Doritos With Jesse

If it weren't for the mild California winters, I'd be shivering under my scarlet peacoat as I felt my exposed skin brush up against the satin liner, tightly wrapped against my lingerie-clad body. Legs crossed, the black sheer thigh-highs providing minimal warmth, I teetered on my sparkling new stilettos as I nervously rang his doorbell. I was five minutes late, maybe seven. Now there would be hell to pay.

My muscles stiffened as I heard his heavy boot steps approach the door to his house. I sucked in a deep breath and used the last of my saliva to moisten my teeth. Watching the door handle turn, I prepared my brightest smile for him: Jesse, my Dom.

"Well, I see you got part of my instructions right," he said in a low tone, letting me pass into the doorway. "However, you're late. And you know what that means." Despite my heels, he looked down on me from his almost ten-inch height advantage.

I trembled under the thick wool of my coat, dreading him slipping it off my shoulders, but I turned around anyway, knowing he'd want to inspect my adherence to his dress code. Facing the wall, he carefully denuded me, the skin of my arms blossoming with goosebumps at the tickle of his fingertips as he lifted my coat off and hung it up.

"My... I have impeccable taste. I knew blood red was your color." Lust stained his words. As if I were an object, he turned me around and adrenaline pierced my heart as his eyes devoured my glowing skin displayed in the bra and panty set he chose for me. I was so worried it wouldn't fit right, but miraculously it hugged every curve with tasteful delicacy and spared me the humiliation of multiplying my bulges. I loved the black lace trim. In this, I felt about as sexy as a thirty-something brunette in glasses is going to feel. Clearly, I'd passed the first test of the night, but what about all the others?

"Your punishment for tardiness will be ten pushups, one for each minute you were late," he demanded, gesturing to the floor before standing back and crossing his arms, drill sergeant-style. He peered down at me over his nose and I almost melted into a puddle on his hardwood floor.

"But Sir, I was only five minutes late, seven at most." I didn't spend two hours getting dressed up for a gym session!

"But me no buts! You know the rules. Ten. Or you can go home right now, Yellowstone be damned." Though his voice was stern and deep, he couldn't quite conceal the mischievous smile twitching his lips, nor could I hide mine. I bent down to remove my heels.

"What are you doing? No! Leave them on. Until I say otherwise."

I looked up at him with a snarl.

"Ten! Let's go! You're wasting our time."

Giving him a full view of my backside, I propped myself up on my palms and stretched my feet out to a plank position. With a deep breath, I lowered myself down.

"All the way! Chin to floor!" He kneeled before me to scrutinize my form.

I did as I was told. Up, down, up, down.

"One. Two. Three." Luckily, he counted for me because my mind fractured with equal parts exhilaration, embarrassment, and anger, which only grew with the advancing numbers.

By eight, my arms shook, and it took all I had to straighten them out again, huffing and puffing. I paused for a break.

"Almost there, Little One. Two more, let's go."

Ahhh... 'Little One!' My kryptonite! Hearing him call me that nearly caused my arms to buckle, but somehow I steeled them against my instincts to crumble. He wasn't my 'Daddy' Dom, per se, but occasionally he'd use those terms for encouragement and they made me melt like butter every time.

"Nine. Ten. Good job, Invicta! I knew you could do it."

He offered his hand to help me up, and I gladly took it, swaying on my heels from the exertion.

"There, you happy now?" I puffed, catching my breath. My cheeks burned and I'm sure I was blushing brighter than a cherry in the snow.

"Happy? Never. Satisfied? Yes. Let's move on, shall we?"

He was happy. He couldn't hide it. And I was happy to make him happy.

As I stood before him, a silence blanketed us as he drilled me with his eyes. With a slight cock of his head, he lifted his right hand and gently placed his palm on the crown of my head, the weight of his arm transferring to me. In a moment, I lowered myself, following the downward pressure of his hand until my knees once again touched the floorboards, my joints cracking loudly in the quiet house, a sound he'd grown accustomed to after much reassurance that it didn't hurt me in the slightest. Additionally, with his left hand, he gave his signal for kneeling- thumb, index, and middle finger all pointed down at the floor with the other fingers tucked like a fist. He'd drilled me on several hand commands for times when the environment was too loud to speak, or if he simply preferred silence, as he often did.

Kneeling, staring at the scuffed tips of his black motorcycle boots, I lowered my chin to my chest and let my eyelids close. I felt his hand lift from my head before he cleared his throat in a husky cough.

There, I waited in silence. Though we only heard the sounds of our measured breaths, their cadence winding down to a relaxing rhythm, the room filled with a certain presence I only felt here, in his home, kneeling before him. I felt his loving gaze, his adoration and excitement cloak me, lifting me to a state of altered consciousness I only felt with him.

I became humble, yet exalted. Lowly, yet precious. Submissive, yet powerful in my position. I was an equal in this unbalance of power, the yin to his yang, and perfectly reminded of my place.

Sometimes the silence lasts several minutes or more, it just depends on the day and what mental obstacles lay in the path to our desired positions. This evening, it felt like a couple minutes before he broke the spell with a deep, authoritative voice.

"Lady Invicta," he addressed me by my chosen title, "Do you wish to serve?"

It was a question I looked forward to hearing each and every time. He let the 'v' of 'serve' vibrate with sinister certainty. It was a simple question he always asked, as each day was fresh and new consent was needed.

"Yes, Sir, I wish to serve," I said, sweeping my gaze up for a moment of intimate eye contact, then returning to my bowed head position and bending forward at the waist to touch my forehead to the floor, in full submission. Here I waited for five deep breaths, then returned to the basic kneel.

He likes to pause a few seconds to let the statement sink in before responding. 'Serving' Mr. Phoenix runs the gamut, from simple and cute play scenes to downright traumatic spiritual experiences. Saying you wish to serve is never a lighthearted statement, nor does he treat it as such.

He exhaled deeply. "As it is spoken, so shall it be done."

These words penetrated my mind with chilling finality. My skin pricked into goosebumps, as it always did with that closing statement. From this moment on, I am an instrument of his will, come what may. The prospect always left me breathless.

"You may stand." He offered his right hand again and I rose, my knees grateful for the relief of pressure. Now our scene began in earnest.

"You say I've gotta watch Yellowstone, so that's what we're doing tonight."

"You'll like it. Cowboys, guns, violence, and politics. Plus Kevin Costner, what's not to love?"

"We'll find out shortly, but first," he plopped down on his couch, man-spreading his thighs and revealing a bulge under his jeans that I couldn't ignore. He grabbed the remote. "I'd like a snack. There's a bag of Doritos on the kitchen counter, get a big bowl and fill it about halfway, please."

I nodded and sauntered into his clean kitchen. Looks like he wasn't having me do dishes tonight, a relief. I grabbed a large red plastic bowl from his cupboard and found the chips, Spicy Nacho Cheese flavor. As directed, I filled it halfway and folded the top of the chip bag over to keep them fresh. I started back to the couch, but was interrupted.

"Ah, ah, ah!" He tsk-ed his finger at me. "Crawl. Carrying the bowl on your back. And you'd better not spill a single chip." I could see the darkness twinkle in his eyes from across the room. How was I going to keep it level? He loves to torture me.

"At your service, Sir," I uttered, assuming the position. Carefully, I placed the bowl in the dip of my spine, praying this would work, or else I was sure to stain his pristine white living room carpet with nacho cheese dust, and I'd catch all flavors of hell for that.

With extreme caution, I dug the fingers of one hand into the plush fibers and slowly inched my opposite knee forward, holding my breath all the while. It seemed like it would work if I just went slow enough. I felt his carnivorous stare the whole time, devouring every twitch and jiggle of my flesh.

He propped his hands behind his head and laughed at me, leaning deep into the soft couch, throwing one boot-clad foot over the opposite knee, squaring his body.

"Ooops! Easy does it, Invicta! I wouldn't want to find out what happens when those chips hit the floor. Unimaginable cruelty! Of the sickest kind. Bet you can't make it all the way over, clumsy ass."

I burned with indignation. Keeping my cadence slow as a snail, my mind raced for a comeback, but found only cobwebs.

"Bet I can!" I said, stiffly. "What do I get when I make it?"

"Oh, baby wants a reward?" He mocked in a child's voice. "You want a gold star, wittle winner-poo?"

Almost half way there, just keep trucking, I coached myself.

"A head pat and some chips would suffice," I politely responded, not giving in to his ploys.

"Suffice? That's a big-girl word, good job!" He jested. He was loving this way too much.

Finally arriving at the couch, my head was level with the bottom of his boot, which he angled directly into my face, for good measure. There were pebbles stuck in the tread, but I didn't dare mention them or he'd make me pick them out with my teeth.

"Congratulations! Success!"

His hand stroked my hair gently, accompanied by a genuinely loving smile that all but erased his taunting antics. His eyes held equal parts admiration and admonition, with a sprinkling of cockiness on top; a deadly combo.

He plucked a few chips from the bowl, still intact, on my spine.

One by one, he fed them to me like a baby bird. I crunched gratefully, with the slight heat tickling my tongue, arousing a cough.

"You ok there, Little One?" He said in a fatherly tone, stroking my cheek as I swallowed, my throat dry from nerves. "Lemme get you some water. Don't move a muscle." How sweet of him, I thought.

He returned with a shot glass half full of clear liquid.

"It's water, I swear. Here, take a sip." He brought the rim to my lips, and I trusted him. Sure enough, it was benign H20, just not nearly enough. He winked with a snarky smile.

"Always happy to help my Lady." He'd never miss an opportunity to congratulate himself. "Now what do you say?"

"I know what to say, but I'm not going to say it."

His eyebrow raised.

"And why not?" The question sounded genuine as he stared me down.

"Because your 'help' was insufficient." I studied my fingers disappearing into the carpet and almost trembled.

"There you go again with these big words. I like that about you. Smart girl. But she says smart-alicky things. And I don't like that about her. So what can I do about that?"

He relieved me of the chip bowl, setting it on the ottoman.

"Head down, ass up," he commanded.

Biting my lower lip, I did as instructed and rested my forehead against the plushy carpet, which smelled of chemicals.

He knelt by me on one knee and placed a warm hand on the curve of my bottom.

"Do you promise to serve without the sass?" He asked.

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Sir." I said, stifling a burgeoning giggle.

"Is that so? Well, I suggest you find a way to do the impossible quickly, or else we'll never watch Yellowstone. You have a curfew, remember, and the minutes are ticking away. Perhaps this will," he paused as I heard a breathy chuckle, "motivate you."

He pulled his hand away and one second later it smacked the fleshy part of my ass with a resounding slap. I jumped, and a laugh tumbled out uncontrollably.

"Oh? You think this is funny?" I heard the smile in his voice, though I didn't dare look up.

Slap! Again and again, he spanked me. No gentle warm up, just hard, driving spanks that forced me forward into the carpet. I cried out from the pain and exhilaration until we were both laughing like naughty kids. Despite the sting, I could feel the love each time his hand connected with my body. He loved to spank, and any excuse to deliver a 'funishment,' he relished thoroughly. And so did I, and he knew it.

He kept going, one, two, three, four, five, and more after that. Usually he makes me count, but this was undocumented because of our simultaneous giggle fits.

I felt my skin sing with heat and eventually soften into a mild numbness, imagining how red my ass cheeks were getting.

"There! Have a change of heart yet?" He asked through a smile.

"Yes, Sir, I'll do my best," I nodded, lightly brushing my forehead against the fibers.

"Atta girl. That's what Daddy likes to hear." He smoothed his hand over the redness, stroking me gently as I hissed with pain and pleasure.

"Can we watch Yellowstone now?" I asked sweetly.

"Of course, resume your position." And he resumed his, comfortably sprawled out on the couch. I remained on all fours, only this time the chip bowl stayed on the ottoman. Looks like I won't be cuddling with him this time. My heart sank.

The epic orchestrated theme song flooded the room through the surrounding speakers, giving me chills as the haunting instrumentation full of poignant longing tugged at my heartstrings. This is SUCH a good show! He's gonna love it, I thought.

The first scene opens with a bright, sunny blue sky dotted with clouds. A man's hand floats in from screen right and connects with the brown cheek of a whinnying horse in obvious distress. Kevin Costner's bloody face appears as he calmly comforts the horse and whispers the first of many true lines, "It's not fair, this life," and kisses the animal's muzzle tenderly. An accident has occurred, and the horse is hopelessly trapped amidst the rubble, in agonizing pain and distress. A wide shot shows a handsome stainless steel Ruger Blackhawk revolver in his left hand, rising to the curve of the horse's jaw before he gives the animal a last farewell. "I know you deserve better." He pulls the hammer back. "Best I can offer you is peace." And the shot is fired. Not even one minute in, and someone's already dead.

I looked up at Jesse from my humble position. "Eh?" I said, nodding excitedly. He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow as if to say, "Not bad."

The tragic scene of a multi-vehicle accident unfolded with vehicles toppled on their sides and a very hopeless-looking John Dutton (Kevin Costner) taking stock of the damage. He sees an enormous piece of tracked equipment on a flatbed left perfectly unscathed. Meanwhile, a crumpled tractor-trailer smokes, laying on its side, its passenger deceased. He finds an official document from an entity called Paradise Valley Capital Development, a possible clue to the cause of the accident. Police sirens wail as they approach the scene and Dutton speaks to a grouping of his cows on the other side of a fence; "The things we lose to keep you fed," he tells them. The black cows moo in response, as if thankful.

With dramatic music, the title sequence rolls and Jesse reached for a package of something resting on top of the couch.

"Please wipe your hands," he said, handing me an antibacterial wipe. A little confused, I did as asked.

"Now, you will feed me one chip at a time, in sets of ten. Please keep count as we watch, ok?" He glared at me with a sinister glow in his eye. What sounds simple never is. "And please don't touch the floor again until I say it's ok."

"Yes, Sir." I bowed my head.

He kicked his feet up on the ottoman and resumed watching the show. Unsure of when he'd like a chip, I hesitantly reached into the bowl and grabbed one of the salty, spicy triangles. I reached up and offered it to him, but he ignored me. Was he playing games? Am I supposed to be a mind reader now? Give me a signal, please! I thought.

Service submission isn't always easy. In fact, it demands of you everything you've got if you're serving a man like Jesse Phoenix. The land shifts under your feet without notice. You may stumble, usually purposely as a result of his antics, but fortunately, he always offers you a hand up.

After a minute, he turned his head, keeping his eyes on the TV screen, and opened his mouth. I carefully placed a corner of the chip on his waiting tongue and he bit down, dropping crumbs all over his chest that I'm sure he expected me to clean up somehow.

One. I counted in my head. I'm not good with numbers in general, and keeping track of every chip was a nightmare in the making.

Onscreen, a court scene unfolded between the Dutton family lawyer (one of John's sons) and Paradise Valley Capital Development, arguing over land use rights. I could see Jesse's eyes faintly glaze over as he turned to me again, mouth agape.

Two.

In another moment the judge threw the case out, siding with the Duttons to keep the disputed 30,000 acres of cattle ranch as undeveloped land, a mere fraction of the Dutton's vast holdings. Jesse smiled and opened his mouth again.

Three.

He laced his fingers together over his belt-line and slowly twiddled his thumbs while a corner of his mouth lifted into a self-satisfied smile. Was he really going to make me kneel the entire time? My knees were already aching.

Together we watched the show develop, the drama mounting by the minute. The Dutton family showed their prowess everywhere, from wrangling wild horses to manipulating stock prices and company takeovers. A power family of the highest order, they collect enemies faster than flies to shit. In particular, Beth Dutton, John's business savvy daughter, can turn a boardroom into a power exchange session like no other as she shoots daggers from her mouth right and left, always maintaining her position as Domme of the house. I saw Jesse's eyes twinkle when she cornered an oil drilling exec with threats of destroying his company if he didn't comply with her wishes to cut their stock's dividend.

"Mistress X needs to take notes from this bitch," he uttered, biting the inside of his bottom lip.

He opened his mouth again. Four. I think. I've never been good at multitasking and this show sucks you in hardcore, so I was set up to fail right out of the gate.

"Sir," I spoke during a lull in the action. "Will you permit me a pillow? My knees hurt, sitting like this for long." My toes tingled from lack of circulation and my thighs burned from lifting myself up just enough to take the pressure off, yet be unnoticeable to Jesse.

"Oh, certainly! I don't want my Lady to be uncomfortable." He grabbed one of the large couch back cushions and instructed me to sit on it any way I liked, so long as I could still perform my chip dispensing duties.

"Ah, ah, ah, watch where you touch, remember?" He pointed to my chip-feeding hand, which had developed a thin coating of orange nacho cheese dust. Wouldn't want to smear that on the carpet.

Once seated with legs crossed, lifted by the cushion, it was much easier to hoist myself up and watch the show undistracted. It went on like this for a while.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

I asked Sir if I could eat a chip myself, thinking it might be a good way to keep count of his. Ten to him, one to me. But he denied me.

"How many chips have I had so far?" He tested me.

"Ten, I believe, Sir."

"Good job! I bet you were hoping to use your chip to track mine, weren't you?"