Copyright © 1997 by Left Side Signals

Author’s notes:

Shortly after I posted the Tabitha story online I was contacted again by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd, whose desire to use my First Meeting story in her anthology I had rebuffed. This time she requested a cut-to-the-chase version that eliminated much of the preliminary detail about the club and its operations, and she offered to compensate me for a six-month first-online-rights posting on her subscription website. I agreed to this request and created a new version of the front part of the story, changing the title and the character’s name to Tamara.

Unlike the longer version of the story, the preliminary material in this version includes a brief discussion of the hanky code that originated many decades ago. One aspect of the hanky-code signaling system reflects my personal self-identification and led to the name of the business that holds the copyrights to my stories.

After the revised and shortened preliminary material, the actual scene in Tamara is identical to that in Tabitha.

San Diego is a Navy town, and, like most military towns, it has its share of strip clubs. I was there on a business trip, so I picked one out of the phone book. The Beach Boys got it right, California girls are special, but one dancer in particular captured my attention. Her charismatic blend of bold sauciness and sinuous sensuality was bewitching even while she was still clothed, but when she whisked the short dress up and off over her head I saw a delicate silver dumbbell at the base of her semi-erect left nipple and a tiny gold ring at the midpoint of her left inner labium.

She’s a bottom! The impact of that realization was as emphatic as it was sudden, and in that instant I discovered how quickly my mind could transform a mild vanilla attraction into a raging D/s-bdsm fantasy. What more could a lonely top hope to find? I asked myself. She’ll know about safewords and mutual consent, and I’m sure she’d enjoy all the things I’d love to do to her gorgeous body. I was barely able to keep my face composed and contain my reactions as she made love to a brass pole on the stage in a way that made me achingly aware of my desire for her. But it was late, and I had to leave the club; I consoled myself with the thought that I would return before I left town.

It was difficult for me to concentrate on work the next few days; my thoughts kept drifting back to Tamara. Finally, on a night I knew she’d be there, I showered and changed at the hotel before heading to the club. I was dressed all in black, except for the corners of three folded squares of colored cloth, fuchsia, white, and dark pink, peeking out of my left hip pocket. The hanky code originated in the gay leather community as a signaling system for scene people to identify potential play-partners with compatible complementary interests. There are regional variations in the meanings of a few colors, but the hanky code and other signal schemes all share one invariant convention: A person displaying signals on the left is self-identifying as a top, while a right-side display signifies a bottom. Hets don’t use the hanky code much, but I figured she’d at least understand my interest in her if not the specific meanings of the colors.

I had been in the club for about an hour when Tamara arrived just after ten o’clock. She came directly to where I was sitting, and I rose to greet her, turning slightly to my right. She gave me a quick, eye-flickering checkout, her glance lingering momentarily on the colored cloths, and then she closed to within whispering distance. “I’ve had a few drinks,” she confided, “and I don’t really feel like getting up on that stage tonight.”

There was alcohol on her breath, not overpowering but noticeable. “Why don’t we chat for a few minutes, then go in the back room,” I suggested. One of the more interesting features of the club was that a customer could “rent” a dancer for a half-hour of relatively private interaction.

“Sure, let’s do that,” Tamara replied, and she sounded happy about the plan I’d proposed. So we sat at one of the small round tables, and through the background sights and sounds of the club we smoked, and sipped coffee, and began the process of establishing a level of comfort with each other on a personal level. After several minutes of information exchange, mostly biographical, Tamara turned the dialogue in the direction I was hoping she’d go.

“What do the colors mean?” she asked.

“Spanking, whipping or flogging, and breast and nipple torture.”

“I’m not very experienced, I’ve only done a few scenes, but I love a good flogging. The endorphins cut in and I just drift away; I have no idea where I am or what’s happening around me.” Tamara turned her face away and cast her eyes downward, and I thought for a moment she might be regretting her burst of candor, but then she looked back at me, her expression serious, and said, “Are you ready to go in the back room now?”

I nodded, and she took my hand as we stood and led me to and through the door-less portal. In the brighter lighting of that space, I saw that her skin, a light golden tan only a few days earlier, was bright red. She noticed my questioning look, and whispered that she’d spent too long in the club’s tanning bed. Then she was stretched out across my lap on her tummy, her pert bottom tilted up, moving slowly in time with the music. Her bright blue eyes gleamed, her shag-cut blonde hair brushed lightly along my arm, her lips were moist and oh-so-kissable with their bright pink gloss, and I caught a hint of the heady ambrosia that is the scent of a woman who is keenly aware of her own sexuality. I was enjoying my up-close view of her undulating body when she put her lips next to my ear and whispered, “Do something a little bit naughty.”

She was inviting me to violate the no-touch rules, a request that announced, indirectly but unmistakably, her acceptance of my own subtle invitation. As discreetly as possible, I moved my left hand and slid my fingertips up the soft surface of her thigh; her skin was hot from the sunburn and as smooth as a baby’s behind. As my hand moved past the crease where her thigh joined her buttock, I felt her press upward against my palm. I raised my hand a few inches and then brought it down, lightly but smartly, across the sweet spot of her left ass cheek.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhmmmmmmmm.” It was halfway between a hum and a moan, and as I glanced down and to the right I saw her eyes close and her lips part. I swatted her again, then continued in a slow, steady rhythm, and each time my hand landed she writhed on my lap and made little throaty sounds that seemed part contentment and part arousal.

After about a minute, she raised her head and shifted position, rolling slightly away from me so her left hip was cradled by the tops of my legs. “We have to be careful not to get caught,” she whispered, “but I want to be totally submissive right now. We can go into one of the corner booths, but we still need to be careful.”

“I’d rather go someplace where we won’t be concerned about privacy,” I told her. “I didn’t bring any of my toys on this trip, but I can work around that.”

She thought about my offer for what seemed an endless moment, and then she nodded and said, “Okay, and you can fuck me, but if you want to do my ass you have to go slowly and use plenty of lube.”

“I won’t fuck you, not in a first scene,” I told her firmly. “That’s not what this is about.”

She nodded again. “Let me make some arrangements.” She handed me a paper coaster and a pen. “Write down where you’re staying and directions; I’ll be right back.” I scribbled the name of the hotel, my room number, and sketchy directions, and when she returned I handed it to her.

She glanced quickly at what I’d written, then said, “I have to make a safe call in two hours. You go ahead, and I’ll be right behind you.”

“I’ll be waiting in the lobby,” I told her.

I left the club and drove the few miles to my hotel. Precisely at one o’clock a cab pulled up under the hotel portico, and I stood as she got out and walked toward the doors dressed in a V-neck pullover sweater, hip-hugging slacks, and high-heeled ankle-strap sandals. I offered her my arm, which she took, and we reviewed the safewords we would use as we headed for the elevators. Tamara appeared to be a little nervous, and her next words confirmed my perception.

“I’ve never done this kind of scene before with someone I just met,” she said. “I saw you watching me the other night, and after you left a couple of the girls told me you were a very nice guy, polite and respectful to them, so I decided to take a chance earlier tonight and see what would happen. I feel a strong attraction between us, and you weren’t the least bit crude or pushy, and you have a great touch that definitely turned me on, but I’m still a little afraid of what might happen with the S&M stuff.”

“I understand, and I know you’re feeling a little tense right now. Despite the safe-call arrangement, you’re taking a real risk, and my telling you that you’re perfectly safe doesn’t do much to reassure you. So we’ll start very slowly and see what happens. How long since you’ve had sex?”

“Three or four weeks, I guess.”

“That’s quite a while,” I ventured. “Surely you’ve done yourself during that time.”

“Well, yes, but that’s not the same.”

We were in the elevator by then, and I opened my arms and waited for her to step into them. I hugged her, careful to not press her too tightly, and she seemed to relax a little. I released her as the car neared my floor, and she stepped back with an audible sigh. One milestone passed, I thought. Easy does it. We walked side by side down the hall; I fished the electronic key out of my wallet, opened the door, reached for the light switch just inside, and motioned for her to precede me. We stood at the foot of the bed, facing each other.

“What do you want me to call you?” she asked.

“Sir will be fine,” I replied.

“I’ve never called anyone Sir. Is it okay if I call you Daddy, and I’m your little girl?”

My thoughts raced. That’s an interesting fantasy she has. Given the difference in our ages, it could be a pretty realistic one. “You may call me that if you wish.”

She got immediately into her fantasy head-space. “I’ve been good, Daddy.”

“I don’t know about that, little girl. You were naughty back at the club; I think you need to be punished.”

“No, no, Daddy, I’ve been good,” she protested, completely in character for the role she was playing. I sat down on the end of the bed and reached for her waist to pull her, still fully clothed, across my lap. She resisted, continuing to profess innocence, but I pulled a little harder and she flopped down into position. I put my right hand on the small of her back and gave her a very light swat on her fabric-covered left ass cheek with my other hand. When she didn’t object or struggle to lift herself up, I continued in a slow rhythm, alternating on her two sweet spots and very gradually increasing the force of my spanks. I was gratified to see her start to claw at the bedspread with her outstretched hands, pulling the heavy material towards her and bunching it up in front of her face as she lay there.

Tamara said “yellow” two or three times, reminding me once about the sunburn hidden under her slacks, and each time I eased off on the strength of my swats more than enough for her to know I was respecting her safeword. After several minutes and perhaps twenty-five or thirty swats, I stopped spanking and moved my hand in slow caressing circles over her still-clothes-protected behind. She grabbed handfuls of the bedspread, a clear signal of enjoyment, and she made no attempt to move away from my touch.

“I really wish I’d brought my toy-bag on this trip,” I muttered.

“So do I,” she whispered, and her obvious desire tore at my heart-strings. I’d never done this kind of a pseudo-incestuous age-play scene, but I was determined to relate to her fantasy. “I don’t think you’re feeling punished by this, little girl,” I said quietly. “I think you need these touches on your bare skin.”

“But Daddy, I really have been good.”

“I’m not convinced,” I said mock-sternly. “Stand up.”

Tamara complied in silence, and I reached for the hem of her sweater with both hands. “Arms up over your head,” I commanded, and I pulled the sweater past her perfect little breasts until it was tangled in her hair. Her face was obscured, but covered loosely enough to avoid breathing problems or panic, and her arms, still encased in the sweater sleeves, were upraised. Holding the sweater with my right hand, I slid the fingertips of my left across her breasts to lightly tease her undecorated, but now fully erect, right nipple, and she started to squirm, rotating her hips in a wide circle. I bent over and placed my mouth gently over that areola, flicking my tongue across her nipple and feeling it stiffen even more; I grabbed her wrists over her head to preclude more violent motions, keeping her standing in place and accepting the stimulation.