force her to break them.
It was impossible not to notice the way her lips parted, a slight wow escaping her throat as she walked through my front door.
“Your place is beautiful,” she said, running her hand absently along the smooth, glassy surface of the entry table. Her eyes lit up as she took it all in, slipping off her heels and letting her toes sink into the plush carpet. She wasn’t wearing any pantyhose. And from the mischievous curve of her mouth, I began to suspect she wasn’t wearing any panties.
I took a step towards her, letting my nostrils flare and my eyes close briefly as I inhaled. The smell of her skin, her shampoo, a sweet perfume, and yes - arousal.
“Did you leave them in the coffee shop?” I asked her, my voice low and teasing. Her eyelids fluttered.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, softly.
Smiling, I rested my arm on the wall, caging her into the entryway - but not really. She could have easily brushed past me, but the point was that she didn’t. She wanted this. She relished my proximity.
“Madison, I know you like me,” I said. “But I’ve never met a woman who would leave her panties at home for the first date.”
Her face colored deep red, but she kept her chin high. “And what if I did?”
“You didn’t,” I said. “So where are they? In your purse?”
Her lips thinned. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” she muttered, her eyes dropping down to the floor. I was starting to lose her. Quickly, I reached out, my hand cupping her chin and raising her face back up to meet my gaze.
“And I appreciate the gesture,” I said. “Really, I do. But you can’t keep secrets from a Dom.”
Her eyes softened. “So you never get to be surprised?”
“Of course I do.” I released her chin, stepping back a little. “It’s just seldom pre-planned.”
In spite of her boldness, she made no move to push things any further. That was fine. I wanted to move as slowly as I could, without frustrating her. She seemed content to sit down in the living room, tugging her skirt further down on her thighs before she sat, and keeping her knees very close together. I wondered if she’d spread her legs at my command. Would she resist, or hesitate, even for a moment?
But the time wasn’t right.
For a while, talking was all we did. But now that I was no longer in public, I was able to tease her a little more. In the coffee shop, I’d only talked about my bondage and domination scenes. In many cases, there were subs I never even touched. Not skin to skin. There were some I barely ever saw in person, giving them orders by phone or text message. Making them feel in control of their day-to-day lives, by controlling them.
Madison was aroused just from imagining me tying her up, or telling her how many scoops of ice cream to eat after dinner. There are some people who don’t ever want to take our relationship further than that. But Madison wasn’t one of them. For her, sex and sexuality were still closely intertwined. She wanted me to dominate her, but she also wanted me to fuck her.
I told her some of my juiciest stories. The subs who had to ask permission to wear clothes around the house. The ones who cooked for me in just an apron and heels. The ones I would tease and tease for days at a time, with my hands and my tongue and my cock, never letting them climax. The way their eyes rolled back in their head, the raw feral screams that came ripped out of their bodies, every muscle taut and straining when I finally allowed them to come. With proper training, I told her, a submissive would actually be unable to climax without my permission.
Her eyes were glassy when I finally stopped, and turned the tables on her.
“So tell me, Madison,” I said, leaning forward in my armchair that was opposite the sofa where she sat. “What’s the one thing you always wanted, that no one’s ever done for you? The fantasy that keeps you awake at night?”
She hesitated, but not because she was unsure of her answer.
I waited, patiently.
“I want to be afraid,” she said, finally, the words coming out in a rush. “Not...not terrified. Nothing like that. But for just one second, I want to be afraid. I want to be unsure of what’s coming next.” Her eyes locked with mine, beseeching me not to judge her. “Every man I’ve ever been with, I always felt safe. Every moment of every encounter, safe. Like being wrapped up in a warm blanket. But when ‘safe’ is the only thing you know, it’s meaningless. And worse than that, it’s boring.”
She took a deep breath, shifting in her seat. “I don’t want to be unsafe,” she said. “But...”
“I understand,” I assured her, smiling. “And trust me, there’s nothing wrong with you for wanting that.”
Madison swallowed audibly. “Thank you,” she said, her voice slightly faint, like the effort of unburdening her fantasies had taken something out of her.
I tilted my head slightly. “Do I frighten you, Madison?”
Some of the color came back into her lips as she smiled. “A little,” she admitted. “That’s why I’m here.”
It’s a delicate thing, learning to be at peace with someone else’s fear. When I was younger, I might have scrambled to reassure her. I would have been unable to accept the idea of someone feeling less than one hundred percent comfortable with me. But I’ve learned a lot since then. So I just smiled.
“What are you afraid of
, Madison?”
Her hands were clutched so tightly, resting in her lap, that her knuckles and fingertips had gone white. “I’m afraid because I don’t know what you’re capable of,” she murmured. As she spoke, her eyes drifted all over my face, my body. Drinking me in. “I really don’t know you at all. I’m afraid you’ll tie me up in a room, blindfolded, and I won’t know where you are, or what you’re going to do to me.”
I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together, absently. Her eyes locked on my hands, watching the muscles in my forearms move ever-so-slightly. I’d worn my sleeves rolled up. Always do, for a casual date. And it was working. She was picturing those muscles flexing in all sorts of ways, while I fingered her, while I wrapped my hand around her throat, just enough to remind her who was in charge. While I worked and knotted the ropes around her delicate wrists. She was imagining everything.
“Do you use safe words?” she asked, finally, her voice very faint. She cleared her throat.
“Sometimes,” I said. “In my scenes they’re seldom necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
I interlaced my fingers loosely, letting them hang between my knees as I rested my forearms on my thighs. She was watching me carefully as I spoke. “I mean, as far as I’m concerned, ‘no’ means ‘no’ and ‘stop’ means ‘stop.’ If the play is going to involve a ‘no’ that doesn’t mean ‘no,’ then that’s negotiated beforehand. Safe words are necessary. But I only play like that with submissives who ask for it.”
She looked a little bemused. “I thought this was all about you being in charge.”
“Only when someone asks,” I said, smiling. “I don’t wander around the grocery store giving orders.”
“Too bad.” She was grinning. “I’d like to see that.”
“Trust me,” I said. “When I’m in charge, you’ll know.”
And with that, tension crackled in the air again. Her lips parted, eyes darkening as she tried to imagine exactly what I meant by that.
But she didn’t have to imagine. She already knew exactly what I was going to do - because she asked for it.
She’d told me what she was afraid of. And she told me that she wanted to be afraid.
