My Dirty, Dirty Little Slut: A True Dom's Chronicle (Chapter 1)
Introduction
This is a true story - a story that charts the erotic relationship between me, a 42 year old professor, and "D" a 19 year old university student.
I teach at a University, though not at the same institution D attends. That would be a professional no-go zone for me. I like teaching. I love it in fact. I also have a very high sex drive, which centres on the need to give rather than take. I look boyish for my age. My physique is normal, I guess. I'm slim, not gym-trained, 5'11, 140 pounds, and well-endowed with an 8" uncut cock. I live on my own in a beautiful 2 bedroom apartment in a leafy suburb where, at least from the perspective of outsiders, I lead a fairly unremarkable middleclass life.
D came to this country from the Philippines to study psychology. Her father is European, and the confluence of Filipino and European backgrounds accounts to some extent for her beautiful features: almond-shaped and unusually big eyes, a small pouting mouth, high cheekbones, soft skin. Deep black hair reaches below her waist. She stands at 5"2' and has a full figure with pert breasts as befits a barely 19 year old girl.
We met online. The title of D's profile is, "Make me anything you want me to be!" and it contains statements such as, "I have too much passion, fire and energy in me that I want to share", and "I can't brag about my "skills" as opposed to my 'more experienced' counterparts, although I am very open minded and willing to try pretty much anything. You'll be surprised." I paid little attention to her self-description - I was very much taken by her photos - but I was soon to find out that it was accurate, although her concerns about her "skills" turned out to be entirely unfounded.
Since my mid-thirties I'd been interested in sexual mentorship and coaching. That interest probably developed during a long-term relationship with a woman who had predilections for being tied up and used. Gagging on my cock and anal penetration became de rigueur. On holidays in New York we visited a dungeon where, disappointed at the lack of action, we ended up having sex in front of strangers, some of whom had permission to fondle my partner's breasts and cunt.
Gradually, I became fascinated with the psychological and emotional aspects of sub/dom relationships. I devoured Pauline Reage's "Story of O" several times. I loved O's total giving over of herself to another and I pondered my own stance toward power. In no part of my life am I particularly prone to exerting influence over others. Teaching, rather than the impositions of my will, is me. And than there is that always underestimated capacity a dom must acquire: empathy; to listen to your sub's body, not just her moans; to react to the slightest change in the texture of her skin, inside and out; to fathom the fine line between pleasure and pain so that the two may merge in ecstasy; to devise scripts so that in interaction thoughts can be kept at a minimum while being open enough to leave space for spontaneity, subtle reactions to bodily signals and the tempest of desire. This burgeoning interest of mine was underpinned by another: young girls who wanted to learn to find their pleasure. With D my desires converge perfectly, and then converge perfectly with hers, as it turns out.
Chapter 1: Discovery
We met at a local café. I was delighted when I saw D. As arranged, she wore a red tartan miniskirt and a black, low-cut blouse. Her long hair was tidied up with bangs that covered here eyebrows and almost hid her eyes. Cute dimples, lovely cupid's lips and a smile that just made me want to embrace her, all covered in a blush that exuded both excitement and embarrassment, greeted me.
"You look young", D said with what seemed to be some relief.
"And you are beautiful", I replied eliciting for the first time that shy, sweet giggle I came to love so much.
We made small talk. Spoke about my work and her studies. We discovered our mutual interest in Freudian psychology, in reading and music, over a cappuccino. We had previously agreed that we would go to my place if D would feel comfortable to do so. I broached the subject, and in order to help establish trust I give her my ID, including my address and phone number, which she verified by texting, and asked her to send my details to one of her friends who already knew about D's plans. Granted there is no such things as guaranteed safety when meeting a stranger, this did go some way toward making her feel comfortable enough to come to my apartment.
I had cleaned my place the night before and made sure a set of fresh linen and towels were ready for the next day. It's part of my preparation ritual, which helps me while away hours that would otherwise be filled only by a maddening anticipation, a listless stupor quelled at intervals by watching porn and masturbating. I cleaned some of my toys and accessories, waxed my already twitching cock and balls and now and then shoved a finger up my ass to massage my prostate in order to be in a heightened state of preparedness should the following day turn out in the desired way, something I repeated the next morning.
We drove to my place, about 15 minutes from the café. We chatted about the kinds of novels we liked: Philip Roth for me, Kresley Cole for her. Fitting considering the age difference, I thought. We were both being very chaste. There was no hint of what was to follow. There was some nervousness on both our parts, yes, but we liked each other's company already. When we entered the apartment D took off her shoes and asked for the bathroom. While she went about her business I took a deep breath. My cock was stirring. Excitement was building. "Relax", I thought. "Take your time. Don't rush. Just discover her, slowly. Forget your cock for now." After D re-emerged I showed her my rooms to reassure her there was no-one else around. I even opened my built-ins. "No cameras, no lurking voyeurs, just us." She just smiled and giggled.
So here I was. This sweet little girl walking around my place barefoot in her tartan skirt, blushing, a little lost for words. It was time to act. I took D by her hand and took her to my living room, to the dead centre of it.
"Just stand here and close your eyes", I said.
D obliged. She just stood there. I gently brushed her bangs from her eyes. I needed to see them. I took in her radiant youth, feasted on her seeming innocence. (The moment is burnt into my memory. My brushing of her hair repeats itself in slow-motion now and then. The difference between eroticism and sexuality, is like the difference between eternity and the mundane. Not quite what Paz writes in The Double Flame, but that's just what it felt like for me.)
I tap the inside of her right leg to motion her to widen her stance. She steps to the right. Again. More. Good. I walk around her in circles. Slowly. Grazing the folds of her skirt, nonchalantly touching her hair, the side of her bare arms. Then, just looking, watching: her pulse barely visible on the side of her neck; her half-parted lip-stick coated lips; her décolleté; her skin. I walk behind her. Wait. With my left hand I move her thick hair to one side. I smell that nape of her neck. Then behind her ear. The scent of shampoo seems to mingle with the scent of innocence. Smelling turns to more deliberate sniffing. A faint sigh, a sign of things to come. Sniffing. Recorded. A slow, hesitant kiss to her neck. A high-pitched, staccato "Mmh". Recorded. More little kisses just there. Behind the ear. On the side of her neck, my lips feeling her carotid pulse. I walk to her front, place my hand on her cheek.
"You are beautiful. Repeat it after me. 'I'm beautiful'".
"I'm beautiful", she whispered almost inaudibly.
"Say it loud and clear."
"I'm beautiful."
"Good. Remember this: I don't make compliments. It's simply a statement of fact. This is how I feel. And the word is inadequate. It's the best I can do."
I take my black silk tie and place it over D's eyes. She holds the material firmly to her face while I tie the knot. Now I walk around to her front again. I watch her lips. They are moist. She hadn't closed them in a while and saliva is beginning to coat them. I gently placed mine on hers. I expect no response, even a turn of the head. But instead, the first turning point: D presses her lips against mine, and with a sigh darts her tongue into my mouth, a yearning tongue, yearning lips, a hungry mouth. I returned her desire but only for a split second. It was not for her to call the game. And against my own will I withdrew. I had to. These things are decisive in order to set the balance of power correctly from the beginning. Calibration. Mind over desire, mind over cock, mind over the need for intimacy, over the need to be wanted, over the need to be needed. I step back. D is panting a little. Hungry for closeness. Recorded.
I return to her neck. Kiss it, then lick it with the tip of my tongue, holding close watch over her reactions: little shivers, little moans, little breaks in the rhythm of her breathing. I know already, with certainty, that her kitty is wet. It cannot be otherwise. Standing behind her I unbutton her blouse and slide it off her shoulders. I undo her bra and expose her breasts. I reach around and cup them. They are wonderful. More than a handful, but not much more. Pink aureoles - the color a nod to the European part of her Eurasian self - and small nipples. A hint of goose pimples covers her breast. I touch their sides with my fingertips ever so lightly, circle her nipples. My mind wanders. I want to see her kitty, lick it, fuck it. I bring myself back, step to her front, lower my mouth to her right breast, kiss it all over, gently, suck a little, flick my tongue, kiss lightly, take as much in my mouth as I can, step back, use my hands, stroke, cup, squeeze lightly. I pinch both nipples between thumbs and forefingers, suddenly, while I push my tongue far into her mouth. Quickly, forcefully, but briefly, 3 seconds at most. I step back. Look at her. Her breath has quickened considerably. She has become needy. It feels like I can smell it on her. I walk away from her. I want her to "miss" my touch, my kiss, just a little. It's simple, really: once trust is established, the need for intimacy grows commensurate with its intermittent withdrawal.
I open my box of goodies and find the clothespin with the flat prongs. I grab her left breast and without warning pinch her nipple with the small implement. D draw as quick breath. At odd intervals I flick the pin with my fingers. I suck on the other breast. A little harder this time. She likes it. Recorded.
"How does your kitty feel?"
"Good ..."
"What do you mean by 'good'? I don't understand."
"Like it wants to be touched."
"Good. Close your legs."
I unzip her skirt. It falls to the floor. She steps out of it. With one quick move I pull her panties down to her knees. Finally D is naked.
"Open your legs again. Now take your hair in your hands and expose your neck."
I come around to her front to inspect D's nakedness. Raised arms, exposed breasts, and a very small, closely trimmed triangle of black pubic hair barely covering her vulva, the rest of her kitty shaven. Lovely. I like her body. It's full, but not fat, taught, youthful but womanly. I slip my left hand - I'm left handed - between her legs and gently cup her kitty as if to protect her. My middle finger exerts the tiniest bit of pressure upwards. Nothing else. I watch her face. She is flushed, but somehow serene. Getting comfortable with me; trust building, body responding, mind settling, aroused. I flick the clothespin on her nipple to snap her out of whatever zone she is in, and begin to stroke her slit. Very lightly. Barely touching skin. The other hand explores the rest of what it can reach: her face, her lips, my thumb goading her to suck; the back of her neck, her throat and shoulders; her breasts.
I free her nipple, discard the pin. I want her sensations to focus on her kitty, desist from touching her any place else.
"You seem to like it when I stroke your kitty."
"Yes. I do."
"Then what do you say?"
"Sorry?"
"What do you say?", I repeat.
"Thank you."
I apply a little more pressure now and part her lips. Her wetness surprises me. Grateful kitty. Slowly I slide my finger back and forth through her slit, from her clit to her perineum and back again. Steadily. Don't hurry. D moans. I like her little moans. I kiss her. Again she wants more, again I withdraw. And I learn. I'm learning that D likes to be lead. Her need to be lead trumps her need for trust. Be lead first and let trust emerge. This seems to be it. How far will I be able to go with this one? I place my right hand on D's throat and with one rapid thrust plunge my middle finger inside of her as far as it goes. As fast as I push in I pull out again. I walk away.
I want her to contemplate her condition. What's the 'definition of the situation'? How are we both defining, constructing, giving meaning to it? We lead each other into roles that begin to congeal like this: D's passivity is not inactive; it merely seems that way. D's passivity permits, is active in the sense that she permits me to test, probe, discover. That interaction - the engagement of two active parties - makes, slowly but steadily, our relationship, clarifies our being, acting, desiring together. I lead, she follows; she permits my leadership, plays at following and inexorably walks toward her pleasure. But that is my interpretation. It is also a hope. Over time I will find out whether it matches D's reality.
