Oh Captain My Captain

The Captain and I met in Istanbul.

On the way there, I was reading a well-known novel on the metaphysics of quality, by Robert Pirsig: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Just before reaching the Turkish border, and as the gentle Greek landscape speeded out of sight, through the window of the bus that swallowed up the kilometres, taking me closer and closer to the man that was going to prove himself the best lover I have ever had in my life, I read these lines:

I would like to use the time to talk in some depth about things that seem important. What is in mind is a sort of Chautauqua - that's the only name that I can think of for it - like the travelling tent-show Chautauquas that used to move across America...an old-time series of popular talks intended to edify and entertain, improve the mind and bring culture and enlightenment to the ears and thoughts of the hearer...

The Captain was a pilot for Turkish Airlines and during the weekend he was going to be in Istanbul, a mere 10-hour journey from my hometown, Thessaloniki, in the North of Greece.

"This is the most I have ever done for a man," I informed him laughing. In all truth, I just wanted to have a relaxing weekend away from home, have some light spankings in the hands of the old-timer, some sex possibly (how much could he possibly want, at the age of sixty) and, most importantly, to see the city that weighed heavily on the shoulders of the history of my people.

The Captain had contacted me first, through a site that brought together people with "alternative" erotic preferences. He was a dominant man and I was a submissive woman. It is good to know where you stand, though few people can actually live up to the image they have of themselves.

We had exchanged a few mails over the past week, some photos and some innocent flirtations. His first mail had caught my attention:

"If I were a race driver, and you were a brand new car, where would you prefer to be taken for a test drive? In sleepy town suburbia, on the high way, a scenic mountain road, or on the Indy 500 track, and why?"

My answer was probably what caught his attention: "In the garage. Locked up."

He said that he found me a bit arrogant. I denied that. "Actually, I am very humble," I said. I believed it too.

Later on, he showed me a picture of his face. He thought he did not look handsome. My actual impression of him, the way he sat in the cockpit, dressed in his pilot's suit, with his silver hair surrounding his face like a halo, was that he looked like a prince out of a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale. Personally, I compared myself to only one of the girls in Andersen's tales: the girl in "The Princess and the pea," where the stupid little princess cannot find any comfort, because a tiny pea under twenty mattresses is bothering her all night long. The pea was the thing that hurt me the most, in this life. Something that I could not put my finger on, though I knew it was there. If he could find what it was, and help me and comfort me, then I would be most grateful.

He decided to take me up on the challenge:

"Damn the pea. If we work on it together we may soften it up a little, and calm it down, at least for a while. And if the little thing is really demanding we will just have to work harder, or maybe relocate to another fairy tale, maybe one we will make up along the way."

And with this, he invited me for a weekend to Istanbul. I accepted, warning him that I had the best orgasms in the world. I had nothing else to offer him in return for that weekend. Of course, what I did not tell him, was that I usually achieved those orgasms when alone, in the peace and quiet of my room...

"In case you did not know," he replied, "what turns a real sadist on is watching his woman losing it and succumbing to her own lust. That is the ultimate goal to his actions, his reward for all his hard work."

I had heard all this before. I remained doubtful, as my past experiences had proven to be very disappointing. I took all the blame, naturally. I usually had great difficulty in letting go of my inhibitions. I was a woman very willing to please, but unable to find much pleasure in the act of lovemaking. I concentrated on "losing it" through pain and I left pleasure to those who could handle it.

But what had made me trust a complete stranger, whom I had never met before and about whom I knew nothing except what he told me? What if he were dangerous? One has to be very careful with people that seek a relationship over the pages of those sites. And what if he were lying to me? What if I got to Istanbul and he was nowhere to be found? I had spent most of my money on the ticket and on some new stockings. After all, I am a single mother of three, with many responsibilities which I am not prepared to shirk off. Still, I had managed to scrape up a bit, in case of an emergency. If anything went wrong, I would cry a little for my stupidity, find a cheap hotel, spend the night there and then get back to Greece, with one more disappointment in my memoirs, with a little more of my innocence chipped away. For that is the main characteristic of a submissive woman: she is as innocent as a child. She is often willing to trust a complete stranger. She places her hand in his and walks next to him, just like a little girl hopping next to her daddy as he takes her on a stroll in the sun...Women who cannot do this, are just kidding themselves about being submissive.

And that was exactly what had made me trust the Captain. He mentioned something that one of the great philosophers of his home country had said once: To live is to dare losing your footing. This struck a familiar note in the way I approach living and relating to others. And although I am very often disappointed and even betrayed, by the representatives of the male sex that I meet, as I hop trustingly through life, singing a little song of my own making, I must admit that I keep daring to lose my footing. This is what makes me like myself, which is something that not many people can brag about.

So, in the evening of the last Saturday in October, of the year 2010, I arrived in Istanbul. The Captain did not disappoint me. He was there. I saw him standing at the bus stop, waiting for me. And I am very glad I can add to my memoirs - and be truthful, as I always am - the phrase: The Captain and I met in Istanbul...

*****

He was better than his photos. Before the weekend was over, I would be able to add that he was better than the city of Istanbul itself. I don't think that this information will actually make it into his already excellent resume, but one day he may tell his grandchildren about it.

He was tall, much taller than me. He stood up straight, which most tall people avoid doing, for some peculiar reason. Perhaps they don't think it is worth the effort, since nature has already endowed them with all the height that they deserved. The Captain was one of those men who like making an effort. I think that this is the only thing that makes a man deserve his height - even when one is short.

We kissed fleetingly, he took my suitcase in his hand and he hailed a cab. We made light conversation all the way to the hotel. I had the chance to look at him closely and jot down the following observations, in the mental pad that I always carry with me, so that I may afterwards work them into the memoirs of my zany erotic life.

He was quite possibly one of the best dressed men I have ever encountered. Armani jeans, a brown Armani belt, brown shoes (later that night I would secretly verify two details of the utmost importance, that they were Boss and indeed size 45, as I had guessed), a polo shirt, Gant I believe, though my memory could fool me on that. A brown leather jacket, of the finest quality, very soft to the touch. Large hands, long fingers with square nails cut short. Silver hair, bright blue eyes, a straight nose, elegantly turned upwards. His face was not completely symmetrical. When he smiled, his mouth twisted slightly to the left. According to research, an asymmetrical face is always a sure sign of attraction, just as dialect is one of the things that make us feel at ease and just as contact with a mind deviating a little from the norm generates a certain kind of warmth, as if we had found ourselves suddenly in the throes of an important moment, of which we are a part.

This thought reminded me of my own personal Chautauqua, which I have been living and writing about in the past few years of my life. I wondered what would happen to me in the next few days in Istanbul, if I followed the Captain, if I let myself go in his large hands, if I gave him what I had come to give him, having travelled for more than a thousand kilometres, even though I was not quite sure what it was that he wanted from me, or what it was that I had to give. Most importantly, what would I learn from these moments, which I had so trustingly decided to embrace?

"You may laugh, weep, reason, sing, sneer, or pray, according to your genius." That is what Emerson used to say about the great tradition of the Chautauquas. I decided then that the best thing to do was to rely on my genius and relax. I was there and I would see it through, as all brave people do. There was nothing more to be said. Now it was time for action.

I hope you are up to it, little fool, I said to myself, as we drove through the brightly lit streets of Istanbul. Just then, we reached the district of Bakirkoy.

*****

The Captain opened the door for me, stepped aside and ushered me into his room. It was a five-star hotel, one of the best in Istanbul. There was a seminar of some type going on there, so the hotel was crawling with the best pilots in Europe, the Captain's colleagues and friends, to whom he would introduce me later on, much to my delight.

The room was large, sporting a double bed with a leather headboard. There was also a very promising - and from my point of view very useful - lectus, a reclining couch of the type used by Ancient Romans, with a few cushions lining the back and a soft, golden fabric covering the wooden frame. Out of the window, in the morning, I would get a good view of the Marmara sea.

The Captain opened a bottle of champagne. He poured me a glass and gave it to me. I was thrilled. My hunch had been right, the man had come out of a book. And I was sure as hell going to put him into another one, soon.

We made a toast and drank a bit of the bubbly. It was nice and smooth. Then the Captain said that I would probably like to take a shower, before he took me out for a meal. The bathroom was just as refined as the rest of the environment in which I had found myself. I am very pleased when my surroundings are to my satisfaction. A very demanding little princess, I suppose. Yet, I could feel the pea lurking, inconspicuous but bothersome...

When I stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a soft, white towel, the Captain asked me to stand in front of him naked, for an inspection. I removed the towel, with a simple gesture, as I always do, and stood there naked, in the middle of the room. He asked me to hold my hands behind my back and keep my eyes closed, with my head slightly tilted towards the floor. I did as he told me, for I like to go with the flow of things. He examined closely every nook and cranny of my body and was very satisfied with the small silver padlock that he discovered hanging from my inner pussy lips. This is a remnant from a previous relationship, which I now wear as a jewel, until the time comes to wear it as a symbol again.

He did not touch me at all. He checked my body and then he merely showed me some of the toys he had brought along from Madrid, the city where his itinerary had taken him before Istanbul. He had purchased a long, thin whip, with a small piece of rope at the end. He also had a bag of tricks, such as a purple butt plug, of medium size, a vibrator, some clamps, a coil of red rope...The whip impressed me the most. It whooshed when he brandished it, scaring the hell out of me. What had happened to the plan for a light spanking, I wondered...

He asked me to get dressed and I did. I put on black underwear, my brand-new stockings, a short black dress that revealed a good part of my cleavage, a pair of peep-toes and a black coat. It was a chilly autumn night. The Captain took me to Sultanahmet, a district where the best sights of Istanbul can be found: Hagia Sophia, which is the Church of the Divine Wisdom, the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace...If only a little of the divine wisdom could find its way into my head, I thought to myself...

We went to a fine restaurant, where we had a light dinner. A dish of Turkish specialties whetted our appetite. This was followed by seafood salad, accompanied by a bottle of the best Turkish white wine. We chatted cheerfully throughout the meal. He was an interesting person and we got along very well. I was very happy to find a cultivated man, with very realistic expectations from life, from me and from himself. He had started his career as a fighter pilot, before working for a commercial airlines. He had been flying for 40 years and had been all over the world. He could keep a conversation going just on his experiences from his travels, even if one assumed he had nothing else to talk about.

Towards the end of our meal, I asked for permission to use the bathroom. I was very careful to be on my best behaviour. When I behave to men I like with respect, we both get much more pleasure out of our time together.

He gave me permission but asked me to remove my panties in the bathroom and bring them to him. Then I would have to lift my dress and sit down on my bare bottom, like O used to do. I murmured "Yes Sir" and did as he told me. I do not know what sort of depths that phrase of obeisance had come from, for I had only submitted to Greek men in the past. Perhaps memories from films had found their way into my unconscious and had been waiting there, for this man to come along and bring them to life. But I would much rather ascribe it all to the catchy line, "Once a slave always a slave."

When I came back to the table, I pressed my crunched up underwear into his hand. I was afraid that if the Turks realized what was going on, they would lock me up in a dungeon and throw away the key. It sounded almost tempting...

I lifted my dress and sat down. I noticed that he had already placed a paper towel on the seat, so as not to expose me to any germs. It was already clear to me that this was a man who paid attention to detail and who would take good care of me. I had no other choice but to respect him more and more, as the hours went by. The best type of domination is the one that is built on respect. Some people rely on brute force. It is because they have no brain...That is the reason they usually end up with brainless bimbos. Life is sometimes cruelly fair...

Back at the hotel, he wasted no time. He asked me to remove all of my clothes. I stood in front of him naked, once more. He tied my wrists to each other, with a cord, and then attached the cord to a hook he had screwed on to a low beam, near the ventilation grille. I was pleased that he had made preparations for my arrival. I was pleased with imagining his pleasure when preparing...

I was made to stand on my toes, with my arms above my head. This made my tits seem smaller and more pointy than they are and my belly thinner, while my bum stuck out, round and fleshy. He brought out the rope and proceeded to tie my whole body, makings knots at regular intervals, between my breasts, near my belly button and on my pussy. Then he continued with the rope, spreading my buttocks well apart, wrapping it around once more and ending up encircling each breast firmly, making my tits look like tiny bulging lemons, that started immediately to turn purple. He placed the final knot where it had all started, between my breasts. As a final touch, he blindfolded me using a silk tie. He said he did not want me to see anything, because this was going to get ugly...

The thought that I was tied up at the mercy of a total stranger did not even cross my mind. Trust is a fickle concept, but once it is established, it is a very strong foundation on which we can build. Only a real idiot will lose the trust he has already earned - and I have met my share of idiots. But the Captain was not an idiot.

"I will warm you up first," he said. "You don't have to suffer more than is necessary."

I am sure he knew exactly what he was talking about and he could see in his mind the exact range of pain that I should have to withstand. That was the first moment when I started seeing him as my pilot, while at the same time I saw myself as a small, difficult to handle plane, with its quirks and eccentricities, a plane gone a bit rusty, through disuse, or even misuse, the wings scratched and covered with patches here and there. A small aircraft of yet unknown potential, in the care of an experienced pilot who would have to assess what he could do and what he could not do, with this strange plane that had landed into his hands, so unexpectedly.

He lifted his Armani belt and let me have a couple of blows. I tried to keep as quiet as possible, bearing in mind that we were in a Turkish hotel. He warmed up my buttocks very beautifully, continuing with his bare hands afterwards. He fondled and twisted my breasts and pulled at the rings on my nipples. My skin was crawling with excitement. I really enjoy being tied up.

"I want to eat your pussy," he revealed suddenly to me. Now this is the ultimate test of dominance. A truly dominant man is not afraid to express his love of the female body, especially of that most mystical opening, the source of all those strange smells and fluids, that betray a woman's arousal, an arousal that comes from a dreamland somewhere in her mind, but resides in her flesh, hidden behind mysterious folds, that twist and open in the most weird and amazing shapes. Perhaps that was my temple of the divine wisdom, since my pretty little head seemed to remain empty...

"I hope you have shaved well. I hate being scratched on the face. I will check you with my fingers first. If I find any stubble, you will be punished."

Oh dear. I had done my best, earlier on, but unfortunately the shaver I had used was not of the type I usually buy.

He checked my armpits first and he was greatly disappointed. "If this is an indication as to the rest, you are in trouble," he said. I started sweating a little bit. I am a people's pleaser, I get so unhappy when I fail to please.

He touched my genitals and sighed heavily. I knew it was mostly a game, but I found myself picking up the thread of the story and playing along. I apologised profusely. I had to explain why I was so inadequate, in keeping my body clean and presentable for his tastes. I explained that I had had to rush in the morning and had not had the time to find the shavers that I normally buy. I was not to blame. It was all due to the circumstances. If I hadn't been travelling, to come and meet him, I would have had the chance to shave properly.

"So you see," I ended brilliantly, "really, it is all your fault."

I said it and waited, holding my breath.

Then all hell broke loose. He stopped dead in his tracks and started untying me, so fast that I could not keep up with the begging. I begged and I begged, and though I hate begging, I begged well. To no avail. He removed the blindfold and the beautifully tied rope, released my wrists from the hook on the wall and left me standing there like a fool. Oh, I just wanted to cry. I had spoiled everything. I felt useless. An old piece of junk...

*****

Pilots are very interesting creatures. The training they undergo ensures that they can deal with all types of unexpected events. They have a job in their hands that has to be carried out efficiently, despite possible malfunctions, adverse weather conditions or unforeseen circumstances. After all, they are usually responsible for hundreds of lives (an Airbus normally carries 240 passengers). Their job requires a great amount of self-discipline in following procedure, almost relentlessly. They have to use their best judgement to assess all situations, at all times, and make the appropriate decisions.