Incurable Romantic

She is, without a doubt, the perfect slave.

I should know. I've trained half a dozen slaves over the last twenty years, and played with perhaps half a hundred more.

In Minneapolis? you ask, incredulous. The law-abiding, church-going, vanilla-flavored heartland?

Why would I lie? I'm past the point where I have to prove myself. We have our own kinky little community here, invisible to those who don't want to see, obvious to the initiates who know the signs.

Like Ilsa's collar. If you weren't one of us, and you happened to notice it, you might think it's one of those choker necklaces so popular with the Britney Spears set. It's braided black leather, strung with tiny diamonds. You might expect a matching diamond stud piercing her navel.

If you truly paid attention, though, you might recognize something unusual in the way Ilsa wears it. She holds her head exceptionally high, her back straight, her graceful neck extended, showing the collar off like a badge of honor. Which of course it is, my gift to her upon her completion of one year in my service. In truth, though, wearing it is her gift to me, a tangible and public statement of her total devotion.

She never removes it. The candlelight makes it sparkle, now, as I gaze on her naked, bound beauty. Her wrists are roped together and fastened to the hook in the ceiling. A few red-gold locks have escaped from her barrette and trail down her back, contrasting with the darker red of the stripes my whip has carved in her tender flesh. Her creamy skin is flushed and damp with sweat. I kneel behind her and use my tongue to gather a salty drop that has run down her spine, just as it is about to disappear into the shadows between her swelling butt cheeks.

Ilsa shivers in delight at my touch. I reward her by pulling her open and lapping at her anus. She is still loose and slick with lube and my come. She cannot help responding, pushing her hips back to invite me deeper into her dark recess. I draw away and land a rousing slap on one buttock. "Didn't I tell you to be still?" I growl.

We both understand that my anger is feigned. "Yes, Master," she murmurs. "I'm sorry. When you touch me, it's so difficult."

"A well-trained slave knows how to control herself." I don't tell her, of course, that she is perfect. "Clearly, you need more punishment. Turn around."

On tiptoe, the spreader bar between her ankles making her awkward, she manages to maneuver her body to face me. Her eyes are cast down, those long sooty lashes of hers (so different from her spun-copper hair) making spiky shadows on her cheeks. Her lips are parted, her breath fast and shallow.

I intend to apply my whip to her luscious breasts, gleaming and still unmarked in the light of the candles. Instead, I find myself kissing her, sharing the funky flavors that I just sampled from her butthole. She opens to me, not only her mouth but her whole self, allowing me to feast upon her until I am sated. She keeps nothing back.

Candlelight and kisses. I may be a nasty old Dom, but I'm still an incurable romantic.

It's true that I've never known surrender as complete as what Ilsa offers. I find it a bit scary. She tells me that she will do anything for me, and I almost believe her. I'm sure that she has limits; everyone has limits, that's SM 101. But I haven't found them yet.

I've used paddles and floggers of every description, clamps and clothespins, electricity and chili oil. I've staked her out, naked and in full view of the world, on the balcony of my condo in January. This is in Minnesota, remember. After ten minutes, her ivory skin turned blue. She never complained, never used her safe word. I hastened to bring her inside, wrap her in blankets and feed her hot tea and brandy. The clear light of adoration in her eyes never wavered. I was the one who felt chastened.

I've shared her at play parties, watching as my friends buggered and beat her. Afterwards, she was more tender and attentive than ever. I'll never forget the night that I invited two rising stars in our community, Master Shark and Mistress Valentine, to come over and try her. They were far rougher on her than I could ever be. After an enema and a caning, being fisted by Shark and pissed on by Valentine, she was bruised and exhausted, but apparently in a state of bliss.

"You know you could always stop them, Ilsa," I told her later. "They know your safe word, and they would honor it."

"But Master," she murmured dreamily, on the edge of consciousness. "I wanted to please you."

She does please me, of course. Sometimes I can't believe my good fortune, to have won the devotion of this angel/slave when she could have chosen a younger, more handsome, more energetic Dom.

Often, though, I realize that there is something wrong in our relationship, something missing. Thinking about her brings on an unpleasant anxiety, vague but annoying.

I'm thinking about her now, as I sit sipping Starbucks cappuccino and trying to read Murakami. Could any person truly be so pliant and submissive? What kind of childhood did she have, to make her this way? When I asked, she told me that her upbringing had been "normal", unexceptional. Did I believe her? Why would she choose a master so much older than she? Old enough to be her father? There must be some secret here, some story she won't, or perhaps can't, share, even with me.

All at once, my thoughts are rudely interrupted. Something slams into my chair from behind. My coffee leaps out of the cup and onto my lap. My cock is scalded, even through my trousers and undershorts. Anger rises in me as I turn to confront the culprit.

"What do you think you're doing? You should be more careful!" I don't need to shout. My voice naturally carries the authority of long years of dominance.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" My first impressions are youth, plumpness, a certain disheveled quality that is not entirely unappealing. "Are you hurt?" She notices the coffee stain spreading over my crotch. "Oh, dear! I am really such a klutz!"

Her eyes are a warm brown behind wire-rimmed glasses. As she gazes in dismay at the mess in my lap, I find, to my chagrin, that my half-boiled penis is hardening in response to her attention.

She doesn't miss this sign. There's still concern in her voice, but I catch a hint of laughter as well. "I really apologize. I'll pay for the dry-cleaning, of course."

"No need," I say, more gruffly than I intend. I pull my chair closer to the wrought iron cafe table, trying to hide my erection. "My housekeeper will get the stain out."

An image flashes involuntarily through my mind: Ilsa on her knees, nude except for her collar, scrubbing at my pants on an old-fashioned washboard. Meanwhile I tower over her, jerking off into her hair. This picture does nothing to reduce my arousal. I think that's the key to being a great dominant -- a kinky imagination that is always at work, even at the most inappropriate moments.

"Oh, please, let me do something to make it up to you! I'll buy you another coffee." Before I can stop her, she's at the counter conferring with the barrista. I pretend to read, but actually I'm surveying her, trying unsuccessfully for a dispassionate evaluation.

She carries more weight than is fashionable, but it's all curves. Her soft olive sweater and jeans emphasize this. She has straight brown hair that she has tried to confine in a ponytail; wisps escape all over to hang untidily around her face. She moves with a determined energy, solid and confident. I contrast her headlong progress as she stumbles among the tables balancing two cups, with Ilsa's fragile grace. There's no comparison. Still, I find, I want her.

She seats herself across from me. "Double cappuccino with skim milk, both cinnamon and chocolate, right?" She barely gives me the chance to nod my assent. "I guess you're a regular here, too. I'm surprised I haven't seen you before."

"I'm pretty inconspicuous," I comment lamely, knowing that with my height and dominant presence, this is not at all true.

"Hardly!" she says with a laugh. "Anyway, I'm glad to meet you now, though I'm sorry to have damaged you and your pants in the process." She tries to steal a glance under the table, to gauge my current state of tumescence. I have foiled her by transferring my book to my lap.

"I'm Kate," she says holding out her hand. "And you are...?"

"Riordan," I say, finally, when it's clear that I can't avoid answering.

"What an unusual name!"

"It's Celtic," I say. "Traditional in my family."

"Well, it's very romantic." Her smile is infectious. "What do you do, Riordan?"

"Officially, I'm retired. Early retirement," I hasten to add. "I was CEO for an industrial equipment distributor. Now I do a bit of this and a bit of that. Play the stock market. Do guest lectures for MBA programs. Write." Train slaves, I think privately. I try to imagine Kate shackled and on her knees and fail utterly.

"I noticed you were reading Murakami and wondered if you were a writer. He's not exactly in the best-seller category." She sighs and stretches her arms over her head, causing her sweater to bulge delightfully, and my cock to follow suit. "I'm working on a novel, myself. In my spare time, of course. My day job is writing advertising copy."

"Well, at least it's writing," I say. This girl confuses me, with her aggressive friendliness.

"Yeah, well... it's not much fun, but it pays the rent." She has an idea; I can literally see it light up her face. "Speaking of apartments, why don't you come over to mine for dinner some time soon?" She places her hand casually on my thigh. "I'm an excellent cook; all my friends say so."

She can see my hesitation. She turns up the pressure. "Please, Riordan, let me make up for my clumsiness by cooking you a nice dinner. How about tomorrow night?"

It's strange to have a woman call me by name instead of "Master". Once again, I have a sense of disorientation. I know I should refuse, for my own sake as well as for Ilsa's. But somehow, I can't. Or at least, I don't.

"All right. What time?"

"How about seven?" She tears a sheet out of her notebook and scribbles something in a round, flowing script. "Here's my address and phone number."

"Uh, thanks." Where did my usual eloquence go?

Kate glances at her watch and stands up so suddenly that she nearly overturns her own coffee. "Oh, god, I've got to go! I'm really late. Is there anything you don't eat?"

I shake my head, speechless in the face of her energy.

"Great! Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then." She grabs my hand and squeezes it enthusiastically. "Thanks for being such a good sport, Riordan."

My hand and my cock are both throbbing in the wake of her whirlwind departure. I'm puzzled by my own reactions. My well-honed instincts tell me that Kate has no interest in kinky games. She's young, fresh, horny, and 100% vanilla. Whereas I have had dominant fantasies since I was in grade school. I really can't understand why the prospect of ordinary, unadorned sex, without any paraphernalia or power exchange, suddenly seems so intoxicating.

Ilsa is waiting for me at the door when I return home. She is completely charming in her French maid costume: translucent black organdy top, frilly lace apron, and bare buttocks. And her collar, of course.

"Good evening, Master. Would you like a cocktail before dinner?"

"Scotch on the rocks. Please." I feel awkward with my sweet slave, in the aftermath of my encounter with Kate. "But I think we will go out for dinner tonight. Wear the green silk sheath. Without any underwear."

"Of course." Ilsa is trying to smother her smile and remain serious and respectful. She loves it when I take her out and show her off. She is already imagining the clinging softness of the silk against her bare skin.

The sting of my palm on her exposed behind brings her out of her reverie. "What about my drink, slave? Do I have to teach you how to provide such a simple service?"

"No, of course not, Master. Right away, sir."

She hurries off, swaying on her spike heels. I admire the reddening image of my hand on her white flesh as she disappears into the kitchen. Perfection indeed.

The next evening, I chain Ilsa to the foot of our bed. "I have to go out," I tell her, as I hand her the water bottle and the chamber pot. "I have some business. I may be quite late."

Why am I lying to her? We both know that I am the Master. I am free to do as I wish. She has chosen to accept that. If I want to see another woman, isn't that my prerogative?

I realize that if I were going to a play party tonight, or to help break in another Dom's slave, I'd be telling Ilsa the truth.

I have no illusions about tonight's dinner engagement. I can see very clearly what Kate wants, could see it long before she opens the door wearing a tight red jersey dress that showcases her ample cleavage and plump, freckled thighs.

We don't even get past the second glass of wine. With dizzying speed, Kate propels me into her bedroom and sucks me into a hot, wet kiss. She tears off my clothes with such abandon that I worry, briefly, about damage. Then she sits me on the bed and does a slow, delicious strip tease in front of me.

She slips one strap off her shoulder and I catch a glimpse of the black lace cradling her lush breasts. The other strap slides down and they're revealed in all their glory. No padding needed here. In fact the lace is so delicate that her rigid nipples visibly distort it.

Next she gradually raises her hem to just below her pubis. "Want more?" she whispers. My swollen cock bobs in my lap. I suppress the urge to grab her, rip her dress open and ravage her, and simply nod.

She pulls the dress over her head, displaying her black satin thong. Her breasts rise and tighten at the motion. My cock aches. I can't take much more of this.

Kate seems be losing patience, too. She slips the thong down her thighs and kicks it away, then unhooks the brassiere in front. Twin globes of ripe flesh spill out. I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly flooded with saliva. With a half smile, Kate takes a step closer and feeds me her abundant tits, one at a time.

Before I can understand how it happens, I am on my back, with Kate astride me, riding me hard. She's wild, bucking and squirming, all her monumental energy focused on that spot where our bodies join. She rubs at her clit with one hand, pinches her nipple with the other. I grab her hips and arch up into her, trying to give her what she needs to push her over the edge.

I'm enjoying myself, of course, but I am somehow removed from the scene. I watch our bodies writhing with the same sense of detachment that I feel observing a couple fucking at a play party. I am simultaneously aroused and distant. I'm as hard as I have ever been, but it feels as though I am a long way from coming.

Her orgasm is a noisy cataclysm, that, to my surprise, sweeps me away with it.

Afterwards, Kate feeds me quiche and salad in bed, washed down with two bottles of white wine. Then she snuggles up to me, trapping me in her arms, feathering my cheeks with kisses. "Thank you, Riordan," she sighs, half asleep already. "That was wonderful. You're a fabulous lover."

I don't respond. What can I say? If you think that was good, you should try me when I've got a flogger and some nipple clamps?

Kate sleeps. I don't. I'm turning the whole experience over in my head, wondering what I have done, and why. I think about Ilsa, waiting for me in chains, and tears prick my eyes.

Near dawn, Kate rolls over, releasing me from her embrace. I tiptoe around the bedroom, gathering and donning my scattered clothes. I notice my shirt is missing two buttons, and that Kate snores.

I should kiss her goodbye, I know, but I'm afraid that I'll wake her. So I sneak out of her apartment like a thief, ashamed and guilty that I am abandoning her.

I haven't smoked in fifteen years, but now I buy a pack of cigarettes at a 7-11 and prowl the empty sidewalks of the city, lighting one after another, shivering in the October chill.

I've already forgotten Kate; it's Ilsa that I'm worried about now. In some strange way, it seems, I've betrayed her trust. She asks nothing more from me than to be her Master, to train her and mold her, to guide her towards more complete submission. To perfect her.

And what do I do? I leave her alone while I chase some juicy vanilla morsel who just wants me for my hard and willing cock.

I'm lazy, that's the plain truth of it. But that's not all. I'm afraid. I tell myself that I can't fathom Ilsa's limits, but have I really tried? Have I accepted the fact that I might need to give her more, push her harder, go deeper with her than I've ever gone with a slave?

Perhaps it's really my limits that need to be expanded. There are things I could do, implements I could use, that I've never tried. To be honest, they make me uncomfortable. If this is what Ilsa requires, though, can I deny her? I understand, suddenly, that it is not only Ilsa who needs to be perfected.

She's asleep, curled up on the carpet, when I tiptoe into the bedroom. A stray beam of early morning sunlight filters through the drapes and gilds her coppery curls. She looks like an angel, but what angel ever displayed the fading pink marks of a caning on her unblemished skin?

A pang of guilt and regret lances through me, as excruciating as physical pain. I don't deserve her. I should set her free.

I am about to turn away and slink out of the room, when she stirs.

"Master," she says, not trying to hide her smile. "You're home." She raises herself onto her knees, thighs spread, wrists clasped at the small of her back, as I taught her. She dares to look up at me. "I missed you."

I need to be stern with her, I remind myself. I need to offer her extremes of pleasure and pain that far surpass anything we've yet experienced together. I must be willing to bring her to the point where she trusts me enough to utter her safe word, without fearing my displeasure. No matter what it takes.

I must be fierce and implacable, cruel and merciless, immune to any doubt or fear, in order to be the Dom that she needs.

Incurable romantic that I am, I can only kneel beside her and take her in my arms.



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