He'd heard her voice once on the phone, a low purr, and it had reassured him that the ad had been for real, giving him barely enough courage to show up to the secluded house, a purple ribbon under his trousers, tied around his cock and balls.
He'd driven past three times, hands shaking, stomach churning, checking the address on the scrap of paper, looking at the time on dashboard, having been sternly warned not to be late. If he hadn't found himself so rock hard at the prospect, he probably would have tucked his tail between his legs and dashed to the safety of his apartment and roommates, where he would have half-heartedly congratulated himself on what surely would have been a disappointment, or a 40 year old perverted man pretending to be a Mistress, or maybe even someone who was luring him to his death.
But that voice, so confident and sexy, firmly giving him his commands for the evening. Exactly 8 o'clock. Purple ribbon tied securely around the cock and balls that would belong to her for the duration of his time with her. The door will be unlocked. Clothes are to be folded neatly on the chair in the entranceway, after which he was to come and kneel for inspection, eyes downcast until given permission to speak. He had quivered at the directions, meekly responding with "Yes, Mistress", the bulge in his pants stiffening with every word until his groin ached. There was to be no masturbating for three days before the visit, to ensure focus of attention, anticipation, and his full submission. He could, however, stroke to the edge and then stop. He only did that once, in an attempt to ease what had become a constant erection, but found it only worsened the desire, the ache to have Friday night arrive, to be on his knees naked for his clothed Goddess.
He had effortlessly turned down invitation after invitation all week: for parties, barhopping, a date with the cute blonde down the hall, causing his friends to frown and whisper amongst themselves over the sudden introspection of the college party boy. He didn't care. He'd always found CFNM porn to be his favourite and the chance to make it a reality was an all-consuming desire; the chance to be a naked slave for a clothed older woman who would use him mercilessly for her absolute pleasure had erased all other longings.
In his mind he was already hers.
He parked in the driveway and looked at the beautiful house. A dim light flickered behind the curtains and he remembered her question about his pain tolerance. The thought of enduring for her to please her caused him to throb and he turned off the engine and wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs. A deep breath, shaking hands picking up the bouquet of roses he'd bought on the way--unbidden but meant to please--and stepped out of his beat-up truck. He thought of his mother and how she'd be shocked if she knew that the son she raised so religiously was walking up the steps to an unfamiliar house to kneel before a strange woman who would put a collar and leash on him and treat him as her slave for the next few hours. And his dad! His cheeks burned at how much he did not want his father to ever know that the strong, ambitious son he'd raised to conquer the world was moments from being over a woman's knee, being spanked until his other set of cheeks also burned.
He forced his parents out of his head, and put his hand on the doorknob. A moment's hesitation, a gathering of courage, and then a crossing of the threshold.
She heard the door open, unmistakable amidst the soft music, and smiled at the long pause before the door clicked shut again. She hadn't been sure he'd actually come. He was so young, 22, a good six years younger than anyone else who'd replied, and totally green to submitting! What had she been thinking when she considered him? And yet, his email had been so genuine, pleading for the chance to please her, to surrender totally to her, to please give him a chance to submit, and his attitude belied his lack of experience. Some men are just naturals, wanting to please a woman, needing to exist for her pleasure to feel fulfilled, and the chance to train a young pup like him with such potential was irresistible. Always a risk, she thought, as she listened to him place his shoes on the shoe rack and the quiet shuffling as he arranged his clothing just out of sight. The young ones were fickle, easily scared off, pulled by their societal obligation to assert their male dominance while secretly hoarding the shameful desire to hand it all over. Ego. Friends. Parental guilt. Such a risk. She sighed and adjusted her leather dress so it rested straight across her thighs, then picked up her crop and toyed with it.
He stepped from the brightly lit entranceway into the candlelit living room, faltering as his eyes adjusted. He knew she was watching, could feel the green eyes from her photo surveying him and he felt panic rising as he wondered if he would be able to please her, to bring a smile to her lips, to be her good boy. He could make out her form now, shadowy in a wingback chair, her curly hair framing her oval face, and he moved quickly forward and dropped to his knees, eyes cast down, placing the flowers in front of her black lace-up high heel boots and clasped his hands behind his back.
Silence. He quickly scanned his memory: ribbon was in place, clothes folded, according to his clock he'd been on time, genitals groomed as required, fingernails and toenails clean and trimmed, and the roses for good measure. His breath was shallow and quick, his heart racing, his stomach tossing as he waited, naked, for some sign of approval, or even of acknowledgement. He glanced at his penis; it was sticking straight out like a bowsprit, and to his horror he saw it was dripping precum onto the floor.
She took her time to look him over, running her hand up and down the stiff crop, then taking a sip of her tea. The flowers were a very touching gesture she thought, and the way he stayed so still and waited was pleasing. This was her favourite part: that transitory period of time when a new slave arrives for the first time, overwhelmed by fear of the unknown and yet driven to come to her, that agonizing wait to hear her voice in person, to feel her touch, to be given that approval they seek so badly. Her eyes scanned him once more, taking in the carefully tied bow, the humble stance, the smooth curve of the white young back leading down the firm curve of the buttocks. He was athletic, well toned, pleasing. She touched his left shoulder with her crop, running it down the biceps, and when she did, she could hear his breath stop. Pleasing again. She leaned forward, bringing her lips to his ear, and placed the tip of the crop under the head of his cock, raising it a little. Her perfume was heady, intoxicating, and he resisted the urge to turn and bury his face in her neck.
"Making a mess on my floor, are we?" She whispered pleasantly with a hint of sternness.
"Yes, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress. Would you like me to clean it up?" he quickly whispered back, licking his lips in nervousness.
"Yes, be a good boy and lick it all up. Then you may lick my boots. Keep your hands behind your back. And hurry up, Mistress likes her floor to be clean."
