It Started On The Metro Pt 02

We exchanged numbers, and I went home to wonder what I'd gotten myself into. The next day, we met for lunch at a café in downtown Houston. It was a normal lunch; we made light conversation the whole time. He asked about my studies and, to my surprise, just nodded when I told him that they were going well, but not as great as I hoped. We talked about movies, books, about his powerlifting and my swimming, just ordinary, everyday topics. I noticed that every time I cussed, he raised his eyebrow just a bit. At first, I cussed a little more to see if I'd get the same reaction—then stopped when I earned a disapproving frown that made me want to sink into my chair.

Guess I won't be doing too much of that anymore.

The week continued like that, going on small dates, with me sometimes stubbornly pushing boundaries, and him setting them. He started laying down expectations about school—he wanted me to get all As, which I wanted for myself, but he made it clear that it was non-negotiable and that I would be doing a lot more studying than I was. We spoke on the phone every night, sometimes talking about relatively innocuous stuff, sometimes about limits and expectations and conditions, sometimes with him dropping dirty jokes or D/s references that made my face feel 3

rd

degree burnt.

We probably would have talked even more, but this was right around midterms and I spent a lot of time in my books—when I wasn't daydreaming, writing stories, and looking at pictures on FetLife. Still, I probably spent more time studying than I had all semester, which was good, considering how much I'd been slacking off. Luckily, midterm break fell right after midterms that year, which was a nice stress relief. I mentioned that in talking with him. He responded, casually as anything, "Good girl, I'm very proud of you for making it through your exams. You'll come over for your break, of course."

My heart skipped. "What?"

"You understood, girl. I'd like you to come over for your break. It'll be fun. I promise."

"Yes Sir," I said without thinking, while the more rational part of my brain screamed.

You don't know the first thing about this guy! For fuck's sake, he groped you on the subway! He could be a serial killer! He could rape you and beat you every fucking day!

Of course, the suicidal part of my mind thought in a small voice,

There's nothing wrong with that.

I must have gone silent on the phone as I argued with myself, because He spoke up. "Relax, girl. I'm not a serial killer. You have my number, you can leave it with a friend. I'll also give you my address, we can even set up safe calls if that would make you feel better."

I'm pretty sure the Dom isn't the one that's supposed to set up the safe calls...

Nevertheless, I agreed. Because I'm suicidal. I mean adventurous. Which are synonyms.

And horny. I agreed because I'm horny, too. And what the hell, he made me feel good. Because I'm adventurous.

Anyway, I requested time off from work, told Jessica and Lisa where I'd be and for how long, and showed up at his house with a duffel and backpack, wearing a skirt and cami with no panties or bra, as per his instructions, after my last class on Wednesday. He met me at the door like a perfect gentleman, wearing a dusty purple button-down with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, and dark-wash, slightly torn up jeans. He did raise an eyebrow at my duffel. "I hope you didn't pack too many clothes—like I told you, you won't be needing them."

I shrugged. "I figure that this way, if you want to go out, I won't have to re-wear old clothes." Actually, I had just been unable to wrap my head around the idea that he would really keep me naked for that long. I mean, a girl had to wear clothes sometimes, right?

In any event, he let me in and showed me where to put my duffel and my backpack, in an office-type room that adjoined the master bedroom. When I went back to the living room, he was standing there with a strip of leather that had a ring in the middle and an open locking mechanism on the clasp. I'm pretty sure my heart stopped beating. He smiled. "Come here, girl." My brain babbled incoherently, providing no help whatsoever, while every other instinct in my body screamed at me to obey. So I did. He had me stand with my back to him, back straight, hands at my sides. The sound of the clasp sent an electric chill down my spine. I still remember that sound, and that feeling—the soft leather encircling my throat, the cold metal ring resting above my sternum, the

click

of the lock. He slid two fingers under it all the way around—I guess making sure it wasn't too tight. It reminded me of someone checking the fit of a horse's bridle. He spoke, his breath tickling my ear—rather like the first time we met. "Only I will take this collar off, girl. Do you understand?" I nodded. "I expect an answer, pet."

Being called a pet sent more chills through me, in the best way possible. I touched my collar—

my collar—

with one hand, caressing the leather. My voice sounded far away as I responded, "yes Sir."

"That's my girl." He ran his hands over my shoulders and stepped back. When I turned, he stopped me by squeezing my arms and walked around me, his eyes assessing, inspecting. I straightened automatically, hands going behind my back, and was rewarded with a smile. He stopped in front of me to lift my skirt, making heat rush to my face—and my pussy.

Don't move, don't move. Remember, you knew this would happen. Don't move, don't move.

He slid his hands around under my skirt, his dancing eyes holding mine captive. He squeezed my ass and murmured, "Now, this I'm familiar with... although it is nice to encounter it without any clothing in the way." His hands slid back around to the front, brushing my clit, and chuckled at my squeak and sharp inhale. "Very nice, pet. I'm pleased that you followed my instructions. Tell me, is it tender?"

I nodded. "I never shave, Sir. I hate shaving. It's really sensitive right now."

He grinned, the asshole.

With how this stay is already going, I should probably stop calling him asshole in my head. Except when he's being an asshole. Like now.

"Excellent. Then you'll be in the right frame of mind for the weekend." He flicked my clit, making me gasp again, and let my skirt fall. "I'm sure this must be a lot to take in, so I'll let you keep your clothes for now. I'm very pleased so far—you're a very good girl."

Hearing his praise, something inside me relaxed. It must have shown in my face, because his predatory grin also relaxed into a proud smile. "That's my girl."

He let me answer emails and work on homework while he made dinner (a nice surprise, since I'd been worried about cooking in a strange kitchen with my emotions in this state), then called me in to eat. The food—salmon and spinach—was absolutely delicious. He made a cryptic comment about enjoying eating like this while I could, but then refused to explain.

Great. More to set my mind spinning.

After dinner, I washed dishes while he checked emails for the night—which seemed right, somehow. I didn't mind this type of service, and it let me process my racing thoughts. What would come next? What was he going to do? Was he going to hurt me, and how badly? What would I do if he broke a limit? What was he planning, and would it feel good? What if he didn't like my body, or if I didn't please him? What if he was disappointed in how I performed, or how I looked?

His voice called from the other room, "Relax, little one."

What is he, telepathic?

"I promise not to let you displease me, and I certainly won't let you fail. I'll walk you through everything. That's the point of training, my girl."