Mr. Bear

It was three weeks, not two days, before I heard from him again. In fact, I'd given up on the guy as anything but a fantasy to cum to when I was alone in bed, so when I picked up the phone one evening after a typical solitary dinner, I didn't recognize the voice at first.

"Hello?"

"Is this, uh...Diana Masque?" I heard someone male on the other end ask hesitantly.

"This is she. Who's speaking, and what's your business?" I asked coolly. I never cared for phone solicitors. If I wanted any of the services they were offering, I'd open up a phone book; that's what they were there for, after all.

"This is, uh... That is to say...um..."

"Spit it out," I ordered the caller, getting impatient and letting it show in my tone. One of my favorite television shows was about to start in fifteen minutes, and I didn't want to miss it.

"—It's Mr. Bear," he finally managed. I blinked, mind blank for a few moments. Then remembered.

"Ahh, Mr. Bear. And how are you this evening, Mr. Bear?" I drawled sweetly, trying to remember his real name. Craig Something. Craig Cracken—no, no, McCracken, that was it.

"I, uh...oh, geeze, I can't believe I'm actually doing this," he muttered, and I heard what sounded like him taking the phone away from his ear on his end of things.

"Don't go!" I called out to him. He came back; I could hear his unsteady breathing, and offered the first thing that came to my mind. "You've obviously thought long and hard about calling me," I stated smoothly. "It's natural for you to be having second thoughts. The pleasure you had was not the normal kind; it was extreme, and intense, and came at the expense of your pride. I'll even bet that if you had any friends in that crowd at the end, they teased you horribly about it."

"...Yeah, they did." A pause on the line, then he asked. "Did you...?"

"Have any friends there who teased me about later?" I finished for him. "Of course. Certainly a number of my male vanilla friends have been avoiding or looking down at me. But I like to think of it this way. I like what I do, and the people I do it to like what I do, and it's all consensual, so it's none of their business. I don't pry into their own sex lives, and I don't make judgments or look down on them because their lives are strictly vanilla, and in my opinion boring by comparison. It's just the way they like it, and the way they prefer to be. Boring, plain vanilla."

"I see. Do you, uh...ever like it vanilla?" he asked me. "'Cause I did some reading on the internet, and they didn't seem to, ah..."

"Each Dom or Domina is different, just as each sub is different," I reassured him gently. "We're all individuals, each of us with our own likes and dislikes. I myself can't abide the thought of scatophagia, so I never do a scene involving it."

"Scato-what?"

"Shit-eating," I stated bluntly, plainly. "Urine isn't too bad; I can tolerate the smell of it for a little while, but the thought of scatophagia itself makes me gag. Even if I'm not literally the one doing the eating. I'm sure there are things you would never in a million years do or allow someone to do to you. A good Domina would learn these boundaries, respect them, and work around them." I laughed softly and corrected myself. "Of course, there are those that say a *great* Domina will lead you up to that boundary and teach you to take yourself across it willingly, but I'm comfortable with having a few boundaries of my own, so it would be hypocritical of me to deny you a few."

"Oh, I think I'd have a lot of boundaries," Mr. Bear muttered.

"We all do, at first. You think I became a Domina overnight? It's never a sudden process. There's the first exposure, usually in books, magazines, movies or other forms of entertainment or literature. The first sense of repulsion, then later, the fascination. The first masturbation, as you read or watch a Domination/submission scene, maybe with a little sado-masochism thrown in. You wonder how badly clothespins really do hurt, or what burning hot wax feels like on the skin. You might even get a candle and do a little self-experimenting, and if the sensation isn't unpleasant, you might try it again later. Little things like that, Mr. Bear. Baby steps, for the curious. And you are curious, aren't you?" I prompted him. "You had an incredible orgasm, last time, but you were drunk, and surely not entirely responsible for your reactions, right?"

"Well, uh...yeah," he admitted huskily in my ear.

"And so you're wondering if that incredibly intense orgasm was just the product of your drunken imagination, aren't you?"

"Yeah..."

"And, though you'd never think yourself the kind of man who'd submit himself to a woman in a million years, your penis still stirs a little at the thought of it having been for real. All of it, the pain, the pleasure, the humiliation, the being yanked outside of your normal self into a strange place that's frightening and incredibly exhilarating all at the same time," I murmured into the phone. "All as your cock gets harder and harder, remembering how it felt. You can touch the skin where the welts used to be, you can stroke your cock, and beat your meat to the memory, but it's not as intense, and it never will be that way again...unless..."

"Oh, yeah..."

At that husky-sounding admission, I was pretty sure he was stroking himself. My semi-vanilla friends (the ones with the dirty minds, but not enough courage to ever really try non-vanilla) had always claimed I had a great voice for phone sex. Physically, I wasn't much to look at, maybe a 6 on a scale of 10 on a good day...but great sex isn't about looking good; it's about making yourself and your partner *feel* good. That, I could handle right along with the best of them.

"Have you got your penis in your hand?" I purred softly into the phone.

"—Uh...uh, sort of," he admitted. "It's...I'm still wearing my pants."

"Where are you, at home?" I asked him lightly.

"Yeah, in the kitchen. I, um, was putting the dishes away, and saw your card, and..."

"And called," I agreed, nodding though he couldn't see it. "You made the right decision, Mr. Bear. I want you to hold the phone with one hand, and rub the other over your meat, through the front of your pants. Do it."

I thought I heard the sound of flesh over cloth, but couldn't quite tell.

"Are you rubbing yourself?" I asked him.

"Yes..."

I deepened my voice a little. "Is that how you address your Mistress, even over the phone?"

"No, Mistress; I'm sorry, Mistress."

"That's my good little bear. Rub yourself through your trousers," I ordered him. "First side to side...that's it...then in a little circle, a little harder than that....now long strokes up and down your shaft. Bring your hand down to your balls, and squeeze them gently...that's it," I encouraged him as he moaned softly. "Now drag the nail of your thumb all the way up to the tip, and take your hand away."

"Wh-why?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"Are you questioning your Mistress?" I asked him coldly. Deliberately reminding him of the 'no questioning' rule from our last encounter.

"—Sorry, Mistress. Can I touch myself again, Mistress?" he asked me.

Pleased, I smiled, and reached for pen and paper. "No, you may not. Are you alone in your house?"

"Yeah, I kicked my girlfriend out two weeks ago."

"Let me guess, she wasn't satisfying you anymore?" I asked sympathetically. Once one went off the vanilla path, it was sometimes hard to go back.

A sarcastic laugh, short and hard, came through the receiver. "She certainly wasn't satisfying *me*. She was screwing someone else behind my back, and then said I couldn't complain, since you'd made me cum in front of some of our friends, who told her about it. I told her it wasn't the same thing, you barely even touched me, but she said she wasn't going to sleep with a...with a freak."

"Sounds like she has a real attitude problem."

"Yeah, the kind where a little discipline wouldn't hurt," he muttered darkly, and I had to smother a laugh.

"Are you having daydreams of dominancy over her?" I asked him sweetly.

"Oh, yeah. 'Cept she's gone for good, and good riddance. If she ever comes back, I'd like to borrow that whip-thing of yours for an hour or two, but I'm not gonna ask her back."

"Well, if she does, we'll have to see if you're ready to take on the role of a Dominant, and if there's a way we could convince her to try being submissive. You must first learn how sweet it is to be a submissive, yourself. So, since you're all alone in your home...we'll just have to find a way to fill the void in your private life for now, won't we?" I drawled, and readied pen and paper. "Give me directions to your home, there's a good little bear."

"What? I, uh..."

"Give me the directions to your home," I repeated more firmly. When he hesitated again, I lowered the phone to the counter and whacked the pad of paper flat against the surface. SMACK! Lifting the receiver to my ear, I heard what sounded like a whimper. "If you want to touch your hard, hot, throbbing cock, and feel it burning with pain and desire, exploding with an orgasm so big, your eyes will roll back in your head like a zombie's...give me the directions to your house."

He gave them to me, his voice sounding almost dazed as he did so. I nearly swore out loud when he gave the address first, barely listening as he recited the unnecessary directions. He was literally less than fifteen blocks away from where I lived—hell, I could have *walked* to his house, if I'd wanted to! And I never knew.

All this time, I never knew my ideal sub lived so fucking close... Well, that was what the tractless wastes of suburbia did to people; no one ever got to know more than their absolute nearest neighbors, if they were lucky. I didn't let any of that show in my voice, however.

"Hm. It'll take me about forty-five minutes to arrive. In the meantime, what I want you to do is to clean up your entryway, livingroom, hallway, bathroom, and bedroom, in preparation for my arrival. In fact, any room I can see from those locations must either be closed off if it is dirty, or clean enough to not disgust your Mistress with slovely, bachelor-style housekeeping methods. In other words, the air should be sweet-smelling, the floor and furnishings clean...and the toilet seat should definitely be down."

"I remember," he murmured in my ear, sounding like he was getting off at the memory. "You said they should see what you do to men who forget."

"—Are you touching yourself?" I asked him sharply.

"Uh—no, Mistress!" he quickly denied.

"I think you are. That will be ten lashes for disobeying me," I informed him, then added, "plus the ten I still owe you from Halloween. So when I arrive, your front door will be unlocked, and you will be kneeling in the punishment position not far from that front door, naked and ready for me. Your home is in one of those newer developments, in the Ashbury Heights lot? It's not a tiny split level, correct?"

"Correct, uh, Mistress. There's a broad tile entryway in front of the door for about ten feet, then carpeting. Um, where do you want me to kneel, Mistress?" he asked hesitantly.

"On the carpeting, this time. I might change my mind later on, but for now, every time I call and say I am coming over, you will meet me in the punishment position on the carpeting just beyond the entryway. No need to bruise your knees excessively if you haven't earned it as a punishment," I added.

"Thank you, Mistress."

"Forty-five minutes, Mr. Bear," I reminded him. "But unlock the door right now. I might arrive early. And you may *not* touch yourself, until I give you permission to. Failure to comply will add ten more lashes to the twenty already awaiting you. And while we're at it, you are *not* allowed to have a drink of anything alcoholic until after I am done with you. Just so you'll know how much more intense the pleasure can be when you're perfectly sober and capable of remembering it in every last, exquisite detail."

"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress," he added quietly, sounding sincere.

Oh, what a treat this one was going to be!

I hung up the phone, grinned down at the address and its directions, licked my lips, and pushed away from the counter. Dancing a happy little jig—how he'd starred in some of my personal fantasies, the last few weeks—I headed for the bathroom. First a shower, a little shaving here and there to tidy myself up, then maybe some makeup, a tiny spritz of perfume, something suitable from my Domina closet to help set the mood, and then the ultimate decision, what to bring from among my selection of 'toys'. My heart beat fast in my chest. I was lucky I remembered to stop by the VCR and program it to record the show I was about to miss.

It didn't take me long to get ready. I was good at fast turnarounds. By day, I worked as a dentist's receptionist, working only four days a week, but with a very good salary. In the evenings, well, I had an active social life. Vanilla friends, not-so-vanilla subs... Some of my vanilla friends were avoiding me at the moment, and two of my three subs had just been released from my care. One into the full-time care of a fellow Domina as her slave/assistant, the other because of a death in his family, and the need to go back to his hometown and help manage things in his family's time of grief. That left me with Cho to fill my evenings, an Asian man who liked being treated as furniture for a heavy but curvaceous woman like me. There was only so much of that a girl could take, however, before it got boring, so I'd taken to using him as furniture while disciplining one of the other two subs, adding to his discomfort and humiliation levels, something which he'd liked immensely. Heck, he'd been proud to serve as my chair or footstool in the presence of the other two, the only one allowed to do so.

That particular option wasn't available at the moment, however. So, as I smoothed stockings up my newly shaven legs, I fantasized what it would be like to discipline my brand-new Mr. Bear while sitting on Cho's back. I'd have to introduce the idea slowly to Mr. Bear, though; I had no idea how much he could stand on a first or even a second D/s date. Which reminded me; as I wrapped my overcoat over my Domina outfit for the evening and picked up my picnic basket of toys, I double-checked to make sure my notebook was in there. It was a trick I'd picked up from a vanilla friend, actually. She carried a notebook everywhere with her, so she could always jot down a note or an idea about something, helping to keep her busy life organized. Not an actual day-organizer; I loathed the things, especially since I worked all day with a huge desk-sized one behind the dentist's reception counter. They were fine for life in an office, dentist's or otherwise, but not for my personal life. I liked a little more spontaneity than that, thank you very much.

Getting in my car, I checked the clock. Half an hour. I drove the five blocks, parked out on the street, checked my lipstick and eyeliner in the mirror, then checked out the house. One of those sprawling three-story suckers, the kind that upwardly mobile couples moved into when they thought of having the 'perfect family', and living in the perfect condo just wouldn't cut it size-wise anymore. Mine was small and cute by comparison, a 'modern saltbox' with faux gingerbread trim; this was large, with angled bits and broad dormer windows, a three-car garage and a rounded archway supporting the roof of the covered porch.

Mr. Bear had quite a bit of money to spend, if he was living here alone, with no girlfriend in the picture anymore. Funny how it was often the ones with power and responsibility in the vanilla halves of their lives that craved submissive experiences. Not always the case, but a good percentage of the time.

With ten minutes to go, I opened the car door, pulled out the picnic basket with a black-gloved hand, locked my vehicle, and headed for the front steps. The house was set at the back righthand end of a large curve in the road, with a wooded ravine behind it, and high privacy fencing to either side. Plenty of lawn space to either side, too, compared to the too-cramped, cheek-and-jowl housing of some other developments I'd seen; the land he owned had to be an acre, maybe an acre and a half, with plenty of trees and hedges to give it an illusion of privacy from its neighbors. How I wished I could afford a house like this, on a receptionist's salary! Walking up the path, which was lit by those clever, low garden lights on either side, I mounted the steps and opened the front door. And nearly sighed aloud with pleasure, as I spotted all seven feet of my latest conquest kneeling naked on the silvery-grey carpet, within an inch of the darker gray, slate tiles lining the hall around the front door.

Shutting the door behind me, I turned and locked it. It was one thing for *me* to walk in the front door unannounced; I was invited. It wouldn't do for anyone else to walk in on us unexpectedly. He'd been drunk, the last time, and both of us caught unawares—shame on me, I know... Sober, there was no telling just how much lower his humilation tolerance threshold could be.

Without acknowledging his presence beyond that first look, I set the picnic basket down by the door, then strode past him into his house. My low suede pumps clacked over the tiles, then scrunched softly on the carpet. The pile wasn't overly long, but it was thick enough to be springy, which made me decide to limit how much time I spent moving around on the carpeting, since these heels were an older, almost spike-heeled style that threatened to wobble on such giving ground. A tour of the house was necessary first, however. I spotted the immaculate living room off to my right and nodded to myself. *Cleaning service; he's got to have a cleaning service, to keep his home this neat and tidy.* It was the rare man, in my experience, who kept his home looking this good by his own free-willed efforts. No wonder he was ready and waiting ten minutes before my arrival.

"Uh...Mistress?" I heard his voice calling out to me from the entryway. "Should I follow you? Just wanting to clarify my instructions, that's all!"

"Stay right there for now, Mr. Bear. I'll come back to you," I called back, reassuring him. Pleased he'd remembered he could ask me a question, if it was to clarify his instructions. I'd have to give him something special for that. Which meant I had to find a good place for us to play in. The living room wouldn't do. Well, I suppose it would, later, but only when he'd learned to control himself. Cumstains on that beautiful carpet, or that butter-soft leather sofa, wouldn't be easy to get out.

I gave myself a quick tour of the house, poking my head into every room that had a door standing open. Later, I'd probably get to see the rest of the house, but sticking to those rooms that were open or had been left open was designed to give him a sense of control over his level of privacy. Mounting the stairs, I found the master bedroom at the back of the house, mainly because it was the only door on the second floor standing open. Wide open spaces, a large, carved, cherrywood four-poster bed covered in a white eyelet-lace comforter—a bit of a surprise, but probably left over from the ex-girlfriend's taste—and a little entertainment nook, replete with a loveseat and a widescreen t.v. set. The bathroom was fascinating; most of it was another nook, opposite the entertainment corner, with a large walk-in closet set between the two.

It was also tiled in white squares interspersed with cobalt blue diamonds, with a broad two-sink counter, one of those silly little toilet closets, a shower stall made out of those glass-cube things that ws big and tall enough enough for Mr. Bear and two nubile blonds to play around in—replete with two handheld shower units, no less, one mounted low and one mounted high and both with the dialing heads that allowed thin sprays or throbbing massages—a dual-sink counter with a vast vanity mirror, and a large whirlpool bathtub done in cobalt blue porcelain, built into the corner of the nook with one side against the walk-in closet wall, looking out over the backyard through a stained-glass window. The only thing this particular part of the house lacked was rings for chains mounted securely into the walls. The posters on the bed, those would do, but right now, I wanted him on the tiles in that open-air bathroom nook.