Author’s note: Several years ago while “playing” on a chat line that originated in Washington, D.C., I made the acquaintance of a dominant gentleman who, for lack of a better explanation, cast a spell on me. He was my first dominant. I found myself calling “the line” as we referred to it, with the sole intention of finding him, submitting to him, spinning fantasy after fantasy with him. One night after work (I did not have a home computer at the time) I found myself staying late at the office writing him the letter/fantasy that follows. After I finally worked up the courage to offer him my home phone number, we talked more frequently, but, as is so often the case, our acquaintance was short-lived and the time came when he called me no more. I never knew his name, but I will never forget his voice or the impact of his words.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
October 2, 1998
Sir,
I write this letter wondering if you will ever read it. Surely it will never be shared with anyone but you, just as the sensations and the emotions which I have been privileged to experience at your hands will never be repeated with another. Even if it were possible, it would be but a pallid imitation of what I have already known with you.
Your voice, rich, powerful, confident, with an erotic edge, continues to ring in my ears, and I tremble with remembered desire as I recall the manner in which you first allowed me to surrender myself to you--as if kneeling before you, face upturned, eyelids lowered, lips slightly parted, shoulders thrown back, breasts thrust forward, was the only logical place for me to be.
How I have dreamed of being owned by a man such as you. Many men have tried to lay claim to me, but there was never anyone to whom I could truly submit. We both know that a master and a slave choose each other--we both realize the necessity of this mutual consent because we must both keep in mind that, even as I cry out at the pain which you so lovingly inflict upon me, I have chosen to be here, to accept your punishment, and to revel in the control which you so expertly wield.
Sir, you were the first man who could control me with a word, a change in the tone of voice, or the slight lift of an eyebrow. All of the others were so crude--always barking orders, pushing, slapping. The lot of them behaving like little schoolboys who giggle over bathroom jokes.
And then I met you. Sophisticated, worldly, refined; a man who appreciates what eloquence can be found in silence, a man who understands that authority, even when absolute, does not have to be displayed at every opportunity, a man who knows how to savor the moment, a man who knows the value of patience, a man who recognizes that eroticism is truly in the mind first and the body second.
Even now, as I sit at my desk and type, my body responds to your commanding persona. My nipples have stiffened, my swollen pussy is literally awash with my juices and my clit is erect and throbbing.
I am concerned about leaving the evidence of my aroused state on my chair; she took my panties away today. I doubt that this is a surprise to you, I realize now that this was the reason you were so particular about the exact pair you chose for me today and why you fingered me so deliberately, pressing the sheer silken fabric into the folds of my pussy.
She called me into her office as soon as I arrived at work this morning. When I presented myself, she was on the phone but indicated that I was to come around to her side of the desk. She put her caller on "hold" for a moment and then ordered me to lift my skirt. Returning to her caller, she stared at me, or more specifically, she stared at my pussy. She did not display any emotion, she did not seem to be interested in the way that the fabric of my panties outlined my moist pussy. My only purpose, it seemed, was to keep the morning sun out of her eyes.
I don't know how long I stood there, back straight, chest thrust forward, eyes downcast, fingers clutching the fabric of my skirt as I continued to display myself for her. My feet, shod in the five-inch spike heels which you selected for me, began to hurt and my thighs were turning to rubber. My throbbing pussy was sodden with moisture--I desperately wanted to cover myself, but I knew better.
Eventually, she reached out and pulled at the waistband of my panties. "Take those off," she commanded. I obeyed instantly. When she held out her hand, I gave her the panties; she immediately reached up and stuffed just the crotch into my mouth, the rest of the garment dangling from between my lips.
She flipped up the front of my skirt with her Mont Blanc. "Expose yourself," she commanded. Of course, I obeyed.
While she continued her conversation, she began to jot a note in her planner. She chuckled at something the caller said--her laugh sent a chill down my spine. (She frightens me, Sir. She is all ice and stone--I sense no humanity in her. I still remember when you took me to her home, threatening to loan me to her while you were out of town, she was like an automaton with her slaves, not even displaying a certain satisfaction in her dominance over them; no pride of ownership, no pleasure in their beauty--nothing. Even her names for them show her complete disinterest: Cuntslave and Cockslave. I am endlessly grateful that you did not follow through with your threat that day, but took me away with you instead.)
But I digress.
Finally, she finished writing in her planner, then removed the page, folded it into thirds, rolled it up and finally placed it in a small plastic bag. She took her fountain pen and impatiently tapped the flesh of my inner thighs with it, indicating that she wanted me to stand with my feet farther apart. She took the plastic encased note and thrust it up inside of my pussy, but not all the way.
