“I know you are wet now. Feel the sweetness that will seep past the dildo. Are you wet, Pita?”
“Ohhh.”
“I’ll turn on the butterfly so you can grind pussy against your bench. Hear the buzz as it boils against your clit. Does the vibration feel as delicious as you taste?”
“Yesss,” she hissed.
“And as I turn on the vibe in the dildo, feel it curve into your G-spot. You’ve been moving your hips to touch it harder.”
“Ohhhh, yes, Sir, yesss.” Her breathing sounded shallow.
“You’re a good girl, Pita. You’re getting turned on for me.”
He waited. Pita said nothing except for the soft coo of her arousal. Then he heard a quiet, nearly silent whisper: “Please,” she said.
He ignored her. “You will be ready for the whip, Pita. The blows will fall across your shoulders. Feel the heat, and in my opposite hand another flogger, this one rabbit fur. I will stroke it over your breasts, then slap them with it. How your nipples will stand out! What a pretty sight.”
He heard her say it again, louder: “Please, Sir.”
“Please what, Pita?”
“I want to come,” she said. “Please, Sir.”
“No, Pita,” he said, the growl back in his voice. “Wait.” He went on. “I want to whip your breasts and move my deerskin lashes down to your ass, and turn the butterfly and dildo to a higher speed. If you are my good girl, you will press down against them, and let your weight carry you so they will make you come, but not until I say you can.”
“Ohhhh,” she moaned, then: “Yes, Sir.”
“Does it feel good, Pita? Do you still want to come?”
“Ohhh, Sir, yes.”
“Can you ask, nicely, Pita?”
“Please, Sir.”
“You don’t sound serious, Pita. It doesn’t matter to me if you come. Maybe you would really want it if I made you suck on my cock. I’m very hard. If you really wanted to come, you’d beg me.”
“Oh, my Joe. Please let me come. I need to come so bad. Please, Sir. Please, my Joe, I want to come. Ohh, fuck, fuck.”
“Pita,” he said to her over her chant. “Pita …” and he counted slowly to ten while she moaned, listening and straining against her own desire. Perhaps a sheen of sweat glazed her forehead.
He snarled: “Come hard, slut. Come for Me. Now. Right now. Come for me, be my slut.”
She erupted, her voice a shrill cry that fell to a squeal and then a soft keening.
Whenever he prodded her, her lust replied…eagerly, her voice full of heat even by phone, and then she would catch her breath with no inkling of her effect on him.
He couldn’t be sure of what dragged him from the memory right now. It could have been a stewardess’s voice, his erection, or the woman in the blue hat glancing his way. He wondered if she noticed his lust, but the woman kept looking across the aisle at his hand.
He held a snapshot and knew he was staring. He took a long breath, seeing an angelic and mischievous look in the .jpeg he downloaded one night with her joking assurance that she looked “better than usual.” The image showed her in a gown as maitresse de maison and hotesse at “The Boheme,” upscale dining and debauchery at Orlando’s Westin Grand Bohemian. She stood erect, smiling, confident, charming, beautiful…her eyes bottomless and wanting.
She managed the wait-staff, but she didn’t enjoy that. She liked the rest of her job. “It’s given me a good crap detector,” she said. “People talk like I’m not there.”
After one bad night, she rasped, “Money doesn’t make them nice; they just look nice.”
Blue hat turned again, and he raised his eyes—Pita hadn’t met Joe in person but commented that on a web cam his look “penetrated”—the woman turned away. If she recalled later, blue hat would describe a man in his fifties, too tall for airline seats, maybe handsome except for old scars on one side of his face—his “bad skin”—and black, wire-framed glasses. She could see his neatly pressed suit and black shirt, a small silver pin of a wolf in his collar, the way he smiled as he looked into space, but did she notice? He looked like a man who dealt with boards of directors, but surely that man would travel first class. Perhaps she noticed the deep lines that gave him a look of grief.
His acquaintances, if she met them, knew little more than she did, except for the few who knew his “exotic tastes.” He kept friends for years, but they seldom saw him. As much as he liked control, he disliked being in the public eye.
The hat turned to look again. She didn’t look especially perceptive, but if his feelings showed on his face, she might imagine him suddenly devouring the photo. The delicate, little-girl image had lured him for weeks. He thought of Pita’s face as angelic—and deceptive. Sometimes his breath caught when he imagined her. Nearly a year before, only weeks after meeting her on a message board where she asked for money advice after an “ugly” divorce, he caught himself hoping their “relationship” might make it through more than a week of exploration in a hotel. But he knew reality spoiled dreams.
He needed to be sure the woman and submissive she wanted to be could exist in her before he sank too much of himself into the sensuality of her voice: deep, soft, and southern. Her laughter carried the sound of truth. Weeks after she sent the picture, a dream awakened him with lust and anticipation, eager and unsettled. In it, the angelic part of her disappeared. The next morning, the dream itself hazed over. He dreamed rarely. Usually they woke him as nightmares.
Pita got home late from work that night, and he told her the bits he could recall. She laughed as he told her about the fierce erection when he woke up. The next night, he dreamed and woke again, ill at ease and aroused. So he told her again. This time she said “I know about it. I had the same dream.”
He replied archly. “That’s not possible.”
But she sounded confident. “It’s my dream, too.”
He chuckled. “And what might it be, Pita? Look deep in the crystal ball.”
She forgot her submission: “I’ll wait. If you figure it out, it won’t matter. If you don’t…there will be a right time. Sir.” She didn’t back down. He liked it; her self-assurance intrigued them both.
“How are you so sure, Pita?”
“You know my mind, Sir. I know yours, too.”
Caution learned from disappointment taught many submissives to be strong, and careful. Being lied to and used became familiar. Each day she asked him if he still planned to come. Her incurable need to hope frightened her.
Real trust didn’t just spring up. It took time, together. When he landed, she would know he acted as well as talked. Once she fretted to him about her inexperience. “I played with a flogger once,” she said, “but just a toy Philip got at Spencer Gifts. I saw a real one the time Alexi and I stopped at the adult store. I liked it, but I wonder if a real one would be so painful that I’d be frightened and ruin it.”
“Pain is just one sensation,” he told her. “How you react depends a lot on how your top handles it,” he told her. “And fear is part of the experience and pleasure.”
“Sure,” she admitted. “But there’s fear, and then there’s panic. What would you do if I panicked? Or,” she added an afterthought, “tried to fight you.”
“You have a safe word at first,” he said, “and if you started to panic, I’d calm you. But sometimes resistance can be fun.” She didn’t say anything, and he added: “If I didn’t want you to resist, I could restrain you. But your safe word stops me.”
The banter in her voice disappeared. “How do I know,” she asked, “you will listen?”
“You have to risk trusting your top. It’s a matter of trusting your instincts until you learn you can trust me,” he said. “I’ll challenge, but I won’t push too far…you would need to take a chance.”
“Oh, I know.” Now she charged ahead again. “And I want to believe it.” Her words rushed. “It’s hard to believe the words men use with women. My father and Philip both said one thing and did someth
ing else, and at work, I constantly see men lying: waiters with bullshit excuses, married customers who tell the girl they’re with that they’re single. She believes ‘this guy is different,’ not seeing he’s an obvious jerk who will leave her crying just because he can. It’s disgusting.”
He waited. She said: “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I hope.”
“You needed to say it,” he said. “I know I have to earn trust…But I won’t lie to you, Pita.”
“I don’t think you will,” she said. She paused and said sheepishly. “You look honest and I believe your face, so I trust my instincts.”
That made Joe raise an eyebrow and peer into the cam—you could tell many things by looking, but he knew ‘honest’ did not show in faces, especially in his aging face. “Seeing is believing” could be a dangerous cliché. He reached for his soda and sipped without comment. He said: “My question is whether you can obey and submit.”
“And what do you need to trust me?” she asked. Her voice masked no sarcasm.
“Actions, not words. For both of us.”
He flew to her now as an act to begin building trust. He needed her to act, too, and he liked the simplicity of his plan; she knew his flight number and shared his eager anxiety…and she naturally assumed they would stay in Orlando. But she did not know in fact where he would take her, and his tickets included hers to fly with him to New England.
She would be surprised and unable to escape it; she would have to release control to him or back out and stay in her life. If she wanted an excuse to back out, she would have it. But if she decided to risk trust and to step, alone, onto the plane, it would be an act that she willed…and in that instant her life could start to move ahead rather than continue to trickle out into the dry streambed of her divorce. He called her as his plane reached the gate.
“Are you here, Sir?”
Doubt springs eternal. “You’re ready to leave? Dressed as I said?”
“Yes, my Joe.” Even softer than usual, her voice quivered.
“You’re frightened, Pita.”
“Not much, Sir.”
She took a breath. “I’m worried about work, I guess. And about Philip. A little, Sir.” She had reason to fear her ex-husband, a self-absorbed bully who once threatened menacingly to ‘keep her.’ She had a restraining order.
Surely, Pita’s worry about Philip covered him, too. It would be strange if she didn’t wonder whether he might be another belligerent and ego-centered tormentor who wanted to hurt her to keep her weak. She would learn trust, and he would earn it. But it could only be done a step at a time.
He reviewed the call forwarding for her phone then made her hang up and called her house to be certain it connected to the cell phone he’d mailed to her. That reassured her for the moment. Philip wouldn’t know she’d left. He told her to meet him and to park in the long-term lot.
“Why?” she was puzzled.
“It’s what I want. Trust me, Pita.”
She knew to meet him at the Southwest ticket counter, traffic willing, in forty-five minutes.
“Call me if you can’t be on time,” he said. “I’m feeling responsible.” She laughed nervously. He could hear her breathe. She stayed on the line.
“I want you, Pita,” he said. As he clipped the phone to his belt, he smiled. He walked down the concourse to the area for Southwest. He spoke with a skycap, a small black man, eager to please, who became even more obliging as Joe handed him two twenty-dollar bills along with an envelope. The skycap’s eyes focused on Joe as he gave instructions. The black man nodded enthusiastically.
The little man’s eagerness made Joe smile while he walked to the VIP lounge to look for the bartender. This time, he passed three twenties to the pretty Asian woman and gave instructions. He pointed to a table with a chair facing large windows looking out on the concourse. Leaving the lounge, he took an escalator to the mezzanine where he could look down on the main floor to wait for his new, nervous submissive to arrive. He saw the bartender put a ‘reserved’ sign on the table he had pointed out.
He watched the travelers. For as long as he’d been aware of BDSM, Joe H-for-Harrison Wilde played with people-watching to guess who might be part of ‘the life,’ or might want to be. He knew the exercise just excused the fun of looking for women who might like life under the whip. A tall redhead walked into the terminal, and his heart spiked, but then he realized she didn’t share much with Pita. She walked up to a man and embraced him; as they separated, the man’s hand brushed her bottom, and she stiffened, obviously not welcoming his possessive touch.
Joe recalled awkward moments with Pita. She thrilled to fantasies she’d enjoyed privately for years but never discussed; the idea of realizing them made her insecure. “Do I have to give up my limits?” she wondered.
“I want to know your hard limits,” he told her, repeating the conversation and reassuring her once again, “and I want to know what you think are soft limits. At the start, I won’t accept no-limit play. That might come later, or never.” The pain didn’t frighten her, but being naked made her self-conscious. He teased her and reassured her. She sent pictures. He reassured her again.
She said, “I worry about you seeing me naked. You say I’m beautiful, but I don’t feel beautiful, I feel fat.”
He pushed: “Since this is so important for you, maybe I should challenge you with it as soon as we meet.” She laughed as if he were joking. “You are beautiful. If you are collared, it will be because you accept my world and the way I see it. And that includes yourself.”
Even if fear threatened to control her, she wanted to submit. “I don’t want questions. I want to accept,” she told him one night, late enough that crickets outside had turned quiet. It must have been dawn in Florida. He asked about her fear of exhibitionism, and she told him: “I don’t want to give you a list. I want you to help me break down my limits and beat my defenses. My fantasies and fears control me now; I don’t want them anymore.”
Joe kept his eyes on the crowd hurrying beneath the mezzanine. He saw Pita, directly in front of the ticket counter, and his breath caught. The tall redhead glanced eagerly right and left, a stunning and entirely confident woman who would intimidate men who liked ‘perky’ waifs. She did not look submissive, whatever that meant; in fact, on occasion, the ferocity in her beauty led him to call her ‘little red tiger.’
Right now she looked only for him. She didn’t notice, or ignored, the glances and outright stares from men, and from some women, around her. He felt his hands gripping tightly around the rail.
He’d told her to wear the forest green dress he sent. The skirt swirled silk each time her body turned right or left to look for him. Sometimes she touched her choker, black leather with a heart-shaped padlock and a tubular sterling slider engraved in script with the name he gave her as a joke: “Pita.” He sent it months earlier, and the name stuck. Now he found himself hoping that promise was a forecast.
The eager skycap hurried up to her. He handed Pita the envelope from Joe. He said something, hopefully what Joe told him: “your Sir wants you to read this.” She looked confused. As the little man scurried away, she opened the note and caught her plane ticket as it fell out. She read the note, then looked around frantically.
She looked confused and ready to cry. Joe pressed the speed dial, then her cell phone rang, and she pressed her bag against her stomach so she could get at it, her hair getting in her way. She nearly dropped the phone.
“Hello, Pita,” he said. He kept his voice steady and, hopefully, calming.
A middle-aged businessman walking past her noticed her cleavage and kept on going but looked back. Joe saw the lace on the merry widow in the plunge of her dress, and he knew pale green garters held up her lace-topped stockings. She looked delicious.
“Sir, where are you?” Her voice bordered on shrill.
“I’m here, Pita. Don’t be frightened. I’ll take care of you.” The familiar phrases settled her a little.
“Si
r, I can’t leave …”
He interrupted her gently. “Be still, Pita. Listen to me.” He could see her fidget and then bite a fingernail. “Take a deep breath and let it out, Pita.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes,” she said, “Sir.”
He felt his own tension. “You want to belong to me,” he said. “To please me.”
“Sir, this is crazy. I have work and Alexi. Someone could recognize …” Her voice fell off.
“OK, Pita. I’ve told Alexi, and she’s fine with it, even excited for you. And leaving isn’t as dangerous as staying. If you remain here, someone Philip knows could see you.” He took a breath. “I’m thorough. I’m done explaining. You have a choice to make.
“On the left side of the ticket counter there is a door to a VIP lounge. Go in. Sit down, and I’ll call. You can decide then.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said and started to close the phone.
“And Pita,” he caught her. “You look fantastic.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Do you have a bra or panties on?”
“Just the corset, Sir, like you told me.”
“Quit chewing your fingernails, Pita.”
Through the large windows bordering the concourse, Joe could see into the VIP lounge and the table he reserved for her. The only two customers were businessmen in love with their cell phones. She entered and went to a table as one, the lanky blonde, watched her closely. Joe waited for the bartender. Pita fidgeted in her chair, with her hair, nibbled at a fingernail. Skittish and purposeful, full of spirit and intelligence, Pita bored easily and needed challenge. She had a challenge now.
She must be mulling all the possible bad endings. Of course friends and family secretly feared they’d both lost their minds. Some of them didn’t keep their opinion secret or tactful. Alexi wondered to Pita if Joe would show up. Pita’s brother exploded and stormed out, ranting about an ‘infuckingsane’ plan. Alexi came around, but no word arrived from Stephen, an older brother.
A Rose of Any Color: MaleDom: A BDSM Anthology Page 24