There was no easy way to say it. And screwing up my courage to do so was an agony of fearful emotions, led by what could easily be rejection and, as a result, the end of an otherwise superb relationship.
I wanted her to collar and leash me while I knelt naked at her feet. I wanted to lick her footwear, suck her toes, and open my mouth wide as she slid her high heel between my lips with a command to suck. I wanted to be in her bondage - my balls tied and separated, my wrists cuffed, my ankles shackled. I wanted to be disciplined and humiliated by her. I wanted her to be in control, including my orgasms so that I could cum only after she gave permission.
And after I ejaculated wherever she directed, I wanted to hear her tell me to bring my lips and tongue close to my mess, to lick it up, to savor it and then to swallow it.
I wanted to be her plaything, her collared puppy, her high heel fetishist, her whipping boy, her slave.
Christine, who I was visiting on that memorable night, and I had developed an intimate relationship that extended beyond our respective physical needs. We were on the same page when it came to emotional and intellectual sharing. That, naturally, led to some great conversations on current affairs while also providing bonding on the softer topics related as they related to the human condition.
We sat in the living room enjoying drinks and light banter when, during a conversational lull, I screwed up my courage and took a chance on telling her.
"Christine," I began, "I have a confession about my sexual fantasies."
"Oh?" she questioned, giving me her full attention.
"Um, yes," I stumbled, "You see, I have recurring thoughts about wanting to please and serve you."
Her eyes lit up and, with a thoughtful facial expression, replied, "I'm glad you finally opened up about your need to submit. I've been aware of this propensity of yours for quite some time."