You're mine

I like to dominate.  I like to be the boss.  I like to call the shots.  I’m a plotter, a schemer, a dreamer and a lover.  I like to push the boundaries, other people’s mostly, make them face things they don’t want to face and help them realise that their lives are a little fuller because of me.  I like to flirt. I like to make people want me.  I like to be the mistress.  I like to be playful and coy.  I appear soft and sweet.  Recently someone compared me to the beach.  When they are on (my) sand they feel warm and safe.  They like the feeling of sand between toes.  They take a little dip in (my) water.  Wade in a little.  The water seems so inviting.  The water seems to beckon them, come in a little deeper.  The waves get bigger, the water is rougher and suddenly they can’t touch the sand anymore.  They thought they were safe, but now they’re at my mercy as I sweep them out beyond their depth.  I have been called bad.  I have been called dangerous.  I may be these.  I don’t really care.  Within this context, what I’m about to say may not make sense.  Today I did things I would never have dreamed of, in a setting that is foreign to me.  Read on.

I was in the supermarket, talking to myself as usual.  I was looking for a particular jar of olives and found it on the top shelf.  I knew I couldn’t reach it myself, so commanded the nearest person, a man a few metres away, to reach it for me.  My brashness combined with cuteness normally gets me everywhere, but this time I was out of luck.  This stranger I had just commanded to do my bidding looked me directly in the eyes and said, “I don’t take orders from anyone.”  Bang.  Instant attraction.  My heart started racing as I thought to myself, game on. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t think I was ordering you.  I was just asking you to complete a simple task.”

He looked at me again, his eyes holding mine.  I felt power in his eyes.  I felt myself melt a little.

“How about you ask me nicely?  And call me sir.”

“Wh-wh-what?  Sir?  You must be joking,” I retorted.

He shrugged and turned to continue.  I began to panic.  This man had something I had never encountered before.  I needed to engage him again.

“Wait. Ok.  Please could you reach the jar of olives for me sir?”  I asked.  It felt odd, but also gave me a rush of blood to my pussy.  Go figure.  Slowly he approached the shelf and reached up for the olives.  He handed them to me, his eyes locked on mine.  Then he reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. He said three words before turning to go. 

“You need me.”

I was both incensed and intrigued with this man.  When he was out of sight I reached for my phone and sent him a text.  It said, “Really?”  I thought it was amusing.  How did I need him?  He got the olives for me.  He’d served his purpose. 

The next day I was working from home when a text came through.  It was from him.  He told me to come to his house in an hour.  I wrote back asking what would happen if I didn’t.  He didn’t reply.  I somehow knew I would go, wanted to go, to see what he wanted, what he was about, maybe even what he could do for me.  I readied myself, thinking I was insane for even considering this, but excited at the prospect.

I arrived at his house with a few minutes to spare.  It was a house with clean lines and a modern feeling to it.  I liked it instantly.  I knocked on the door and waited nervously.  He opened it, dressed in suit pants and a fitted white business shirt.  Pretty snappy for a day at home.  He ushered me in, to the couch, and offered me a drink.  We both drank tea and chatted a little before he cut to the chase.

“You strike me as an intelligent woman.  A woman who is used to getting what they want.  I think this needs to change.  Sometimes the grass really is greener on the other side.  Come sit by me.”  He used a patting motion to show where I would sit.

“Let’s see how well you do following instructions.  Kneel down in front of me.”

I considered telling him to fuck off, but I thought better of it.  I kneeled down, looking up at him.  He stroked my hair and ran his fingers down my neck and shoulders. 

“Good girl.”  Good girl?  What the fuck?  I wasn’t his good girl.  I was bad.  I didn’t follow his rules or any rules for that matter.  I went to get up.

“Stay as you are,” he commanded in a soft, low voice.  Bang.  He had me there.  I wanted to leave but I wanted to stay more.  I felt my pussy become slippery as I kneeled back on my heels. 

“Pull your pants down.  I want to inspect you.”  My pussy twitched in response.  I did as he asked.  He gestured for me to lie across his lap.  His hand was between my legs, spreading me, probing me.  I felt a mixture of humiliation and desire. 

“You’re very wet,” he said.  “I think you might be a little slut.”  I started to laugh until crack! the sting of his hand on my arse stopped the laughter in its tracks. 

“Ow, that hurt!” I complained.  Crack! His hand came down again.  Again and again.  The pain did something.  The pain stopped being pain and took me into a space so delicious I forgot where I was.  I felt fingers probing again, my juice used to lubricate my clit as he rubbed it skillfully.  I was still over his lap.  I had no access to him, nothing to see, only the feeling of my burning arse and his fingers on me and in me.  I was not in charge.  I was not calling the shots. 

“Come for me my slut.  I know you want to.”

I bucked hard against him and the orgasm wracked my body.  It took me in waves until I was left a mess of tangled hair and sweat.  I got up and sat down, looking at him.  He smiled.

“Welcome to my world,” he said.  “In my world, you are mine.”