Sex stories

Erotic fiction and short sex stories




Consent Ch. 01-02

Author's Notes:

(1) I start slowly, and build up, so be patient.

(2) And please, please...erotica is in the minds of writers and readers. One man's erotica is not necessarily another's.

(3) This is for cross dressers and fetishists, and it is fiction. There are sometimes no boundaries on where one can go in fiction, so, you trolls out there, just park logic to the side, like when you watch a Star Wars movie.


*****

Jack was lost. Thirty years old, unmarried and no girlfriend, zilch for savings, and now he had lost his job. Worst Friday ever, and only four weeks until Christmas.

The late November sun shone through the slit in the curtains in his 34th floor apartment on 8th Avenue, revealing clouds of normally unseen dust from his unkempt home. He wished it would go away (the sunshine and the dust), as too much was revealed in that slit of light, too much about his life. And sure enough, it did go away, blinking out like a light fixture, and the illusion of order and cleanliness was restored.

The sun had set over the Rockies and the bleakness of the coming winter crashed into him like an avalanche of cold, icy and wet concrete. He pulled the curtains back and looked west at the retreating light and the carpet of city lights spreading toward the foothills. Wind whistled through the crack in the balcony door like it always did, and he felt the draft on his legs. It felt good on his stockings, making him distinctly aware of his attire and the fact that he had shaved his legs earlier.

He looked down at his breasts, the plastic bags filled with 500 cc of water, nestled and heavy in his bra. He liked the feel of them when he moved, bouncing and squishing, the poor man's version of a breast prosthetic. And he liked the feel of his panties and stockings on his now hairless body. It was the only comfort left to him today. That and his wine.

He sat down once again at the computer, making sure he tucked his skirt properly beneath him. Brushing his long brown hair away from his face, he studied the ad again for the thousandth time.

"Join me in the Porn industry! Good pay, flexible hours. Presently seeking a submissive male model who enjoys BDSM, Femdom, Role Play, Fetish Play for position to serve Mistress Johanna. Must have no objections to extreme fantasy depictions. Your consent is required and once given, you will be pushed to limits you had no idea were possible. Meals, lodging supplied for proper candidate. In other words, live with me and fulfill your wildest dreams. Fill out application NOW!"

It seemed like an order, and of course it was meant to be.

Jack loved this site, and he had spent many perverted hours here, watching Mistress Johanna administer unspeakable acts of domination, humiliation, and discipline upon her hapless male slaves in video after video. He wondered how some of them could stand it, being caned or flogged until their backs or backsides were striped red and bleeding, and then being "forced" to masturbate on her boots and lick it off afterwards. Why would they do that?

Initially, he was shocked at these acts even as he masturbated to those same fantasies, in a very strange disassociated state. He had always thought that those people were weird. What did they do afterward? Where did they go? How could they go about normal daily activities?

But he wished he was one of them. How could he think this way, he wondered? He concluded he was sane, but perhaps sick. As he thought about it more and more, he began to think the sickness maybe wasn't the fantasy; it was his disassociation, and he resolved to fix that.

Mistress Johanna wasn't even that beautiful. Her body was slightly above normal weight, but her curves were stunning, being accentuated by the corsets she wore regularly. He studied her face now on the screen. It was a face that was ordinary in every way but one. There was a look in her eye that spoke silently of mystery, like she knew something that no one else did, much like the feeling one got from the Mona Lisa smile. There was a secrecy to it, and despite not being beautiful, it made her attractive and extremely desirable, making up for all of her imperfections, like the faint remains of teenage acne scars, or the straight short black hair that framed her face and made her cheeks seem a little on the chubby side.

Jack had filled out the application and his finger hovered over the "send" button.

"No!" he whispered out loud in a sudden denial of his desires. He stood up and walked to the balcony window again where darkness was descending rapidly. He took another sip of the cheap red wine, so cheap it had no name; it was simply red wine, and it was awful. But it was adequate in terms of alcohol content. Holding the glass up and away from him, he smiled at the lipstick markings on its rim, and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them he felt the heaviness of his eyelids laden with excessive mascara.

He thought things through. A recession. No job and no prospects for a job. Rent due and no way to pay. He had no friends, having moved to the city two years before, and being a gamer, had only continued his worldwide online gaming friendships from before, in a lost lonely realm. He had weird fantasies. Mistress Johanna wanted a submissive man with weird fantasies, and the job was here. In this city. Now.

A lot of things came together here. But he remembered university and being afraid of the hard drugs, afraid not because of their stoning effects, but afraid because he might like them. This was like that. In effect, he could actually become a slave, just like the ones depicted in Mistress Johanna's videos. And that could be a slippery slope; once tried, how do you quit the habit?

That's when he understood. He finally "got" it. Those slaves weren't slaves to Mistress Johanna; they were slaves to their sexual addiction, obliged to do those things because of their sexual fantasies, not because Mistress Johanna said they had to. After all, they were men who could have easily overpowered her in any scene, or at least they could initially, up until the time the final lock was closed and they found themselves actually helpless and at her mercy. Then it was too late.

He fantasized what it must feel like to hear that final click of the bondage lock, that instant of time when the realization hit that he was past a magical point of no return, when he was placed at the feet of a Goddess for her use as she saw fit. And it sent a vibration and a chill through him so that he shook. Or maybe it was that damn draft.

Whatever it was, it got him moving. He grimaced at the "send" button and pressed it. It was as though the "send" had two directives: one to send the email, the other to cause that same chill and vibration through his body that he had felt a moment before. Clearly it wasn't the draft at the balcony door.

Jack enjoyed the click of his high heels on the tiled floor as he put a frozen pizza in the oven and opened another bottle of the unnamed wine. He dug the remote out from under the sofa cushion, blew food crumbs off of it, and turned a sports channel on to get his mind calmed down. Sending that application had made his cheeks burn with excitement and he needed to maybe count to 100 or something. The Seahawks were winning again, and the surprising Flames were beating Dallas in hockey.

Suddenly the email alarm went off. He went to his phone and saw that it was from an address he didn't recognize. He opened it and gasped out loud. It was her. So soon.

"Your ad response is the third today. Since you also live in Calgary, and I am an impatient woman, I would like to meet you ASAP to see if you are suitable. Tomorrow night (Saturday) at the Palliser Hotel Lounge, 7:30, a safe open environment. You will wear something blue and something pink. Don't think. Just be there. I will find you. RSVP.

Mistress Johanna"

The pizza was ready. Jack was not. At least not ready for this.

He couldn't believe it. This wasn't some role playing game on the computer. This was for real. A professional dominatrix actually wanted to see him.

"Fucking A!" he said out loud, as a rush of excitement coursed through him.

He went back to the computer and her website. Mistress Johanna stood there still, frozen in time, frozen in her invitation. Her eyes seemed to see him, like the painting where the eyes followed you around a room. She knew he was there; people like him were out there. Clicking through the various parts of the site once again, he saw men and women in bondage, men in frilly dresses or impossibly tight corsets, men in baby's clothes, many on their knees begging to be allowed an orgasm, all held captive by their fantasies. Mistress Johanna was simply a proxy for ownership. But that proxy had unlimited power.

Could he allow himself to be like this? They were sick weirdoes, all of them. He shuddered at the thought of even meeting one of those men. Then he realized the extent of his disassociation. They were he, and a huge sigh, analogous to defeat, escaped his open lips. His shoulders slumped slightly and he surrendered.

Going back to the email, he clicked on "reply" and typed:

"Mistress Johanna,

I'll be there. Should be fun. Shall I be "naughty"? LOL

Jack"

He pressed "send", half expecting no reply. But it was worth it for that moment of intense excitement it gave him to just acknowledge his weakness. He sat there sipping his wine and playing with his pizza, suddenly not hungry any longer, and incredulous at what he had just done. Astonishingly, within minutes a reply came back.

"Respondent Number 3,

I find your response an insult to my intelligence. Fun? I hope you were simply nervous rather than stupid. Is this how you respond to a job interview? You will come to me knowing what you need. What you want is irrelevant to me. If I hire you, you will be my employee and your needs will be met, but your wants are not relevant; they are only strings that I pull to satisfy MY wants. You will come prepared to divulge your secrets and I will determine if you are appropriate.

And naughty? You replied to my ad for reasons you alone know. Mocking better not be one of them. I am NOT looking for naughtiness. I am looking for an obedient employee for any and all purposes, many of which you can guess from my website. If you feel you cannot be that person, then let me know and I'll move on. There are others.

Respond now.

Mistress Johanna"

Jack's heart started beating quickly and his mouth went dry despite the wine. Really?

Interesting reply. She was no dummy. Very articulate. But at the same time she actually sounded like a real dominatrix, not just fantasy. This was real. Must be one strike against him already, he thought, as she sensed she was being mocked. Well, actually she was, but he had a hard time thinking this was genuine anyway, so what the heck. A real dominatrix with real sex slaves did not and could not exist in real life, could they? This meeting would be a fascinating experience, but it was only that, an experience that could result in a job sprinkled with kinky sex, and he was shuddering with excitement about that. This woman was living in a world that turned fantasy to reality, if only for a brief time, like a crystal born from evaporation of water, only to be reduced to nothing again by the flood of watery reality.

But it would be fun to crystallize. Just once. Oh, to be that crystal. If he got the job and it proved to be too much for him, he could just quit. Couldn't he?

That was his rationalization, but deep down inside he sensed that he was about to take fentanyl or opium. But now he didn't care. Fear had been replaced with need, a primal desire to fulfill some of his deepest fantasies.

He responded again.

"Mistress Johanna,

I am so sorry for that email. I didn't mean anything by it. I will meet you as requested. I know what I need and I think I know what you want. I do hope they match.

Jack"

He waited but she didn't answer the last email.

Now the practicalities. Pink and blue. What was the significance of that, he wondered? Female and male? He had a pink tie. He could wear that with his pale blue shirt and a pair of black dress pants. That would have to do. Despite this bizarre situation, he felt intensely excited at the thought of this woman staring him in the eye. Those eyes, so dark and dangerous. This would be the first bit of fun he had experienced in a long time. Way out of control, and exciting.

In answer to her question, what did he need? Walks on a beach in the rain? No. Life wasn't like that. Sometimes a person didn't know what he needed until it happened. So be it. And his secrets? He laughed as he started that list in his head. They would need a lot of time.

Jack ate his pizza and watched the rest of the hockey game. By the time the game was over, another bottle of wine was gone, and in his desire to make tomorrow arrive faster, he went to bed, nestling comfortably under the covers in his silky negligee, still with his panties and bra on. Nothing made him more secure and comfortable than that, and he drifted off to sleep, wondering what the future would bring besides rent money.

If he had really been honest with himself, rent money was well down the list of his needs. In his case, desires had trumped that. Nothing else mattered.

CHAPTER 2

Jack straightened his tie once he entered the grand mezzanine area of the early twentieth century hotel in downtown Calgary. It was 7:20. His hands had a slight shake, as they always seemed to have now. He made a mental note to clench his fists slightly to hide his bitten fingernails during the "interview".

He hadn't been here in years and in surveying the premises now, it seemed an odd place to have an interview between a dominatrix and a potential slave. Shouldn't it be in a poorly lit scuzzy bar or restaurant somewhere on the east side? But then again, was any place appropriate for such a meeting?

He looked around, slightly confused, and then realized the lounge was down one level on the main floor.

Feeling as if his every move was being watched, he descended the Titanic-like grand staircase, stiff legged and nervous. Abruptly he lost his courage and hastily turned around awkwardly to go back up the stairs to regroup. He was scared. Not scared actually, just anxious. After all, how often does one get a chance to chat with a dominatrix? And this was in public, not dirty and safe like skulking around dark and anonymous sewers on the internet. Would she be dressed in leather and carrying a whip? Not here, surely not here. Silly thoughts.

This was a stupid idea, really stupid, he thought while literally wringing his hands. Now his knees shook as he paced silently back and forth in a poorly lit empty alcove free from staring eyes. Minutes passed. Finally he emerged from the gloom and breathed a long heavy sigh. He would do this, and perhaps enjoy it, maybe learn something about the dark side. Or possibly run away after a brief talk. What did it matter? What was he afraid of here anyway, himself or her? Or something else?

Walking away was always an option. He could do that now too. But he didn't.

His breath came in short puffs as he descended the staircase once again and entered the lounge through a sturdy oak doorway. It was 7:34. He paused, uncertain, at the entrance. Suddenly he felt extremely visible, with the blue shirt and pink tie identifying him to someone in particular. This was not incognito. This was real life, however bizarre.

He could walk away still. But he didn't.

The lounge dripped with universal heavy oak elegance and plush leather padding and there was a quiet power to it. Immense mirrors with ornate frames graced the walls at strategic places, making the space seem even larger than it was. Many of the tables snuggled against the wall and were partly surrounded by high half-walls, creating nooks of privacy with hints of decadence or conspiracy, whispering with secrecy and shady deals. The floor space was filled with single pedestal weighty oak tables, all of which were low, affording the accompaniment of plush, low lounge chairs. The servers were male and dressed in black pants, purple vests and white shirts. A hushed opulence sighed throughout the room.

The lounge was darker than outside, so Jack stood for a few moments, adjusting to the diminished light. He searched the room, at the same time being deliberately noticeable to all, but to one in particular. He felt observed, a fish in a bowl.

------------------

Johanna rehearsed in her mind what her approach would be. She was good at this, finding strength and weakness in people, and she capitalized on whichever of the two was available.

She had just finished her first sip of virgin martini when she saw him enter. The applicant seemed hesitant and uneasy. That was good. A nervous man was a good candidate. The ones with the right stuff were always the same, trying to act like stereotypical men, but desperately lacking sufficient confidence and self-esteem to actually pull it off. Most of them were easy to pick apart, to disarm and confuse.

Physical force was never necessary with such men. They allowed themselves to be dominated, struggling not as much against the woman, as against themselves, the inescapable bondage of fantasy. She prided herself in the understanding of that.

She had posted the employment ad only two weeks ago, and the response had been good, better than expected actually. She had thought that most of the people that went to her site were just lurkers, nerdy little perverts, and she wasn't sure if any men would put themselves out there for ownership or for the uses she had in mind. Three responses in two weeks suggested that in time, there would be a suitable candidate from many applicants. What a world, she thought, mentally shaking her head, men willing to give up everything to belong to her. Power was so easy to gain, but so difficult to wield with balance.

This one, her third interviewee since she had posted the ad, had sounded interesting in his email response. The second one was also from Calgary, and the other from Seattle, neither satisfactory, the applicants being men of large frame and bulk. Yes, they were suitably lost and needy, but they didn't meet her requirements, neither in looks or fantasy in her mind. The interviews had drifted off to banalities and died. Although they would have been fun to dominate on a temporary basis (and she didn't rule that out), long term would prove difficult and uninteresting, and they simply weren't pretty enough.

She caught his eye and raised a single finger, motioning the universal "come here" signal. It was not a request.

He spotted her signal at the back of the room, in one of the private nooks, where she sat with what appeared to be a martini in front of her. She stared at him and waited. Time froze like a photograph in an old album.

He approached her like a dog seeing a new type of animal for the first time, sniffing and cautious. Periodically he scanned the room suspiciously for acquaintances. Arriving beside her table, he asked with uncertainty, "Excuse me. Are you Johanna?"

She held out her hand, palm down, wrist bent, and corrected him, "Mistress Johanna."

When he saw her up close, he became boyish and extremely awkward. He tilted his head and said, "Mistress Johanna? You're even prettier in person...I mean, uh, on your porn, uh, website, you look so...well, you're pretty there too...uh..."

She smiled slightly and said, "Thank-you. I think."

They stared at each other, he standing, she sitting with her hand outstretched. Moments passed. Clearly he did not know what to do, so he just stood there and stared at her. Finally he got it, and kissed her hand lightly, asking, "Sorry, this is kind of awkward. May I sit down?"
This was the part that Johanna loved, the beginning. She took her hand back and measured him, toes to head, lingering at his crotch, saying nothing. She made him stand there in his discomfort.

A small man, probably five foot seven, narrow features but with an odd fluidity to his torso, high cheek bones, narrow chin, cute button nose, an effeminate face actually, certainly not Hollywood masculine. Now his hands were interesting, she thought, as they seemed made for massaging music from the piano, long and graceful fingers blunted by bitten nails, hairless as was his face. Androgynous. She liked that. The hair on his head was shortly cropped, nondescript, perhaps blond, and even in this low light, some lighter hairs were shimmering at certain angles. Grayness? He was clearly anxious.

He shuffled his feet nervously. "Johanna?" he asked. She was so aloof, he wondered if he really did have the right table.

"To those who serve me, it's MISTRESS Johanna, or simply ma'am." She watched with delight as his brown eyes blinked in surprise at the emphasis on mistress.

"Yes. Yes, of course. I get it. After all, you are a dominatrix, right?" He laughed artificially and nervously, acutely aware of his satirical statement, while she only hinted at a cold smile, herself unsure whether this man was an idiot or simply anxious.

"So, may I sit down then?" He stood awkwardly for a few seconds, then realized his omission and added, "Mistress Johanna?"

"Yes, you may."

At this point, the server approached them and asked Jack what he would like to drink. Jack thought for a moment.

"He'll have a glass of White Zinfandel," she intervened.

Both men looked at her with slight surprise, and after a small hesitation and an amused look at Jack, the server said, "Yes ma'am," and dashed off to get the misnamed pink wine.

As a joke, Jack said weakly to the server's retreating back, "I'll have a glass of Shiraz please." Out of earshot, the server neither flinched nor turned around.

Jack observed Johanna, up close for the first time. Could this really be the person that had beckoned him on the website? She was actually more beautiful than that. There was an awe induced by her very presence that could not be photographed. Her left hand was hidden under the table but her right hand, weighted with rings on every finger, rested at the base of the martini glass, long red nails clicking the table lightly. Her eyes were dark, perhaps green, he couldn't be sure, but her hair was the most amazing shade of dark auburn he had ever seen, not falling long, but short, lower jawbone level, flared inward to frame her face and point to her cleavage, pushed up as it was by some influential underwear. He was sure her hair had been black on the website. Her skin radiated wealth, a manicured smooth and pampered porcelain look with scattered tiny freckles and the odd remnant acne scar sprinkling over her cheeks and slightly aquiline nose. Age was a question, perhaps mid-thirties, maybe late.

Suddenly her voluminous ruby lips smiled, and two dimples appeared on her cheeks, like two invisible fingers had poked a Pillsbury dough-boy. The smile softened what otherwise could be a very stern and unforgiving countenance. She was accustomed to telling people what to do.

He was thankful she smiled. She twisted slightly in her seat and a faint but distinct creaking sound came to him from her direction. Her low cut white blouse allowed an erotic peek at the possible source, a black leather bra or the top of a corset. The air seemed thick with her presence, a bouquet of leather and perfume, Aphrodite in person.

"You're a fine looking man, potentially pretty actually," she stated flatly, as she had reciprocated his observance of her.

Taken aback, he responded, "Pretty? Never been called that before." His cheeks burned red, but he managed a smile. Should he respond in kind, calling her what, handsome, he wondered? The term didn't fit. Did her term fit him? He mentally saw himself in the mirror like he saw himself last night, and he shook his head, guilt flying in all directions. Should he say to her, "You're very exotic."? Probably not, so he said nothing.

"Yes, pretty," she repeated, unwavering. She momentarily lost herself in fantasy. Physically, she could work with this one, she thought.

Changing the subject, she made some small talk, awaiting his drink, "Weather's weird lately isn't it? Windy and sinister feeling."

"For sure," he answered, "but, after all, winter is coming I guess."

"True, but this season always gives me the creeps you know? Like an unopened door in a haunted house. You just KNOW winter is behind the door."

They both found the small talk a waste of time. An awkward silence ensued while she calmly sipped her martini and observed him. Her eyes never left him.

Suddenly, "So, tell me about yourself. What's your name, first and last? Why did you answer my ad?" she asked. Her eyes rarely seemed to blink.

Very blunt and direct for a woman, he thought. Such easy questions, one with such a difficult answer.

The server arrived with the wine. Jack sipped it thoughtfully. He disliked White Zinfandel. For one thing, it wasn't white, it was pink. And its origin was actually a mistake, brewing gone bad, but sold as a new wine, like a new accidental dog breed. Like his life to date, the wine was a spin, a trick of mirrors and presentation.

He opened with uncertainty by saying, "Umm, I answered your ad, to be quite honest, for a sense of excitement I think. I don't even know how I got to your site actually. But then when you answered me so quickly, I started to take it a bit more seriously I guess. I don't know..." He went silent. She remained silent, staring.

"Look," she said, "You and I both know you want to be dominated by a woman. Just admit it and start again okay?" She took a sip of her martini and smiled deeply and honestly, reaching out for his hand, grasping it lightly, calming him.

If there was ever someone he could open up to about his inner fantasies, she had to be it. He decided to tell her his story, and he did, spilling almost everything, many of his fantasies, his hates, his loves, his failed relationships. Everything.

In a bizarre way he felt safe with this woman. What could he tell her that she had never seen or heard about or done anyway? Once he started he couldn't stop, or at least it seemed that way. Several times when he did stop to briefly ponder, she just stared at him with half dimples, not adding anything, just waiting, the interviewer's strategy of non-engagement.

When he was done she asked softly once again, "That's all very charming and honest, but why did you answer my ad sweetie? What do you want?"

Sweetie? Then he realized it was true, he hadn't really answered the question. "As I said, it was an impulse if you will, but now I believe there was method to the madness, cuz I'm here. And for some reason I'm telling you all this."

He stopped to think and then blurted out, "I, umm, I guess I want to reboot my life. And to be honest, I'm broke, I've just lost my job, and I have no other prospects. And I like your site. Maybe I want to be a slave like your other "guests" on your site (Jeez that sounds silly), I don't know. I'm not sure what that means in real life, or if that state really exists at all. Your ad sounded fun and interesting, if not intriguing. I do know I have kinky tendencies and I feel like I have no limits to my kinkiness."

He stopped, looking down at the table, and then added, "It makes me crazy sometimes. All the time. I, I don't know what I am, who I am, what to do..."

At this point he stopped suddenly and pulled his head back sharply in astonishment at his own statements. He noticed he was still holding her hand, and snapped it out of reach nervously.

"Shut-up Jack," he thought to himself in mock playfulness at his own chatter.

Johanna leaned back in her chair, shaking her head, folding her arms under her breasts and smiling slightly, "Dear me, you need a psychiatrist, not a dominatrix. On the other hand, maybe that's the same thing for you. I could at least make you useful, if that's important to you. I could change you, well, maybe not change you, but at least make you come to terms with who you really are. I need more though."

Her directness was shocking but as he reddened further he boldly stayed with her. "Ouch on the psychiatrist. Look, been there, done that, didn't work, the psychiatrist thing. I'm afraid this has become an obsession of mine. Maybe that's crazy, maybe not, I don't know. What's crazy or normal anyway?"

She thought for a few moments, wondering how to play this. Then she responded, "You know what? I don't think you really want to be a slave; you want kinky sex. Big difference. A slave, contrary to common belief, provides service (which may include sex), but does not necessarily get sex in return. If I took you, you would be used as an object for comfort and pleasure for me and others in my promotional videos. I'd also use you for scenario demonstrations to show some of my clients what I am capable of, to excite them, if you will. You would only have sexual gratification if it pleased me to allow it or if I felt it was necessary for the depiction of the fantasy. Oh, and in answer to your question...you are not normal. Neither am I. I am a deranged bitch who gets pleasure from using men for sexual purposes. And I'm thankful for that every day of my life. Just so we're clear on that."

Shocked, he sipped his wine in silence. There was no response to that. She sipped on the martini. Moments and minutes passed.

"Where did you work?" she asked, finally.

"Salesman for an Oil Service Company. No activity now, so until the price of oil recovers, I'm shit out of luck."

"Hmm. Do you have relatives and friends? Facebook page?"

"Parents have both passed away. Two brothers, one older and living in Nova Scotia, a teacher. Haven't seen him in uh, probably four years. The other is younger, a new doctor in Toronto. Never see him either. We're not a close family actually. A few gamer friends scattered about the Web. My Facebook page has all my acquaintances on it. Why do you want to know all this stuff anyway?"

"You expect me to request a resume for this type of job? Not likely, so I have to ask lots of stuff. I'm interviewing you, remember? Just getting information. You have a feminine face and delicate body. Are you gay?"

She had also taken due note of the fact that he was a middle child and his Facebook connections were really "acquaintances", not friends. That was interesting, a loner perhaps?

She had a way about her that always threw him off guard. "I look feminine? Hmm. No, not gay, I'm just straight, crooked straight." He was uneasy with this line of questioning. Feminine? Delicate? He had worked a lifetime to portray anything but that, but with his physique, it was hard. And his cross dressing was a forbidden fortress of secrecy.

"I see. Crooked straight. I think I like that. Genderqueer maybe? What does that mean to you?"

"Queer? That's gay, right? I told you, I like women."

Johanna corrected him, "Well, no, you told me you weren't gay. Doesn't matter, never mind."

Jack wasn't exactly sure what she was talking about and he felt out of his element. He said, "I haven't had any real experience in the world of kink actually. I think I'm into bondage (me being tied up, I mean), maybe S&M, possibly AT&T or M&Ms (sorry, I can't help myself)," and he giggled nervously at his joke, "I just want eroticism, anything sexual goes actually. I don't think I have any limits."

Johanna laughed heartily at this, dimples deep and dark. "Oh, everyone has limits," she warned, "Don't ever say you don't have limits. What if I made you into a human toilet? Would you like that?" She was testing, probing, trying to shock.

"Human toilet? What's that? Or do I want to know?" He grimaced.

Johanna rolled her eyes slightly at his naivety and patiently explained, "You'd be immobilized on your back on the floor with your head face-up inserted through the side of a type of toilet bowl. My device seals completely at the neck so that to avoid drowning, certain "fluids" would have to be swallowed. I would sit on the toilet and...well, now you get the picture. Don't ever say you don't have limits."

Jack gagged in shock, "That's disgusting! People actually do that?"

"I have four people I enjoy in Calgary alone who I piss on routinely. And they pay me to do it. They didn't even know they liked it until I made them endure it. Once my men or women are restrained I try all sorts of stuff on them. When one cannot escape, one must simply endure. It's really a lot of fun, and they're amazed when they have an orgasm while being treated in such a way. One admitted to liking number two as well, but I draw the line before that, so he's shit out of luck (pun intended). Don't ever assume anything." She paused for effect and then with a wry smile added, "Maybe you'd like it. If you were my slave, I'd try you out on that just to test you. Even if you didn't like it, I might force you to submit to it, simply because I could, and I like humiliating men. Fortunately for all of my subjects, they like being humiliated."

Jack had no words to respond, but he shook his head from side to side. All he could think of was that there were crazy fucking people out there. And maybe he was way out of his league. Or maybe he was one of them.

Johanna now started her search for the real triggers. "So, you like being tied up, choice removed maybe?"

"Yes, I think I would like that."

"You like being controlled, forced to do things?"

His cheeks burned. The words came out with sharp edges from his dry mouth, "Uhh, yes."

"How about being beaten?"

Jack hesitated as he thought about that. "No, I don't think so. Maybe, not sure. Depends on how hard and what goes with it I guess."

"I understand. Sometimes people don't fully understand what their fantasies are until they are introduced to them. Now, clearly you like to be forced to do things by a dominant woman?"

"Yeah, I guess I do. I answered your ad."

"Over the years (now this might sound strange) have you noticed your fantasies twisting around, so that you might enjoy being humiliated as well, like the excitement of something is sharpened by humiliation or guilt?"

Again Jack thought for a bit and then answered hesitantly, "I don't know. Maybe. Again, I'm not sure. Why would anyone want to be humiliated? That's what my objective logic says anyway."

Johanna smiled and softened her face, "I'm not looking for objectivism here. There are many reasons. It's a self-preservation trick of the human mind. If you feel for example that you are bizarre in your own mind, then to protect against the shame, you welcome it. It becomes part of the fantasy and it replicates into many facets from there. That human toilet I was telling you about, those that enjoy that humiliation don't necessarily enjoy the urine and feces falling on their faces. They celebrate the humiliation of it, and the inability to avoid it once restrained.

Okay, let's test you. If I had a drug that made you incapable of resisting, and I bound your wrists and put a collar and leash on you, walked you down 17th Avenue in mid-afternoon, what are your initial thoughts about that? Quick, answer me! Would you like it?"

His physical and sexual response was immediate and it surprised him. "Yes, no, I wouldn't want it, but I'd find it intensely exciting if I had no choice. Holy shit! I can't believe I said that!"

Johanna smiled and nodded her head.

"Hmm, I see...sort of," he continued, "I'm beginning to understand a bit, maybe. I do have those fantasies I guess. Not the human toilet," he corrected quickly, "but I often feel guilty and ashamed about, well, things, some things I guess..." His voice trailed off.

In silence, she contemplated him for a long time, so long in fact, that the meeting became even more awkward for Jack. She sipped her drink, set it down and stirred it with the impaled olive and gazed through him, occasionally drumming her fingers on the table between them.

Johanna thought. So, there was something else, something for which Jack was intensely ashamed, and he couldn't even bring up the name of it, like Voldemort, he who shall not be named. As she stared at him, his features seemed to soften in her mind, and inklings of his fears passed from his eyes to hers until he looked away.

The silence was unending. Was he supposed to say something, he wondered?

The social discomfort simmered to the eventual and inevitable point of simultaneous mutual interruption, and together they blurted the beginnings of a statement.

Jack was going to say, "So, is this going to go anywhere?", but she dominated, cutting him off, saying, "Are you wearing panties right now?"

His face felt like it had been staring at a winter campfire. It instantly burned with both shame and guilt-consumed excitement, while the rest of him went cold with dread. No one had ever asked that of him before. That was his ultimate secret and shame. He looked at his bitten fingers on the table when he tried to answer, "No. Of course not! No...that would be..."

Bingo, she thought.

"Right. Are you wearing a bra like a little sissy?" She twisted the knife.

Jack was suddenly out of breath and he couldn't answer. His face tingled with a sexual flush.

"I see. Cross dressing isn't gay, you know," she said softly, "You carry that fear, don't you? The same percentage of heterosexuals cross dress as do homosexuals. Did you know that? You ARE wearing a bra and panties right now, aren't you?" She was whispering in a conspiratorial tone and smiling, mildly teasing.

"Jesus Christ! Keep your voice down!" he whispered, squirming in his seat, his body ironically slipping on the satin of his panties.

He was getting confused. Where was this going? Why was she deliberately putting him off balance like this? Sulking and slightly petulant, he said, "Well, anyway, I'm not gay."

Ignoring him, but excited herself, she added, "Let me see now, do you masturbate when you dress up, and does it make you feel better? I bet you look pretty."

His heart was beating furiously as these questions came at him like a blitzkrieg but he answered with his eyes riveted to his hands on the table, "Yes, okay, yes." Why not tell her, he thought. He had never told anyone before, and where had that got him?

"Is dressing up good enough for you, or do you always masturbate when you dress?"

Jack fidgeted. He glanced around the room, his heart singing with lust, his mind mired in pain. "I always end it," he said after a long silence.

Johanna tilted her head in question, "End it?"

"Yes! All right? I masturbate and then, and then it's over. I take off the clothes. Most of the time. I can't stand myself. I end it. At least I used to."

"I see. Used to?"

Jack stared and didn't answer.

Johanna took notes in her head. So, he wasn't entirely a cross dresser and not really a transvestite; maybe a transvestic fetishist, a person who likes the feel and smell and the sexual impulses created by the clothing. It is often utilized as a form of stress relief by many.

She asked with genuine interest, "Instead of ending it now, what do you do?"

"I, uh, after I masturbate, she disappears, but now I stay dressed until I become...her...again."

"Hmm," Johanna soothed, "It's evolved to that point then. To ease the pain, you fantasize you're a woman. She's pretty isn't she?"

"That's enough. You're making fun of me. No more okay?"

She pounced. "Oh baby, you've come to the right place," she cooed, "I would dress you, so you'd be her full time you know. I'd force you to be her. You'd have no choice. That would be perfect wouldn't it?"

Jack raised his eyes to her and they locked with hers, she a Goddess that could deliver all things, he a helpless sheep. He had no controllable response.

She continued to watch him, gently, not with a malicious intent, just with understanding. She knew things. He met her eyes and they held each other in perception of a moment shared. He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. There was water there.

"That's ok," she said softly. "So, if I forced you to cross dress, you'd be happy with that, wouldn't you? Because in your mind, to avoid the shame, you'd have no choice but to obey me."

"I don't know. I'm confused. Are you a psychologist or a dominatrix? Jesus!"

Johanna smiled broadly and said, "I'm the best damn psychologist you will ever find."

She finished her drink and played with the olive on the rim of the glass. She resumed in a sweet voice, "Have you ever wished you were a woman?"

"Yes, well no, not completely."

"Ever dream of a sex change?"

"I've thought about it for sure, I guess. But I don't want to lose my uh, equipment. It always comes back to that. In my wildest fantasies I'd want to look exactly like a woman, with breasts and everything, but still have a penis. Or maybe magically convert to a woman and then back again whenever I wanted to."

Johanna smiled again and said, "So if you did have a sex change, you'd be a lesbian, wouldn't you?"

Jack seemed astonished and muddled. He was sweating. "Yes, I suppose so."

Bingo again. She had all she needed.

"Okay, that's enough about you. Now I'm going to share my fantasies with you, okay? And you're going to be pleasantly surprised I think. You see, in MY wildest fantasies I want a woman with a penis. I like men in women's clothes, high heeled shoes, totally unable to resist my whims. Dominating a man is a turn on for me. Nothing screams so much of domination as emasculating a man, isn't that so?"

"What! What? Jesus! Yes, I suppose so. Where are you going with this?"

She ate her olive. Her dimples showed suddenly as she said, "Let me see now, have I got this right? I like to humiliate and emasculate a man; you like to be humiliated and emasculated. Round pegs, round holes, I would say, wouldn't you?"

Jack squinted at her, mesmerized and bewildered. This had escalated way too fast. How did she read him so fast, so completely and unmercifully? He might as well have been sitting there in a skirt and blouse with his hands cuffed behind his back. She had revealed his shameful secrets in just the 35 minutes they had been chatting. A whole lifetime of cloaking removed in minutes.

Suddenly he had doubts. The edge of the cliff was right here, right now. He was standing on one foot, the other over the void. Fear and panic welled up.

"I, I'm not sure I should be here. Look...you...this, I mean," he stammered, "I'm feeling kind of weird. Maybe we should call this off." He did feel faint and she had totally disarmed him. He was puzzled by his trust in her and the power he knew she could wield over him. It frightened him and gave him comfort at the very same time, pushing and pulling, leaving him off balance.

"Well you should feel weird. You're a man who wants to be dominated by a woman, humiliated, and forced to wear women's clothes. You want to be a woman with a penis. That's pretty weird, but I understand it. And how many people do you know who could say that? After all, you are a pervert, right? And perverts abduct children, don't they?" She was being facetious of course, but nonetheless his head went under water and she briefly held it there.

Then she let him up by saying, "But I'm a pervert too. And I hurt no-one, at least no-one that doesn't want to be hurt."

"I think I should go." Jack's instincts were screaming at him to stop this word game and go home.

But he didn't.

"You'll go when I say you can go," she said calmly and with a distinct lilt to her voice. The message didn't seem to match the tone. She reached across the table and took his hand again. Her fingernails gripped him like talons.

"Oh you're strong enough physically, but I can trump that every time, don't you think?" The question was asked forcefully as she bent his pinky backward surprisingly hard, catching him unprepared. The pain intensified as she asked again, "Don't you?"

"Oww, no, stop, oww!" he answered in a whispered shriek, "Okay, yes, all right? Jeez!"

She released him, at least physically, but she had him in so many ways. She smiled warmly as she patted his hand. "It's okay sweetie. It's okay to be submissive to me. You're a good person. I can tell. Most weak and submissive men are. Such sweet, sensitive souls, so feminine. I can love them."

She tilted her head sideways and squinted her eyes as if something had just occurred to her, "You pout so sweetly, and your chin is narrow... such high cheek bones. My God, you could really be..." She stopped talking, her voice trailing off, but continued to stare. She was imagining, fantasizing, and for a brief moment, saw him as her fantasy. It would be a simple process, she thought.

Jack's face was burning with arousal. She was pressing every button, and some he didn't know he had. His breathing was shallow as he reached down to put his hand under the table to discreetly rearrange his enlarged penis.

"Don't be a pervert," she said immediately, "That would be disgusting if you touched yourself. Do not do it. Stop."

He blanched and said, "What? I wasn't, that wasn't what... What are you talking about?" The stammering was giving him away and he knew it.

He stared at her. She glared back at him, smug in her control of the moment. He averted her eyes.

"How long have you been hiding?" she asked gently.

"Hiding? What do you mean?"

"Yes, hiding. Have you ever confided your deepest fantasies with anyone? And when I say deepest, I mean the cross dressing, because that's really creepy, especially the masturbation part." Under water again.

Jack glanced around the room, checking for turned heads for the hundredth time. There were none. The world didn't know or care that he was a pervert. The world didn't know or care that he was so erotically confused and aroused right now that he could barely breathe.

"All my life. I've been hiding all my life," he sighed, and as he said it, a warmth was born somewhere within him. He looked at her and, for the first time, was able to really hold her gaze, although his was becoming glassy with tears.

"I'm sorry Mistress Johanna. I shouldn't be here. This was silly." He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut again and said, "I have to go." Tears glistened at the corners of his eyes, ready to burst and flow down his cheeks.

"Why are you sorry? Why shouldn't you be here? Go where? You've got no one to share your deepest and darkest fantasies with. Except me. I find that interesting. Don't you?" Now she leaned across the table and whispered, "Look at me."

He did.

She continued, "I've seen it all sweetie, and no one can tell me that sexual fantasies should necessarily define what a person is, but they can for one of two reasons. One is if you want them to, the other is if you let them. Do you? Should you? Which is it for you? It needn't be either. I could know you as no one knows you, see you for who you are, frame it with your fantasies. The fantasies are the frills, the stuff around you; they are not what or who you are. I have intimate knowledge of many good people. Some like to wear baby clothes and suck on soothers. Some want to be pissed on, or worse. They have good jobs, they are religious, they give to charities, and they serve the greater community."

She paused and then added with a gentleness that broke his heart, "Jack, you're in trouble. I see it. You have to do something. Believe me, I know. I've seen people like you. I know them. You need me."

Johanna let that sink in. Jack had one leg out of the booth and was chewing on his left pinkie fingernail, his arm contorted to get at a particularly stubborn piece of nail. He could have left. But he didn't. And he listened.

Again, that pregnant pause in the conversation where each was sizing the other up. She broke the silence.

"Did you ever put anything up your ass?" The apparent left field assault was intended to push him further off balance, and it did.

This shocked him away from his fingernail. "What? No! I told you I'm not gay, for Christ's sake! Why don't you stop that shit?" That made him very edgy, even angry.

Touchy subjects, cross dressing and fear of being gay. Duly noted and logged.

They sat in silence again for quite some time. Johanna put her smile away and watched him intently while he glanced furtively at her face, her cleavage, retreating to the table top and back to her cleavage again. The fragrance of her made him shake.

"Last question, have you been in a lot of fights, you know, physical fights?"

Jack tilted his head and squinted his eyes in puzzlement, responding, "Weird question. I'm not big, never have been. Lost one fight in the fifth grade. Broke my nose. I learned to avoid them. I'd say that aggression causes fear and anxiety more than anger in me now. I just don't like confrontation. I like things to just flow or go away."

Johanna smiled. This was important. There could be times when restraints were not in place when a man might get angry and rebel, and a man, even when petite, could still overpower most women. But he would not have the resolve or confidence to do it.

"I see," she said, "Discretion is the better part of valor, right?"

"Yeah, all the time in my opinion."

Another awkward silence resumed.

Finally Johanna put forward her end gambit, the push against the pull, "Look I'm really sorry Jack, but I'm beginning to sincerely doubt that you're here for the right reasons. Even though I like what I could do to you (and for you, for that matter), you might have too much "baggage", and by that I mean "feminine" baggage. It gets cumbersome. I'm sorry, but this interview is over. You can leave now. I'll pay your tab."

She sat back pretending to search through her purse, and prepared to watch the show. If he was right for this (and she knew he was), he would squirm. A real man would be a man and tell her to fuck off and leave. She would enjoy either result.

Jack was stunned at the abrupt reversal and dismissal. For some reason he was attracted to her like a moth to a flame. He looked at her now, a dark flame breathing passion and ecstasy, ready to consume him. If he went forward he was consumed by the heat. If he stepped away, he was consumed by darkness and cold.

He tried not to plead, but it came out that way, "How can you dismiss me like that? After all that I've told you? My God, oh my God!" He was devastated. Then he controlled himself and said, "Wait. I mean, look, I'm, I'm just kind of lost okay? Can we try this? I need to try this." He had never stammered before tonight and he hung his head in despair, as he had never revealed himself like this before. Recovering slightly, he salvaged some courage and dignity, "I'm done with the ordinary, okay? I want out. I just want out. Or in, I'm not sure which. What the fuck am I doing here anyway? What the fuck am I talking about?"

He shook his head and then chugged the rest of the odious White Zinfandel, banged the glass down, and slouched back in the chair. With a heavy sigh and a distant humiliated look, he said, "I'm sorry I wasted your time then. Thanks for the wine. You're very beautiful by the way; I meant that before and I mean it now. Good luck in your search."

He swung his other leg out of the booth to leave.

Johanna observed all this with well concealed shock and pleasure. She leaned conspiratorially across the table again and ordered him to stay seated.

"Sit down. You should be very careful what you wish for, you know. Tell you what, I'll think about taking you. If I do take you, and you give your permission to be taken, you're going to be very surprised at what awaits you. It will be nothing like what you perceive it to be, nothing at all. And very addicting. You're like an alcoholic on the wagon. I am your alcohol. One drink of me and that'll be it. I have my ways. It's important you know that. Do not deceive yourself. I will use you and abuse you. I will control your every move. And you will be MY fantasy. If I am yours, that will be good as well, but it isn't necessary. I hope you're clear on that."

Then she smiled. Pre-empting his departure, she now got up quickly and leaned down, kissing him lightly and tenderly on the cheek.

"You're the man. You pay the bill. I'll contact you. I have your email address." She turned to leave but abruptly turned around and asked him what his phone number was.

He answered as if in a trance. "xxx-xxx-xxxx"

She closed her eyes briefly to memorize the number. Then she left.

A pungent smell of leather, perfume and gin swirled around him like smoky confusion as he sat there, bewildered. He watched her leave, the long self-assured stride of a confident woman, an oversized purse slung over her left shoulder. Her stiletto heels were silent on the carpet until they met the slate tiles at the entrance, and she swayed provocatively in a tight black skirt fused to her hips and thighs like a girdle.

His breathing slowly came back to normal. The rush in his ears from his arousal slowly subsided and the hushed subtleties of the velvet room resumed their stately dance. He waved his VISA card at the server, who came over immediately to settle up.

Jack sat for a further few moments to compose himself fully, and also to put his hand in his pocket to discreetly readjust his equipment. The wet spot at his crotch was low enough that he estimated no one could see it. The wet spots under his arms were more prominent. With wobbly legs he stood up and left, glancing at the server as he walked toward the door. There was a conspiratorial, knowing grin from him, but Jack scowled with a subliminal "fuck off", re-establishing his manhood as best he could, and he walked back to the parkade, feeling like his mind had been exposed and everything examined by an alien presence.

This was a powerful woman. He wanted her; he needed her; he feared her, and he knew he had to stay away. This drug was too strong.

01-02   consent  

Jul 29, 2018 in femdom

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