His instructions had been very clear and Emma had followed them to the letter. Thomas was gentle and gentlemanly until she disobeyed a request (they were never "demands," always "requests," but it made no difference once they weren't met) and then he shrugged his gentleness off and became the exacting, powerful master she loved. Though he excited her in every incarnation and was a considerate lover, it was when they played these games of power that she was most aroused. Thomas, her mild-mannered, refined, seemingly conservative and slightly older lover was a consistent and important presence in her life, as was "Thomas, Sir," the man he became when they played, the man who reduced her body to a quivering mass and her strong, independent mind to an obedient puppy.
Tonight's instructions had begun with an outfit request. Dressing her was a particular pleasure of his, one that included specifics about how she should dress herself and what she should think of as she did, which put her in the proper mindset for what inevitably came later. These ritualized preparations made her feel pampered and cared for rather than controlled, which had come as a surprise to her when they'd begun.
She would never forget her indignance the night early on, after they'd first been intimate, when Thomas had whispered in her ear as he was saying goodnight, "Tomorrow I'd like you to be a good girl and wear those black panties you told me you bought the other day."
She'd looked at him curiously, not sure what to make of such a request, and frowned slightly. "Thomas, I wore those the next day."
He had smiled and gripped her arm with just a bit of pressure and held her to him. "Then wash them tonight, and wear them again tomorrow. I'm looking forward to you honoring my request." And then he had kissed her softly on the corner of her mouth and left her to stew at his arrogance. He had gripped her arm! And told her not only what to wear but also when to do her laundry! Where did the bastard get off making such requests of her?
And yet later that night in her bed she had recalled Thomas's firm grip, his deep voice in her ear, his unmistakable scent, spicy and earthy, the prickle of his facial hair against her skin as he had kissed her, and she was flooded and restless. She had stroked herself a bit, hoping to fall asleep, but that had only inflamed her more, and she wound up digging her vibrator out of her drawer and bring herself to several intense orgasms with it, fucking herself hard in the last round and climaxing with it jammed deep inside herself, spasming around the silicone shaft and recalling his controlled, dominant voice telling her to cum for him. When she was spent and finally settled enough to sleep, she padded out to her laundry room, washed the black lace panties, and hung them to dry on the rack before crawling back to her bed to fall into exhausted slumber.
That night was her introduction to submission. Her submissive side, which she'd never even thought she had, grew and developed nicely with Thomas, Sir taking her firmly in hand. She had always scoffed at what she thought were the very silly and misogynistic stories she'd heard of Doms and subs, of Masters and Slaves. She'd read The Story of O and 9 ½ Weeks (even watching the movie version and lusting over the young, virile Mickey Rourke) and though some aspects of it were titillating, she never got past the idea that it was all just a way to get a bunch of stupid, impressionable women to do a man's sexual bidding. And, of course, she thought herself above all that.
Before.
Afterwards she would concede that she'd never cum so hard or so often, that she had a submissive streak a mile wide, that in fact she understood how women could become Slaves, even, because the drive to please him was so strong. Thomas had chuckled at her enthusiastic expounding on the subject one night in bed as they lay in post-coital bliss. They'd had a particular intense session in which she had been physically restrained and he had been practicing orgasm control with her. After bringing her to the brink countless times, he'd finally tipped her over the edge, demanding, "Cum for me, Emma." She had swooped over that peak and avalanched to the bottom, bucking against the wrist restraints that bound her hands and the spreader bar between her knees and the anal plug he had inside her and the vibrator he had touched one final time to her throbbing, aching, oversensitized clitoris. And while she lay collapsed on the bed, he removed every implement and thrust inside her impossibly wet, still spasming depths and coaxed two more climaxes from her while he fucked her, describing the beauty of her submission in exquisite detail as he did so.
So began their journey, an experimental and amazing five months ago, and Thomas, Sir could now make her cum just by telling her to, so strong was their bond and her desire to please him and her body's response to him.
Tonight's outfit request was a favorite dress of Thomas's, a deep purple wrap-style dress that accentuated her firm breasts and rounded buttocks. He had requested that she wear under it a champagne-colored push-up bra with matching thong, which was a very feminine set, all lace and shimmering satin. He had also requested her most favorite (and least comfortable, she noted wryly) black strappy sandals, which wound around her ankles and gave the appearance of caging her feet.
He had also made one strange request – that she not shave her bikini area. This was the fourth time this week he'd made such a request, and she was a little unnerved having so much growth. She was dark-haired and her body hair grew densely if not checked; normally she shaved every day, trimming her bikini line and keeping her plump pussy lips hairless and smooth with a neatly manicured bush up top. With no shaving all week there were tiny hairs spilling from the edges of her panties and causing a great deal of itching on the insides of her thighs with the prickly regrowth. She hoped all this had a point, though she imagined it was just another way to test her and make her do something she didn't want to do. She had been willful lately and knew Thomas, Sir had a long memory for insubordinate behavior.
She had agreed to meet him at his apartment early. He said he had some things to take care of before dinner and would like her to come by and have a drink before they headed around the corner to their favorite sushi restaurant, which was a quick walk or even quicker cab ride from his apartment. When she arrived he was puttering distractedly, his sleeves rolled up and his hair mussed and that slightly stressed look he had that let her know that when Thomas, Sir took charge she was going to be in for quite an evening. She knew Thomas well enough to know that Thomas, Sir was an outlet for him as much as her submissive side was an outlet for her. It was a way they both sorted things out, and for two people who compartmentalized as well as they did, it was a great way for them to meet their individual needs in a very mutual and pleasurable manner.
Once she had tried to explain to it to a girlfriend, and her friend (an open-minded girl, or so she had thought) had recoiled from the very notion. "So is it, like, a Jekyll and Hyde thing?" she asked in horror. "He changes like that? Emma, that's not sexy; that's schizophrenic!" And Emma had tried to explain to her that he didn't turn into a different person, or anything, it was a way of speaking and both verbal and nonverbal cues that they had developed, based on many long conversations and lots of communication of needs and wants. It was more a manner of attitude than anything else; he loved to dominate and she loved to submit to his dominance. But Stacia hadn't understood at all. She bought into the idea that Emma was doing something anti-feminist, degrading, potentially harmful, and altogether sick. Emma never got a chance to explain to Stacia how beautiful it was to have someone know and accept her, all of her, the way Thomas did; how lovely it was to trust someone in such an intimate and vulnerable way. She couldn't explain to her friend how being challenged and stretched was helping her grow in her sexuality. Stacia wasn't buying it, and fear of facing that kind of reaction again kept Emma from discussing it with anyone but a few online sub friends.
Thomas kissed her and as she pressed into him she felt how warm he was, nearly sweating. He was indeed tense, and in her mind she made herself still and kept herself in the space in which she needed to be. She knew his control would focus him and in turn focus her. And during these times, when he was moody or tense, their time together was like a reset button. At the other side of it he was restored to his most perfect self again, and she was calm and fulfilled, and their connection was deeper.
