Day 1: Intersection

I didn’t know what FemDom meant. I had no clue. But I’d been invited to a FemDom party, a chance to meet and be met, and I went. The room was crowded, and the music was throbbing. I stood there alone and uncertain.

Our eyes met and she smiled, walked up to me as I stood frozen in place. Once, twice she stalked around me as I heard the riding crop smack against her boots. I started to use my humor, some silly remark that died on my lips as she pressed the crop in the small of my back. Through the music I heard her voice, velvet smooth but firm “none of that.”

My next memory is being naked on all fours, crawling in response to her tugs on the collar that has been buckled around my neck; jerking me one way then the other. My movements punctuated by her crop striking me, my back then thighs then ass; the metronome strikes turning my pale skin pink. I dreaded and anticipated each blow, even the occasional hit that would squarely land on my dangling, exposed balls. When I woke up, my neck was chaffed from the collar, red welts marched across my back, thighs and ass. My balls ached from the tenderly cruel attention they had received.

I curled into the fetal position and started to cry. A deep, emotional, cleansing cry. Years of emotion came out as I remembered surrendering. I remember d letting down my guard, removing the armor I’d worn every day since I was 12. Boys don’t cry. Quit ye like men, the imprinted values of my youth melted away. And I cried like I’d never cried before.

As I sobbed, tears streaming from my eyes, mucous from my nose, I felt her skin against mine, her arms wrapped me from behind. Her warm breath against my ear as she whispered “you’re here. you’re safe. And you are mine now.”

Day 2: Beginning

I woke the next morning with the feel of a hand softly pressing against my forehead. As I blinked the sand out of my eyes, I heard her velvet smooth voice.

“Wake up sleepy head. As much as I enjoy watching your sweet, adorable face sleep we have errands to do – if you’re game.”

As I looked up into her eyes that had so bewitched me, I could only nod yes.

“Good” she said with a sunrise of a smile. “The bathroom is down the hall. Freshened up, get dressed and meet me at the door. You have 10 minutes.” For a second I was stunned by the order, the firm tone, but then rolled out of bed. I don’t know where the inspiration came from but I made the bed. Hurriedly I scooped up my clothes and darted down the hall. I hadn’t brushed my teeth using toothpaste on my finger since grade college but in a pinch it sufficed. I pulled on my clothes and went to the front door.

She stood there with her eyes on her iWatch. “9 minutes 13 seconds, not too bad” she said with a half-smile. I smiled back at her praise. “Carry these” she stated as she handed me canvas bags and stepped out the door, motioning for me to follow.

In the dark of last night, I’d lost my bearings so I was amazed, as we walked out of her building, to recognize the neighborhood; my place was less than a mile away. I put two and two together, early Sunday plus canvas totes must mean a trip to the Farmer’s Market. Sure enough we turned onto Baldwin Avenue, past Pour Decisions (my local pub) and were in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the Sunday Market.

As we walked between the rows of stalls She bantered with the vendors like a pro. We reached the fishmonger and Mr. Gunderson, a well know old flirt (he even chatted up my mom when she came out for a visit!) welcomed her with a cheery “Hello gorgeous, I have a special deal for you on smoked salmon that I caught myself” and then named the price. I watched slack jawed as she stared back at him, hands on hips and talked down the price. “I thought we were friends and you’re going to try and charge me that much? Do I look like a damn tourist?” Even the venerable Mr. Gunderson yielded to her measured poise.

Venturing deeper into the market, we were forced single file. As we were chatting about how she hooked the fishmonger I saw her about to step into a pothole; as her head was turned back towards me I blurted, “Babe, watch out.” I halted, stunned as she turned, part ballerina pirouette part Dervish whirl and extended her index finger at me. With her finger wagging at my eye level she said, calmly but firmly “No, no. No babe, baby or bae. A baby is an infant. A girl is a female under the age of 18. I am a Woman. Do you understand?” Still stunned I could only nod in assent. In the same tone, meeting eye contact she stated “I asked if you understood. When I ask a question, I deserve an answer.” Clearing my throat, I mumbled “yes of course so sorry, I understand.” Her expression cleared and she replied “It is OK. You didn’t know. But now you do and you also know how to respond. Unless of course you’re gagged but maybe we’ll get to that another time.” The last was said with a crooked, impish half smile.

We resumed our walk through the market. Wanting to cement my place back in her good graces I suggested we stop in my favorite coffeeshop for a coffee and scone. I was able to snag a window table and while we had our coffee and shared a scone we engaged in conversation. It was her turn to guffaw then turn bright pink when I pointed out this was some of the best people watching in the city and what can I say, it can be fun to watch. Finally, I worked up the courage to ask her for her phone number. Looking me straight in the eyes she replied “No.” In the next second I went through a century of emotion, my heart became a lead weight pulling my torso to the ground, I felt sweat bead and start to roll down my forehead and back “so this is what a broken heart feels like” I said to myself. And then again, she gave that impish, crooked half smile. “No, you can’t have my number. But you can give me yours. And when I call, be ready.”