This is a multipart series inspired by a man who makes me want to push my own limits. This is fiction based on a fantasy. All characters are over 18 years of age.
_____________________________________________________________________
I was not wrong. That's her sitting across from him. Tabby in the flesh. The infamous (to me, at least) Literotica author: Mistress Tabitha. I tell the maitre d' that Sir is expecting me. He casts an appreciative glance at my cleavage as he leads me to the table. It happens every time I wear this dress. I should have 100 others made just like it. Any good IT knows the importance of backups.
Sir greets me with a kiss appropriate for a public setting, while making it clear that he's neither my brother nor my accountant.
He introduces me to Tabitha. I am sure introductions at the Potsdam summit were more relaxed. I flash a superficially charming smile, while she doesn't even attempt to hide the fact that she's appraising me.
Sir's hand is on the small of my back, guiding me into the booth, before sitting beside me. He always wants me on the inside of the booth as a subtle nod that I need to go through him to use the ladies room. I love our little private games.
I assumed there would be some pretense, as if we weren't here to discuss potential depravity, but I was wrong. Tabitha made it clear she and Sir had exhausted small talk before I got there so she cut to the chase.
"Face is passable" she pronounces. "Big tits, nice hair, flat ass but not a deal breaker. From what I can see, she's certainly fuckable. But that's just an initial assessment, pending a thorough pre-fuck inspection."
I'm torn between wanting to burst into laughter or storm out. Incredulous, I look at Sir, and a smile is playing at the corners of his mouth. I think even he is surprised by her total lack of manners. Whatever batshit comes out of her I know he's looking out for me. Let's see where this goes...
She does not disappoint.
"I am a lesbian. Not bi-sexual. Not curious. I don't fuck men. Ever."
Looks pointedly at Sir, "That includes you."'
"Yeah, we already know all that, Tabitha" my Sir says. His impatience with listening to shit he already knows is legendary (to me, at least). If it were up to him, every movie would cut to the car-chase and leave out the exposition. He'll figure it out, he always says.
"I'll try to contain my disappointment" I add, and try unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.
She turns back to address me. "I am a Domme. Not a switch, not bossy vanilla, not your girlfriend at a slumber party."
She narrows her eyes and continues.
"I like teaching mouthy wannabe subs how not submissive they really are. And I like showing men how willful their subs are when you strip away all their flirty nonsense and damsel in distress crap. So far, you fit the bill."
"Your Sir, as you call him, shared your limit list with me, further proof you're not a sub, just some guy's pampered fucktoy like the rest. I'll be happy to put you through whatever you need to keep your man from getting too bored with you. Again, assuming you pass the inspection."
She has to be kidding, right? Before I can say anything, Sir stops her. They've know each other a long time, and he's heard all this before as well.
"I know how much you enjoy ramping up the shtick Tabby, but you're becoming a cartoon."
She bridles at the take down, and even more at being called Tabby, which she clearly hates. "Look. I am considering this as a favor to you."
Sir laughs, "Like the chance to do more than grope her in a ladies room hasn't crossed your mind. And maybe get a scene out of it for that screenplay you're so secretive about."
Sir smiles and passes her a $50. "Thank you for joining us, Tabby. This will cover your parking."
Judging by the look she shoots us as she storms off, I don't think she enjoyed being summarily dismissed. I, however, found it highly entertaining.
Sir hands me a menu and tells me about his day, acting for all the world like we didn't just interview a potential fuck partner to dominate me for his amusement.
But enough about her. Tabby is gone, and I'm having dinner with my Sir at the place that makes my favorite version of my favorite drink. What more could I ask for? Uh oh...I spoke too soon.
Sir tells the waiter, "Cancel the martini, but the lady may have more water if she likes."
I take pity on the very uncomfortable waiter who must assume I am out with my 12-step sponsor.
"I'd love some water, thanks."
If I'd ordered iced tea, Sir would have done the same. He likes these little games. I do too, but they make such a good one here...
Throughout dinner, Sir keeps pushing my water at me. Insisting I drink, one more sip, just a little more...
I know why he's doing this, but I'm a little upset about my drink, so I'm punishing him by pretending I don't want to play. Some punishment. He doesn't even notice as he keeps quietly but forcefully insisting I obey. And I do. I can't help myself.
Of course, there are natural consequences to all that water.
"Sir, can I please use the ladies room?"
To my great relief, he immediately gets up to let me out. It's a relief that vanishes when he pushes a small black velvet bag into my hand.
"When you come back I expect this to be in your ass, kitten. After you've done that, text me, and I'll let you know if you can relieve yourself or not."
I know exactly what this is and my mind races as I walk to the ladies room.
Thankfully, the bathroom is empty. I fluff my hair in the mirror as I do a quick mental review of the evening thus far. Not only did we just interview an acquaintance as a candidate to use me as a temporary fucktoy, but now I'm also required to shove a butt plug in my ass in a public bathroom, just because I couldn't sleep last night.
Note to self: get a script for Ambien.
Once I'm in the privacy of the far stall, I open the little black velvet bag. Quite fancy, considering the contents. It's one of mine. Thank goodness it's the medium, not the large, which should really be labeled the "Never Gonna Happen" size. That thing is huge. We recently bought a set of three, which was a story in and of itself...
I had heard of butt plugs, of course, but had never used them. Sir insisted we get some for training, as well as random reminders that my bottom is his to violate as he sees fit. These are for the times when he needs something more discreet than an ass-fucking on command. Like right now.
A few months ago, shortly after we had a play session with this woman named Helga, Sir unexpectedly stopped at a brick and mortar sex shop and ordered me to go in and buy a set. I protested. Why not get them online where we can compare specs, read reviews and, most importantly, not be seen buying them in public? If I had to go in, why wouldn't he go with me? He was unmoved by my very cogent arguments, or whining so I reluctantly obeyed and went in alone. To buy things to shove in my ass, from a real live sales clerk who'll know exactly what I'll do with them. And this is how I know it's not possible to die of embarrassment; if it was, I wouldn't be here to write this.
