Freeuse: Discovering Lila
Author's Note: This story is designed to be self-contained rather than part of a formal series, and you can read it without reading any other of the Lila stories. However, if you're a stickler for reading things in order, the others are "Lila, Freeuse Slave" (the introduction), "Freeuse: Relationship Building," and "Freeuse: I Like to Watch."
It was about 8:00 pm on a Wednesday night. I'd been working stupid late on a project that was up against a deadline, and I was both tired and wound up as I rode home on the subway. I was upset at how it was going, peeved at unreasonable delays caused by last-minute changes requested by the client, and all-round sick of putting in so many hours. I needed to blow off some steam, but I wasn't quite sure how.
The car was crowded for a Wednesday night. There was a Raptors game that evening, and the last-shift crowd and evening shoppers were mixed in with more than the usual number of basketball fans. Like a lot of people, I was standing, holding a stanchion. That's when I saw her, standing about half a car-length ahead of me.
She was turned about half a turn from me so I could see her from the side. Maybe it was my mood, but I was instantly overcome with a wave of mingled appreciation and lust. She looked to be in her mid to late twenties. She was somewhat petite but not overly small, slender but not scrawny. Her lush dark brown hair fell straight to about the level of her shoulder blades. Her features were strong but feminine, radiating a relaxed assurance that I found instantly attractive. A little makeup but not too much, eyes lightly outlined but not turned into black craters like you see on some less confident women. She was wearing the quintessential Little Black Dress, restrained and unadorned beyond a gold metallic belt that cinched it around her waist, sleeveless, V-cut in front but bot tits-hang-out slutty, ending somewhat above the knee but not so short that she would have to keep tugging at it every time she sat down. No stockings that I could see. Short black leather medium-heel ankle boots. Nice medium-sized breasts, carried high behind the dress—their shape might have been engineered by a very effective bra, but I allowed myself to think that they would be equally shapely without one. All in all, a package that, at that moment, seemed to me perfect. My cock stirred in my pants the second I saw her.
Now, there aren't many guys who haven't had the experience of laying eyes on a random woman in a public place and being overwhelmed by a wave of mingled appreciation and lust—which, if they're smart, they don't act on. What was unusual about this one was the leather collar rivetted around her neck and the leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles, nicely shown off by said Little Black Dress, all with D-rings dangling and waiting for something to be fastened to them.
Let's wind back a bit and fill in more about me. I'm twenty-seven, hardly a virgin but currently single and going through something of a sexual dry spell. I don't think I'm particularly nerdy nor particularly shy, and the face that looks back at me from the mirror may not be George Clooney, but it looks pretty attractive to me. Some of my previous girlfriends have told me as much. But I'm not the smooth, self assured kind of guy who radiates charm and confidence, the kind who can spot a woman, walk over, and within fifteen minutes be walking her home with him. Rather, I'm the type of guy who tends to be prone to sexual dry spells.
I also have the usual suite of sexual fantasies. Aside from fucking beautiful women, usually ones invented by my fevered brain, my fantasies tend to revolve around two things that so far none of the women I've been involved with seemed to have any interest in: bondage and anal.
I guess maybe the bondage comes at least in part from the amount of effort I always seem to have to put out to attract and keep a female sexual partner, owing in part to the above-mentioned lack of automatic male magnetism. The idea of having total control over a woman, to have her naked, bound and gagged so she can't complain while I do whatever I want to her without having to lead up to it or ask permission—well, to me that's definitely the stuff of dreams.
Maybe the anal comes simply from a desire to try something different for once. I really love oral and vaginal sex, when I can get it, but I keep reading (in legitimate self-help articles in mainstream sources, not just in the erotic fiction that I enjoy but don't trust as a road map to reality) how great anal sex can be for both men and women. Having your cock squeezed by a woman's tightest hole (men), having your G-spot and miscellaneous nerve endings massaged from a totally new angle (women), is always presented as an absolutely pinnacle sex experience. Provided, of course, that it's done right: slowly, carefully, with lots of communication and lube, the way the articles go on to explain in loving detail. And of course, there's also the lure of something which is still, despite the sex-positive vibe of the current decade, slightly taboo.
Then I started reading about this new thing: Freeuse Slaves. Since the government had gotten tired of various prostitution laws being struck down by the courts, it had finally given up trying to outlaw it and instead set up regulations allowing for a number of reasonably safe ways for people to make money from their bodies. One of these is Freeuse Slavery. As I understood it, people, almost always women, who have a thing for BDSM already, who actively like being bound, spanked, flogged and fucked, can sign on with a contracting agency and rent themselves out by the hour as sex slaves. They can quit any time, but until they terminate their contract, they are expected, within limits, to do anything a client tells them to do.
You can see the appeal for a guy in my position. I have no fantasies of hurting women, even slightly and in play. I'm totally not wired that way. But my fantasies of bondage and control came rushing over me the moment I read that article. I checked reviews and downloaded a brochure for Consolidated Sex Slaves, which provided better masturbation fodder than anything Pornhub has to offer because it was real and actually available to me. I read that brochure forwards and backwards, then followed up by reading everything else I could get my hands on about the practice.
I hesitated for months. Would I really have the guts to walk through the looking-glass from total fantasy to fantasy-in-real-life? Would I even know what to do, or would I make a fool of myself? I eventually nerved myself up, figuring that every client would have had a somewhat fumbly first time, and anyway, who the hell cared if I made a fool of myself with someone who was my (temporary) slave?
So I signed up. I paid the hefty sign-on fee, read all the expectations and the FAQ's, and signed the waivers and the contract. I promised not to do anything on the mercifully short list of prohibited acts, all of which could be summarized as anything that could cause real injury, and promised to honour a slave's safe word (backed up by a safe grunt in case she was unable to speak at the moment). I waited while they conducted background checks to make sure I wasn't a psychotic sex offender. Finally, I was issued a card.
That was two months ago. I had slipped the card in my wallet, and I had been carrying it around ever since. During that time, I had seen a number of women wearing their distinctive Freeuse collar and cuffs, but I had always chickened out of hailing them.
Now here I was, staring at a woman of my dreams courtesy of Greater Toronto Transit, with a card in my pocket that would allow me to possess her immediately, completely, and with no repercussions. Maybe I was seeing a cure for the pent-up nervous energy I needed to blow off. A really good fuck might take care of it.
I hesitated as warring emotions filled my head. Finally, I consulted an expert authority on the subject, my cock, which was making an embarrassing bulge in my pants.
"Hey, Buddy. What do you think I should do?"
