Jen liked my story. I occasionally posted erotic stories to a popular web site that published such stories. My stories were about what could be called "rough sex", sex where force was a key element. Jen sent me an email, told me how much she liked the story. I wrote her back.
To a writer, positive feedback can be overwhelming. Just to know that someone out there "gets" you, understands a part of you, notices the little details and why you wrote those details; it's powerful, even to a professional writer like myself, who you might think would be used to the effect. When the story is sexual, that effect is doubled. Not only is your gentle reader giving you the writing approval you so need, but also they are approving of that naughty, dirty, vulnerable part in you that you secretly fear no one will like.
I had responded to several such emails in the past, and had even ended up meeting and enjoying brief encounters with a couple of my female readers. Yes, we had had the kind of sex I wrote about in my stories, and yes, the sex had been satisfying. The novelty had worn off meeting someone in this manner, however. I was now looking for something a little different.
I wrote back to Jen, thanking her for her comments, and telling her that something about her email had spoken to me, which was true. I explained I had met admirers of my stories in the past, and that I was no longer interested in a "run of the mill" encounter. I told her I knew that her wish when she wrote me was to eventually meet me, and I wasn't interested in a long slow email courtship while she got her courage up as to whether to have sex with me. I explained that I was generally considered to be attractive, but I didn't care what she looked like. I told her that if she was interested, the only thing I wanted to read from her was her home address, and I'd be there the weekend after I received it. I told her I would show up with HIV test results in hand, and would expect the same from her. I explained that if I showed up at her door, and she opened that door, I was going to treat her like a sexual slave for the next two days; in the way I treated women in my stories. She wrote me back within the hour. There was nothing in the email but her address.
Two frightened eyes stared at me through the crack, peering over the security chain. Apparently her earlier courage was failing her just a bit.
"Step back," I said, as I slipped a hand in the crack and shoved the door open, pulling the "security" chain out of the door jam. I sauntered in the open door, toward her, as she slowly backed away, her unblinking eyes never moving from mine. I kicked the door shut behind me, dropping my bag on the floor. She bumped into the back of her own sofa just as I caught up with her. "You opened the door," I shrugged. I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, moving my own face close to hers, as I stared intensely into her eyes. Casually and roughly, I felt her up through her clothes, running my hand quickly between her legs, up and over her breasts, giving the left one a quick painful squeeze. I kissed her hard and quick, too, shoving my tongue in her mouth, pressing my lips hard against hers. She responded immediately, but I ended the kiss just as quickly, pulling back and replacing my tongue with two of my fingers, pushed deep into her mouth. I leaned close and whispered in her ear.
I thought about what I already knew about this woman. I'd had considerable experience with submissive women, and I knew she was frightened out of her mind, but I also knew that her panties were soaking wet right then. If she was like most submissive women, she had quite a bit of sexual experience, although much of it had been unsatisfying to her. In general, women who like to be dominated are very confident sexually, indeed, they are often very confident in every aspect of their lives. Because of this paradox, they tend to attract men who aren't very dominant, men who are drawn to their strength and outward confidence, the least likely type of man to satisfy them. Usually a woman like Jen, though experiencing being dominated for the first time, has had one or two encounters in her life when a man was actually strong or rough or demanding with her, though he probably didn't take it as far as she would like. She probably fought and said, "No," and he finally did stop when she was secretly hoping he would ignore her protests and do what he wanted to her. Do you want to watch a tap dance? Ask a sexually submissive woman if no means no. Watch her brain fight with her pussy as she tries to reconcile the dilemma that for society's sake no should mean no, while nothing makes her hotter than the idea that some man might someday ignore her "no."
In any case, right now Jen's "no" wasn't going to mean no. It wasn't going to mean anything, because I was going to do whatever I wanted.
"As I told you in my email, when you opened that door, you consented to be my sex slave," I whispered in her ear, my fingers raping her wet mouth. "That is exactly what is going to happen, regardless of anything you say." I pulled my fingers from her mouth, let go of her hair, and stepped back.
"I didn't open the door all the way," she began. "I left the chain on…"
"I'm not going to argue with you," I interrupted. "I don't argue with women. You and I both know that you wanted me to come in, or you wouldn't have sent your address, and you wouldn't have opened the door. You left the chain on because you like to argue, and you usually win, but I'm not interested in arguing, or in your mind at all, what I'm interested in is how my dick will feel when it's in your holes." I knew these words were like candy for a submissive woman like Jen, even though I really was interested in her mind, and even enjoyed a good argument from time to time. Submissive women often don't understand that, though deep down, very deep, they would like it. I began to explain what the weekend was going to be like for her.
"You are going to do everything I want," I said, as I turned her around and bent her over at the waist across the back of the couch. "I'm going to hurt you some, though not really bad, and I'm going to humiliate you some, too. This weekend you will exist only as an object for me to amuse myself with. You're going to be my toy."
I pulled her khaki shorts down to her knees. I began to spank her, hard and methodically, the loud slaps echoing around the room. Holding her firmly down across the sofa back, I paid particular attention to the sensitive areas where her ass met her legs, and the inside of her upper thighs. I spanked her as she struggled, letting the heat build up on her ass and legs until they were glowing cherry red. At first she tried ordering me to stop, then begging me. I wanted to reduce her to a slightly more compliant place. Finally, after a non-stop rain of slaps, she stopped talking altogether and simply cried and whimpered. I knew I had her attention.
Pulling her up roughly by her hair, I marched her around the couch and into her living room. She had to take humiliating short steps, as her shorts were still around her knees. I grabbed a chair from the adjacent dining area, and sat down. She stood in front of me.
"Take off your clothes."
"I…" she started.
"Shut up and take off your clothes, or I'll bend you over the couch again, only this time I'll use my belt." She began to comply, but her hands were shaking and she was crying quietly.
