The Good Dom

by Paul Preston

  I assisted him into my bathroom and held onto him as he vomited into the toilet.

  “You should’ve let me do it…” he said, as I helped him back to the couch.

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “Kill myself...” he said.

  I asked him if he wanted me to take him to the hospital to get examined and he shook his head and fell back to sleep. I checked his vital signs and they were all normal, so I dimmed the lights, put a blanket over him and let him rest. The exit where I left my bike was only a short distance away, so I walked back to get my Harley, as I assumed a nice ride like that would be gone by morning if I left it there overnight. With my luck, I fully expected to be run over by a car in the dark as a reward for being a Good Samaritan.

  When I got back, Charles Anderson was still sleeping. I was exhausted so I made a bed on my office floor with some blankets and a pillow and fell asleep almost immediately.

  The next morning I woke up with a stiff back. I went to the bar and brewed some coffee. I brought two cups back to my office, sat on the edge of the couch and waited for him to wake up. After a moment he cracked open an eye and saw the cup on the table. He looked hung over, extremely sore and uncomfortable.

  “Is that coffee?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I just made a pot. Here, let me help you up,” I said.

  I managed to get him into a sitting position and hand him his mug. He took a few sips of it and then put it down on the table, gingerly rubbing his eyes with his palms.

  “So are you going to tell me what happened?” I asked.

  “The sister of someone we both knew died yesterday. I went to her funeral,” he said, leaning back on the couch.

  “Someone we knew? Who died? What was her name?” I asked.

  “Eloise Madsen…”

  The hand I held my coffee in trembled and I threw the cup down, spilling coffee all over my table. I lost control momentarily, taking Anderson’s shoulders firmly in my hands and shaking him.

  “What do you mean? What are you talking about? When she left here she was fine! What the hell happened to her? Tell me!”

  “Easy! Calm down Jefferson! Stop shaking me! Christ! You’re hurting me!”

  “Tell me!”

  “The woman we knew was not Eloise Madsen!” Charles explained quickly, wincing in pain. “Her real name is Grace. It was her twin sister whose funeral I attended. Her twin sister, Eloise Madsen, is the one who passed away…”

  I took a breath, releasing him from my grasp and sat back.

  “Twin sister? What are you talking about?”

  “Grace was pretending to be her sister with us for some reason,” he said.

  “But… why? Why would she…”

  “I don’t know. The sisters were emotionally close to each other. Grace told me they were actually born conjoined at the hip and surgically separated right after their birth.”

  Conjoined… It all became clear, the thin pink line running over her hip, her strange attraction to my scar, my feeling of familiarity with her. Mr. Anderson told me the extraordinary story. After Grace left on Wednesday morning to pick her boyfriend up at the airport, Mr. Anderson wanted to know more about this mystery woman. He did a Google search for the name Eloise Madsen and was shocked to find the announcement for Eloise Madsen’s funeral service, scheduled for later that very evening. He attended the ceremony at the First Assembly of God, a Fundamentalist Church. There was a large photograph of Eloise set up right next to her coffin. Charles saw Grace sitting in the front row of the church with her boyfriend, dressed in his military uniform.

  “That’s when I realized Eloise and Grace were identical twins,” Mr. Anderson said.

  After the services, Charles went over to the Madsen Family home for the wake and spoke to Grace privately. Charles said she behaved completely differently to him now, without a hint of sexuality. Grace said that her sister Eloise had always been the fun unpredictable one and lived her life as a sexually free woman, while Grace was shy and conflicted, repressing her sexual desires for her entire life. Her mother eventually kicked her sister out of the house after high school and Eloise went to live in Chicago. Unfortunately, her boyfriend was a drug addict and Eloise contracted AIDS from him. After several years of fighting it, Eloise succumbed to the disease and passed away. Grace was in such despair she wanted to “live inside her shoes” she said, to feel close to her sister again. She also wanted to explore the sexual feelings and fantasies she shared with her sister but was never had the courage to act upon. Disappearing into the persona of her sister gave her the permission to let go of her inhibitions, Charles surmised.

  While she was privately talking to Charles, Grace’s military boyfriend got jealous that she was paying so much attention to another man on his first day back. He escorted Charles outside where he took his anger out on the poor man, beating him up rather severely on the street. Charles was a rather sensitive fellow and was clearly not trained in hand to hand combat. It angered me and I told him it wasn’t a fair fight. He nodded, trying his best to control his emotions. I felt sorry for the poor guy and gave him some clean clothes to change into. I threw out his bloodstained shirt and pants.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “I’d never had a relationship with a woman like Grace. Meeting her was the most extraordinary thing that ever happened to me. There is nothing left in my life now, nothing… Losing Grace, getting beaten up by her boyfriend, I must’ve lost control of my senses. I was drunk; I climbed up on that overpass… I don’t think I said this earlier but… thank you… I didn’t know what I was thinking. You saved my life, Jim.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I was there to help you,” I said.

  After hearing the story, I took him to a coffee shop for breakfast and Charles managed to eat some food without getting sick. After we got back to the club, he said he was able to drive himself home. I asked him what he was going to do now. He said he didn’t know, but he had to pull himself together somehow. He thanked me again and I shook his hand. I watched as he pulled away in his car toward the freeway, wondering if I would ever see Charles Anderson again.

  Over the next two weeks I fell back into my ordinary routine, working my shifts at the club, protecting the subs, keeping a close eye on the Doms I didn’t particularly like or trust. I would wake up the next day, get in a workout at Equinox and then go over to Obsessions and do it all over again. I never had any direct contact with anyone, unless I was scheduled to interview a new visitor. Every evening there was a multitude of attractive women around me. The fact that I could look but never touch them made me want to explode inside. If you had visited my club at this time, you would have seen an ugly man staring at all the pretty women, alone with his indecent thoughts and desires that could never be fulfilled, lurking in the dark shadowy corners of the room.

  After a few days I noticed a rather plain-looking woman, dressed conservatively, sitting alone every night at a table in Area 1. She would arrive at 9 and stay until around 11, ordering one glass of white wine and nursing it all evening. I periodically checked on her and none of the available Doms ever so much as stopped by her table to engage her in conversation. She blended into the background, outshined by the prettier subs, sitting still as a stone with an inscrutable expression of sorrow upon her face. I felt bad for her that no one other than me noticed her.

  After the third day I saw her, I asked the waitress to bring her a second glass of wine, on the house. The waitress walked over to her table, whispered into her ear and pointed at me. When she looked in my eyes, I nodded to her. She took out her lipstick from a small purse and applied it. She looked rather plain and her hair was tied back in a tight bun. The streak of red she applied to her mouth made her lips come vividly to life. She finished her glass, handed it to the waitress, and took the full glass of wine into her hand, nodding her head back to me in acknowledgement. The waitress delivered the dirty glass to the bar to be washed. I observed the thick red mark coating the rim, cl
osely examining the curved shape and vertical lines of her lips leaving their imprint on the glass. I stared at the glass and then looked back at the woman’s lips. She noticed that I was staring at her and she looked back over at me with a neutral expression. Throughout the evening, I stared at her lips. She remained seated at the table, occasionally sipping her wine. She periodically reapplied her lipstick throughout the evening, keeping her mouth freshly painted with a shiny red gloss. Those bright red lips against her rather plain face mesmerized me.

  The bar become crowded and busy and I focused on my nightly ritual. As the bar closed I noticed the woman had not left the bar at her usual time. Obsessions was completely empty, except for the bartender, myself and the woman with the red lips. I attempted to make eye contact with her, staring at her red lips again. I’m not sure whether she noticed me staring at her. She lifted the glass to her mouth and finished her drink.

  “I’ll lock up tonight,” I said to the bartender.

  “OK. There’s still someone out on the floor,” the bartender said.

  “OK, I’ll close her tab out,” I said.

  After the bartender left I opened up a bottle of Perrier and poured myself a drink. The woman stood up, adjusted her dress, picked up her purse and looked toward the door.

  The bartender had left the front door open a crack on his way out. I thought I should escort her out to her car, but instead I walked away toward my office without a word to her, assuming I would make her uncomfortable if I approached. Soon I heard the clicking of high heels following me down the corridor.

  I entered my office, sat down on the couch and waited. The woman entered and paused in the doorway.

  “Good evening, Miss. What can I do for you? Would you like me to escort you out to your car?” I asked.

  Rather than responding, the woman looked at me with a blank expression. She walked across the office and set her purse down on my desk. I stared up at her, drawn to those bright red lips. I wanted to engage her in conversation, though I didn’t know what quite to say to her and she was oddly silent. She took out a cigarette from her purse and a lighter, lit the cigarette, and took a few deep drags on it. I watched her lips close around the white filter of the cigarette as she smoked, staining it red. The ashes were about to fall so I got up and handed her an ash tray I kept on a side table. She took it from my hand and tapped the ashes into the ashtray twice. She turned her head to blow the smoke away from me with her red pursed lips, and then looked back at me through lidded eyes. I couldn’t tell whether she was slowly and seductive dragging on the cigarette for my benefit, or if she just wanted a smoke. I sat back down on the couch while she finished the cigarette. She put it out in the ash tray, took out another cigarette, lit it and walked over to me with the ash tray and her purse. She took one drag upon the cigarette and placed it in the ash tray, setting it down on the table in front of me. She took her lipstick out of her purse and reapplied another deep streak of red over her lips, puckering them together to spread the color evenly. She placed the lipstick back in her purse.

  Suddenly, the woman kneeled down in front of me between my legs, pulled off my belt from around my waist and unzipped my trousers. Amazed, I tilted my pelvis up off the cushion to help her slide my pants and boxers over my hips and down my legs. My aroused penis uncoiled and stood straight up, resting against my lower abs. I looked into her eyes, but she stared down at my erection, moistening her lips with her tongue. She bent forward, shut her eyes and opened her lips wide to take the length on my shaft into her mouth to suck upon. The anonymous woman proceeded to go down on me. However inappropriate it may have been, I didn’t stop her.

  I breathed in and out once, enjoying the wet, pulling sensation of the woman’s mouth sliding up and down over the head and rim of my penis. I watched the billowing of the smoke and stared at the red mark on the filter of the cigarette where her lovely lips had been, while listening to the pleasant quiet sucking sounds. I wondered if this is what it was like to be a Dominant Male and live in the realm of the senses, pleasured by the lips of an unnamed submissive female.

  Because of my scar, I was more accustomed to be the lover, rather than the recipient of the love. It seemed selfish of me to sit back and receive all the pleasure. I wanted to take the woman into my arms, brush my fingers through her hair and kiss her tenderly, but she seemed single-mindedly intent on bringing me to an orgasm with her mouth.

  I gave myself over to the caresses of her lips and tongue. She kissed down my shaft and took the underside of my scrotum into her mouth, licking and suckling me there in that sensitive spot. She kissed back up my tight skin to the bulbous tip and swallowed me once more, sucking firmly upon the rim. I finally let go and released, shooting streams of semen into her open mouth and down her throat. She swallowed it with ease as more fluid spilled out of me, filling her mouth a second time. She swallowed and sucked out the remaining drops from the tip as my body trembled with pleasure. She stood up from the floor and modestly adjusted the hem of her skirt back over the tops of her knees. I stared obsessively at her smudged red lips as she lightly dabbed them with a tissue. She never made eye contact with me. I wondered if she would like me to return her favor.

  “What’s your name?” I asked when my breath had calmed.

  The woman didn’t answer. She reached for her cigarette that was still burning in the ash tray and tapped off the long snake-like gray ashes. She picked up her purse, turned away to take a final drag on her cigarette and extinguished the cigarette in the tray. I was quite embarrassed that I had finished so quickly into her mouth in the short time it took for her cigarette to burn down to the end. Awkwardly pulling up my trousers and tucking my erection back inside my boxers, I wanted to tell her how enjoyable it was to have been given oral sex and to offer to return the pleasure she’d given me. In the time it took me to decide what exactly to say, the woman walked out of my office without a word or look toward me. Her footsteps receded into the corridor. I heard the front door emphatically close behind her as she left the club.

  Later that night I laid in bed, naked, uncomfortably aroused again and unable to sleep, thinking about what happened with the mysterious woman. Why had she kissed me so passionately? Was she a lonely woman and felt appreciative to me when I bought her the glass of wine? I kept running the experience through my mind, how freely she took me into her mouth and gave me such an intense feeling of pleasure, without exchanging one single word with me. Though I had always fantasized about it, I never in my life had an orgasm inside of a woman’s mouth before. Whenever my ex-wife kissed me there, out of a gentleman’s sense of decorum, I would always pull out before I lost control. Even though I assumed that the experience meant very little to the woman, I enjoyed it immensely and was grateful to her. In fact, I felt emotionally connected to her, whoever she was, after sharing such an intimate act with me for the first time in my life. My bodily fluids were now inside her and I didn’t even know her name. I wanted to get to know her, to take her to dinner, to properly court her. And most importantly, I wanted to take her into my arms and bring her to an orgasm with my mouth. If she agreed to the idea, I could offer to become her Dom if that’s what she wished. Perhaps it was time I stopped standing on the sidelines staring at the pretty woman from the shadows of my club and actually engage in a relationship with a woman again.

  I pictured myself as the woman’s Dom, tying her securely to my bed each night. In my fantasy, it was only when she was completely secured to the mattress and held in bondage that the woman looked tenderly into my eyes. I imagined signing a contract with her and working out the intimate details together, hand in hand. I saw us becoming emotionally close to each other, a perfect match as Dom and sub, fulfilling our mutual needs. Before I completely lost myself in the fantasy, I got out of bed, used the rest room and splashed water on my face. I stared at my slashed face in the mirror. I tried to gain control of my overactive imagination and dried my face with a towel. I had no idea if she would agree to see me again, much
less come back into my club again. If she did visit Obsessions, perhaps she would not even notice me.

  As I laid back down on my bed, another feeling about the experience, a darker one, crept into my soul. I was satiated, in the way a man feels after a satisfying sexual experience, but I could not deny I felt a feeling of despair as well. I understand why the woman with the red lips averted her eyes from my ugly face during our encounter, as every woman in my life, except for Grace Madsen, had done. What I couldn’t understand was why, after giving me such an intense physical release, she chose not to speak to me afterwards. I had just been given an experience every man dreams of. Most men probably wouldn’t have cared one way or another whether we talked after the sex was over, so why was I feeling sad about not having a conversation with her afterwards? I realized I was the type of person who needed more than just an anonymous sexual encounter. I needed more than just sex. The woman with the red lips had given me a very sensual, yet empty moment of my life.

  I looked across the room at my digital clock. It was 1:30 in the morning. I pushed a pillow between my legs against my unruly erection, shut my eyes and tried to go to sleep. I thought of the woman’s large soft lips and then my mind slipped back to my memory of Grace Madsen. I replayed for the thousandth time the moment we first met, how gently she held my slashed face in her hand, her fingertips resting within the canyon of my scar, pressing against my cheekbone, a spot no woman had ever had the courage to touch.

  The next evening around 7 I saw her again. She was sitting alone at her usual table. I immediately sent a text to my security chief to watch over the bar and lock up later, since I was taking the rest of the evening off. He texted back, “No problem, Boss.” I had plans for the woman with the red lips.

  I stared at her from across the bar, but she didn’t seem to notice me. When I had my waitress send over a glass of our best white wine on the house, she finally looked over in my direction. She still didn’t make eye contact with me, as if nothing had happened between us, but did acknowledge me briefly by raising her glass in my general direction. Just as before, no one paid attention to her. Again, she was dressed in drab conservative clothing and her hair was pulled back upon her head in an unflattering manner. Her most distinguishing feature was her puffy bright red lips which she had broadly painted red. Eventually I summoned the courage to approach her.