Five 9

Five (Part 1)

soppingwetpanties

This is David's story.

He provided the inspiration for this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

David

Present Day -- Somewhere in Eastern Virginia

The shimmering city lights reflected off the swift river current. David gazed out the picture window of the hotel's lobby bar, watching the eddies and swirls of the dark water, seeing his life, like the water, rushing out into the anonymity of the vast ocean beyond.

David was living in a company apartment in a new city, on his own now after a messy, drawn out and acrimonious divorce. His bland sales management job, far beneath his skill set, filled as much time as he allowed it, so his life now was mostly staying a bit late at the office, walking back to a nearby apartment, and fighting boredom with a beer and dinner at a nearby chain hotel.

Because it was a budget minded hotel, it housed a thoroughly forgettable bar and grill with no core of regulars and no one to get to know, which suited him just fine. On that particular night, as he sipped his beer and glanced around, he noticed two women in a booth across the room. What stood out was that they seemed so dissimilar -- the older woman, a forty something brunette, reminded him of an actress, the slender one most famous for her role as a prostitute in a romantic comedy. The much younger woman was more casually dressed, but no less attractive, with longer reddish hair and a curvier look.

Both of them were focused only on their own conversation, and neither seemed happy about being there. Neither of them looked in his direction. He went back to his meal, and the game on the TV over the bar, but when he glanced over again their movement caught his eye -- the older woman had reached over to hold the younger one by the chin, as you might if you were angrily trying to get someone's attention. She seemed to be speaking sternly, though they were too far away for him to hear. He was surprised to see her hand move down to grip the younger woman's throat, and then into the open neck of the redhead's white blouse, cupping her full breast. There were no smiles, and the younger woman seemed to accept the invasion of her space without resistance, even though the intimate touch seemed like a threat, not a display of affection.

The older woman's eyes suddenly flicked around the room, and he tried to look away quickly. He knew that whatever was happening was a private display of dominance and had nothing to do with him. It wasn't like him to be a voyeur, but the visual in front of him was beyond his will to resist.

Her piercing stare forced his eyes down, so he focused on his steak and salad, but his mind was racing after witnessing the brief display of raw, sexual power. He created a mental image of the well-endowed redhead, imagining her braless under an oxford cloth shirt that rubbed her nipples lightly, then her leaning forward to accommodate his smooth, cool hand, sliding down her chest, curving around her soft, rounded breast, feeling its weight, the fingers then circling and pinching the erect nipple.

He pulled out of this line of thought, trying to concentrate on the hoppy flavor of his craft beer, and whether the Cubs were still leading in the 8th inning, and trying to ignore the burgeoning hard on in his pants. When he glanced around the room again, they were gone. While he was scanning the room, the bartender dropped off a fake leather folder containing his check. He took his credit card out of his wallet and opened the cover. To his surprise, on top of the check was a folded yellow piece of paper with a scribbled heading:

"

For the older man at the bar

"

He felt his face redden; he was the only one at the half empty bar over fifty, and he probably deserved whatever insult the women were making about invading their moment of privacy. The content wasn't anything like what he expected:

"

You seem like the type.

Get a new phone first.

287-244-6882

."

The type for what? Why a new phone, and why call? He stared at the note, wondering if his mundane life was about to change.

On the way back to the apartment, he stopped at the chain drug store on the corner to buy one of those anonymous prepaid phones, too curious not to know. He tucked the phone inside his jacket and walked the remaining three blocks to his apartment, all the while wondering what was in store for him.

***

He was hesitant to call right away, and waited an hour when he got home, making some coffee and trying to distract himself, but his mind kept going back to his image of the fondling of the younger woman's breast and of their eyes -- the older woman's stern look, with a flash of anger, and the younger's facial expression, accepting but unhappy. He prepared to defend himself when the woman answered -- I wasn't really looking; I didn't see anything; I'm sorry I looked, were excuses that came to mind. Finally, he took a deep breath and called her number. He wondered -- would it be a sultry voice like the actress he pictured? His heart was thumping in his chest when he hit the "call" button on the burner phone.

The line rang six times, and he waited for voicemail to respond so he could attempt an apology. He was surprised when the phone call was answered.

"Yes ... hello?"

It was a breathless male voice, surprising him once again.

"Umm, sorry, wrong number ..."

He was about to hang up.

"No, wait ... you were calling 287-244-6882? You got a note, right?"

How did he know?

"Yes, but I don't understand ..."

"She told me the next one would call me, someday, and I should explain. And warn him."

David's head was swimming with questions.

"Wait, I think a woman in a bar left me this number, but explain what, and warn me about what? Who are you? Who is she, and what do you have to do with this?"

"My name isn't important -- she just called me 'Four.' She said I was her fourth project. Middle aged woman, attractive with short dark hair, right? Serious expression? So, I was hers, at least for a while, until she got tired or bored, she never really explained. And I still wanted to be hers, to have her attention, even her anger. She left me a new phone and a number but told me not to use it, just to give the number to the next 'project' she found. That was months ago ... I forgot about this phone until it rang. And now I know she'll never see me again."

The man on the phone seemed a bit younger, and at the end of his short speech his voice started breaking, sounding as if he was ready to cry. His explanation raised more questions than it answered.

"But who is she, and what is this warning about? Warning me not to call her? This isn't making any sense."

"No, no, I need to warn you that her thing is just control, you won't be her lover ... she'll get inside your head and want you to do things and make you want to please her. You won't be the same person later, and someday she'll send you away too. And she'll leave you with one last humiliating task -- to answer someone else's call, might be male or female. She likes a challenge. So, she expects you're the type to call within a day after the text I have to send her now, with your number. Her number is 676-427-9104."

He paused for a moment, but not long enough for David to write down the entire number.

"She calls herself Acadia."

"Acadia what?"

The line went dead. David had already scrawled the phone number quickly on a yellow sticky note, wondering if he got the last two digits right.

***

He was looking at his phone, trying to summon the courage to call her. "Acadia," he thought. It was an interesting name. He'd never met anyone with that name and tried to picture what she looked like. He had only gotten that one glimpse of her, from across the room. The only "Acadia" he was familiar with was the national park in Maine, and conjured up the image of a tall woman, thin, with a face reminding him of a familiar actress. He'd watched enough porn to picture how she would look in a scene with him. She would stand over him with black fishnet stockings and thigh high leather boots, a black lace bustier for a top, and a riding crop in her hand. The image pleased him and his cock stirred. His hand went for the phone, pushing the call button while he still had the courage.

The call was answered after the first ring.

His body tightened during the pause while he waited for the person to speak first.

"Hello ... you must be 'Five'."

It was a woman's voice. Her voice wasn't sultry. Far from it. It was businesslike. She called him "Five." The man on the phone was right. And now he was getting an inkling of why he was warned.

"Ahh, hello, umm, my name is ... ," he managed to squeeze out before her voice cut in.

"OK, stop there. The only useful name is the one I chose for you. I saw that needy look in your eye, just for a second, but we'll see if I guessed correctly. I usually do. Your first task is to go online, to this 'subfarm' website I've texted you, and look up two profiles. Then if you choose to explore yourself you may call me tomorrow at 8 p.m. ... or just go away. Either choice is fine with me.

Ready? Profiles 665-327 and 665-298. The passcode is 39294. Think carefully."

She hung up while he was still scribbling the numbers. She had no accent at all, but she spoke in a clear and educated way, and there was no smile in her voice. And she had not given him her name, nor was she interested in his. This woman knew exactly what she wanted and it was his task to figure out what that was. He had already stumbled badly out of the gate. He was tempted to throw the phone into the trash and walk away. This woman could be crazy, or he could be. But instead, against his better judgment, he suddenly felt the irresistible urge to please this mysterious woman. This was more excitement than he had ever felt in his life.

With just a fleeting glance in the bar, and a brief interchange on the phone, the woman he now wanted to please had seized the seed of darkness that laid dormant for decades. It was only a matter of time before she nurtured that seed, willing it to engulf his every waking moment.

David, of course, didn't fully appreciate the dark path he had chosen. He had no idea of his ultimate surrender to her twisted vision of a dominant/submissive relationship. He didn't then appreciate that he would take great pleasure in debasing and humiliating himself and that she would take great pleasure in bringing it about.

Oblivious of where this all might lead, he went to his tablet and accessed the URL that had been texted to him. The website turned out to be a registry of submissives, or erotic slaves, with a farm motif. It was real now. These were real people, not actors, engaged in a very adult and very structured way of behaving that wasn't just entertainment, but a lifestyle. He didn't understand any of it, and his limited exposure to BDSM was from his occasional visits to a porn site. His hand was shaking so much it took him three tries to enter in the passcode correctly.

The first profile surprised him: a naked man, in what looked like the old wooden barn on the website's home page. The photos didn't depict anything lewd. They were more clinical in nature, just full height full frontal and side views, more like a mug shot rather than a picture to capture a fond memory or convey a warm feeling. He zoomed in, trying to understand why she had sent him there, and saw the circled "4" marked on the man's thigh in what looked like black magic marker. David saw that the man was wearing a heavily scuffed pair of women's high heels and his wrists were tethered to a metal ring mounted on the wall of the wooden stall by a decorative ribbon.

David realized with a start that he knew this man ... at least from their phone call. The man with the expressionless face was her previous "project." Now it was going to be his turn. Naked, standing in a horse stall, chained to the wall. He wondered if something was wrong with him because the thought of it was exciting, not revolting.

He studied the picture again, this time more carefully, noting that "4" had also been shaved down below in his pubic hair, to highlight an average size penis, limp now. He wore a gray chain belt with a dull metal tag that hung below his balls, bearing an inscription that wasn't readable. His eyes were covered by a dark bar to preserve anonymity. David realized that Four had accepted this humiliating display and a public record of it. The table below the pictures had his height, weight, and measurements including aroused length and thickness. Acadia was listed as his "Trainer."

He laughed to himself about his chance encounter with a real Domme at a cheap hotel bar, and how it might result in him giving his body, and maybe his mind, to a complete stranger. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to give himself permission to go forward, and studied the rest of the table. It consisted of a checklist of dozens of sexual behaviors and activities, some that David had never thought of, each with a check mark for "yes," "no," or "trained." He quickly looked up the next profile, trying not to dwell on the list of what he thought of as deviant behaviors.

The next one was unquestionably the younger woman from the bar, with the same format. He could tell from her hair, a flaming red with tight curls. Nude, eyes hidden, shaved below, chain belt with hanging tag, wearing only well-worn black high heels, tethered to a similar ring in what looked like a different stall in the same dusty barn. Her breasts were full, with hardly a sag, each nipple pierced with a small gold ring.

Even though the picture wasn't meant to arouse, David couldn't help but be mesmerized by the explicit image. When he zoomed closer into the photo, he saw that the chain belt was gray metal, with a tiny token lock. The circle mark on her thigh was a "B," but looking more like the Greek letter beta, again appearing to be drawn with a black marker. Her profile table said she was 5'6", 134, 34C, with nipple rings, and she was responsive to a surprisingly long list of activities due to her training. Her nipples were long, with a pinkish hue. There was a noticeable trail of wetness on her thigh, though she didn't appear to be sexually aroused.

David hardened as he skimmed the pictures of "B", and his hand instinctively started to pump his growing length as he studied the woman, and her submissive posture. It was clear now what sort of control this Acadia found amusing, and he wondered how "B" had displeased her to bring them to the point of an animated disagreement in a public place. Had she been with her a week, or a year? Impossible to say, or to guess from the profile numbers. It was obvious, too, that this was the probable endpoint for his own potential "relationship" with Acadia -- a profile on this "subfarm" website, just another anonymous picture to be studied by her next "project."

Even with this grim reminder of his fate, he still felt the uncontrollable urge to continue. Up until now, his current life had been devoid of any true feelings. His heart was racing and his mind was running wild with the possibilities.

He went back to home page and saw the tabs for "Trainers" and "Recent Auctions." The "Trainers" tab seemed to find humor in their offers of the use of their "stock" to others for short or long-term use, all for prices under $1. Even the prices and descriptions were humiliating:

- Female, 37, MILF dislikes food play but obeys -- sushi platter anyone? 75 cents;

- Male, 62, useful for light pain or yard work, watch the thorns on the roses. 49 cents;

- Female, 28, enjoys nipple play, being taken to the circus. 15 cents;

- M 42, F 48, matched set, hate to be used together, explore their dislike. 10 cents.

The list went on for two pages. Most of the cryptic references eluded him, and he suddenly felt as if he was traveling in a foreign country.

He knew he should walk away, but also knew that he wouldn't. He carefully folded the slip of paper with Acadia's number on it and put it in his wallet.

***

He was distracted all day at work, thinking about making the call, trying to imagine how this might all play out. His visual of Acadia sharpened. He pictured her in black leather, him chained to the wall of the barn, and her laughing at him while she flogged him. He wanted to do better with his second call, reminding himself to listen carefully to what she was asking of him. He had pen and paper at the ready, and waited anxiously until it was precisely eight o'clock.

"Umm ... hello ... this is David, I ..."

"Just stop right there," she said curtly. The tone of her voice communicated that she was in control of the conversation. "I recognize your number, so obviously I know you're 'Five,' which is your only name now. I hoped you weren't going to be a disappointing choice -- I thought you might be more intelligent. But given the fact that you can't remember your name troubles me."

She paused, and for a moment David thought that she would end the conversation. Instead of talking, he waited for her to speak. He was relieved when he heard her voice again.

"I assume you studied the profiles I sent you to, so you see the sort of training that interests me. It's a hobby of sorts, but I think I have a certain skill set."

He should have just answered her question, but couldn't suppress his curiosity. "Yes, but I wondered ..."

He was cut off again before he could finish.

"Quiet, just listen and obey. Your first task is to go back to the 'subfarm' site, find the survey tab, and fill out the questions in detail. It covers the same things you saw in the profiles. Fill it out and text it to this number. Do this in 24 hours. Your second task, after I review your answers, will be to come to an address I'll text to you. It's in the west suburbs, someone is letting me use their place, so it's certainly not my home. Come in an Uber car, bring nothing except your new phone. No wallet, keys, nothing. Figure it out.

Assume this will be Friday evening. We'll see if you are worth my time. My interest in this is retraining you, mentally and perhaps physically too. At a quick glance it looked like you could lose a few pounds, and you definitely need a better haircut. But one thing at a time. Be honest with the survey, there will be a test later."

"Ahh, yes ... Mistress." He tried out the word. He liked the sound of it.

"No, not that -- I'm your trainer ... you will call me Acadia, and I'm not a Ma'am or your Mistress or your girlfriend or your lover or someone from the kinky sites you've probably been to. Pay attention -- survey first, then Uber."

She hung up and was gone. His mind was a jumble of thoughts as he found the survey form online. As he ticked through the hundred lines of it, it went from obvious choices to ideas and interests he had never thought of, and a few he had to look up to understand. Filling it out made him consider his desires, and his weaknesses -- mostly about things he had thought of but never said out loud to anyone.

"Would the subject be interested in watersports?" He'd never participated in it, but it sounded wicked. Dirty. Deviant. He checked "Very interested."

"Pet play?" He looked it up online. It didn't sound like his thing, but how did he know if he didn't try it? He checked "Will consider."