Owned

I stood alone at the Detroit airport, a thousand miles away from home, waiting for a man I'd never met, but in whom I'd invested so much of myself over the last six months. I felt as if my whole future was riding on this meeting; like all my years of searching, all my hopes and dreams were wound up in this moment. I wanted so much for Colin to be right for me. I felt like if I failed again, I wouldn't have the strength to look anymore. We would have four days alone, with nothing planned but exploring each other. Four days to find out if this compassionate man of words could also be the recklessly passionate Dominant that I had spent half my life trying to find.

I had been intrigued by the idea of submission long before I knew what to call it. A magical affair in college with an iron willed older man had given me a taste of how good kink could be. He did things to me that I was ashamed to want, but he absolved my guilt by demanding them. He spanked me with my own hairbrush, insisted that I masturbate while he watched, and taught me that pain could intensify pleasure. I had few inhibitions, but he delighted in pushing at the ones that I had, and expected unquestioning obedience. He made me feel sexier than anyone ever had, and there was nothing that I wouldn't try for him, at least once.

The affair was magically intense, but like a shooting star, burned itself out in a rapid blaze of glory. Those were the eighties, and I lived in the Bible Belt, so as far as I knew, I was a sexual anomaly, alone in the world. The need to be conquered had been awakened and I would never be free of it. With no outlet for my darker side, I bound my feelings up tightly inside myself, and hid them from the scrutiny of the staid, pious, and traditional world I lived in.

Predictable reality regained its stranglehold, and I lived the life that I was expected to live. I married a man who seemed to embody the traits I thought would translate to happiness; strong, macho, and oozing with testosterone. He provided for me, and admired me, but I might as well have been a porcelain doll in a curio cabinet for all he understood about me. My passion slowly burned out as it became clear that the things I wanted in the bedroom held little appeal for him. He tried, at first, tying me up when I shared that fantasy. I liked it as much as I had thought I might, but he untied me immediately, bringing me back to earth with an awkward jolt. It was painfully obvious that he had done it just because I asked, and it was not something that he enjoyed. The high of a powerful climax fizzled quickly, replaced by the sinking feeling that there was something wrong with me. Even wrapped in his arms, I was alone.

As the years passed, it became harder and harder to ignore the fundamental problem; something I should have known all along. He was a man's man, and not really interested in my thoughts and interests. Our existence was mired in our ordinary routine, day to day trivialities were all we ever discussed, and uninhibited desire had no place there. I buried my fantasies, along with my hunger for affection. Sex became a mechanical process that we compressed to the smallest amount of time possible, so that we could get back to our increasingly separate lives.

Most of the women I knew would have been happy to trade places with me, but contentment felt more like a heavy blanket in July than anything else. My husband's manly nature had not translated to the direction and structure that I craved, but instead had left me isolated and lonely. He didn't want or need my company outside of bed, and he was unable to share what I needed in bed. I lived this half life for far too long, and then one day, I couldn't live it anymore. I put an official end to something that had been dead for years, and made a conscious decision to never again settle for ordinary.

The 80's were nothing but a bad memory, and the Bible Belt could no longer suppress the wealth of knowledge provided by the internet. With no one left to make me feel ashamed of my desires, I began to read pornography, gravitating almost immediately to BDSM. I was voracious, devouring every story about dominance and submission I could find. After a while, I realized that even the best stories were pretty formulaic, and I had to giggle at the cookie cutter heroine. She was always young, strong spirited, and determined that the hero would never break her. Even when she began to realize that she liked submitting to the devastatingly handsome ne'er-do-well, she railed against her fate, and wondered what was wrong with her for enjoying it. Not once did I encounter a woman like me. I was sure of what I wanted, and had no illusions. I needed to be dominated and owned. I just wasn't so sure how to go about getting my heart's desire.

None of that stopped me from reading and rereading my favorites, though, fantasizing about the hero. My hand often slipped down into my panties, daydreaming about the perfect Dominant, constructing him carefully in my mind. He would be tall, dark, and experienced; bold and arrogantly self assured. He would be strong and silent, and the epitome of masculinity, bending me to his will effortlessly. He would make me his own without hesitation.

I choreographed endless scenarios in my head, but they almost all ended with me on my knees, happily offering myself to the man who could possess me. Of course there would be a token struggle, as a nod to the heroines of all those stories, but we would both know the outcome. Totally obsessed, I was determined to find the Dom of my dreams, and I began an exhaustive, methodical search. I had already had a lifetime of conventional, and I knew that it wasn't for me.

With the internet as my tour guide, all sorts of candidates were at my fingertips, and I chatted with dozens. The first likely contender was successful, determined, and very sexy. The first time we met in person, he turned me over his knee and spanked me until I was moments away from orgasm, and then forced himself into my mouth. I thought I was in heaven, at least for a while. It didn't last long. He was imaginative, attentive, and affectionate, until I showed any sign of being able to make my own decisions. Then he would fly into a rage, and call me controlling. I was so inexperienced that I was afraid I was a bad submissive, but I also knew that I would never succeed at pretending to be helpless. I wanted a man who took pride in subduing my strong will; not one who made me feel guilty for it.

The next contestant was a man who understood the submissive role very well. He wouldn't let me call him by his first name, and was every bit as strict and structured as the Doms I had read about. He could make me wet with his voice alone, and had one of the most beautiful bodies I'd ever seen. In bed, he went from tender to brutal and back again, in the blink of an eye, and it seemed to be very much like the relationships I'd read about. It only took a few weeks, though, to realize that he enjoyed humiliating me. It could be argued that every submissive craves being put in her place, but he elevated subjugation to an art form. Being with him was just another form of isolation, and left me feeling worthless. He enjoyed the sexual acts I craved, but I never once felt cherished.

Determined to expand my horizons, I had a brief affair with a woman. She was a Domme, and the novelty of being with her was thrilling; the ultimate unknown frontier for me. She was lithe and fit and every man I knew wanted her. Knowing that she only had eyes for me was such a deliciously dirty secret. The very first time we were together, she put me on my knees and tied my wrists tightly behind my back. Sitting in front of me with her legs spread wide, she pulled my face between her thighs. Her hands threaded through my hair held me fast, and I bathed her folds furiously with my tongue, as eager for her orgasm as my own. I came like a rocket, without her laying so much as a finger on me. But after the newness of pleasuring a woman wore off, there was little between us except sex. I learned that my body would respond to women, but I needed the security of a man's firm embrace.

I communicated with many others. There was no shortage of men with sexual fantasies who were looking for a playmate. I got very good at sorting through stories and lies, and actually met a few more, but found each more disappointing or terrifying than the last. By the time I found Colin on an erotic literature site, I had begun to despair. I knew just the traits I wanted, the features that should add up to a capable Dominant, but the people who embodied those traits weren't making me happy. I had chatted with so many men I couldn't even count them anymore, and increasingly they were fading into one big blur. What I wanted didn't seem that difficult; rugged, manly, strong, and dominant. I'd certainly read about that perfect man in enough erotic stories. But somehow, when I got to know those men a little better, they were no deeper than a dirty puddle.

Oddly, Colin was everything that I had never wanted. It seemed only logical to me that I needed a macho athletic type; a man of few words. His manly nature would make it easy for him to push aside my protests, and have his way with my body. Colin was none of those things. He was gentle, sensitive, and compassionate. At first glance, he bore little resemblance to my mythical mate. Cooking, sewing, and a passion for the written word were nowhere on my shopping list for attributes of the perfect Dom. I was very candid about my desires from the beginning, though. Having looked for so long, it was becoming easy to express exactly what I wanted. My yearning to be possessed awakened a part of him that had slept for too long, and we corresponded feverishly, my needs igniting his own. He questioned me exhaustively about my feelings, needs, and motives, and taught me more about myself than anyone ever had. His desire to be inside my head was nothing short of intoxicating. I knew in my gut that I had to meet him. If I didn't, I would always wonder if he could have been the one.

So now here I stood, waiting. He had called to say he was running late, a fact for which he'd apologized sincerely. It gave me more time to reflect, and I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. We had started writing to each other almost by accident. He had replied to my post on the website's personals page, but obviously had me confused with someone else. I called him on it, laughingly pointing out that the woman in the red dress whose profile picture he'd appreciated wasn't me. He was so embarrassed that he very nearly disappeared after one message. It didn't seem like the smooth move the kind of man I had been looking for would make, but something made me keep trying. He was kind, respectful, and funny in his embarrassment, and hard not to like. He was articulate, obviously intelligent, and his words captivated me from the very first day. Within a week, we had exchanged almost 10,000 words, each telling stories long locked away from the world, the anonymity of the internet making it feel safe and warm.

On so many levels, he was perfect for me, but he wasn't the man I'd set out to look for. His tenderness and emotional strength caressed my soul, but he had always kept a tight rein on the alpha male that our conversations had released. I was afraid that his gentle nature would triumph, and he would realize that taking a woman roughly was something that only worked for him in fantasy. The shadow image of the dominant my imagination had conjured shimmered like a mirage in the distance, and my head urged me to run before it was too late. The terminal offered safety, but the hundreds of emails and confidences Colin and I had shared over the last few months kept me rooted to the sidewalk. I was wise enough to know that I had put myself at risk by coming here, but he was different from anyone I had ever known. My heart recited the precious litany of his words, and my head pounded from trying so hard to suppress everything else.

Colin had been raised by women. The only man at the kitchen table from the age of five, he had listened to women's tales and grievances, and learned to be painstakingly respectful of them. The dominant streak in him, long suppressed, responded quickly to my need to submit. I am a strong, capable woman, and this neither surprised nor concerned him. He was not threatened by strength, and expected nothing less from women. The concept of surrender being a gift freely given from a position of strength was a revelation to him. Like me, he had not found what he needed in marriage, and was now committed solely to a demanding career. This long weekend during a business trip had opened up for him suddenly, and it seemed like providence. I hopped on a plane because he was my best friend already. I had to know if he could also be the lover and Dominant that I needed.

I had slept with lots of men, before and after my marriage, but Colin had already given me many more firsts than any of them. He had studied writing in college, and had a passion for poetry that I didn't share. Very early in our correspondence, he challenged that dislike. He asked me to read "The Desiderata" aloud, and tell him how it made me feel. I didn't realize it at the time, but this was my first assignment. I failed miserably. I had done more or less as he directed, but my reply was sadly insufficient, as I merely said that I had enjoyed it. He immediately pointed out that my lack of a proper response amounted to disobedience. His terse redirection glowed like a branding iron, and burned into my flesh.

"When I give you an assignment, you will carry it out as directed, and provide me with exact details. Now I need you to go into your bathroom, strip naked, kneel on the tile, and read it aloud three times as I directed, slowly, letting the words sink into you each time. Then you will write to me, describing how it made you feel."

Easily reaching across the miles between us, he took my hand and led me to the bathroom, pushing me to my knees. It was not the first time, and would not be the last, that his words would rise from the page and touch my heart. I will never be able to read that poem again without remembering the cold hard floor, and how connected we were in that moment. Making poetry sexy was nothing short of a miracle to me, but nearly everything about him amazed me. The months of correspondence had built worlds of words between us, pages each day. All now in my mind, waiting only to be lived. Unspeakable acts flowed from his pen; desires I could not name without stammering or blushing. I yearned for each and every one.

Hard as it was to reconcile him with the stern silent Dom I'd wished for, I had fallen in love with Colin almost immediately. He was a Renaissance man, able to do seemingly anything, but he was also the most sensitive man I had ever encountered. Eerily empathetic, he always seemed to know what I was thinking, and to care about my feelings. His need to explore my mind was terribly flattering. The men I'd known had cared little for women's thoughts, and my fantasy man probably wouldn't have, either. We had discussed sex more than anything else, but my heart whispered that our need for each other went much further. There were many things about him that appealed to me, but his intelligence and sensitivity were the real attractions. My will to submit was easily defeated by my own intellect and over the years of searching, I had come to understand that I could only totally surrender to a man who I could respect as my mental equal. I knew the decisions that Colin would make for me would be as good as my own.

I was painfully aware that what we shared in writing and phone calls wouldn't necessarily translate to sexual chemistry. We had discussed the elusive nature of physical attraction, and how our bodies might not follow our minds' lead. He had assured me that if we weren't compatible in person, we could still stake out separate corners of the room, and email each other to regain our happy place for the weekend. The mental picture made me smile, but it seemed like a very sane fallback position. I also knew, though, that it would very nearly destroy me. He was slowly redefining every truth I knew about men, and I couldn't bear to think about the possibility that our budding relationship wouldn't survive. My heart was filled with love, and I longed to share that secret with this man who had already become my best friend, the man I had yet to meet.

Colin pulled up to the curb in front of me, breaking into my thoughts abruptly. I took a deep breath and stepped forward to that place where fantasy meets reality. We had exchanged pictures eventually, after so many words a bit reluctant to dilute the voices of our hearts with images. He was no fonder of being photographed than I was, and had sent a picture taken with his laptop. The lighting was soft, and his shirt casual, but it was little more than a headshot. His eyes held a gentleness and depth that spoke of the empath behind them, and assured me that I would always be safe.

Today however, he was between business meetings, and wore a suit. It made him look more like the Dom of my favorite stories. It also made him look more formidable than I had expected, and less accessible. He came around the car quickly, took my bag without asking, and moved briskly about the business of stowing it in the trunk. His gentle nature and absolute transparency had given me the courage to come here alone, and now it seemed conspicuously absent, replaced by brusque efficiency. In person, the fact that he was seven inches taller was impossible to ignore, and I swallowed quickly, trying to reconcile this intimidating stranger with the photograph I'd memorized.

We had talked so much about this first meeting that I thought I knew exactly what to expect. He had teasingly threatened to push me to my knees beside the car, pulling my face to his groin, reminding me of my place. There had also been many frank conversations about pain, and the fact that it was a sexual trigger for me; that I loved to be spanked. It seemed to intrigue him intellectually almost as much as it stirred his desire. The idea that I might enjoy the suffering that he wanted to inflict compelled him. Even so, it shocked me when he pushed me down over the seat of his rented minivan, bending me in front of everyone at the crowded airport. He held my head down on the cloth seat, and stroked my ass, approving of the thin skirt I'd worn at his direction. When his fingers found the line of my panties, he lifted my skirt, his voice a low growl in my ear.

"I told you not to wear panties. You've already earned your first spanking."

My feeble protests about people seeing us were well muffled by the upholstery. He delivered three sharp slaps to each cheek before smoothing down my skirt, and allowing me to stand. He smiled for the first time, amused at my obvious embarrassment over something we'd discussed many times. I felt my face flush, and waited for something from him to ease the awkwardness of the situation, but he just held the door open silently, waiting for me to get in.

After I was settled, he reached across me to fasten my seat belt, still disconcertingly silent. My bottom tingled from those quick slaps, but it seemed sadly anti-climactic, and left me needing more. Even after all the desires we'd expressed and dissected, the ride was awkward, and the conversation that had flowed so easily for months now seemed strained. I had fallen hard for a passionate intellectual with the soul of a poet, but maybe I'd only seen what I needed. My track record was alarmingly dismal, and I began to be afraid that I'd made another mistake. I had been on the verge of telling him that I loved him. Now I couldn't even seem to make small talk.