She winked at me from behind the bar. My long-time friend. My buddy's wife. She who rendered me giddy with even a modest flirtation. She whose occasional raised eyebrow, sultry tilt of head and nearly imperceptible puckering of lips filled me with champagne buzz wooziness. My flirtatious bartender. The woman I'd fantasized about for so long...my secret fetish...please, oh please be my Mistress...my DOM...make me your minion...I beg you to sub me...oh...excuse me...there I go again...goddang it, I can't help myself. I get carried away and digress. But my fixation might help you understand how this temptress turned me to putty with a sexy, confidential wink.
We'd been friends for more than a couple decades. It was her husband and my wife who actually made the first connections, working at the same software company. The four of us became friends as couples. We would share some dining, occasional travel, football games, golf, casual visits and we were often invited to each other's social gatherings. We knew each other well. We were good friends.
I had always admired her. What was not to like? She was smart as a whip. Exceptionally well-educated. Professionally accomplished, a senior vice president of a small but vibrant firm. She was gregarious; conversant; and hip. She knew how to have fun. She could let her hair down. And there was this sexiness about her. She possessed it and knew how to carry it, how to exude it without trying to force it. Subtle sexy. Bottom line...she had many attributes that I found highly attractive. But it was the persona of female superiority, tinged with the self-assurance of a goddess with a splash of naughtiness for good measure that rendered me giddy. Pity she was unaware of that persona.
While we were friends for many years, it was only over the past couple years that my relationship with her changed. I can't even recall exactly how it happened. Perhaps with the increasingly confidential conversations between the two of us when we played the exquisite game of bartender (she) and bar patron (I). It was under these circumstances that I made a confession to her.
After so many years, I finally bared it all and shared with her my deep secret that only one other person in the world, my wife, knew. About how I was, fundamentally, a submissive fellow who yearned to be manipulated by a dominant female. I revealed to her that she was more than a passing fancy in my fantasy fetish world. I admitted to her that I'd felt that way for as long as I'd known her. Somehow, from our first meeting on, she just seemed so perfect in that role. She had the personality, the presence, the temperament and the disposition to pull it off. I explained to her that she was my Fantasy Dom. To reveal this to her was a burden off my chest because I'd wanted to tell her for so long. I was nervous as hell confessing, hoping with all my heart that it wouldn't backfire on me.
To my great relief, somehow, angel that she was, she accepted me for who I am. To my relief, she didn't reject me. But she also didn't explore it or act on it. My Fantasy Dom didn't become a real-life Dom, which I knew all along was the longest of long shots. Still, it wasn't like an unspeakable topic either. In fact, she'd tease me about it sometimes...make suggestive reference to my submissiveness in a private moment. Oh, how I cherished those moments. But, again, nothing really came of it. In fact, she confessed to me that it was unfamiliar territory for her, and not something she was altogether comfortable with. And, in spite of my assurances, she confessed that she feared she wouldn't be very good at it. "If I thought I'd be good at it I might be more tempted," she told me.
Once, while engaging in some light, private and utterly innocent cocktail banter, she told me to go get a couple coasters from the bar - and then added that I should conduct the mission on all fours and deliver them from my knees. Of course, her directive was like nitroglycerin to me. I eagerly carried out the order, savored every shuffle, and placed each of our drinks atop a coaster.
"You really like that don't you - being bossed around," she observed half quizzically.
"Yes, I do," I answered in the understatement of the evening.
"Go ahead, sit down. I don't want to spoil you." She chuckled and then followed up, "You know, if I ever go too far, you should tell me to stop." It was laughable, considering how genteel and tepid her "domination" was.
It was in that context that I told her, half-jokingly at first, that we should have a safe word. And that it would be "Uncle." She agreed nonchalantly, saying something like, "Okay, I'll remember to back off when you cry 'Uncle'." Then I chose a reaction that, in retrospect, was a tad arrogant and a bit patronizing.
"I will NEVER need to use the safe word with you. You're just too..." (I tried to choose the words carefully)... "timid, tame - you're too nice to push me to a point when I'd feel compelled to cry "Uncle!"
"Well, aren't you a cocky one," I recall her saying curtly, dressing me down with a cold stare. She held her gaze for several seconds but then she changed the subject, as if I'd said nothing. And that was the extent of our foray into the necessity (or not) of a safe word. Thankfully, she didn't seem to be offended and I scolded myself for making a comment about her tender nature and her lukewarm embrace of dominance.
Still, we continued to play bartender and bar patron when we could and enjoyed flirting with each other. On special occasions I'd be treated to a fond touch or, if I was lucky, a quick smooch. If I were blessed, a long, lingering kiss. She was a good kisser. Mmmmm good! My friend - a real-life tease. My Fantasy Dom - a fanciful siren.
We'd been operating in that context for some time. Flirting, enjoying each other's soft advances, an occasional text or e-mail exchange. Those with a naughty edge were my favorites. And then came an invitation to my wife and me to attend a football party they were hosting. My wife and I, as special guests, were invited to spend the night in their luxurious home, which was a special treat. I could feel free to imbibe a little more and not worry about the forty-mile drive home. It was a generous offer. We accepted. The day arrived and I was psyched to have a great time.
My Fantasy Mistress took her usual position behind the bar and assumed the duties of bartender. That's when the wink came - the one I started the story telling you about. The one that melts me in my barstool.
She was serving everyone, with skill and panache. We all cheered the game while we told stories, shuffled about the party area, introduced ourselves to fresh acquaintances, nibbled snacks, joked and sat at the bar, which is what I was doing when she gave me that dang wink. We were for the moment alone. Then there was another wink. I was overcome by her attraction. She was a real temptress. A Goddess and my Fantasy Dom.
With just the two of us present, I sitting at the bar, she behind the bar, she put on a stern face.
"You've been a bad boy since you got here."
I was taken aback and honestly didn't know what she meant by that.
"You've been sneaking peeks down my blouse and at my chest," she accused me. "Don't deny it. I've watched you. I've watched your eyes." She paused. Like a good prosecutor, without waiting for a response, she interrogated further. "Did I give you permission to do that?"
She'd never spoken this way with me before. I was startled...and aroused. She was acting as she had so often in my fantasies, out of the blue, a dream of mine I'd given up on some time back. She repeated the question.
"Did I give you permission to look at my chest?"
I had noticed a modest amount of cleavage when she bent over in her bar duties. And she was wearing a blouse that, depending on her twists and turns, revealed the outlines of her nipples when it was pulled taut. It wasn't risqué. It was actually tasteful while being modestly daring. And yeah, I'd noticed. I always do. But I didn't think I was staring or ogling. Still, I thought it was best to come clean, by the letter of the law.
"No...you never gave me permission," I admitted frankly. "And yes, I stared," I added, deciding to go along with wherever it was she was going with this. And oh, how it turned me on to confess my transgression.
"You were a bad boy, staring at me like that, without my permission," she scolded again. She served another customer and engaged in some banter with some guy. She wrapped it up and came back to me, producing a small note from her pocket. She passed it to me, discretely. She pointed her index finger at me and then pointed to the note. Then she turned away and resumed her bartending duties.
