Now what? I thought to myself. Am I really ready for this?

Emotionally, there was no doubt. The way I instantly responded to his email offering to meet made that crystal clear. But the rational side of my brain had reservations.

Despite my fantasies, which had evolved into a need that was at times almost gut-wrenching in its intensity, was I really ready to submit to a total stranger, a man I’d never met, never even talked to except through cyberspace? Was I ready to take that risk?

All right, I told my rational self, let’s review the bidding. I started writing that fantasy about a submissive female, and I posted the first chapter, and this guy Robert sent me a complimentary message about it and asked if I would read something he had. He wanted my opinion, he said, because his story’s narrator, the viewpoint character, was also a submissive female. So I said, sure, why not, and back came the first few chapters of this incredibly erotic story that punched every sexual fantasy button I’ve got and made me so hot I almost couldn’t stand it. It even pushed buttons I hadn’t known I had!

I picked a grammar nit in the first chapter, but after that I got so into his story that the only feedback I gave him was how hot it made me to read it. I guess I first cracked open the lid to this Pandora’s Box I’d created for myself when I told Robert I was frustrated because I wanted to try some things but my hubby wasn’t interested in BDSM. All Robert did was commiserate with me; he never sent a wanna-play or anything else to suggest he had any interest in a real-life meeting.

I can’t honestly say that Robert’s story was the driving influence, but there’s no question that it contributed to my having that first-ever session with a supposed dominant. What a fiasco! I really hadn’t known what would happen, and my expectations certainly weren’t very high, but it was so disappointing! Not only did this “dom” not really work me over, it was a totally asexual experience. There I was, all psyched up for major pleasure, and he didn’t even suck my nipples, much less anything else.

That session was a real bummer, and I told Robert what had happened (or, more to the point, what hadn’t happened) in my next message to him. I pushed the lid open quite a bit more when I told him again how much I loved his story and that I really wished I could experience some of what was in it. His reply arrived while I was on-line a couple of days later, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. “You can,” he wrote, “have some of those experiences. I know what you want and need, so pick a Saturday and state your limits.”

My heart went into adrenaline overdrive. Yes, I thought, he probably does know. He’s read what I wrote, and I’ve certainly told him how I’ve reacted to what he sent me. So I kicked that lid wide open, kicked it so hard it almost came off its hinges, and my fingers flew over the keyboard. “Really???” I shot back. “That would be great! I’ll let you know...”

It was only after I’d sent that response that my rational part got into it. You don’t know anything about this guy, it whispered to me. He could be a real nut case. Are you really going to let him tie you up and torture you and fuck you six ways from Sunday? That’s pretty much what you offered, you know.

Not really, my emotional side countered. I left myself an out, I only told him I’d let him know about when ... and besides, I think I do know some things about him.

There’s no guarantee he’ll respect any limits once he’s got you tied down and helpless, my rational brain warned.

True, but let’s see what he says and then decide.

So I sent off my request, and he responded the next day. “I’m glad you asked,” he wrote back. “There are three kinds of limits. I know you’re new at this, and I don’t mean to be pedantic, and I certainly don’t want to scare you, or turn you off, but we ought to agree on these things before we get into play time. I take my dom/top responsibilities seriously, and I want you to enjoy our first session together.”

So far, so good, my rational part commented. But then again, he hasn’t really said anything yet.

There’s more to his message, my emotions retorted tartly. Let him finish before you critique, okay?

“The first set of limits,” Robert’s message continued, “controls the not-directly-sexual BD/DS/SM play. I know you don’t want just a casual walk in the park, you want a more intense experience, but this will be our first meeting and I don’t know how you’ll react to different things. So I propose the following limits in this area: (1) No marks visible at the end of the session; (2) Use of safewords (I suggest the green-yellow-red-blue color-code scheme); (3) No blindfolding (to avoid panic and so I can watch your eyes); (4) No gags (to permit dialogue and use of safewords); and (5) All restraints to be of the quick-release type.”

Sounds pretty vanilla, my emotional side grumbled. How can it be intense with those limitations?

I’m sure he has that covered, my rational side responded. He’d probably say something about creativity and ingenuity.

“The reason for having safewords,” I read, “is simple. You will, believe me, be saying things like ‘Please don’t’ and ‘Oowww, I can’t take any more’ and ‘Please stop that’. I have to have an unambiguous way of knowing when you’re just into the play and when you really mean it. I don’t want to disappoint you by stopping too soon, but I don’t want to push you too far, either.”

That makes sense, I thought to myself. Robert knows what I want, but he can’t possibly know how much, and everything he’s written tells me he’s more likely to be too cautious than too extreme.

“The second set of limits,” Robert’s email went on, “is those on overt sexual activity. I assert, but cannot prove, that I have no STDs, have tested HIV-negative, and had a vasectomy twelve years ago. Nevertheless, for our first meeting, I propose to limit myself to hands, toys, and mouth, which rules out penile penetration of either vagina or anus. If I require you to perform oral sex during this first session, I will leave you the option of not having me come in your mouth.”

That’s a relief, my emotional side signaled. I guess I was a little concerned about the sex part after all. But he’s proposed a no-fuck rule, which I know is right even though I’ll probably wish it were otherwise when I’m with him, and I can accept those other activities without feeling guilty.

Yes, my rational part agreed, if he’ll stick to them. But what’s the third category of limits? I can’t think of any other areas to cover.

It was the final paragraph of Robert’s message that finally convinced the rational me to go ahead and meet him. “The most important limit of all is time. The sine qua non essential ingredient of any D/s relationship is trust, and that includes the sub not having to worry about her ultimate safety and well-being. So set a reasonable time limit for the session, perhaps three or four hours so we don’t have to rush things. If it will make you more comfortable, tell someone you know and trust that you’ll be calling at a certain time. Tell the person what code word or phrase you’ll say to signal that you’re okay, and where you’ll be and what to do if you don’t call or don’t say the code. If you decide to set something like this up, the only thing I want to know about those arrangements is what time you have to make the call.”

I sent Robert a return email suggesting the Saturday after Memorial Day. I told him I would meet him at seven-thirty and that I had to make my call by eleven. He wrote back a couple of days later. He gave me his last name and told me to come to the local Embassy Suites hotel and call him on the house phone when I arrived.

As the date got closer, I was an edgy combination of anticipation and trepidation. I really wanted an extraordinary experience, but, having made it clear I wanted to be used, I was also a little nervous about what he might do to me.

Finally, the day arrived. I had a pretty good idea from his story of what he would want me to wear, so I tried to get as close to that as I could with what I had. The only thing I had gone out and bought was a pair of black thigh-hi stockings; my pumps with three-inch heels and the other clothes I already owned would have to do. Late in the afternoon, I took a long, relaxing bubble bath, shaved all the appropriate places, got dressed, and had a light snack. The butterflies were fluttering around in my tummy, so I was careful about what I ate. I had told my husband I would be out for the evening with a friend, and he had accepted my explanation without asking any embarrassing questions.

I could feel myself getting more and more tense as I drove to the hotel where Robert was staying. By the time I had parked the car and walked into the lobby I could barely keep from visibly shaking. I picked up the house phone and asked for his room, and a few seconds later a deep voice answered, “Hello?”

“I’m here,” I said breathlessly.

“I’ll be right down,” he responded, and I hung up the phone. My hand really was shaking at that point. I turned to face the elevators, and a minute or so later an older man came walking toward me. I felt a surge of excitement as I saw he was carrying a single perfect red rose. He had asked, in one of his email messages, if I had read far enough in his story to have encountered a specific character, and now I knew why. The physical description of that character in his story matched, as I had hoped it would, Robert’s actual appearance.

He walked up to me and said, quietly and confidently, “Good evening, lovely lady. It’s both an honor and a pleasure to meet you in person.” He handed me the rose, which I took with trembling fingers.

“Thank you,” I replied, and he immediately sensed my nervousness.

“There’s no hurry,” he said casually. “Would you like something to help you relax? A glass of wine, perhaps? Do you like champagne?”

“I guess I am a little anxious,” I told him. “That would be very nice. And I do like champagne.”

He made a slight bow, then offered me his arm, which I took, and we walked slowly toward the lounge. The room was uncrowded, and he guided me to one of the banquette-style booths along the back wall. He handed me into one side of the booth, then slid in from the other side. He sat close to me, but not touching, and I was unsurprised when the waitress approached and he simply said, “The Dom, please.” It was perfectly in character, based on his writing, for him to have made some preliminary advance arrangements, and I felt a warm glow of relief pass through me. If he’s this much like what he’s written, I told myself, I really have no reason to worry.

The waitress returned carrying a bottle of Dom Perignon and two champagne tulips. She was followed by two other servers, one carrying an ice bucket for the wine and the other bearing two dessert plates and a small bowl of plump, ripe strawberries. The wine was excellent, and I said so. He smiled and said that, in addition to the appropriateness of the name, cheap champagne always gave him a headache. The berries were a wonderful accompaniment, sweet and juicy; more than once I had to grab for a napkin as the juice ran down my chin. We laughed, about that and other things, and after a half hour of small talk I was completely comfortable in his company.

He brought me back to the purpose of our meeting when he lifted his glass in my direction and said, “Carpe diem. Are you ready to go upstairs?”

My heart fluttered, but I nodded yes without speaking. He sipped his champagne, of which he had drunk only sparingly; I’d had more than he did. Then he looked closely at me and said, “There are two more items before we go. First, I think it might be a good idea for me to avoid using your real name while you’re in sub-space. Is there a name you would like to be called? You named the woman in your story Alison; would that name suit you?”

I almost giggled out loud when he used the term sub-space; I had flashed immediately to Star Trek. Then, as he continued, I understood what he meant, and paused to seriously consider his question. It was time to begin turning my fantasies into reality, and I thought about how I had identified with the female character narrating his story. So after a few moments I answered, very quietly, “It won’t bother me if you use my real name. But, if you insist that I choose another name, then, if it would please you, I would like to be called Karen.”

“I don’t insist,” he responded gravely. “Now the second matter; do you understand the safeword system we will be using?”

“I think so,” I told him. “Green means I want more, or more intensely, whatever you are doing. Yellow means no more intensity, keep it at the current level or back it down slightly. Red means stop whatever you’re doing, at least for a while, and blue means end the entire session, stop everything immediately.”

“You’ve got it exactly right,” he said. “Shall we go find lots of green?”

I was truly ready then, all doubts and reservations put to rest. “To borrow a phrase from your story,” I told him, “what are we waiting for?”

Aside from my arm through his while walking, and his helping me into and out of the booth, Robert hadn’t touched me except for his eyes. He had watched me appraisingly, and looked me up and down in a curious, non-leering way, but that was all. As we stood in the elevator, though, that started to change. His gaze became frankly appreciative, and he took both my hands firmly in his right hand and slid his left across my leather skirt-covered behind. I felt a small tingle of anticipation, and I pushed my backside firmly into his hand. He smiled again, then dropped his hands to his sides as the elevator came to a stop. He had promised me total discretion, and he apparently meant it; there was no way to know who might be on the other side of those doors when they opened. It was another nail in the coffin of wariness; he was doing a very good job of gaining my complete trust and confidence.

As it turned out, the elevator opened onto an empty hallway, and Robert led me down the corridor to the door to his suite. He quickly but calmly unlocked the door and gestured for me to precede him, then turned and double-locked the door after we were inside. He took me over to a chair with wooden arms and an upholstered seat that was standing in the middle of the suite’s living room, had me face the chair, and said, quietly but with an unmistakable air of authority, “Bend over and put your hands on the chair arms.”

I complied immediately, and he slid his hand up my nylon-covered thighs and under the short black leather skirt. When he reached the tops of the thigh-hi’s, he stopped, said, “Very good, Lisa,” and lifted my skirt up around my waist. He ran his hand slowly over my panty-covered ass cheeks, squeezing gently through the black silk bikini. When he didn’t say anything, I knew he was disappointed, and I felt bad about that. I had known he’d prefer a thong, but I didn’t own any. Then I smiled inwardly as I realized the implications of that thought. Here I was, bent over but completely unrestrained except for his command, and I was feeling bad that I hadn’t met his expectations. I was entering sub-space, that was for sure.

My attention snapped back to what he was doing when he pulled my bikini panties down around my ankles. He had me step out of them and then spread my legs farther apart, putting about two feet of space between my feet. He put his right hand in the small of my back, and as he lightly caressed my now-naked ass he asked quietly, “Do you bruise easily, Lisa?”

Oh, God, I thought frantically, he’s going to spank me for not wearing the right underwear. “No, Master,” I answered, and I could hear the quaver in my voice.

“Very well,” he said, and his hand slapped down right in the middle of my left ass cheek.

“Ohhhh,” I squeaked. He hadn’t hit me that hard, but it did sting a little. He didn’t say anything, he just repeated that action on the other cheek. He kept going, alternating sides, gradually increasing the strength of his swats. After the fourth or fifth swat, I was panting out a little “Oooohhhh” after each one, and I could feel my behind getting warm as the smarting increased from the repeated blows. By the time he had given me a total of twenty, ten on each side, I was close to tears, but I noted, in that hidden-away corner of my mind, that I had kept hold of the chair arms and I was actually thrusting my butt backwards to meet his spanks.

After the last swat, he ran his fingertips gently over my ass cheeks, then slid his hand down along my crack and between my legs to the bottom of my pussy slit. He probed gently upward, and I felt his finger slide through wetness. Amazing, came the thought from that hidden corner, and the main part of my brain enthusiastically agreed. Despite all my fantasizing, I hadn’t really known whether I would react that way to the real thing.

He leaned over next to my ear and whispered, “Do you know why I punished you, Lisa?”

“Yes, Master,” I replied. “I was not wearing appropriate underwear.”

“That’s right,” he confirmed. “None at all would have been better.”

“You won’t be happy with my bra, either,” I blurted out, then hung my head in submission.

“Really?” he replied with a chuckle. “Let’s see. Stand up and remove your skirt and blouse.”

He stood back, arms folded across his chest, as I straightened up and unbuttoned my blouse. I slipped it off, revealing my best black push-up bra, then unfastened my skirt, let it drop to the floor, and stepped out of it to stand directly in front of him. He looked down at my chest, raised his eyebrows, and said, quietly but firmly, “You’re right, it’s unacceptable. Take it off.”

“Yes, Master,” I responded, and I reached behind my back to unhook it. I let the straps slide down my arms, then tossed it behind me on top of the skirt. I lifted my chest, almost daring him to say something uncomplimentary about my twin beauties. I may have had the wrong bra, I thought defiantly, but I’ve got the right tits, firm and round and tipped with wonderfully sensitive nipples.

As Robert reached into a black rectangular case sitting on the floor, the kind airline pilots use, he said, “Put your hands out in front of you.” I raised my arms, and he brought out two black leather wrist cuffs. He fastened them around my wrists, then said, “Hands behind your back.” I complied and he showed me an openable link of chain that could be screwed shut, then used it to hook the cuffs closely together. After he finished hooking my wrists together he stood silently in front of me, moving his eyes between my face and my breasts. As the silence stretched, I got fidgety, shifting my weight from one leg to the other. I knew he was going to do something to my breasts, and I wanted him to just get on with it.

“Stand still!” he commanded. I stopped moving, and he continued, “What am I going to do, Lisa, and why?”

“You are going to punish my breasts, Master, because I was wearing an unacceptable bra.” My response was not just part of a script; by that point I really was the Karen of his story, and I knew what he wanted, and I wanted to please him.

“Yes, that’s right. I can see I’m going to have to take you shopping.” He reached out and gently stroked the fullness of my right breast, then slid his thumb back and forth over the nipple. It had been semi-erect ever since the spanking; now it stood up to full attention in response to his touch. My other nipple popped up without being touched at all, and I felt another tingle in my loins.

He reached again into his case, took out a handful of rubber bands, and slipped them over his wrist. Then he grasped my breast firmly and slid the bands, one by one, back over his wrist and hand and over my breast to the chest wall. The first one had almost no effect, in fact it didn’t really want to stay in place, but the cumulative effect of several of them was considerable. The base of my breast was compressed to a smaller and smaller diameter as more rubber bands were added, and the globe itself became harder and more sensitive as its base was constricted.

He banded my other breast the same way, and I could feel the pressure building inside them from the blood trapped by the bands. They were starting to change color, and I almost jumped when he ran his fingers over their now highly-sensitive surfaces. He captured each engorged nipple between a thumb and the side of a forefinger, holding them lightly, and asked, “Are you wearing anything else that you think I’ll find unacceptable, Lisa?”