When I walk into the room, it is as an artfully crafted collection of lies; my chestnut hair is bound back in a tight, severe bun without a single strand out of position, my chest is bound in a black leather corset that looks as if it could deflect bullets, and my long alabaster legs peek out in row upon row of serried diamonds from a pair of fishnet stockings that accentuate their sensual curves. I tower over everyone in the room in my platform boots, swishing a riding crop in my hand that so many of the people here know I can wield with artful skill, tapping it lightly against the palm of my gloved hand in a promise to inflict pain and punishment that I fully expect to be taken up on several times before the night is over.
I look every inch the classical image of a Domme. But it's all an illusion. And he sees right through it.
I catch sight of him from across the room, gazing at me with piercing blue eyes, and for a moment I feel myself about to stumble off of my own shoes--he's not dressed for the scene, instead opting for a simple charcoal gray suit with a crisply pressed white shirt and a slim crimson tie, but somehow he conveys dominance with his stance and his demeanor without the need for a single prop. He could be naked and I would feel the same urge to... to kneel? To cower? To flinch away from his calm confidence and hide myself among one of the many submissives here who've never even thought to question my authority? I realize I don't even know, and that terrifies me more than anything.
Because I realize in a heartbeat that he could ruin me. I don't even know his name yet, I only know his chiseled jaw and his icy stare and that tiny little quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and yet I'm instantly aware that he could strip away all of my authority right here in front of everyone if he wanted to and I wouldn't be able to make myself do a thing to stop him. I've cultivated a reputation over almost five years in the local kink community as one of the most punishing of all the dominants of any gender, an absolute artist with the whip and the crop and the flogger, but he could turn me into a quivering submissive with a single imperious gesture.
I'd never be able to show my face here again if he did. Never mind that this is a supportive community, forget all the people who'd still be happy to take a beating from me even if they knew I was a switch. I'd know they knew. I'd know they could see the meek, submissive little girl behind all the leather and the latex and the smacking caress of the crop, and I'd... I'd want to lose myself again and again to the naked humiliation of public subjugation. I'd want them to know I was nothing but a lie, a simpering bootlicker who craved surrender and hid herself under layers of skill and pretension to conceal a desperate desire to submit. It would change everything. I'm not sure I could handle being known like that.
He can tell that, too. I can see it in his gaze as he moves toward me through the crowd like a shark seeking its prey; he's fully aware of everything going on behind my darting, frightened hazel eyes and he knows that he could take me and own me and possess me right there in front of everyone and it would break me completely. He could take me to all the events I once presided over, force me to come along as his pet on a leash and make me crawl on all fours for the people I once whipped into submission. All my desire to hide myself away would be nothing compared to his control, because he sees me for who I truly am and I'm defenseless against it. I can feel my cunt leaking at the thought of it all. I'm terrified, but I crave everything I'm so desperately frightened of right now.
I swallow hard as he approaches, still a couple of inches shorter than me thanks to my high-soled boots but meeting my gaze as if we're at eye level with one another. "My name's Ryan," he says, a trace of smoke and whiskey in his baritone voice that makes my knees threaten to quiver with the sheer smoldering sensuality of it. "You must be Lady Absinthe. I've heard a lot about you." My breath catches in my throat at the tone of subtle menace in his voice disguised as politesse--the casual listeners around us would only hear a friendly acknowledgment of my reputation, but I can hear the shadow of his true meaning. He knows what they say about me, but he also knows what he sees when he looks at me. And he knows which is real and which is only an illusion for the rubes.
Because that's the honest story, once you get past the corset and the stockings and the riding crop I made myself. It's easy to pretend to be dominant, because what most submissives really want is the illusion when you get right down to it. They don't want to know what I'm feeling, they don't care about my desires, all they really care about is that I fit into the fantasy they've woven for themselves and it's childishly easy for even a fake like me to be taken for a top. I deliver the dream, and if deep down I know I only do it because I'm scared to admit I want to be the one who kneels? They're not interested.
