Dear Cecelia:
A little more history about Sharon and Edward, Five and Six as we know them now.
You'll recall that after toying with me for a week, making me wait for her reply, Sharon agreed to next steps. She was the contact person - true to form, the natural dominant in their relationship, something they had realized and played with, but not yet too seriously, for the several years they'd been together since meeting in law school. Their engagement, it quickly became clear, was rickety. They'd announced nothing to their families and set no date, but did call each other fiancee and fiance among their friends and colleagues. I'd never dominated a couple before, much less an engaged one, and I was frankly daunted by the idea, emotionally and logistically, but also excited by the challenge and complexity of it.
I had them meet me at a nice Italian cafe downtown. I'd gone there fairly often and happened, at a club, to have met and casually played with a beautiful young African-American woman named Sheila who worked there, sometimes as host and sometimes as waitress. This particular night, she was waitressing and she sat us at an outdoor table.
"I'll have a dry vodka martini with a twist," I told her, "and so will they."
"I don't usually drink the hard stuff," Edward said.
"Shut the fuck up," I replied. "You'll speak when I ask you a direct question. And only then. Do you understand?"
His upper lip started sweating. He said nothing.
"That was a direct question, honey," Sharon whispered helpfully. I grinned at her, and she at me. She was getting into the spirit of things so quickly and nicely. I didn't know how long this would all last, but I knew it was going to be fun.
"Yes, I understand," he said.
"First off, you no longer have names," I said. "You have numbers. You, Sharon, are Five. You, Edward, are Six. I've successfully trained four submissives. I've tried to train about 20 besides that, but most flaked out on me or didn't make the necessary commitments. If you're lucky you'll keep your numbers. If you're not, you'll have your names back but mean nothing to me and go back to your thrilling existence on the filp side of the universe. Do you both understand?"
"Yes," said Sharon, looking more serious.
"Me too," said Edward.
Our drinks came, and I ordered an arugala salad with seared tuna.
"And for you, ma'am?" Angela asked Five.
"She won't be eating anything tonight," I answered for her.
"And the gentleman?"
"He had a big lunch and isn't hungry," I said.
"Cheap dates," Angela smirked.
"Don't be cheeky," I said to her. "Seriously. Don't."
She knew I was talking about more than a poor tip and retreated, the smirk wiped off her face.
"Don't think me unkind," I said. "I just wouldn't want food getting in the way of your alcohol. I need you relaxed and receptive."
A homeless man walked by strumming tunelessly on a ukelele.
"There are some ground rules. If you disobey them, you will be punished. If you are disobedient or careless on a regular basis, that will be the end of our relationship. I take them very seriously, so you will too. You aren't to have any sexual contact with each other without my express permission. Not so much as hand-holding or a kiss. I'll be generous, if you earn it.
"You're not to pleasure yourselves either - again, unless you have my express permission. You'll switch to my gym and a woman there named Samantha will take charge of your personal training and your diet. You've seen her, but you didn't know who she was. She was the gorgeous petite hardbody who walked over to you and stared at you during that gym visit when we first met.
"You'll visit the salon of this gentleman," I handed them cards for Andre's, "and tell him that you're my friends. He'll shave and wax you until you are without body hair. Keep a thin strip of pubic hair if you like - that's optional. But nothing more. You'll visit him at least monthly. He's expensive. Tough shit. You're lawyers."
My salad came. They sipped. I dined. They looked quite exhilarated and nervous.
"You'll check at least once a day for my texts and emails. They'll give you detailed instructions about where to go, what to wear, etcetera. Sometimes it will be to meet me. Other times I'll be watching you but you won't see me. Sometimes I'll have someone else watching you, someone you don't know, and they'll report back to me or send me photos. You have your contracts?"
They handed them to me in two separate envelopes. I opened them and read them discreetly and lowered my voice. "Both of you are averse to welts and injuries, understandably enough. Not into piercings. Fine, though at some point we might want to revisit that. You don't want to be identifiable in any sort of public situation. I'll respect that. If I take you anywhere compromising, I'll have you wear a mask or some such. You're both into role play, discipline, foot and ass worship, fetish clothing, bondage. At least you think you are. We'll see. In my experience, people tend to talk big, but . . .
I stuffed the contracts back into the envelopes and put them in my purse. "It's a start." I said. "I wonder if you really understand what giving yourself to someone is - body and soul. We'll find out."
I ordered second martinis for Five and myself. Six looked a little sad and left out.
"Beneath the table cloth, undo your fly," I ordered him.
"Excuse me?" he said by reflex from being too long in the civilized world.
I kicked him hard in the shin.
"Ow!" he said too loud. "Shit," he said more softly. Then it started to sink in. It's hard at first, isn't it, Cecelia, my dear?
He did as he was told.
"Slowly pull your cock out of your pants. Good. Now start to masturbate. Slowly. Don't let anyone see you, and don't let it show on your face."
He did his best, though a close observer would surely have noticed something odd about him, perhaps mistaking it for indigestion.
The two martinis arrived.
"Don't stop," I told Six. "When you're about to orgasm, place your left hand like a cup under the tip of your cock to catch the cum.
He was sweating now and looking off to one side, at a patch of empty sidewalk, at nothing.
"Look at me," I said.
He did, and about thrity excruciatingly long seconds later he shot his load with a sudden exhale. Five and I watched him. She looked deeply excited and a little disturbed.
"Did you do what I told you with your left hand?" I asked him, sipping my delightfully frosty cocktail, which was rushing blissfully to my head and making me feel a bit reckless.
"I did, Diana."
"Call me Mistress. Or Mistress Diana. Or Ma'am. Or Madam."
"I did, Madam."
"Good," I said. "Now when I take the next sip of my cocktail, I want you to discreetly lick a little of the cum out of your hand. Just a tiny little taste."
I sipped, and so did he, making, I thought, just a bit of a face as he did so. Perhaps he'd never fully tasted himself before. I always assume everyone does such things, we being mammals and all, but who knows.
"Well done," I said. "Now Five" - I turned to her and had, I'm quite sure, her utmost attention - "when I count to three, you pick up your martini, and I want you to down it in several big gulps. And when she does, Six," - I turned back to him - "I want you to discreetly lick up all the rest of your cum like a greedy little cat. . . . One . . . two . . . three!"
They did as they were told, and that indescribable look of pleasure and entrapment and craziness - you've seen it many times, haven't you, love - came over them and thrilled me.
I let them collect themselves and finished my dinner. Angela came over to the table and I told her to give Six the check. Five and I were going to powder our noses.
As Six, no doubt, tidied and collected himself in the viscinity of his crotch and napkin beneath the tablecloth, Five and I walked through the narrow establishment to a small W.C. at the end. I opened the door for her and stepped in after her, locking the door behind me. Through a tiny cracked-open window high up, we heard the sounds of trucks and passersby enjoying the pleasant autumn evening.
Five wore a silky blouse, a short skirt, and, as instructed in my most recent text, silky blue thong panties. She turned and faced me. "I don't really need to pee or anything," she said, uncertainly. I slapped her and reminded her that I hadn't asked her anything. She put her hand to her cheek in some astonishment at the force of the blow.
"Lift your hands behind your head," I instructed. She did. I stepped behind her, reached down with my left hand and lifted her skirt, and started to gently finger her with the other hand through her panties. "Tell me whose clit I'm fingering," I said.
"Mine," she said, almost in amusement at the silliness of the question, thinking, perhaps, that it was some frivolous lovers' repartee. I pulled my right hand away and slapped her ass hard. Then my fingers returned to her clit.
"I'll ask you again. Whose clit am I fingering?"
She got it, through the vodka and the strangeness of the night.
"Your clit, Mistress. Yours to do with as you please."
I ordered her to spread her labia for me. I lifted my hand and told her to spit on it. When she had, I returned it to her pussy and combined her saliva with her cunt juices to provide a little extra lubrication as I circled the clit faster and faster with my finger.
"Not until I say," I whispered in her ear. She nodded. She whimpered a little. I kissed her coyly on her cheek and told her she was beautiful and that I'd dreamed about this ever since first meeting her at the concert.
"I wanted it too," she said. I stopped with her clit, slid my hand beneath the bottom of her blouse, tugged down one diminutive little bra cup, and pinched and twisted the nipple hard."
"I didn't ask you if you wanted it too. If I wanted to know that, I'd have asked you, right?"
