She can't bring herself to go in.
It's not a dungeon. Not his apartment. Just a coffee shop.
The door is glass. If he's in there, he's probably looking at her.
She pulls the door open. Glances around.
He looks just like in his pictures. The ones where he has naked girls bent over his lap.
She scuttles over and sits down across from him.
She can't look at him.
Eyes up. He smirks. Eyes down again.
"Are we playing the quiet game, then?" he says.
She laughs. No, giggles. Whatever it is, it's too loud. However she looks, it's too red.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
She shakes her head.
"Can you tell me why we're here?"
"I..." she flounders.
"You want to enlist my services. Am I wrong?"
She shakes her head. Eyes up, then down.
"And those services involve me bossing and tossing you around. Wrong?"
She shakes her head. She smiles slightly at his playful tone.
"So if I wanted to get you a drink, I could. Wrong?"
She shakes her head.
"Now, I'm going to give you another chance. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Yes," she says. She almost adds "Sir", like some of the girls in the videos do, but she doesn't. One syllable-step at a time.
"Different question now. Do you want anything to drink?"
She hesitates. If she once knew the answer, she doesn't anymore.
He smiles. So innocent, he thinks. He decides to go easier on her. "How about I'll get you some water, and if you want anything else, you just tell me, all right, love?"
He goes to get water.
So far, this is going exactly how she didn't know she wanted. She doesn't know much about sex. Good Catholic girls don't. But she's always known that she likes to be helpless. None of the men she's been on dates with were controlling enough. Or at all. Of course, she never asked them to be, but of course she wouldn't. She doesn't want to give up her choices. She wants them taken from her.
In her furtive Internet searches (always in private mode), she found John Smith, the "Dom" to "sub" she's learned to name herself. Every step—clicking the Contact button, sending a message, responding to each email—required a new bout of courage. And now she's here.
He comes back with a cup of water.
"Thank you," she manages.
She takes a sip.
"Ever heard of roofies?" he grins at her.
She looks at him in horror.
He laughs. "I'm just joking," he says. "I wouldn't roofie you like this. That's something you have to earn."
She looks at him in amazement. Now she wants what she didn't want five seconds ago. She wants it because she can't have it. He really is a pro.
"Two truths, one lie," he begins. Living up to his nickname of the Playeur. "Ready to guess?"
"I've had thirty-one subs. None of them has ever gone to the police. I want to bring you to my car and fuck you in it right now."
She gasps and looks away. She feels something in her stomach. A pang. A clench. She was trying to follow along—the thirty-one number she remembered from his website—but now she can't speak. The bad word sticks in her mind. ...fuck... She hopes no one else heard him. She feels her sex getting wet. Why does it do that?
"Go on, guess," he says. "Which one's the lie?"
"The...the last one?" she says.
"You wish," he says. "It's the second. One of my subs was a police officer," he grins.
"Oh," is all she can say.
"Your turn," he says. "Two truths and a lie. Or, if you like, a lie and two truths," he smiles.
She thinks. "Um...my favorite color is pink. I'm no good at this game. And I've never...done it in a car."
He gives her a burning look. "I'd bet you've never 'done it' at all."
"Am I wrong?"
She shakes her head.
"Why haven't you?"
"No one has wanted to," she says.
This is a compliment. She doesn't know what to say.
"Why haven't you wanted to?"
She looks at her cup of water. "Well..."
"Let me guess," he says. "They drive you home. They kiss you. They put their hands on your knee, and when they start to put their hands under your skirt, the word escapes your lips: 'No'. And then they just stop."
She looks at him with big eyes.
"But you don't want them to stop. You want them to take you. You want them to force you. You want to be owned, don't you, little girl?"
Slowly, she nods.
He moves to the chair next to her. She starts trembling. He hasn't touched her.
He leans in close to her. His breath's on her cheek. "So," he says in a low voice, "what is your favorite color?"
She can't help but laugh. She chances a glance at him. A harmless sparkle shines from his eyes.
"Red," she says.
He smiles. "Are you using your safeword?"
"Oh! No, sorry," she says. They did agree to that safeword over email.
"So, 'no' is your favorite word, and red is your favorite color. You were born for this."
He slowly lifts his hand to her face. She gasps. Her lips part. She doesn't move. He runs his thumb along her lower lip. It tickles the way fire tickles.
"Will you tell me your name now?"
She takes a deep breath. "Mary," she says.
He smiles. "Well, Miss Mary," he says, "You'd better get used to being called 'slut'."
She follows him into the elevator. It's the day after the coffee shop. He wouldn't let her go home with him the same day. Made her sleep on it. She was grateful for that, but now she's even more excited. Even more nervous.
He presses his floor. 32. Her sub number.
Another man walks in.
"Peter!" John says. They do some kind of bro handshake. "This is Mary."
The doors close. Peter shakes Mary's hand.
"Pleasure," Peter smiles.
She can't tell what kind of smile it is.
32 floors is a long time. John chats with Peter about something. She doesn't really listen. All she can think about is the fact that John is tracing a finger up and down her back over her sweater. It's thrilling enough that he's touching her. But Peter is watching.
Owned. That's what she is.
She remembers that one of his three rules is no playing in public. He must not call this playing. It's sure more play-like than anything she's ever done.
The elevator slows abruptly. She gets that little head rush. The doors open, and the two men walk out. She follows.
John leads Mary down the halls. He keeps his hand on her lower back.
They reach John's door.
"See you at the grill, John," Peter says. "Nice to meet you, Mary." He keeps walking.
John unlocks the door. Holds it open.
She walks in and steps clear of the door. She takes in the place. Wood floor. Black couches. Neat kitchen. Nothing unusual, except maybe a few dice and board game pieces lying loose on the bookshelf.
He closes the door. Deadbolts it. She tenses. She waits for him to descend on her. But he doesn't.
She looks at him. His eyes are filled with a hunger that fills her with fear.
He shrugs off his coat. He goes to hang it in his closet. He kicks off his shoes.
What if he's a murderer? Who cares that she's already verified his photo, name, address? What if God punishes her? It's bad enough that she taught herself how to orgasm back in college. Now she's chasing kinky thrills. John could kill her. That would teach her.
She could still leave. Yes. That's what she'll do.
"I'm sorry, this was a bad idea," she says.
She turns around, turns the deadbolt, opens the door.
In a flash, he's behind her. He shoves her body against the door. It slams.
She gasps. His chest presses against her back. Something hard is jabbing her hips. Her sex gets wet.
"Mary," he murmurs into her ear.
Her core clenches.
"Do you remember your safeword?"
"Good girl," he breathes.
He strokes her hair. Then he slides his hand up the back of her neck and grips her hair tight. He pulls her head back. She whimpers.
His lips brush her cheek. "You're playing games you don't understand."
She's trembling. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
He smiles. So quick to apologize. "It's okay, baby girl. I'll teach you the rules."
Suddenly, his hand and body are gone. She still feels his heat. She still doesn't move. Then his footsteps clunk away.
"Come on, love, take off your shoes and have a seat," he calls over, tone totally normal.
She turns around. He's gesturing to a couch.
She slips out of her shoes. She goes over, sits down, back straight. She's still trembling.
He sits to her right. Their legs are touching.
There's a big paper on the coffee table. It's laminated. Reusable. Her name and limits are drawn on with dry-erase ink.
"I've already sent you my rules, but let's go through them again."
She looks at the paper.
1. No other partners.
2. No public play.
3. No falling in love.
"Second one includes going out on dates. I'm not your boyfriend. Game's over if you break any of 'em. Easy enough?"
She nods. She's used to ten commandments. She can handle three.
He taps the line for her signature and hands her his dry-erase marker.
She looks at him. Her look says, What's the point of signing in erasable ink?
He just smiles.
She signs on the line.
"Let the game begin," he says.
His left hand touches her back and slides up to her neck. He grips her hair again. She whimpers.
He steers her face to face his. Her eyes are big. His eyes are burning.
He kisses her. A long, rough kiss. She's breathless.
His right hand goes to her knee. Her skirt just covers it. He slides his hand up her covered thigh. She pushes at it. He slides his hand back down.
He pulls her head away from the kiss. He looks into her eyes as he slips his hand under her skirt. Her eyes get wider.
"No!" she whimpers.
"Yes," he says in a babying voice.
His touch is already making her sex pulse. But his word and voice pierce the core of her chest.
He kisses her again. She pushes at his hand with all her strength. It doesn't stop him. His hand glides along her skin, along the top of her thighs. She squeezes them tight.
He reaches her panty waistband. He plucks it like a guitar string. Then his hand glides back down to her knees, slowly as it went up. He rubs her knee under her skirt.
He breaks the kiss. "Truth or dare," he breathes.
What's that again? She's supposed to pick one.
"Truth," she whispers.
"Are you scared?"
She tries to nod. She can't with his fist in her hair. "Yes," she breathes.
"Don't be scared, little girl. I won't hurt you right away."
Fear swells in her core. He kisses her again. He forces his tongue into her mouth. She whimpers. He forces his hand between her thighs. She fights. He's too strong. His fingers touch her sex through her panties.
"You're so wet," he murmurs against her lips. "Such a bad girl."
She gets wetter.
He breaks the kiss. He slowly pets her sex. She moans. Then her hands fly to cover her mouth. Such an embarrassing sound, to her. Such a sexy sound, to him.
"Truth or dare," he says softly.
She can't think.
He presses her sex harder. She whimpers into her hand.
He lets go of her hair and pulls her hands away from her mouth. He holds both of her wrists in one hand. He pushes her back against the couch.
"I said, truth or dare," he demands.
"Truth!" she whimpers.
"Do you like the thought of calling me Sir?"
"Yes, Sir," she says quickly. It makes her feel naughty.
"How about 'Daddy'?" he grins.
She gasps. That makes her feel naughtier.
"Yes...Daddy," she breathes.
He smiles. "Good girl," he croons. "You've just been waiting to be a good girl for Daddy, haven't you?"
He narrows his strokes to her clit. She gasps.
"You don't have to wait any longer. I'm here now. Daddy's right here."
He touches her like she touches herself, but better. She starts to moan, but she bites her lip.
"It's okay, baby girl. Moan for me."
She does. Her mouth falls open. He bites her lip, as if he's biting it on her behalf. She moans more.
"Truth or dare," he murmurs.
"Truth," she sighs.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"No," she breathes.
"Do you want me to make you come?"
"Say it, little girl. Say you want Daddy to make you come."
"Please...please make me come," she says. "Please...Daddy..."
He moans into her ear. "Yes, Mary. Be a good girl and come for Daddy."
He pinches her clit.
She screams and comes. Pleasure shoots through her. He keeps rubbing her clit through her panties. Her orgasm lasts 32 floors.
When she comes down, other weights come down on her. Grief. Guilt. She's a slut. Only bad people are sluts. She's going to Hell with a capital H.
He sees her sorrow. It confuses him. They never cry this soon. He's had virgin subs. He's had Catholic subs. He hasn't had virgin Catholic subs. Must have something to do with that.
He lets go of her wrists. He gently moves his hand from her sex to her thigh. He slides his hand out from under her skirt. He lays her skirt over her knees.
"Come here, baby girl," he says.
He picks her up and sits her sideways on his lap. He rubs her back and kisses her hair.
Her tears fall onto her wrists.
"You're such a good girl, Mary," he says. "You did so well."
He holds her for longer than he harassed her.
Her tears dry.
She's home. It's bedtime. She kneels at the side of her bed. She touches her forehead, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. She prays to God for His forgiveness. But she can't bring herself to tell Him that she won't do it again.
She's at church. She accepts Communion. The people around her are the same faces as always. But is she the same? Can they tell what she did?
She's at her desk job. She can't focus. She thinks of his hands, his lips, his tongue. She could tell him. She could send him a text. But she doesn't dare.
The deadbolt locks.
He steps in front of her. She backs against the wall. Her lips are parted. Already gasping. He kisses her slowly.
He puts his right hand on her waist. His hand moves under her shirt. He touches her skin. She pushes at his hand. She whimpers.
"I've been waiting all week to hear that whimper," he murmurs against her lips.
He nips her lower lip. She whimpers again.
He keeps kissing. He keeps touching. He uses his left hand to collect her trembling wrists. He pins her arms to her chest in an X position. The sign of the cross. She resists, leans forward, but he shoves her against the wall.
She gasps and turns her face away. He licks her cheek. The hand under her shirt skims her belly.
"Have you touched yourself this week?"
She shakes her head.
His hand pushes into her panties.
"No!" she cries out. This is so bad. This is so wrong. She tries to struggle. Her hips squirm on his fingers.
She's wet. So wet. He rubs the lips of her sex. First the outsides. Then straight down the middle. She wails.
She's never touched herself there, let alone put anything inside. Did it happen already? Did he take her virginity?
He hasn't penetrated her. His finger is between her folds. He slides it back and forth.
"You're dripping wet."
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
She feels even guiltier.
"Do you know what it means when you're wet, love?"
She shakes her head.
"It means your little cunt is getting ready to take Daddy's big cock deep inside it."
She gasps. She's shaking her head.
"What would your priest say if he saw you now? Dripping at the thought of fucking before marriage."
"You should be punished."
She winces and nods.
Whoa. He didn't expect that. He thought she'd protest and say no. Good old Catholic masochism.
He has the perfect punishment in mind. He drags his finger up to her clit. He teases it. Tweaks it between two fingers. Drums his fingers on it.
She's moaning. He puts his lips to her ear.
"Do you want to come?"
"Please make me come, Daddy," she says.
So needy, he grins. That didn't take her long at all.
"You're not allowed to come, bad girl," he murmurs. He licks her ear.
She whimpers in despair.
He moves his fingers back down to her slit. He massages her lips. He avoids her clit.
"Daddy, please stop..."
"No," he breathes. "I'm not going to stop. This is what little sluts like you deserve."
He lightly touches her clit. She gasps.
"How about this. If you're very good, I'll let you come."
"I'll be good, Daddy," she breathes.
"I'm going to let go of you. Don't struggle, do you understand?"
He lifts the hand pinning her arms to her chest. She keeps hugging herself anyway.
He slips left his hand under her shirt. His right hand is still rubbing her sex.
His left hand finds her bra. She pushes at his hand.
"Mary," he says. A warning tone.
She whimpers and lets her hands fall to her sides.
"Put your arms around me," he says.
She lets go of herself and wraps her arms around his neck. Her fingers cling to his coat collar.
"Good girl," he croons. "Are you ready to come now?"
"Too bad," he smirks.
His left hand pushes her bra up. His thumb brushes her right nipple. She gasps.
He kisses her ear. "Does this feel good?"
"All of it," she gasps.
"You're making me really hard, you know that?"
More gasps. She's a trembling mess of whimpers and wetness.
"Do you want to feel my hard cock inside you?"
She starts shaking her head before he finishes his sentence.
"No," she whimpers.
"You don't want Daddy to fuck your virgin cunt?"
She whimpers. "No, please..."
"Do you want to come?"
"Yes, please, Daddy!"
He suddenly pulls his hands away from her. Out of her panties. Out of her shirt.
He sucks her wetness off his fingers. She watches him in shock.
He picks her straight up. He carries her to the kitchen table and lays her on it. He sits before her. He pulls her panties off her hips and legs.
She feels like she can't breathe. She's never had a man look at her sex. She's definitely never had a man lick her sex. He licks her. She cries out. It doesn't hurt. It just feels so unbelievably good.
He takes out his swollen cock. He holds her panties and fucks them.
He kisses her sex. He kisses her clit. He swirls his tongue on it and sucks it.
"Daddy, please!" she screams.
"No, Mary. Don't come," he says. His voice rumbles on her clit. It makes everything worse.
She tries to wriggle away. He folds his arm over her hips and pins her to the table.
"Don't you dare fucking come, you gorgeous slut," he growls.
She holds back her orgasm. She hears him moan. Another moan. A sigh.
He lifts his tongue from her sex. Her sex still tingles, hopeful for release.
He closes his pants. He pulls her upright.
She looks down at him. He's holding her panties. The inside is smeared with something milky.
"Do you know what this is?"
She thinks so. She nods.
He puts her panties around her ankles.
Her breath catches in protest.
He raises an eyebrow at her. "Would you rather I send you home wearing nothing?"
She looks away and shakes her head.
He helps her off the table. She stands. He pulls her panties all the way up. She feels his stickiness against her sex. So, so dirty.
He leads her to the couch. He cuddles her. He can feel how tense she still is. He strokes her hair. Slowly, she sinks into the comfort of his arms.
"Truth or dare, love," he says softly.
She tenses a bit. "Truth," she says.
"Do you believe in God?"
She relaxes again. "I'm Catholic," she says.
"So you believe in a narcissistic God?"
"No!" she giggles.
"Really, do you believe in God?"
She looks up at him. She's confused. "Of course I do. Have you ever met a Catholic who didn't believe in God?"