Interview 7

"What are you looking for?" I asked, purposely attempting to be gentle yet firm and authoritative.

The young woman sitting across the table from Me was just barely a young woman. She was old enough to vote, but only by a few months. She definitely could not legally consume alcohol, which was fine in My opinion, as I did not want to deal with a drunk person -- not after having babysat a drunk girl in Vienna nearly two decades earlier.

The crowd of the small coffee shop seemed to fade away to nothingness as I awaited her response. The headlights of the cars and trucks passing by just a few feet on the other side of the window seemed inconsequential.

I simply raised the latte to My lips, My eyes narrowing as I focused upon her, waiting.

Her long raven hair seemed to shine in the glow of the recessed light above her head. The scant make-up was tastefully applied, contrasting greatly with the last few young women who had sat across from Me in this very coffee shop over the previous week.

"I'm looking for..." she began, then hesitated.

Her voice was sweet, soft, almost silky. If a butterfly's colorful wings could have a voice, it would be her voice -- such was the image which came to My mind as she spoke. The colors of a butterfly announce its presence and draw attention, yet the butterfly seems skittish -- and the same could have been applied to her.

"I'm looking for a Master who can teach Me to be more... confident in myself, while molding me into whatever He wishes of me."

"I see." I set the latte down and leaned back in the chair, folding My arms across My chest. "And just why do you believe I am the Master who can teach you confidence?"

For the first time in perhaps five minutes, she looked up at Me, looking directly into My eyes. Her hazel orbs were mesmerizing, displaying a confidence hidden deep within.

"Simply a gut feeling," she replied. "Just a gut..."

I smiled reassuringly. "Sometimes the gut can be a much better decision maker than the mind," I told her. "That has certainly been the case for Me in the past, and probably will in the future as well."

At last, she took another sip of her mint mocha. Her small hands seemed dwarfed by the large mug.

"As small goes," she whispered, more to herself than to Me, "at least that's good for my gut."

Leaning forward, I placed My arms upon the table. "Breast size is not indicative of intelligence or worth."

"You can say that because of your age."

That caused Me to raise an eyebrow. Granted, she was a little more than half My age, but still, I did not believe that My opinion on the matter was age-specific.

"Sorry," she said quickly. "I don't mean that you're old."

"To you, I probably am."

"Sorry."

I smiled warmly as I took another sip of My latte. "Age means nothing," I said, "so long as all the participants are old enough to consent."

Her shoulders sagged into a position of relaxation for the first time that evening.

"Besides," I continued, "if age was a concern for you, you and I would not be sitting here right now. And clearly, age is not a concern for Me."

She nodded, not looking at My eyes any longer.

I allowed Myself the luxury of looking down below her face. The silver necklace she wore bore a crescent moon pendant which, given her position, swung about an inch or so in front of her chest, the simple black dress providing a nice backdrop to showcase the pendant. Also apparent in that view was that her breasts were rather small.

"How do you feel about your chest?" I asked out of the blue.

She looked up at Me with shock, her eyes wide, almost a deer-in-headlights expression as if the question froze her in place and she did not know how to answer or react.

"I could tell you how I feel about them," I offered, "but first I want to hear how you feel. After all, they're yours. You're the one who sees them every day."

A blush came to her cheeks, and a knowing smile came to My lips. "You're not too comfortable talking about your breasts, are you?"

She did not respond verbally, instead shaking her head in the negative.

"Is that what you meant by wanting to become more confident? Wanting to feel better about yourself?"

She nodded. "But more than that," she added, finally looking into My eyes once again. "I know that in order to submit as fully as possible, I need to have some level of confidence in Myself. I don't feel like I have that. Not now. Not yet."

I sipped the latte again. "And you believe that a Master can give you that confidence?"

She nodded again.

"Do you believe a Mistress could ever give you that confidence?"

Her shudder was quite visible. "I've... I've thought about it, but I just can't picture Myself being... comfortable with a Mistress."

"A somewhat-cryptic but honest response," I acknowledged. "Honesty is very important."

"Of course," she responded rather matter-of-factly.

...and on the conversation went for perhaps another hour before she accepted My arm and I led her out of the coffee shop, back out into the night to lead her toward the university campus. As she and I stood at an intersection waiting for the Walk symbol, I finally asked her the important question:

"Why should I choose you?"

To her credit, she hesitated for a moment, looking down at her low red heels. "Because I want to better myself by submitting to You, Sir."

I smiled, already ninety-nine percent certain of My eventual decision.

The following morning, on the way to the office, I mailed a postcard to her with just one word in the message area:

Accepted