Hello again, this is a strange one (seems like I've said that before). It is really as much a personal thought experiment about dominant/submissive relationships, as it a story. I was idly wondering what a normal, laid back man would go through if he suddenly found himself with a very submissive partner. I've only read a few D/S stories, but they all seemed to be submissive focused or to involve a very powerful personality as the dominant.
What got me thinking like this was 'Stray Kitten' by Wes Boyd (he's a far more talented author than me). I was somewhat intrigued by the perspective. That being said, I neither have, nor particularly desire, any practical experience in D/S relationships or master/slave relationships (which this one might be, although the term makes me uncomfortable).
OK, all of that is my long winded way of saying that this is a D/S story. I put it in Romance because I prefer that category and because it has no whips, chains, ropes, kinky sex, etc. so I thought the BDSM fans would be disappointed by it. The style is stilted because I wrote it quickly and I was focusing more on the dynamics between the two characters than style.
Disclaimer: All characters who engage in slap and tickle are at least eighteen years old.
All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
If he were to have a motto, he probably would have relied on Voltaire: 'Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.'
But he didn't really believe in mottos. Nor did he believe in 'strategy deployment'. All of that was for people who had more ambition than him. He believed in continuous improvement. If Michael Benz were to be forced to tell you what value he had as a worker, as a human even, it would be easy for him.
"I take what you are doing, and I help you do it better."
He had an ideal job for him, really. He got to travel, extensively, and sate his endless curiosity. People hired him to come in and help them figure out how they could do something better. He wasn't the originator of most ideas, nor the final decision maker. Mike just facilitated. He kept the mental wheels spinning so that other people could see their jobs in new ways. It may have sound like a high pressure position, and it was, but it didn't require that decisiveness that distinguishes leaders from followers.
So that's how he found himself entering his second month in a small Arabian Gulf country, helping a very large company re-invent their payroll system.
The funny thing was that he didn't speak any Arabic or know anything about payroll systems.
To be fair, Mike's job was much harder than it sounds. It required the ability to understand new ideas on the spur of the moment, at least to such an extent that he would be able to ask the group the right question. Just as importantly, it required the ability to sit back and keep quiet, even if he thought that he knew the answer.
That's where many consultants fail. After enough clients, long enough experience, it becomes very difficult not to start to believe that you are the one with the answer. Then, once you believe that you have the answer to the problem, keeping quiet about it can be nearly impossible. That's where a lot of problems come from. Once that happens the novice (the consultant) is making decisions instead of the expert (people who actually do the job).
Mike never had that problem. Exerting his opinion was risky and uncomfortable, so he rarely did it. He had seen his own ideas fail too many times to buy into them. If his clients failed to make the improvement they wanted, at least it wouldn't be because they listened to his shitty advice.
It helped that Mike wasn't particularly imposing, or memorable. He was a little under six feet and slim, with a build that didn't show to advantage under a suit. He wore conservative suits, with his sandy brown hair in a conservative haircut. You would rarely see him smiling or frowning while he worked; his expression tended to stay passive.
When Mike spoke to people, he typically asked so many questions that they would do more talking than he did. This was true even when he addressed large groups.
If you were to sit Mike down and ask about his history, the conversation would probably end with you telling him yours.
If you sat Mike down, handcuffed to a chair, with a blowtorch in your hand, you might learn a bit more. He was a middle child of middle class parents. His college years were spent at Princeton, where he graduated middle of the class.
He was fairly inexperienced with relationships. There had been a couple of girlfriends in college who tended to dominate him a little. Both ended up cheating on Mike. Since then, he had avoided relationships with women. It just seemed that he was too hesitant to go after the girls that would be good for him, and too tempting to the dominating ones he wanted to avoid.
*****
And so here Mike was, in an Arabian state, walking back to the hotel from the client's office. It had been a successful day because the company had made a number of important decisions based on the Mike's questions and prodding. When they wrote up their meeting minutes later on, many of the attendees would forget to include Mike's name in the list of participants.
He was taking a different route home than normal. What very few people realized was that when Mike made his own decisions, he would typically choose the more adventurous path. If he had never been down a street before or eaten a particular dish before, than he would make a point of doing so.
Partway back to the hotel, Mike realized that he was in an area that looked more disreputable than expected. There was a lot of foot traffic and it consisted of a different type of person than he normally saw out in the business or banking areas. That caused him to hurry, which was why he got lost.
As soon as he realized that he didn't know where he was, Mike stopped to get his bearings. Not having any luck, he decided to try the coffeehouse on the street there to see if someone would give him directions.
Going in, he tried to communicate with the rather large, moustached man who seemed to be running the shop. The shop was empty, but even so, the man eyed Mike with suspicion.
Mike spent several minutes asking hIM questions in English, with no success, before he started to get frustrated. The man gave him one-word replies in Arabic that Mike did not understand. He tried showing the man his room key, hoping that it would help develop a common understanding. It did not.
Finally, Mike gave up and handed the man his business car, hoping for some reason that the information might help.
As soon as he received the card, the coffeeshop attendant's disposition changed, dramatically.
Wearing a large grin, the man grabbed Mike by the arm and pulled him into a backroom, the entrance of which was hidden by a wall hanging. They went down a long hallway while the man spoke excitedly. It sounded to Mike like he had the tone of a used car salesman, but he could only catch one phrase. He thought that it meant "white woman", which didn't make any sense.
By now, Mike had obviously realized that the man was not going to give him directions, but had instead mistaken him for someone else. He was going along out of force of habit, but also because the adventure was definitely intriguing.
Mike found himself in a low, smoke-filled room with cushions spread across the floor. Three hookahs were visible, all of them currently abandoned. There was a group of twenty or so men in the center of the room, huddled around an object that he couldn't see. It was obvious immediately that he was the only Westerner in the room.
Mike pushed his way into the group to get a glimpse of the object that was drawing the attention. He was aware that he should be leaving, it was definitely a bad idea to stay, but he was curious what they were looking at. Probably a piece of art, he thought, or maybe some drugs. That might explain their interest in including whoever it was that they thought him to be.
What he found in the center of the circle was unexpected. Finally pushing his way to the front, Mike found himself standing in front of a woman. She was huddled in a chair, with long hair covering her face. It was obvious that the woman was white, based on the pale skin he could see and the fact that her hair appeared to be red, at least in the available light.
No one was touching her, but the group appeared to be having a lively discussion. The whole situation was surreal, but Mike knew enough about the area to be sure what he was witness to. This was a human trafficking auction and based on the gender and apparent age of the victim, it was almost certainly sex trafficking.
He had no idea what to do. Of course he couldn't stand by, but no course of action was presenting itself.
Finally, he used gestures to ask whether it was allowed to touch or talk to her. He received a hesitant nod in response.
Mike had to be careful. It was extremely likely that someone in the room spoke English, even if they were not making it obvious.
Reaching down, he took one of her hands in his. She didn't react to the contact, neither pulling away or returning the pressure. Slowly, Mike crouched in front of the woman so that his head was close to hers.
"Can you understand me?" His voice was as soft as he could make it without being inaudible in the noisy room.
She nodded in response, almost imperceptibly.
Mike paused. What could he say next? While he considered it, Mike looked her over. She was skinny, although not frightening so, and respectably dressed. He could see shoes and even a burqa next to her.
Something needed to be done, but nothing at all came to mind. He could not force an escape and it was unlikely he would be able to buy her. Human traffickers rarely take credit cards, even Visa.
While he considered it, noises could be heard from outside the room, followed by shouting. Without a word, the men in the group scattered, making for the closest door immediately. Mike just stayed frozen, in the middle of the room, with the woman who did not react at all.
The source of the commotion soon arrived in the form of local policemen. Mike never did find out whether any of the men had escaped.
It was unlikely that the police arriving was good news. Every expert that he had heard or read since learning that he would be spending time in the country had indicated that the police were likely to be corrupt. Trafficking victims rarely made their way to freedom during these busts and on more than one occasion the victim had found herself being prosecuted for prostitution.
So Mike did something rare for him. He made a snap decision. Squeezing the woman's hand, he whispered to her again.
"Can you trust me?"
He received a slight squeeze from her hand. That was all he needed.
Mike quickly stood up, pulling the woman up with him, and wrapped his arm around her. Turning to the closest policeman, who had just entered the room. He started to speak loudly and forcefully (as Americans are usually expected to in foreign countries) in English. He demanded to know the source of the problem and why they were there.
Continuing to go at full volume, Mike insisted that he was walking through the area with his sister. They had gotten lost and he had entered the coffeeshop to find some help with directions. He did not know how they got to the backroom or what was back here. They were United States citizens!
It was obvious that the police in the room could not understand him, but it had the desired effect. The two were not harassed while an English speaker was found. Eventually, a lieutenant arrived and Mike repeated his diatribe. Throughout the whole experience, the woman next to him had not moved.
After reviewing Mike's passport and questioning him on his job and stay in the country, the lieutenant agreed to let them leave. Without an admission to human trafficking, there was little reason to hold anyone.
Mike was beyond relieved that no one asked for her identification.
Pondering the situation later, he was struck by two seemingly unlikely events. First, that the police should arrive at the precise time needed. Second, that they would allow the two to leave without looking at her ID.
After further consideration, he came to two possible conclusions. The timing of the police arrival could have been due to him! It was possible that they were waiting for an event, such as a Westerner entering, to start the raid. As far as her ID went, the lieutenant had appeared to be a sympathetic man. It wasn't unlikely that he had understood the whole situation and let her go to either save the paperwork or allow her a chance to escape the courts.
Those thoughts would come later. For the moment, Mike focused on getting the nearly catatonic woman out of the building and to his hotel. (He had received directions from the police.)
Once in his room, he didn't know what to do with her. She continued to follow him, holding on to his hand.
In the end, Mike sat down on one of the beds beside her so they could talk.
