Chapter 34: Accept no substitute

Doug decided to swear off the dating game for a while, after his unfortunate experience with Jennifer. His sex life now consisted only of increasingly frequent bouts of masturbation, fueled by memories of the various scenes he'd been subjected to by Janelle during their time together.

The problem with masturbation, he soon found, is that it's always nicer when somebody else does it.

Doug developed a longing for the touch of another warm, living, breathing human body.

But not vanilla. That clearly was not going to work out.

He needed to be dommed. He needed somebody to understand him, and take him in hand.

Somebody to make the decisions.

His whole working day was decisions. In his private life, he needed a break. He needed direction. Someone to take control, so he could cut his mind adrift.

Right now, he could think of only one option.

A pro-domme.

One of those astute business-women that he'd disparaged so roundly when first he surfed his way into a world he'd scarcely knew existed.

It would be better than nothing.

Wouldn't it?

As usual, his approach to this whole issue was to do some research.

He googled. And he got a few hits located right here in this very town.

The one that most caught his eye was a site run by a black lady with the moniker of "Nigeria".

The photos showed a person short and well-built, bordering on tubby but well-contained within leather corsetry. Her face bore a steely stare. Her specialties, according to the accompanying blurb, were on-the-mat wrestling, and a thing called "cock-play". The latter appeared to involve sharp implements like bowie knives and military bayonets.

He dialed the number.

"Nigeria" a soft voice answered, with a hint of menace.

"I... I'd like to make an appointment."

"Are you familiar with the services we have on offer?"

"Yes. I mean, I think so. I'm looking at your website right now."

"Good. Then you'll also be familiar with the concept of Tribute?"

"Ah... yeah. Um, how much?"

"If you have to ask, then you can't afford it."

"Oh. Sorry."

"You will be, as soon as you get here. Saturday, 3.00pm. Send me an email, and I'll reply giving directions to the venue."

"Thanks."

The line went dead before he could hang up.

On the appointed day he carried a print-out of her email with him as he parked and looked first for the building, and then the apartment.

Completely innocuous from the outside, he pressed the apartment door's buzzer and waited. He heard movement on the other side, and sensed he was being checked-out through the spyhole.

The door swung open, to reveal "Nigeria" as dynamite in a small but thick-set package. Unfeasibly large boobs were crammed into a leather bodice, and she had tight leather trousers on, with boots that brought her to a height of about five-foot-five on three-inch spiked heels.

Her demeanor was calm but professional, as she ushered him into a kind of ante-chamber. He could hear, but not see, that there was somebody else bustling about in another room nearby. The apartment did not look as though it got lived in at all. It seemed to be set up entirely for provision of BDSM services.

He sat on a sofa, and she stood before him. Only now did she tower above him. She looked down sternly.

"What is it you are looking for?" she asked in that same soft husky voice he'd first heard over the phone.

"I... uh... well, what can you do?"

"My boy, I can do anything. I am Nigeria. If my imagination were to completely run riot, you could end up very sorry.

"But you must have some idea of why you came to me. Some idea of the way you can fit in to my dictates...".

This struck Doug as a weird logic. But then again he was the customer and, in commerce, it is the customer who is always right. How does that square with the notion that she is the domme, and he a sub, Doug found himself wondering? For a sub to become a happy customer, she'd need to somehow render him a happy sub, Doug presumed.

Doug became aware that his silence was lengthening. Nigeria began to exude an air to indicate that, to her, time was money.

"I want to be wrestled, and pinned, and face-sat. I want your weight on me. I want to be smothered by your crutch."

Okay, now we're getting somewhere, is what she was probably thinking, judging by the slightly relieved expression on her face. This customer could have been hard going, otherwise.

"I shall expect Tribute."

"Naturally. What would you deem appropriate?"

"Five hundred."

The impassive mask on Doug's face slipped for a brief instant. Fuck! Is this woman for real?

She was.

His proffered notes were quickly spirited out of sight.

"Come."

She indicated that he should follow to an adjoining room. This had a range of paraphernalia against the far wall. Of these, a stout wooden A-frame with leather restraints was most conspicuous. A selection of whips hung from a rack upon the wall. A huge mirror covered the opposite wall, making the room seem twice its actual size.

But it was the centre of the room that she was leading him to. For here the floor was covered by blue-coloured two-inch-thick mats of the kind used for gymnastics, or other indoor sports.

Wrestling, for instance.

"Wait here, and strip to your underwear."

She left him to it, and vanished through the doorway.

In five minutes she was back. This time she was dressed in an all-over body stocking, with a sturdy black leotard over the top. Dressed as if she was going to do jazzercise, only with menace.

Now Doug could appreciate her figure better. Her wide round boobs were pressed quite flat to her chest by the tight outfit. Her tummy formed a substantial spare-tyre in front, while her bum and thighs were thick and meaty.

She approached him slowly, like a sumo taking position. He stood with arms akimbo, wondering if he ought to adopt a defensive posture or not. He began to feel somewhat apprehensive.