She sat in a spot to which I was unaccustomed – as a patron at her own bar. I stood behind the counter, her usual post, studying her with nervous anticipation as she assessed with a critical eye what I considered my masterful concoction – two icy cold Manhattans – up.
The color of the libations was perfect, a burnt orange amber. The glasses, traditional, conically shaped cocktail glassware with long stems, were filled to within a half-inch of the rim. The exterior of the glasses exuded an icy sweat. An Italian maraschino cherry nestled itself at the bottom of each cocktail along with an orange peel, both completely submerged. I was genuinely nervous about the unfolding experiment and much anticipated challenge.
I'd proffered the challenge a couple months previously (I couldn't recall exactly when) via e-mail. I'd been diligent in keeping in touch with her, Theresa, my cherished Fantasy Dom. The evolution of our relationship inspired my fawning communications. With each message I'd send her way, I'd recall the first time we'd really crossed from the realm of fantasy into the territory of Femdom/slave. She manipulated me into a date with a hair brush on my bottom. I remembered with even more excitement our next liaison, during which I'd knelt before her, blindfolded and wrist-bound, my face buried obediently between her thighs, worshiping her in oral servitude. I relived those exotic episodes in my mind as I sent her tributes, poems and silly cartoons that I hoped expressed my admiration – my infatuation – my devotion to my Fantasy Dom, and occasional Real Dom.
It was in that context that I'd extended to her a playful challenge, one that occurred to me as I sought to perfect the mixing of a perfect Manhattan cocktail. My Fantasy Dom and I both fancied ourselves capable bartenders and we both enjoyed treating the other to the most delightful alcoholic concoctions. After creating a particularly delicious cocktail for myself one evening, I wrote to her:
"I've been practicing and, masterful bartender that you are, I think I can create a Manhattan that will rival yours. I'll bet you that when you partake of it, you'll admit it; that mine is superior. In fact, it will put yours to shame. I will bury you!"
Those were strong words, a brave and boastful claim I sent her way. But I was slightly inebriated, feeling playful and confident. And maybe just a bit cocky. I hoped not too cocky.
The challenge languished for some time, lingering unacknowledged, in digital limbo. Then one day I received a phone call from my friend Thomas, her husband, asking if I'd be available and interested in filling in for him in a golf tournament at their country club. Turns out Thomas had some unexpected business in the city and was unavailable for his golf commitment. Fees were already paid, and the group just needed a replacement to round out the foursome.
It was not that unusual a request. I'd played golf with the mister many times on their course (their lovely home stood adjacent to one of the holes) and I'd even played before with a couple of the guys in the group. Thomas also conveyed an invitation from the Missus, Theresa, my Fantasy Dom, that she and I have dinner at the club after the tournament. That really caught my attention. The thought of my Fantasy Dom's company in any situation was arousing. Dinner sounded splendid. Lustful scenes of additional extra curricular activity raced through my thoughts. It never occurred to me that the opportunity might be associated with the Manhattan challenge.
I promptly checked with my wife, Marcy. While she was most always generous with my requests to go golfing, she seemed almost overly eager for me to accept this invitation. "Absolutely," she said, "Go early, stay late and have a blast. I know you'll have a great time!" she encouraged.
I got back with Thomas and accepted the invitation. And then, to my delight, I subsequently received a confidential e-mail from my Fantasy Dom. It read:
Minion – When you visit for the golf tournament, bring your best bartending skills as well as your preferred ingredients for a Manhattan cocktail. I intend to pass judgment on your boasting. For superlative performance there'll be a reward. There'll be punishment for hubris. You're forewarned.
Wow! She appeared all in on this, more than I could have dreamed. Her warning made me a tad nervous, but I was very much looking forward to the golf. And I was intoxicated by the Manhattan challenge.
I much anticipated the date and was thoroughly juiced when it finally arrived. I drove the forty miles to the country club and met my playing partners on the driving range. We teed off on the 15th hole in a shotgun start. I savored the grandeur of the pine forest, scrub oak and red rock formations. I joined in the camaraderie, joking and cheering within the group. I felt good about a few of my shots that were timely contributions to the contest. And, of course, I cursed the slippery greens.
Afterward a round of beers and a brief congratulatory ceremony (my team was nowhere near placing in the top three), I drove to my Fantasy Dom's home, a short distance away, nestled next to one of the golf course's fairways. I knocked on the side door (privileged entrance) and she answered. She didn't hesitate to place her arms around my neck and give me a slightly wet and not-so-innocent kiss on the lips. It lingered. It was delicious. It was stirring. I wanted it to last longer but she broke it off and suggested I shower and prepare for dinner.
I cleaned up quickly and then, as I was killing some time before our departure, I seized the initiative and took four long-stemmed cocktail glasses from the bar shelf and placed them gently into their freezer in the adjacent room. I figured I'd need them later. Just as I finished the task she entered the room and approached. She looked like she had taken a little extra care with some makeup and a flattering outfit. I complimented her but stopped short of revealing to her that I was captivated by her allure. I was putty in her hands and was pretty sure she knew it.
"Let's go," she announced. "And game's on," she remarked with her own cool poker face. "Manhattans when we return, after dinner. You and me. At the bar," she declared with a taunting edge to her voice. It was vaguely reminiscent of a desperado throwing down the gauntlet to the town sheriff in an old Western. "You and me...on main street...at sundown."
When we reached the car, she stood at the passenger door, obviously expecting that I'd open and close it for her. I obliged eagerly. There was no mention of the Manhattan challenge on the short drive to the club. She was flirty, poking my shoulder and then squeezing my bicep affectionately while we conversed. I marveled at her devilish feminine intuition, knowing so well how to be coy and seductive. Of course, the kinky nature of the situation occurred to me as well. She was a married woman. I was a married man. She just happened to be a married woman who possessed a tincture (or two) of tantalizing naughtiness, who had begun to explore some Femdom games with me. And I just happened to be a married man with an uncontrollable fetish to be subbed by a dominant female, especially by the one in my present company.
Upon being seated at the restaurant, she took charge immediately. She ordered for me without asking my preferences. ("The gentleman will have the salmon," I recall she said.) It was a fine dinner, with solicitous service, fine presentation and satisfying food. During the meal she continued some light flirtations...a private wink, a secret pursing of lips, a brushing of knees under the table and the bestowment of one particular furtive touch on my upper thigh. She knew me well and was keenly aware that I found quite stirring her clandestine coquetry. And it was not so unusual. Hell, she'd teased me and touched me many times even while in her husband's presence, a practice I found most daring. And thrilling.
After dinner we hopped into my vehicle. Again, she waited at the door for a respectful attendant and I obliged. On the brief return drive home she continued to tease me gently, with soft, innocent touches that accompanied her animated conversation.
When we arrived home, she spoke of the challenge as I waited for her to exit the vehicle. "Better get downstairs and set up the bar. You'll have to back up your bragging. The perfect Manhattan," she exclaimed with an almost sarcastic edge. She paused. "If I recall, you wanted to bet me that I'd prefer yours to my own. Something about burying me. We'll find out."
I had brought my own ingredients – some Maker's Mark bourbon, Dolin Rouge sweet vermouth, some Italian maraschino cherries, a clementine orange, Peychaud's Aromatic Cocktail Bitters and some handcrafted simple syrup. I brought them in from the car and set them up at the bar. I glanced in the freezer to reassure myself that the cocktail glasses were chilled and ready to go. I organized my tools. Stainless steel shaker. Swizzle spoon stirrer. Shot glass. Sharp knife. Wet bar towel. I was ready as I could be.
