Chapter 1

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Reluctant, BiSexual, BDSM, FemaleDom, Rough, Humiliation, Torture, Slow, .

Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A tale of deliverance.

Let's call him André, though his name hardly matters. And while at it, let's call him a man, even if he wasn't much of one to begin with. Oh, he was tall and strong and hairy and all that, even nicely hung, but he was ... let's call him one of a kind. He knew he was inferior to women. In fact he knew all men were – and he'd always known that.

As a toddler he let little girls pummel him. They'd straddle his body and slap his face. He'd cry, but he'd never protect himself. As a boy girls took advantage of his inability to say no to whatever they asked him. It never dawned on them to be thankful; they took it for granted. Some even despised him for it. Later, as a teenager, he ran their errands and did their homework. He also allowed them to treat him like filth – calling him names and laughing at him whenever they didn't just ignore him. He wasn't hurt or even surprised; he knew it was how things were meant to be.

Boys ridiculed him for it. They called him names like wimp and faggot. They also teased him, trying to lure him into fights. He never took their bait. Most of the time he just turned away. He wouldn't let them taunt him into a fight if he could prevent it. He was stronger and taller than most of them, but if he couldn't avoid them, he would just raise his arms to ward off their punches. He knew it cost him all respect, but that didn't bother him. Boys didn't count; they were nobodies, just like him. The only difference was that he knew it and they didn't – yet.

Soon his lack of response discouraged his bullies.

As a teenager he'd adored girls from a distance. He'd envied them for their relaxed sensuality when he saw them walking hand in hand in the schoolyard. He admired their perfect, graceful bodies and the elegant way they moved. He saw how easy they touched and kissed without a trace of embarrassment. He noticed them sitting on benches braiding each other's hair, huddling together, kissing and sharing secrets, while around him the rowdy silliness of boys raged. He knew he was as male as any of them, but he'd never belong to their uncouth world of blustering violence and Neanderthal grunting. He also knew he would never be part of the girls' world. Of course he yearned to be with them, even be one of them. He'd tried, disastrously, only to find out it was impossible. He would never cross the fence between him and these superior creatures.

But he could dream, couldn't he?

So now he was a man, or to be more precise: he'd settled into the uncouth shape of one. While growing up he'd suffered all the scorches of adolescence that came with the job – the raging hormones, the brainless response to tits and asses, the relentless erections and the blind urge to empty his balls. He knew women found him attractive – his looks, his voice, his cock. And he knew that any normal, blustering male would take advantage of that, thinking it meant something – or, more probably, not thinking at all.

He never stopped thinking. Even when he got to third base with girls – as it is so crudely called in the adolescent lingo – something kept nagging. He couldn't believe he really satisfied them – or himself for that matter. Of course there was the messy spurting and the convincing spasms and moans of the girl he fucked, but there always, always was this certainty that he ought to know better. He was certain that women just toyed with him, as with all men. They saved their true orgasms for themselves, when they had sex with each other – hot, gracious sex; a dizzying dance of tongues and fingers that made their gorgeous bodies arch and churn, their voices sing like angels.

With men they played a devious game, disguising the truth with layers of insincere adoration and mock compliments. All they were really after was prestige and money. He knew he meant nothing to them; it was lust that forced him to go along. But whenever he'd played the male ape to their soft sweet bodies, there would be shame afterwards. There would be this haunting feeling of having been the clumsy bull trampling its way through precious porcelain, leaving only shards and splinters of what might have been.

He tried dating less. He tried avoiding women, even if every fiber of his being screamed to be with them – or at least be allowed around them in the silly hope to catch a glimpse of their eternal secret.

It became harder and harder to even look at girls, though watching them had always been his greatest desire. He started training his budding arousal to a point where it would morph into a wave of shame – shame that would dilute his lust, spreading it through his bloodstream and turning it harmless. It worked, but it often left him with a blinding headache. Soon he lived in constant shame. He avoided girls and retired into an invisible shell made of work and boredom. It protected him, both against what he feared and what he craved, just to avoid his next disappointment.

And then he saw her.

She must have had an appointment with the editor-in-chief at the culinary magazine he worked for as a food journalist. He saw her walk through the maze of desks, cabinets and glass dividers that made up the office floor's landscape. Everything about her was amazing – her bearing, her clothes, her eyes ... Her business suit was black, as was her hair; even her lips were painted black. It was a blackness that contrasted sharply with the pallor of face, her throat and arms, hands and fingers.

It took her only seconds to pass him by – float him by, rather. It was enough to block any attempt at finishing what he was working at. He wondered if he'd taken a breath from the moment he saw her to the moment she went into the editor's office. He didn't die; at least he didn't think so. But he distinctly felt his private universe shift. A myriad of tiny parts tumbled, reshaping his fate.

His head drifted in a halo of hot, humid air. He knew he'd seen more than just a stunning woman. What he'd seen was what he'd glimpsed fragments of all through his life – as a boy when he watched the heavenly creatures in the schoolyard, as a teenager masturbating to the images of their superior presence, as a man cringing under their mocking scrutiny. What he'd seen just now was the final click of a huge, invisible machine that had started constructing his life from the moment of his birth. And now, with this final click, it had pulled him into focus – each and every atom of his being.

He didn't think he'd moved his eyelids until she came out of the office again. When she re-appeared her body was framed by Jenner's three hundred pound ex-quarterback's mass. Jenner was the editor-in-chief. He also was a dog with women. Sniffing one – anyone – seemed to trip an invisible thread running from his nose to his underbelly. Not this time, though. His face wore an inane smile, like a hypnotized hick in a television show. He really seemed confused; his hammy hand shook hers with male awkwardness. She slid out of his grip like a drop of oil from a pail of water, her lips copying the smile of a painting by a long-dead Renaissance master. Then she turned and her eyes found his.

They slid by him at first. It felt as if the sun peeked through thunderclouds, washing his face with warmth for a second, only to plunge him into darkness again. Inexplicable tears pressed against his eyeballs. Then she stopped and looked at him again, doing the slowest double take ever. She walked towards him, her eyes slowly filling the frame of his vision. Each slow-motioned step was echoed by his heartbeat; the booming must have been heard throughout the office.

The eyes approaching were green like emeralds; he felt their blaze against his face – like a summer's breeze in winter. It warmed the stiff coldness of his skin. All blood must have gone. She was the sun to his moon ­– he could only absorb and reflect, basking in it, and knowing at once he might never be able to live without it again.

Then she was gone.

The office lights returned to their glaring selves. The room was empty again, but for the jumble of battered furniture and the shining linoleum. His colleagues crouched over their desks – oblivious to what happened. Did anything happen? He sat and shook. His body shivered while cold sweat evaporated. He felt a growing tightness in his pants. He covered it, feeling the usual shame.

A small square of lilac paper stuck to his computer screen. Words were penned down in black, spidery writing. "Pick me up at the Memphis," it said. "Seven o'clock."

He'd been at the Memphis before. He knew the lobby – the blond wood paneling, the gray stone floor, glass everywhere, a huge clock, and a bank of elevators. He was early, of course. His body felt uncomfortable inside his new white shirt and khaki slacks – like a visiting stranger. He wore too much aftershave too. After checking the clock he walked over to a bench opposite the elevators, and sat down.

All afternoon he'd considered not going. It seemed easier not to; there sure would be embarrassment if he showed up, wouldn't there – awkwardness, humiliation? Hadn't he sworn to avoid girls? Why would this time be different? He'd considered the consequences of going – the confrontation, the conversation, the lack of conversation, the lulls in conversation, the banalities. There would be the sickening demands of convention, and of course, the unavoidable disappointment. He'd considered everything, and reconsidered, but the simple thing was: he couldn't stay away.

That afternoon, trying on his new slacks in the hot fitting cubicle of the department store, he was caught by the reflection of his face in the tall mirror. It was just another face, he thought, only special to him because it always had been his. Long nose, dark curly hair, black eyebrows ... nervous eyes. Nothing new. So why did she pick him? What did she think? Had there been amusement in her gaze, irony or even sarcasm? He couldn't remember. He remembered nothing but this sea of emerald green, engulfing him.

Yes, he shouldn't have come. But yes, he couldn't stay away.

The clock's hand passed seven. Was he supposed to wait for her down here, or should he go up? The note had been vague on that. "Pick me up at the Memphis. Seven o'clock" was all it said. No room number, no specification. Women would be late, he knew, it was part of the game. So he waited for another quarter. At twenty past seven he rose and went to the desk. The girl behind it was blond. She wore a white starched blouse, pancake on her face and too much mascara. He opened his mouth and realized there was nothing he could say. He had no name, no room number, nothing. He felt the muscles of his face force themselves into a smile, his eyebrows rising. Then he turned on his heels and walked back to the bench.

Half past seven came and went. He considered leaving. He considered staying. He tried to look at himself through the eyes of the girl at the desk, seeing how pathetic he was. The green-eyed woman had played him. He had played along. And now she stood him up. Maybe she was watching him. Did he feel hurt, miserable? He didn't. There was this taste of 'just desserts, ' a bittersweet taste that seemed to suit him. She had played the game and he had played along; she'd been in her regal position, he in ... well, his. He started to rise when the doors of the left elevator opened.

She looked incredible. Her leather jacket was tight and deep dark green, as was her calf length skirt. The jacket's zipper stopped at the base of her breasts, displaying a lot of pale cleavage. She looked chic and elegant, but in a blatantly pornographic way. The skirt's front zipper was closed from her waist to half of her thighs, leaving the rest of her stocking clad legs free and visible until they disappeared in black high-heeled ankle boots.

She was not alone. Left and right of her were two intensely bluish-black women. They were tall and looked like fashion models in colorful outfits that hugged their bodies at chest and waist and hip, only to blossom out in other places. They looked like extravagant flowers, swaying on the stems of high-heeled sandals – or rather they were a twittering flock of exotic birds invading the quiet lobby.

As they crossed the hall a cloud of sweet perfume spread.

None of them was aware of the world around them. They talked in high, exaggerated sentences, gesturing, smiling, giggling. And they passed him by without notice. He had risen, hands out, smile on his face. But the black-haired, pale woman didn't even see him. She didn't look. She didn't stop. All he could do was watch her slip through the revolving doors, smile at the doorman and disappear with her friends into a waiting taxi. Their giggles echoed in his head. His hand still reached out to get their attention. All he could do was stare at the spot where the cab had been, until the clearing of a throat woke him up to the present.

The girl in the starched blouse held out a scrap of paper – lilac paper. He stared at it. Then he slowly took it from her hand. On it was the spidery writing he knew. "Something came up," it said. "Tomorrow same time, same place?"

The note hadn't been kind, really, or even an excuse, had it? Maybe not, but he was here again, wasn't he? Same time, same fucking place? Same damn bench, same clock, same dizzy schoolboy arousal? Sure, but it didn't feel like he'd accepted. It didn't even feel as if he'd had a say in the matter. It felt like coercion – self-inflicted coercion if that was at all possible. He'd forced himself to be here. Or had he?

He hurt and he didn't know why. He'd been stood up before. He'd been ridiculed and let down by girls, and although it had made him feel embarrassed, he'd had no trouble accepting it : they were women, he was a man. But this time it seemed to cut deeper. The black haired, ghostly pale goddess had cut him off from a destiny she'd promised with her eyes. She'd promised and he'd believed. Losing her was like losing life. It made him a fish pulled from the water and left flapping around, gasping for air. It hurt.

It hurt so much that all he could do was come back here – same time, same place, sitting on the same fucking bench, looking at the same fucking elevator-doors that didn't open to produce her. There was no reason to expect she'd keep her promise this time. There wasn't even reason for hope. And yet, here he was, waiting – folding and refolding the scrap of lilac paper. He didn't know why. He just knew he couldn't be anywhere else right then.

The doors never opened. Well, of course they did, but never to produce her. Each time there was a bell and a light coming up. Then one of the three doors slid open, exposing the neon-lit interior and spreading a sigh of muzak. All kinds of people came out; overweight businessmen, old ladies with poodles, giggling girls, even an Arab with three heavily veiled women in tow.

The cruel 'ping' of the bell ate away at his nerves. It cranked up his expectations, only to crush him with another stab of disappointment. Half an hour went by until he finally rose and walked over to the desk. The white starched blouse held another woman's chest today, he saw – an ampler one that tugged at its buttons. She smiled. He showed his lilac scrap of paper.

"Yesterday," he said, "I had an appointment with one of your guests here – a black-haired, pale-skinned woman in her twenties. She handed your colleague this note and she then gave it to me. It is for another appointment – now."

The girl studied the note. Then she looked up with a vacant smile. He felt the futility of his mission.

"Maybe, uhm..." he went on, "maybe you know who she is. She, ah, dresses quite, uhm, exotic. Yesterday she was in the company of two tall African women, fashion models I'd say..."

It was hopeless. The girl kept smiling, but her face was a solid question mark.

"Do you maybe have a name, sir?" she asked. "A room number?" Of course he hadn't. He imagined how this would come across. Man at five star hotel asks for woman he doesn't even know the name of.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, sir," she said, replacing the smile with a frown. "Even if I knew who she was, it would be against hotel policy to give you her room number. It's because of privacy, you see? I hope you understand."

He understood, he softly cursed and he walked back to the bench to once more sit down and wait. But now there wasn't just the frustration of the elevator doors, there was also the receptionist's gaze of pity each time he looked her way. The combination of the two became too much. He rose and walked to the exit's big revolving doors. On his way he noted the entrance to the hotel bar. A sudden, overwhelming urge made him turn towards it. It wasn't thirst, he knew – it was an unbearable need to numb his brain with alcohol.

As he entered, he saw her.

She was the center of a small group of people sitting and standing at the bar, three men and a woman. They were talking and laughing. It was amazing how many details he noticed in what might only have been a few seconds. Her finger ran around the rim of her glass, making her silver bracelets jingle. Her lips were close to the ear of one of the men, whispering. Peals of laughter filled the room. Suddenly all eyes were on him. He took two steps back towards the bar's exit, as if pushed by invisible hands.

"My little journalist!" Her voice was sweet and warm, as was her smile. "So here you are at last. Why did you make me wait? Never make me wait, honey."

She had slid off her stool, the long, deeply slit skirt closing over her legs. Her hands turned the glass around in front of her lap. Ice cubes added their jingle to the jangle of her bracelets – tiny sounds to fill the sudden silence. The faces of the others floated behind hers, their eyes fixed on him. He stood speechless, watching her walk over.

Her hand touched his cheek. The liquid emerald of her eyes rushed in like a tide. Without looking away she said:

"Guys, meet my little journalist. He's a sweetheart. He waited two days to be with me." Her mouth opened into a smile; her laugh was careless and silvery. Then she leant forward, pressing her lips hard on his. Her hand travelled to the back of his head, pulling him in while her tongue forced his lips to open.

She was greedy, he thought, she took what she wanted. And he gave, gagging from the sudden invasion. His arms hung uselessly down his sides while hers pulled him into a hug. The soft globes of her breasts flattened against his chest; her scent engulfed him like a cloud. He felt weak in her embrace. Her mouth gobbled him up – the caterpillar lips, the dancing fish of her tongue. She made the world disappear around him – the bar, the people. She killed him like a widow spider and yet she had the softness of its gossamer web. She was the proverbial praying mantis eating its lover – yet she was tender like a child.

When she at last stopped, he felt dizzy; he wobbled on his knees. She licked her lips and smiled, turning to her friends at the bar.

"He kisses well!" she exclaimed. Then she turned back to him, her eyes sparkling as she said: "Do you love me?"

The question floored him. He knew it was preposterous and yet it felt perfectly natural. Did he love her? He'd only just met her, hadn't he? And all the time she'd kept him on the wrong foot – confusing him with her capricious promises and her whimsical attitude. How could he even begin to love her? She'd hurt him and disappointed him; she'd ridiculed him in front of strangers. And yet she asked him if he loved her?

She held his gaze. He just stood there, utterly confused. Her hand reached out and her fingers cleaned traces of lipstick from his chin.

"Well, anyway," she said. "Now run and think about it." She pushed him, making him turn. He was at a loss. Did she dismiss him?

"Shooo," she said, laughing as her hands made waving movements from her wrists. The laughter of her companions made the hair in his neck rise. He stepped outside and was drowned by the pouring rain.

After coming home and peeling the drenched clothes off his limbs he took a shower. It soothed him. He loved to shower when he felt miserable – letting the hot water soak his naked body through and through. The fragrant clouds of steam mercifully cut off the world. He closed his eyes, while his hands spread bathing oil over his slippery torso. He felt the hard nipples against his palms, hidden in their nests of hair. He also felt his rib cage and the hollow of his tightly muscled stomach. He avoided his cock, spreading the oil on his thighs and calves. Going up he kneaded his ass cheeks, pulling the muscles tight until they felt like well-polished wood.

Fuck, he thought. He had a man's well-trained body and he should be proud of it. It was hard and hairy in all the right places; a woman's dream and yet he cursed it. Standing under the cascading water he dreamt how his massaging fingers turned the skin and muscles into creamy softness – slick and hairless, curvy and sweet. A wave of sensuality engulfed him. He cursed again as he felt his cock stiffen. His eyes opened; a trembling sigh left his mouth.

It was all so goddamned unfair. Here he was, prepared to put women, any woman, on a pedestal. He worshipped them, adored them, lay down his life for them. In return, all they did was refuse him, ridicule him – making him feel like the vilest turd. And the most humiliating thing was: he loved them even more for doing it.

After turning the water off he stepped out of the cubicle. He grabbed a large white towel and rubbed himself dry. The steamed-up mirror showed glimpses of his body; it made him look like a ghost.

"You idiot," he said to his reflection. "What on earth did you think? Haven't you learned yet that peasants don't get into the castle?" He hated how even now he tried to use metaphors like the silly romantic fool he was.

All thoughts of drowning himself in alcohol were gone.

Drinking herbal tea from a huge glass at the counter of his kitchen, he decided to give up his preposterous ambitions to be with the black haired woman. He chuckled at the word "decided." As if there had been even one moment where it had been up to him to 'decide' anything. He was masterfully reeled in and dumped, humiliated, ground into the earth under the cruel but elegant heel of a woman. He should count his blessings – he'd been worthy enough for her to crush him.

The bitterness of the tea suited him nicely.

The next days were awful, but they were heaven compared to the nights. At daytime he could work. He could drag himself out of bed and into the office. He could loose himself in writing articles, in doing research, making phone calls, listening without hearing to the innate chats and gossips at the coffee machine – about sports, women, the sizes of tits, the firmness of asses.

While the days dragged on, he got better at forgetting. By day three an entire half hour could pass without him thinking of her. There was just this background ache left – throbbing. But then there were the nights he spent in bed alone, staring into darkness, unable to sleep. Or waking up from dreams filled with seas of emerald, ghostly pale skin and fat, swollen lip flesh stretching into mocking smiles. He'd wake up sweating, flipping on the light to try and read a page or two in vain, scared to return to sleep – his eyes hurting from the lack of sleep.

On day four there was a phone call.

He was at his desk, right in the middle of writing how torching an eggplant could improve the taste of baba ganoush. Her voice was a breeze – a gush of hot air crawling into his ear. It felt intimate; too intimate. It licked at the ear's insides, swirling through its convoluted passage – invading his brain. It felt like rape.

"Hi, honey," it breathed. "Did you miss me?" He didn't hear what she said; not the words as such. What he heard was 'open up, let me in.' Her words were almost like a physical force, pushing, penetrating. They made him feel dizzy. They also made him perfectly helpless.

When he failed to answer, she laughed. It was a throaty chuckle, merrily mocking him.

"It is all right, honey," she said. 'All right?' He couldn't agree less. His throat seemed strangled by a fist, his eyes burning. His brain was an empty, airy attic.

"Tonight around seven," she whispered. "At the Seventh Cloud. It is a cute Thai place. I love Thai. Make reservations, please, honey, and be on time."

A metallic click and a string of beeps told him she'd hung up. A gush of fresh air invaded his mind. His throat opened again. He coughed. Only then did he know what to say, or rather: found the power to say it.


It took him all of the rest of the morning to consider if saying 'no' would be the right thing to do. It would be the wisest, no doubt, and the healthiest for sure. It was the thing a real man would do, wouldn't it? But he knew that for him it would also be the shortest road to misery, to lying awake at night, endlessly doubting his decision and ending up regretting it. A once-in-a-lifetime chance would have slipped away, although he had no idea what chance. He knew she would humiliate him again. She would play with him, and ridicule him without a doubt. But he felt he didn't care. Even the fear of being crushed tasted sweet.

It took him another hour to admit that his resistance was just make-belief. He craved to be with the woman at any prize. Amidst fear he found the courage to be honest. And when he did, a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

He took the phone and made the reservation.

The restaurant was already packed when he arrived, ten minutes early. He wore his one good suit over a white dress shirt. He'd polished his shoes. Their table was in the back, a small two-person affair tucked away in a corner. He smiled. There were candles and dark wood paneling all around.

He sat down at the table, facing the entrance. After fifteen minutes that felt like an hour the nagging feeling returned: she was late again. Would she come at all? At twenty minutes he shrugged. He'd been early. It meant she was only ten minutes late. Anything could make you ten minutes late. His throat was dry. He ordered a glass of mineral water. Another five minutes passed. The volume of the voices around him rose. He watched the smiling faces, the happy people. Detracted, he almost missed her entrance.

She was dressed in a simple black dress under a short black coat that she wore open. She showed some cleavage. Her black hair framed her pale face. It wore a blood red smear where her mouth was. She smiled seeing him. And she was not alone. Beside her was one of the tall African fashion models he'd seen at the hotel – willowy thin and over six feet on heels. Her dress was made of salmon silk, tightly wrapped around her night-black body. Her glossed lips were painted salmon too. They stretched in a dazzling stage-smile.

When they arrived at his table, things got awkward. He rose, not quite knowing what to do. His hands swam useless in the space between them. He couldn't hug her, could he? He tried smiling. He tried faking a relaxed attitude – failing.

"See, Tasha?" the pale woman said to her dark friend. "This is the one I told you about." Her green eyes sparkled. He reached for the African girl's hand, feeling it slip in and out of his like a limp fish. He murmured his name.

"Ah well, to each his own, I guess," Tasha said after looking him over. She sounded disinterested. Then she sat down on one of the two chairs. The pale woman (he still didn't know her name) took off her short jacket, handing it to him while her eyes stayed on her friend.

"Now watch how he takes this to the wardrobe," she said. Without looking she dropped the jacket; he could just about catch it. Then she slid past him, sitting down on the other chair, the one he'd occupied. He stood with the jacket in his hands, wondering why he didn't run.

"And you know, Tasha..." she said to her companion, ignoring him, "on his way back here he'll bring us each a nice dry white wine. I'm sure he knows what we like."

After he returned with the wine and a blush, he put the glasses in front of them. Only then did he realize his predicament. The women occupied both chairs at the small table and even if there had been a spare chair to borrow from other tables, he'd never find the space to put it down. He stood, awkwardly, and was ignored by the women who'd stuck their faces together in vivid talk.

After a minute he cleared his throat. He had to do it again before the white woman looked up. She smiled, pulling up her eyebrows. His hands tried to point out his predicament while he searched for words.

"I, eh, I thought," he said, staring into the emerald eyes; they looked at him in silent expectation.

"I assume," he tried again. "I assume that ehm, Tasha will..." His voice petered out. The green eyes were a sea now in which he swam around, kicking helplessly.

"Will she stay?" he blurted out.

Dark long lashes closed over the green expanse once, twice. Then she returned to her friend, ignoring him.

"Could you believe this?" she said to Tasha, her tone of voice a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I invite you. You are my best friend. And now he wants to send you packing. How rude can you get?" She laid her hand on Tasha's.

"But," he tried again, perplexed. "But where do I sit?"

His question seemed to honestly surprise her. She looked up to him and back to Tasha, laughing. Tasha seemed bored. When the white woman repeated: "Can you believe this?" the other just shrugged, muttering "men."

"You are so right," his date for the evening said to her friend. "Let him stand where he is now. And while he's at it, he might as well get the waiter's attention. I'm starving and so are you, no doubt."

He should have left; he knew he already should have left twice before. He felt a hot, bitter rage; it tasted of bile. But he didn't leave. What he did was raising his hand, signaling for the waiter. The man stared him into the face. Then he turned away, and started cleaning a table. He waved again. When the man at last arrived, he brought them two menus. After the women studied them, they ordered each a simple salad and water. The waiter collected the menus. Then he turned to him, leaning in and whispering: "I'm afraid you can't keep standing around like this, sir. Please sit down."

He looked at the waiter feeling beyond ridiculous.

"But there is no chair," he said, looking around.

More and more people turned and watched. The two women at his table never looked up; they kept gossiping intimately as they had done before. He shrugged, spreading his arms.

"Okay. I guess I'll leave," he said. When he turned to go, he felt a hand on his arm. Looking down he saw that it belonged to his date. He grimaced at the qualification. She waved him closer. He bent at his waist until his head was a few inches from hers. He smelled her perfume. Then he felt her breath on his ear.

"Don't leave, please," she whispered. "I know you can't keep standing around and you can't sit either. But you can kneel, can't you?" She turned her eyes to her African friend again.

"Tasha," she said, "would you very much mind if he knelt beside me?" Tasha shrugged. He groaned and started to rise, withdrawing his face. But the pale woman's hand stopped him again.

"See?" she went on addressing the other woman, while shoving her chair an inch to the left. "He can kneel here, beside me, so he won't stick out and get all this embarrassing attention. I bet the waiter won't mind."

His face was like a furnace. Her mouth smiled and she nodded in encouragement while moving another inch or two. He knew it was all a set-up. He knew he was being played and had been ever since he saw her at the editing room. Every step he had taken these last few days had been engineered by her. And yet he believed he had taken each decision by himself. How could she have known him so well? Was he that transparent?

Waves of disgust overwhelmed him as he stood there, half-bent, his eyes moving around the room. Then his knees gave. They touched the floor and the tabletop was just below his shoulders. He felt a hand against his back, nudging him to get even closer to the table. His chin was right above the top now, a whine glass and silver cutlery very close, as was a small vase with a sprite of orchids. He hated orchids. Looking up he saw the waiter had gone. People all around were watching though. Hot embarrassment made him sweat. A soft hand patted his head.

"Bravo," a voice – her voice – breathed. Then there was giggling.

When the food arrived, she started feeding him, picking up morsels with the tips of her chopsticks while talking to her friend.

"Can't have him starving, our big boy," she said, keeping a straight face. "He might need his strength later on." Both women chuckled. She let a small piece of chicken fall before it arrived at his mouth. He reached for it to pick it off the table, but the chopsticks landed hard on his fingers.

"Tssk," she said, pursing her mouth and shaking her head. "Such poor manners. I suppose he should keep his hands behind his back, don't you think, Tasha? Mommy will feed him. Can't have him messing up this fine restaurant!"

He felt awful. He also felt miserable, humiliated, embarrassed and very, very angry with himself. No one forced him to kneel at this table in a restaurant full of people, being fed like a nestling. His hands weren't tied; he could just rise and leave and never come back. But he didn't. He'd waited in the hotel lobby. He had let himself be ridiculed at the bar. Now here he was again, stripped of the last threads of dignity by a woman and her friend who didn't even bother to include him in their conversation.

Of course he knew why he'd stayed. He knew why he held his hands clasped on his back, shaking with tremor. He knew that, under all his rage, there was a deeper layer pulsing with the pace of his racing heart. It was a pulsing he also felt in his crotch, although he knew he wasn't hard at all. He didn't have to check; there was a warm, tingling sensation, but his cock felt soft, like a sponge. It might leak. It sometimes did when he suppressed his arousal. He wondered if maybe the front of his gray pants would be stained. Another wave of shame shook his body.

The African woman chuckled as she watched his flushing face.

"Regarde," she said in her contralto voice. "Il est si mignon. Je t'envie, chérie." His French was good enough to feel pissed off by her words. He was cute, she said? He looked at her, almost ready to spit out his anger. But it just as soon melted away. She was too damn beautiful and so very much aware of it – the sheer elegance of her slender wrists; the self-evident haughtiness of her long, bare neck stunned him into silence. One of her fat-laced eyelids closed over her liquid eye. She winked at him, pouting generous lips. A squirt of liquid hit the crotch of his boxer short. He knew for sure they would smell it.


The word pulled him out of his trance. He turned his face in the direction of the pale woman he still didn't know the name of. Had she talked to him? His eyes searched for hers, but before he caught them, he felt a hand between his legs – her hand, he supposed. It slowly rubbed the place where she might have expected an erection.

"Oh my," she said, her eyes widening. Her rubbing became more intense, but she might as well have massaged his shoulder or leg. His mind buzzed, taking him to the brink of fainting, but the soft cotton ball between his thighs stayed as numb as ever.

"My God!" she cried out. "He isn't even hard."

She said it loud enough for the closest people to hear. The shock of her words sent new pulses into his brain – and a gush of piss from his bladder. The sheer humiliation forced tears from his eyes, running down his cheeks. He saw heads turn. If there was ever a perfect moment to die, it was now. But the woman wasn't yet done with him.

"Eeww!" she exclaimed, bringing her hand above board. She shook it theatrically. "He is soaked – drenched like a slut." Bringing her fingertips to her nose she faked gagging.

"It is piss!" she cried out. Then she started laughing, pointing her finger. Between two fits she gasped and said to Tasha: "He is wetter than you and I ever were, honey."

He felt a second hand reach for his crotch. From the way Tasha leant in, he could tell it was hers. Long-nailed fingers scratched his bulge before closing around it. Her hand was quite a bit more vigorous than when she'd shaken his upon entering.

She truly jerked him off.

He looked from the pale woman to the African one and back. He begged them mutely to stop. But they didn't see him; they just looked at each other eagerly, their mouths half open. Their chests heaved in obvious excitement. Tasha's shoulder and upper arm moved with her ministrations. He did know what she expected, but all she achieved was a wider-spreading numbness – and a growing tightness in his throat. He gasped. His consciousness retired into a glowing pinpoint at the center of his head. Then he fainted. He sagged sideways against the woman's chair, only held up by the jerking hand of her friend. She tired of her pointless exercise and let him slide under the table.

His lights went out. He heard a voice murmuring: "He's worthless, but he's such a sweet boy. I guess I'll allow him to love me."

When he came to he felt a hand shaking his shoulder. Through a dark mist swam the face of the waiter. "Sir?" it said, or mimed, as he didn't hear him. He turned his head to find himself lying amidst a small forest of chair and table legs. As he tried to get up, a spell of dizziness attacked him. He closed his eyes again, but the hand kept shaking. There were audible words now.

"Sir? Are you all right?" He groaned and got halfway up, testing the floor beneath his elbows; it seemed solid enough. Then he saw the big dark stain at the crotch of his pants. New flashes of embarrassment shook him as he scurried up, trying to cover it.

"Where... ?" he asked.

"I suppose you fainted, sir," the waiter said. "Should I get a doctor?"

He looked around.

"Where are the... ?" he asked.

"Ah," the waiter said. "The ladies left, informing me where you, eh ... were. They said not to worry, it happened often. Oh, and they said you'd pay the bill."

He looked at the waiter, hardly understanding what he meant.

"I, ehm... ," he said. "Where are the washrooms?"

Next day he called in sick. That whole night he'd been unable to sleep. His head was a cinema with pictures projected on every wall. Pictures of him kneeling and being fed in public while shrill female voices cackled their delight and hundreds of people watched him. Then there were pictures of him running through a packed restaurant, clutching his crotch to keep people from seeing the very present blotch of piss on his pants. There was the waiter smiling condescendingly while his finger pointed at the sum total on a bill. It is hard to sign a check while trying to cover yourself. He saw people pointing and laughing before he could tear himself free and burst into the street – where he found more people staring.

Why didn't he just take a pill and doze off? His nightmares surely couldn't be worse than the ones he had while awake? But he knew better from the one or two moments he'd nodded off. As soon as he closed his eyes, hers opened. A blast of emerald penetrated the crevices of his mind, mercilessly blowing away every cobweb or veil of gossamer that might flatter his self-image. Her gaze exposed each wrinkle and blemish, all of his failures and weaknesses. He stood naked; he was his own mirror, his own reflection. And he knew he could never escape this woman. He got stuck not because he couldn't leave, but because he didn't want to.

She'd covered him with shame and mortification and he'd lapped it all up. She'd exposed his spineless nature to her arrogant friend and they had laughed at his expense. She had effectively diminished him, taking away his manhood. He'd wanted to die, but at the same time he'd never felt more alive. He'd tasted the bile of his disgust while at the same time savoring every minute of being with her. Was this who he really was? Had she known all along and pushed him over an edge? Was there ever an edge? Was he going crazy?

Those were questions he ought to ask, no doubt. But, and this was the real nightmare, they weren't his foremost concerns. His biggest question – elbowing out every other one – was how he could meet her again.

That question was answered towards the end of the next morning. His phone woke him from a patch of exhausted sleep he'd found three hours earlier. His brain refused to notice the frantic ringtone for a while, but it never stopped. He picked up his phone, fumbling. His mouth had to open and close like a frog's before he could croak a "hello." There was a metallic giggle on the other end. It made him shiver. It also blew away all sleepiness.

"You were still asleep, you naughty boy," the voice said. It was hers, of course. The 'naughty boy' irritated him; so did the giggling. He tried to disconnect, but his thumb refused to obey.

"I hardly slept at all," he whispered, not knowing why he told her this.

"You couldn't sleep?" she asked, her breath quickening. "Because of me? How romantic!" He could almost taste her sarcasm. Or was it?

"Yesterday was a nightmare," he said. It scored him a moment of silence on the other side. He filled it at once. "You made me want to die. Your friend, the waiter, all those people ... Why did you have to do that?"

"Silly question, honey," she answered, her voice back to normal. "I did it for you. I assumed you liked it. If you didn't agree, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you leave? I would have understood." Of course her finger had found the one sore spot – unerringly. Why hadn't he left indeed?

This time it was he who let a pause go on. He wasn't surprised she did not fill it; pauses were her thing – letting someone wait was her specialty.

At last she broke the impasse.

"Your silence tells me you don't know the answer to my question. Well, let me explain. You couldn't leave because you can't live without me. The thought abhors you, but you'd rather be tortured and humiliated by me than being left alone." Another pause fell until she broke it with a chuckle. "No need to tell me that I'm right, honey – I know."

He did not protest. He wouldn't know how; she was right of course. What other reason could there be? When he at last took a breath to answer, she cut him off.

"Enough of this, honey. Why keep explaining when both of us already understand? I want you to cook for me tonight, at your place. Don't worry, it'll be just me. Let me know where to go and at what time. You have my number now." The connection went.

He saved her number and at last saw her name.

He loved cooking. No, it was more than that. He loved everything about food. From the sensual touch of a ripe tomato to the heady smell of freshly grated ginger, from the opulent displays at a fresh food market to the overwhelming rush of feelings when a complex sauce he made turned out perfect. The bright red juices squeezing out of a pomegranate aroused him as deeply as the cool salty flesh of an oyster sliding down his throat. He loved food and everything about it.

He never wondered where this fascination came from. It had been there since he was a child, watching his mother and aunts go through the age-old rituals of, say, baking a pie – the nonchalant sprinkling of flower, followed by the strong, sensual kneading of the dough. He loved watching the simple act of breaking an egg – the flow of the transparent white, the shiver of the golden yolk. Or hearing the thousand-and-one small fragments of cooking lore that had been handed down from mother to daughter, ever refining as the generations passed – gaining the stature of unwritten law. He never thought, but maybe his fascination came from finding this to be the one gateway into womanhood that wasn't denied him.

The pale woman was on time and she looked like her younger sister. She also seemed to have shed her bitchy persona. Her face was hardly made up and her hair cut into a shorter style. She wore a flower-printed summer dress – maize-yellow and blue. It buttoned down all the way from her throat to a hem that flared out a few inches shy of her knees. Her legs were bare, her feet in flip-flops. Every sign of broody femme-fatalism seemed to have been blown away by the summer breeze. She'd even brought a bunch of colorful lilies. He knew her name now, but it made no difference; he'd never dare using it.

He'd decided not to invite her to his bachelor's lair in town, but to a place friends had asked him to keep an eye on while they were abroad. It was a huge old place, situated amidst the remains of a wooded estate that dated back to the eighteenth century. It had formal gardens, a coach-house and stables that had been empty for a long time. It also had the most wonderful kitchen he'd ever seen.

After taking care of the flowers he took her on a tour of the premises. She seemed duly impressed by the elegant rooms and corridors, although most of the house was closed up. She admired the fragile antique furniture and the many paintings of long-gone thoroughbred horses. She laughed when they passed a rack of ancient whips and riding crops, picking one up. She expertly bent it until it creaked; then let it cleave the air with a whoosh.

"Wow," he said. "You ride horses? I'd never have thought." She'd turned around, dangling the crop before his eyes, a sparkle in her eyes.

"Moi?" she asked. "Horses? My God, no! I'm scared of the creatures. Too tall, too dangerous." And she'd laughed.

"Well," he'd gone on. "But you seem to have a way with the instruments," picking up another of the crops.

"Ah... ," she said, standing closer and running the soft leather flap across his cheek. "But who needs horses to appreciate a well-worn crop?" There wasn't much left of the sweet new innocence on her face. A touch of frost had invaded summer. Then she danced away, laughing.

They had gone outside, walking across the court and through the geometric plan of the French gardens. She'd been her old new self again, taking in the scent of roses and picking up daisies. They'd looked into the stables, where she'd been disappointed that the smell of hay and horses was gone. She'd caressed the cracked leather of ancient saddles, letting the metal bits and chains rattle while she passed.

"Lovely!" she cried out. "So very rustic."

When they walked back to the house, they passed a low, squat building with a heavy, hatch-like door.

"What is this?" she asked when he'd already gone by. He turned back.

"Ehm," he said, trying to remember. "I guess it is the old ice-cellar. It is the place where they stored ice before refrigerators came by."

"Can I see it?"

"Don't know if I have a key."

"But it is open." She'd tried the handle and the hatch creaked open. A whiff of ancient air, moldy and earthlike, greeted them. They had to bend low to enter. The only light came from the open hatch.

"Creepy," she said, her breath quickening. Her hand found his as they walked in deeper – he loved the way her fingers squeezed. There wasn't anything to be seen. Just a stone cubicle, empty but for curtains of cobwebs that attacked them with clammy fingers.

"Eww!" she cried out. "Let's get out of here."

He poured her a Chardonnay and himself a glass of Belgian ale before starting their meal. There was vegetarian lasagna already simmering in the oven; it filled the air with its aroma. He considered asking her to help chop vegetables for a salad, but she showed no inclination to help at all.

"I'm an awful cook," she admitted, smiling. "I love to watch, though." And watch she did, sipping her wine and re-crossing her legs while seated on her high stool. He took in the elegance of her movements before concentrating again on his work.

"You are very good," she said, after a while. He shrugged.

"I like cooking. It's part of my job, remember?" She smiled.

"It's more than a job to you," she observed. "How you touch those tomatoes. You love the way they feel, no?" He looked up, meeting her gaze. He'd expected her to be smiling, but she wasn't. Her eyes had recaptured the intensity that had kept him awake these last nights and visited him in his sleep. An icy finger touched his spine.

"Ah, well," he muttered.

"If not cooking, André, what is it you really love?" she asked. "Tell me." She leant forward, her bracelets tingling.

"Big question," he said, smiling, stalling. He scraped chopped sweet onions from the board, avoiding her eyes. Her hand touched his.

"I'm not very good at small questions," she said, her smile limited to the corners of her mouth. "I'm really bad at small talk too." He looked up, feeling lost; then her eyes caught his.

"Listen, André," she said. "I don't care much for men. I am a girl who loves girls. Oh, I do treat myself to a hard cock once in a while, but I usually don't care much for the guy attached." She smiled, squeezing his hand.

"But you seem different," she went on. "You aren't gay, are you?" Her eyes shifted with minute movements, observing him. Then she shook her head. "No, you are not. I know quite a few gay men, transvestites too, sissies. But you are not. And yet, you ... you yield – you always seem to give in. I was amazed at the shit you took from me, honey – at the hotel bar and at the restaurant. You could have refused, you could have run, you could even have hit me for being the spoilt brat I am. But you didn't. Why?" She let go of his hand and sat back watching him. He was in turmoil.

He had never told a girl about his true feelings. And thank God they had never really asked. His dates had been superficial affairs, mostly, choreographed by convention – drinking, talking, kissing, necking, grabbing tits, fingering pussy, having his cock sucked ... It didn't matter how far a girl allowed him to proceed, he'd feel unsatisfied and frustrated afterwards – ashamed by the shallowness of it all. Lately the sheer embarrassment caused his cock more often than not to refuse getting hard, even while sucked by enthusiastic mouths or eager hands. After that a girl wouldn't ask about his feelings; she'd just stop seeing him.

But this woman was different, he knew.

She was curious, not bound by any convention. She seemed to know instinctively where he lived. He wouldn't be at all surprised if she already knew his answers before he gave them. She always had been two steps ahead – at the hotel, at the restaurant, and at the phone.

So he said, "You already know," after clearing his clogged throat. "You know who I am – even better than I do." Her lashes fluttered.

"Do I?" she asked. She picked up her glass, taking a sip. "I only know that you are very, very submissive, honey. My true question again is: why?"

He picked up a large red pepper, just to have something else to focus on. He cut it lengthways and scraped out the seeds. Then he started chopping it, the knife dancing close to his fingers.

"I don't know why," he said, finding the courage to speak as long as he didn't look up. "I've always been like this ­– submissive to girls, I mean." He stopped, shoving the minced pepper into the salad. Then he made quite a production of cleaning the board and the knife under the running tap. The girl kept quiet. He felt her gaze without looking.

"I don't usually talk about this," he went on, "but I have always found women superior to men." He suddenly looked her in the eyes. "The way they move and talk; the way they ... do things." His voice seemed to start fading as his eyes wavered. Then he took hold of himself again. "Women own the world and they know it. We just live in it – as long as we are tolerated ... We are their ... janitors at best."

He stopped and the girl let the silence stretch, saying nothing; she just held his gaze until he went on.

"The only reason I am telling you this," he said, "is because you don't leave me options to deny it. Ever since we met, you forced me to admit to who I really am. It is uncanny. You play me, making me wait and wait, humiliating me in the bar and in the restaurant; ignoring me with Tasha, making me wet myself and leaving me helpless and exposed. You never seem to doubt that I'll do what you expect; so why ask now?"

She didn't answer. She sipped her wine. Then she nodded.

"Get naked," she said.

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned away. The almost horizontal rays of the evening sun gave her body a one-sided halo. She looked achingly beautiful. She also seemed distant like a visiting angel perched on a pedestal. He opened the buttons of his shirt, letting it slide off his shoulders. He undid his belt and his pants fell to the floor. His boxers followed. He stepped out of them. Then he kicked off his boat shoes; he wore no socks.

Her eyes travelled down his naked body, noting the toned flesh, the broad shoulders and the narrow hips. His chest and arms were hairy, so were his legs. A well-sized cock hung limply down in a nest of pubic hair.

"There's an apron on the wall," she said after looking him up and down. "I think you should wear it and cover that ... thing between your legs." He looked around, finding the piece of clothing. It was pink, small and obviously feminine, frilled around the edges and the wide straps. It just covered half his chest and his loins, the delicate fabric contrasting ridiculously with his hairy frame.

"Better, I guess," she said, smiling. "Now walk around the counter and come over to me."

He did. His head felt hot; it must have been beet red. He felt embarrassed and yet strangely honored. He knew the shame was just a remnant of convention; the honor was real. It was the honor of her noticing him. With each step, the burning shame faded, turning into a glow that flushed his entire body. Then he stood right in front of her, their eyes almost level.

She reached for his face, a finger tracing his jaw. Her eyes filled his vision.

"Now kneel," she said, "please." He knelt in front of her dangling legs. After a minute he looked up.

"Don't look up," she said. He looked away, his ears burning.

"Take off my flip flops." He did, lifting each foot tenderly before removing the flimsy footwear. Touching her skin sent a thrill down his body.

"Ah yes, right there," she sighed. "Rub my feet, honey, they are tired." He did. His big hands cupped her left foot and his fingers started to massage the arched sole, the instep and the toes. Then he changed to her right foot. Feeling the delicate bones shift under his fingertips made his mind buzz.

"I love you, Miss," he muttered into the flesh, pressing his cheek against her foot. To his relief she didn't seem to hear.

"Kiss them," she said from way over his head. "Lick my toes, around and between them, please." And he did.

When the oven's signal rang, her toes were deep in his mouth. His tongue swirled around them and in between, while his hands fondled her calf. The buzz in his head had turned into a dizzying rush of blood, pulsing with his heart. His world had shrunk to a pinpoint.

"The oven, darling." Her voice came from a distance. He didn't hear it until she repeated herself. "The oven. Something might burn, honey." Reluctantly he let go of the foot, rubbing his saliva all over it before lifting his knees off the floor. He had a hard time focusing; her face swam in and out.

"The oven... ," he mumbled. "Yes." Her fingers caressed his face. He turned on wobbly legs and went back behind the counter. His pale naked ass cheeks moved under the crisscrossed frilly straps of the apron.

The table was dressed lovely with things he'd found in the mansion: white damask, china plates, crystal glasses and ancient silverware. He carried a white bowl of lentil soup to it; then he ignited the tall candles until their soft yellow flames danced in the gathering dusk. When he turned to walk over to where his clothes lay and started to take off his apron, he heard a disapproving sound. Looking up he saw her face move from left to right.

"Don't spoil it, honey," she said. "You look so cute." His hands fell to his sides. His mind went numb, as it tended to do whenever her instructions took an unexpected turn. She walked up to him, smiling. Her fingers pulled up the straps of the apron, making them fit more snuggly. Then she rose to tiptoes and kissed his brow.

"You've set a romantic table," she remarked as they walked to it, her arm through his. "But, honey, please explain: why two chairs, and two plates?"

Again the question was totally unexpected; he didn't know how to answer. She chuckled at his confusion.

"Now be a good boy and take away the second plate and glasses and cutlery – the chair too. You know very well that we need only one. Or are you expecting a third party?"

Reality seeped in ever so slowly. He'd presumed. One doesn't presume with this woman; he should have known by now. How slow of him not to have understood. He hurried to take away the chair and all the rest, until the table was set for only one. Then he pulled out the one remaining chair, inviting her to sit in it. After she sat, he shoved the chair closer. Bending over her he poured another glass of wine and a glass of water. Then he lifted the lid from the soup bowl and ladled some into her plate. A delicious aroma spread through the room. She clapped her hands.

"Such a lovely meal, honey. Thank you!"

Her hand moved gracefully, fingers searching for the spoon. Then it stopped, hovering, and she looked up at him. She said nothing; just stared. Confusion crept into his mind yet again as he stood behind her, slightly to the left. His arms dangled from slumped shoulders.

"Are you spying on me, André?" she asked, keeping her eyes straight in front of her. His heart lost a beat. He knew he had gaffed again, but he had no idea what she might mean.

"No, Miss," he said, trying for the right title to give her. "Of course not." She didn't turn to address him.

"Then why are you standing over me?" she said, her voice sweet and friendly, as if she were truly puzzled. He felt the now familiar flush of embarrassment. Making a few uncoordinated moves, he at last sunk to his knees where he stood. She laughed softly.

"No, dummy," she said. "Not where I can't see you. Crawl to the side across from me. And please hurry, my soup is getting cold." He scrambled to the other side of the table, his knees slipping on the stone tiles. Seen through the haloes of the candles her face was hazy. Her hand still hung over the spoon. She touched it, lifted it; then she laid it down again.

"That looks like a very tasty soup, honey. Lentils, you said? Delicious. Now you may take it away."

His eyes went from the untouched plate to the white bowl and the unused spoon. Then he started rising, but her hand went up.

"Not on your feet of course, darling," she said. It took him a second to understand. Then he clumsily took the bowl and scurried on his knees to the kitchen. He repeated the journey with her plate, spilling some before he reached the kitchen. He cleaned up the mess, and picked up the lasagna in its white casserole. He sat it at the center of the table. Then he fetched a new plate before returning to his place across from her. The steam of the dish rose between them. She leant forward, inhaling the spicy aroma.

"A vegetarian lasagna, you said?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, proud to explain. "Courgettes and aubergines, tomatoes, olives, onions, all straight from the market. I also used Parmezan cheese and fresh garden spices; it is a Mediterranean recipe. Let me cut you a nice piece." He rose and picked up the knife. It cut into the still simmering lasagna when her hand touched his arm.

"I am sure you are a great chef, honey," she said. "But I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite."

Disappointment seared through him. His eyebrows frowned. He couldn't move for a moment.

"Really?" he then said. "Not even a morsel, just to taste?" She smiled and shook her head. He dropped the knife in the dish, at a loss what to do. He'd spent hours deciding what dinner he'd cook for her. He'd gone to the farmers' market to handpick the best vegetables and fresh spices. He'd spent an hour preparing the dish, leaving it in the oven for another hour. And now she didn't even taste one bite.

"Another glass of wine would be fine, though," she said. Only after she raised her brows and shook the empty glass in her hand did he tear himself out of his stunned immobility. He took the bottle from its cooler and filled her glass.

"There still is dessert," he said.

"Maybe later," she answered. Her smile made him want to cry. He watched her pick up her fresh-baked roll, plucking at it with her fingers.

"Tell me, André," she said. "Are you disappointed?"

Out of nowhere, the question triggered his tears; he felt water run down his cheeks. She reached out to touch it. Her smile had gone; she seemed genuinely upset. He couldn't stop crying now. His body shook; a whole day's tension was pouring out.

He'd been brought up with the prejudice that real men don't cry, but nowadays that didn't bother him. Like so many other things he'd been taught it was bullshit, just another way to suppress him. He knew 'real men' didn't exist and if they did, that he'd never want to be one. What he did know was that sudden floods of tears liberated him; the sobbing and shuddering shook the knots from his muscles. They melted his rigid frame into relaxation, and cleared his mind.

"It is all right to cry, André," the woman said, bringing her wet fingertips to her mouth, tasting his eyes' salty moisture. He looked up at her through a veil of tears. "But when I say you should stop, you must stop. Do you hear, darling? There is no need to cultivate self-pity."

After a while his shoulders stopped shaking; the tears kept streaming, however. She handed him her napkin. He rubbed his face in it and blew his nose. A wonderful calmness descended on him.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. She smiled.

"No need to thank me, honey," she said. She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. Walking over to him, she took his head and pulled it against her lap. He felt the warmth of her intimate flesh, and smelled her scent. The unexpected tenderness caused new tears.

"We have to talk, don't you think?" she said. He nodded.

"Where shall we sit?" she asked, picking up her glass and gazing around. He looked up at her, wondering if he'd dare. The mere thought caused his heart to rise in his chest, hammering against his rib cage. She'd ridicule him, he knew. By now he had come to expect her casual dismissal of anything he might want – her derision, the mocking chuckles.

"Please, Miss," he suddenly stammered, his voice trembling with fear. "Please sit on me..."

He felt her hands squeeze his head. Screwing his eyes up he saw how hers widened. To his amazement it looked as if she was lost for words.

"Please," he repeated. "I've always dreamt of serving as a chair to a woman. Use me, Miss. Please, I'll be a very good chair." His eyes shifted away from hers, as his booming heartbeat filled the silence. He'd taken the plunge; he'd asked what he'd never dared ask before. He knew he'd die of embarrassment if she refused.

Then he saw her nodding towards the empty fireplace, where a low table stood and two overstuffed club chairs. She let go of his head and walked over.

"Please crawl to me, honey, and get this chair out of the way," she asked. He crept to her across the tiled floor. Then he rose and started pulling at the heavy piece until there was an empty space left, right under the standing lamp. The floor was gray with dust where the chair had been.

"Kneel, André," she said. "On hands and knees, please." He had trouble believing she really said it. Then he knelt down into the dust, sinking forward on his hands. He felt the palm of her hand on the bare skin of his back. It made him tremble.

"You are quite strong," she said. The warmth of her touch sank into his muscles. Then he felt her sitting down on him, her thinly clad ass molding itself against his back. The full weight of her body pressed down on him as she leant back, crossing her legs.

The intimacy overwhelmed him; it caused a mixture of feelings he wasn't able to sort out. There was humiliation, of course, degradation. But he also felt pride and, most confusingly, it was not at odds with the humiliation at all. There was gratefulness too, and mortification. Could he really be proud because he was humiliated? Did he feel grateful because she abased him? And did he care? He'd knelt and stretched his back to carry her. All he felt was profound satisfaction. He finally was at the right place at the right moment, being used by a woman he adored. A gush of wellbeing made him shudder.

"You are a chair now." Her voice came from way up. "You are my chair now." Her warm, round ass squirmed, instilling a sweet ache in the muscles of his back. New tears fell from his eyes.

They talked. Well, she talked; he listened. He felt no need to take part and maybe spoil this moment he had waited so long for. Her questions were never questions anyway. Why would she have need of his answers? He was a chair now, and chairs don't talk. They are just there to be sat on, to be used. This was maybe his only chance to be close to a creature he worshipped, and be of use. He could feel her weight, hear her voice, and smell her scent. She would never shut him out now. He was her chair ­– an invisible but useful part of her precious world.

Being an object made him feel safe. Of course that was an insane thought. But who needed sanity if it might rob him of this moment? She turned him into what he craved to be; a mute servant of women. He knew she was cruel, yes, selfish too. She'd never consider his needs. But by doing so she'd give him what he really needed – his own place in an uncomplicated world. She was Up, he was Down. Why confuse the issue?

"You are not much of a man, André," she said, sipping her wine as she ground her rump into his spine. "But I don't get the impression that bothers you much." She chuckled. "I don't care much either, honey. I despise manly men; they are so primitive." Her free hand caressed his shoulder and the arch of his ribcage. "Your body is impressive enough, though." She reached for his cock under the loose apron; it was swollen but soft, hanging down limply. She cupped his dangling balls. "Everything is there in abundance I'd say, but you don't seem to really want to use it, do you? Not that I mind, honey ... not at all. You have so many other ... qualities." Her chuckle became more of a giggle. "But," she went on, "I do wonder why..."

He didn't answer until she insisted, slapping his ass cheek to get his attention. "Why, chair?"

"I... ," he said, waking up from being lost in thoughts. "I wouldn't know, truly. I don't think much about things like that anymore, Miss." She laughed.

"You really don't, do you? I love your honesty. No thumping of chest, no macho masquerade, no drunken bragging about monstrous ten-inchers." Her hand travelled down his soft cock, exploring its length. "Although you might get close to at least eight fat inches if you tried, darling. Hmm, you are remarkable." He didn't know what to make of this qualification; he decided to be thankful and let her know.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. She wriggled, increasing the strain in his upper arms. He ignored the pain, just like he ignored the heat her hand generated – the harder she stroked the more his cock seemed to shrink

"Many girls might consider your lack of interest a pity," she went on. "Or an insult even. I'm sure Tasha felt it as a blow to her ego when you didn't respond to her hand in the restaurant – and she is a stalwart lesbian, you know. But of course she is an incurable exhibitionist too; all models are." She laughed. "I bet she'd love to sashay down a catwalk under a triumphal arch of monster cocks, raised in tribute – then dismiss them with a wave of her dainty hand – just for the kick of it."

She squeezed him one last time. Then she wiped her fingers on his skin and sat straight, making her ass cheeks roll on his shoulder blades. He sank back into a sweet and satisfied nothingness. Her warmth and pressure was all he needed; her silence was a bonus; the growing strain in his muscles a welcome target to focus on. Then her cellphone chimed.

"Hello?" she said. And: "Yes." And a few more "yesses." Then she started squirming, making him sway on the pillars of his arms and legs.

"I'm right on top of him now," she said, ending with a soft chuckle. "No, I mean his back; I'm sitting on him. He is my chair."

Her voice was quite matter of fact, but still a wave of embarrassment overwhelmed him. It felt new and yet familiar to be talked about like he was an object; it was alien and yet sweetly intimate. He closed his eyes to savor the emotion. His ears burned.

"I'd say: try it, honey, before you laugh," she went on; she seemed deadly serious now. Then she burst into laughter before plunging into a series of unrelated business questions. They concerned anonymous Russians, deadlines, reams of precious materials and a stunning amount of money.

"Get the sluts over tomorrow, so I can measure their fake tits and overweight asses," she said, her voice dissolving in laughter again. Her hand returned to caress his face. The soft touch made him tremble. Her fingers entered his mouth. He sucked on them. Then she ended the call and jumped off of him. The spot she'd occupied turned cold; he felt weightless, abandoned.

"I really have to run, André," she said, her voice coming from across the room. He turned on his knees to spot her. She was at the door, clutching her pouch.

"Please be a sweetheart and call me a cab," she said. "We'll be in touch, I promise."

It took him a minute to shake the numb, fairytale-like mood off his mind. He just stared at this sleek, elegant creature – so sweet and yet so cruel, so utterly out of his league.

He rose and called a cab.

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Story tagged with:
Ma/Fa / Reluctant / BiSexual / BDSM / FemaleDom / Rough / Humiliation / Torture / Slow /