My Date with a Dominatrix, p1

After twenty minutes or so of banal small talk, Mame’s neighbor and friend knocked on the door. I won’t lie - little shocks me and generally speaking, my air of unimpressed aloofness is rarely contrived - but I was damn glad Violet showed up. She was slim, blonde, with an easy smile and vibe of tolerant affection that said she’d indulged Slave and Mame’s fantasies before. We drank our wine in companionable silence.

Three glasses later, conversation was infinitely easier, the tension has slackened, and even Slave was warming up to us. We discussed Italy, where he has a second home, boy trouble, and the wines and villages of Bordeaux. Just before dinner was served, I excused myself to the bathroom to wash my hands. I turned the lock, and let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. ‘This is really happening,’ I thought. ‘There’s really a middle aged man wearing women’s lingerie with a remote-controlled butt-plug stuck up his ass and my friend from middle school is holding the remote. That’s really happening out there.’

What was really happening in here was that an eighteen inch black rubber cock resting limp in the sink was making it very difficult to wash my hands. I decided that whatever I might’ve picked up from the subway commute couldn’t possibly compete with what I would definitely catch by trying to navigate around that rubber dildo. I gave up and returned to the table.

The first course was a simple green salad which was served by Slave on his knees after passing inspection by Mame. She reprimanded him for sloppy presentation and demanded he replate it. Though she was firm, Mame was kind and affectionate towards Slave, the way an indulgent mother might gently scold her toddler. She threw down a pillow so Slave could be more comfortable kneeling to the left of her, eating small forkfuls of green leaves Mame presented at her leisure. Mame was a benevolent dominatrix: a kind of June Cleaver of the BDSM world.

After our salad plates were cleared, Mame demanded Slave fetch his rope. In the time it took to refill our wine glasses, Mame had rigged slave in a complicated web of black rope threaded through his ass cheeks, ensnaring his balls, gripping his chest and upper arms, up through the metal ring of his dog collar, and ending in a thick lead which Mame used to drag him around the kitchen. Quite simply, I was floored. And his ceviche was to die for.

With all the wine, the claustrophobic apartment, the middle aged man with the butt plug in his ass kneeling not three feet away from me, I was beginning to feel light headed. Violet pulled out a pack of smokes and I asked to bum one, not a little too abruptly. ‘Would you guys mind heading downstairs?’ I was already strapping on my flats, halfway out the door. ‘When you get back, we have a little dessert for you two and I have a surprise for Slave if you care to watch…”

to be continued….