Full Throttle (Ch. 01)
soppingwetpanties
This is another one of David's fantasies dealing with unrequited submission.
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.
Chapter One
The chime of an arriving text message made Allen take notice, picking up his phone and clicking to a new screen. He was in the middle of a search online for a set of Mission-style display cases for a new client. The text from his girlfriend Emily was the third one that day.
Need to attend emergency budget meeting, pls resched dinner til 7:30, move pick up to 7. Love ya'
He sighed, but wasn't at all surprised. Emily was a department manager at a large corporate engineering firm. She had a disorganized but demanding boss who was always making last minute demands on his staff, usually in response to fire drills initiated by the home office in London. Their dinner had been planned for more than a week, as an infrequent formal outing to mark the anniversary of eight months together, but for the life of him he couldn't recall why that number was important.
Allen picked up his phone to dial Le Petit Amour, their favorite place for expensive meals, with them usually opting for the seven course
prix fixe
dinner, a decision they would no doubt regret after course number six. He changed the time and added a credit card to guarantee the reservation, thinking at the same time that "girlfriend" was really the wrong word. Like him, Emily was in her fifties, divorced long ago, and like him, a "mid-career senior professional," as the job posting sites euphemistically called people their age. The difference was that he had made his exit two years ago from corporate life, following his interests into a new life as a dilettante antiques dealer specializing in Arts and Crafts movement, with emphasis on Stickley and Limbert furniture.
He was able to make the transition due to a high six figure windfall from his last employer, a tech company that had gone public. With wise investing, he retired from the corporate grind in favor of a life of leisure, starting with a visit to The Stickley Museum at Craftsman Farms to hone his knowledge of the acknowledged leader of the movement and the Grand Rapids Art Museum to view exemplars of Charles Limbert's Dutch Arts and Crafts style. His newly adopted profession gave him the excuse to travel the country and to visit antique stores and websites to purchase pieces.
Allen was content with his new profession. He got to travel, meet interesting people, and trade in antiques he'd always loved. He lived in a modest Craftsman style home that was chock full of his "finds" from his buying trips. When he wasn't on the road he marked time at his small retail location in an out of the way location on the outskirts of Morristown, a bedroom community of New York City. There were plenty of well-heeled buyers in the Greater New York metropolitan area, and Allen was able to make a decent living (though a fraction of what he was making in his corporate sweatshop).
It was a late spring afternoon, cold and breezy with bright sunshine. Allen was staring out the display window of his store, watching the blossoms from the cherry trees flutter to the ground. It was a slow day, only two customers and three online queries. When he was bored Allen fell back into his old habit of reading and watching porn on the internet. Allen had always harbored submissive fantasies, but his ex-wife was repulsed the one time he asked to be humiliated (and never again) and Emily seemed as straight-laced as his ex.
He and Emily shared a lot of interests, but never this. They met through a mutual friend and started with meetings that fit her crazy work schedule, walking through scenic local towns then chatting over breakfast and coffee. Now they visited libraries and museums, piano concerts and antique shows, with casual meals at her house or at his. Emily liked her place best, and her bedroom with the brass bed and puffy floral print quilts. She liked tea served in bed, soft flannel nightgowns and comfortable shoes. He liked her generous breasts and slim thighs, the softness of her skin, and filling her warmth.
The sex was pleasant, even pleasurable, but wasn't one of the foundational elements of their relationship. He'd dropped a number of hints about his submissive desires but believed they fell on deaf ears. She didn't seem to like being naked outside the bedroom, or anything not described as "lovemaking" so Allen was hesitant to try anything new. Anal sex? He might as well ask her to fly to the Moon. Both of them enjoyed having their own space, and nights together were often sitting side by side, with each of them on their tablets enjoying their favorite show or browsing the internet. In the ultimate indictment of their relationship, Emily often referred to Allen as her "companion" rather than her boyfriend.
At age fifty-three, and not the physical specimen he was when he was in his twenties, Allen had resigned himself to being content and comfortable. The exciting times of his youth had faded into the mist of time.
It was only an hour to closing time and he had no appointments and no one in the store. He called up his favorite author, "soppingwetpanties," on the Literotica website and continued reading the "Mistress Elaine" series. Allen identified with David, the submissive man, and his thoughts dwelled on how he would have reacted to a dominant woman. He was starting to get aroused at reading about David's humiliation in front of his co-workers when a cool gust of wind announced the arrival of a visitor.
She was an attractive brunette, full figured but not heavy, maybe late thirties or early forties, with designer glasses. Her cropped haircut, tweed skirt and thigh high leather boots gave her the look of a professional woman, maybe an attorney or accountant.
"Hello, may I help you?" Allen asked her.
"You must be Allen Peabody," the woman said. "I've been on your website. Is that library table over there a Stickley piece? It looks like an original."
Allen beamed at her knowledge and taste. "Yes, you have a good eye. That's a Gustave Stickley from the 1901 catalog, from the original factory upstate. The top is a bit rough, but the color is good."
The woman went over to the table and ran her hand over the table top.
"Any repairs?"
"None that I know of," Allen said, then continued. "I noticed your car is in a "No Parking Zone." It's enforced until five and this town is pretty aggressive about giving out tickets."
The woman looked at Allen like it was his problem. She reached into her designer handbag and pulled out the key to her car. She thrust it in front of his face.
"Do be a dear and move it for me. It's cold outside and I'm just warming up."
It wasn't posed as a question and Allen dutifully took the key without hesitation, going outside in his shirtsleeves and braving the wind. A cold front was moving in and snow was forecast for the evening. The woman had driven a Range Rover and parked it in a clearly marked "No Parking Zone." Allen was a bit nervous moving it. He'd never driven a vehicle as large or expensive as her car, and was anxious over scratching it while driving it in a narrow alley to access the rear parking lot. He was impressed by the appointments in the car - - the white leather, navy blue piping, and the plushness of the interior.
He pulled into one of the reserved spaces for his store and before he got out curiosity got the best of him and he opened up the glove compartment. In it was the car's registration and proof of insurance, but sitting on top of those papers was a long black dildo, the length and girth appropriate for a porn star. It wasn't in any packaging and looked like it'd been used many times before as it had lost its sheen and fingernail marks marred the end of it. He slammed the compartment door quickly, not quite believing what he just saw.
He was also trying to reconcile her professional dress and expensive SUV with something as crude as a sex toy in her glove compartment.
Perplexed, he went back into the store to meet his customer. He was chilled when he reentered but he shivered when he saw the woman sitting behind his desk scrolling through the story on his screen. He forgot to lock his computer when she arrived and she was apparently reading the story Allen was in the middle of when she arrived. The story was about David, a man Allen identified closely with - middle aged, divorced, with a submissive side that was never properly addressed. The woman was laughing while she was reading the story.
"Excuse me. That's my computer," Allen said, trying to retain some semblance of dignity.
The woman made no move to leave his desk.
Instead she said "sit down" and pointed to the guest chair next to the desk.
Allen had every right to ask her to leave his store, or at least surrender her place behind his desk, but he did neither. Normally he didn't like to be bossed around, but this was different. He was getting excited, sexually. She could see it from the very obvious lump in his pants when he sat down as ordered.
"You seem to be a man who knows what he wants," she said to him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name," Allen said, seeing that this conversation was likely to become very personal.
