When Fantasy Turns to Scary Reality

From the instant I see her from maybe 50 feet at a Rolling Stones cover band show in New York, I can't help but stare.

She has the face of a young Demi Moore - a screen sex goddess then for guys my age - but ringed with the black hair in a curly perm. She's dancing 3 feet from the stage where "The Blushing Brides" (the best and most famous of the multitude of Stones cover bands).

She's belting out every word blasting from the stage, dancing, pointing, clapping, forming her pouty, luscious red lips into air kisses.

You make a grown man cryyy-yi-yyee!

A Stones freak all my life who has seen the band 15 times, I always feel this instant connection, this kinship with others who love the band, and now, even from across a crowded room, I feel that sort of Telecaster Telepathy connection with her. But - it's just my imagination, running away with me - oh, the many other ways I'd like to connect, in a thousand different positions, in leering, lewd, lascivious, lurid scenes in rooms where you do what you don't confess.

I squeeze through the sweat-drenched mass of humanity - dancing, singing, clapping, shouting, mostly drunk, high or both - as I move toward the stage, but it's not to be closer to the band, of course. The band on stage has all but disappeared from my consciousness, and certainly from my view. I know it's rude to stare, but but few heterosexual men- or perhaps gay women either - could help but stare, and my fixate on the twentysomething Stones freak 5 feet away. She preens and prances and spins into mini pirouettes in a mesmerizing bastardized ballet and sings in unison with the band (and me) the words that evoke a thousand unspoken fantasies:

Ain't too proud to beg, baby sweet darling

Ain't too proud to get down on my knees

She arches her back slightly, hands clapping now above her, and her light gray blouse stretches tightly along her lithe upper frame,, and at the edge of a black lace bra, just thin slices of her breasts glisten red, blue, and yellow. My eyes savor a slow walk down to the red skirt hugging her perfect ass as she spins and thrusts. In my mind, I'm running my tongue the length of the thin line running from the length of the stockings from her stilettos to the leather skirts, and then keep licking not straight to her pussy but deep into the crevice of that ass shaking before me. It's just my imagination, running away with me, but I grow dizzy, intoxicated, enthralled by the way those stockings flow into the perfect fine sculpture of her cheeks. Yes, you Stones freak, super freak, high-class temptress half my age, let me kneel here behind you, and you can keep singing and dancing, and I'll rim you right through the end of the show.

It may also be just my imagination on overdrive suddenly, but I swear she points straight at me as she mouths much longer air kisses, then pokes her tongue from her mouth and swirls it around. I swear she smiles sweetly. But then again, I can't be sure to what extent that's all just in my head, or mostly arising from my pants, where I suddenly realize, to my chagrin, that this close to the lights of the stage, the bulge has grown embarrassingly evident. Did she see that? I wonder. Did she really even look at me at all but instead have down her Mick act so well that she could make an entire audience feel like she's pointing and looking at and dancing for them alone, while managing to fuck them all, if mostly in the audience's minds. So again, I can't be certain she ever really even looked at me.

My cock grows even harder when The Blushing Brides - whose Mick and Keith clones actually resemble and move life the real Mick and Keith - dig deeply into their vast repertoire of Stones covers and launch into "Rocks Off." Not just the band playing the opening number to "Exile on Main Street'' but how she spins this time into a perfect pirouette, flashing her perfect white teeth, then wagging her tongue:

I was making love last night

To a dancer friend of mine

I can't seem to stay in step

She only cums when she pirouettes on me-eee

This time, I'm sure of it. She's looking straight at me, but not just looking, pointing at me, staring directly into my face, smiling. Transfixed, I gaze into her eyes, smile back and melt.

Sure, pirouette on me all night,and if I get to gaze up and down the length of those legs, if you will only grant me glimpses of your perfect ass and your wet pussy, you can pirouette on me even in those stilettos. It would be worth it.

Suddenly, though, her eyes turn to ice, her lips pursed tightly in a scowl. She gives me the finger, then points to the floor in front of her, again and again and again.

I wonder:

What the fuck is with this woman?

Then I wonder:

Did she know? Could she know? Could she have somehow read me, see in my face or my eyes straight into the recesses of my mind where I store the fantasies that have consumed me for decades, but that remain too shameful to speak to all but a few?

The Stones cover band goes out with "Let's Spend the Night Together," and when the house lights come on, blinding and garish, I see the latest object of my fantasies walking toward me, and I go weak in the knees.

She flashes that smile again, and speaks in an almost lyrical lilt between giggles - maybe she's drunk - and says: "So, I've been watching you. Quite the Stones fan, huh?"

I feel like a high school kid on a first date. "Y-y-yeah. I've actually seen the real Stones 14 times."

"Fourteen, fourteen times? How old are you? Did you go to Woodstock too? I'm Angelina, please meet you."

"You too. Gary."

"So you do coke? I'm not like a fiend or anything, but like a fine line or two once in a while. Wanna come to my place in Chelsea and sample some?"

"Sure, would love to, I mean, if you're sure that's OK, but understand if you have to get up early and need to take a rain check or something."

"You've got to be kidding me, Gar," she says. "I've been watching you undress me all night, that hard bulging in your pants, and now you're going all limp dick on me?"

"Uh. Um. No, not at all, Angelia. Thanks so much for the offer. Would love to come by and do some coke with you."

"Good," she says, grabbing my forearm and pulling me hard. "Move it."

I am trembling with anticipation, my thoughts racing, trying to puzzle what she wants, what devious diversions she masks behind those faraway eyes, that high-pitched voice, those pouty lips.

I can't imagine how such a young woman can afford her brownstone mansion with 18-foot high ceilings, antique furniture, Oriental rugs, high chandeliers, and priceless artworks lining the walls.

"Make yourself comfortable," she says. "I'll go get us some snacks, some champagne to celebrate meeting each other, and some mighty fine coke."

"Just a sec, Gar, OK? Then we'll play."

"Great! Can't wait!"

I can hardly imagine my good fortune as she turns her head and winks and I watch her ass as she walks off to the kitchen.

Five minutes later, I gasp and shudder when she returns in thigh-high boots, a tight leather corset that ends just above her glistening pussy lips and just below her hard, perky tits. In her right hand she holds a 4-foot-long whip.

She giggles again, but the smile disappears, replaced by a look of fury in her eyes and spits out the words in a growl.

"What are you waiting for?" she snaps. "STRIP! NOW! ON YOUR KNEES!"

I couldn't have imagined a more enticing transformation. I had done the submissive role-playing with my ex (before she freaked and left me when I suggested a 24/7 female-led relationship), and I have paid enough dommes to know the game: Agree to hard limits, and if it gets to be too much, just utter the safe word.

So I'm game here, more than game. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.

I race to pull off my shoes, my jeans and boxes, my Stones T-shirt, then kneel before her, gazing at her, smiling.

The slap to my face stings, hard, and makes me see stars. Then comes another, and another and another, each harder than the last.

"Too much. Sorry," I whimper.

"What the fuck do you mean too much, slave? What do you think this is? Who do you think I am? Some $250-an-hour domme, and you just say 'Red!' or some safe word, and the punishment ends instantly?"

"N-no, I didn't mean....."

I have felt whips before. The hot sting, just for a second, then the endorphin rush and soaring deep into sub space, but this first blow scares me, sending pain coursing through my body, and without even seeing my ass, know a welt has risen and that left a thin, blood-streaked line.

"I do NOT recall giving you permission to speak, slave, and I most certainly did NOT give you permission to raise your raise your eyes to Mistress Angelina."

"I'm s-sorry...."

"Boy, you're a real piece of work, slave. So you immediately disobey me, your mistress, by speaking without permission seconds after being told you must not do so. You fucking pervert. You worm. I'm going to relish punishing you."

She puts a collar around my neck, then attaches a leash. She binds me hands behind my back with leather restraints. She kicks me hard in the balls, then clamps not standard-fare nipple clamps with that little bit of fuzz softening the pinch, but instead those black binder clamps you get at the officer store.

I cry out in pain.

The whip comes down again, full force, then again and again and again for five minutes straight.

"Did I tell you that you could speak, slave?"

"N-no, Mistress. I-I'm sorry."

She does not reply but pulls me hard on the leash, and I struggle not to fall as she leads me down stone steps in the brownstone's basement.

The dimly dungeon we enter boggles my mind. A wood torture rack stretches along one wall, the huge metal gears connected to metal manacles. Alongside another wall is St. Andrew's cross, and next to hit hang every instrument of corporal punishment imaginable - whips of every length, riding crops, canes, paddles, cat-o-nine tails, along with handcuffs and hoods, leather restraints and gags, nipple clamps of varying sizes, a cattle prod. But what scares me most is the sight of a wooden beam four feet off the floor, its top cut into a point forming an upside-down V, and lined with sharp metal spikes.

A single spotlight shines down on a plush red throne the likes of which you see in footage of the Queen of England. Before the throne lies one of those rug protectors that go under desk chairs, but it is turned upside-down, so the plastic nubs point upward.

She looks down at me on my knees, the collar seeming to tighten around my neck, and she smiles as she had in the club.

"It's been a long night, slave. I need to go to sleep now, and you probably need some rest too."

She jerks the leash again and pulls me across the dungeon, to the entrance to a tiny cage with steel bars. It's maybe 3 feet long and 2 feet wide, the top of it roughly 3 feet from its bare concrete floor.

She points to her ass, shining white in the dim room.

"Kiss my ass, slave!"

Consumed with lust, I eagerly pucker up.

She spins around, slaps me hard and kicks me in the ball again.

"Hah! Slave! Do you actually think I would ever allow your lips, the lips of my lowly slave, to come anywhere near my royal ass?"

The anger in her voice leaves me speechless, and terrified.

'She flings open the door to the cage.

"In, slave. Welcome home. Goodnight, and sleep well."

(To be continued.)