Men Never Listen
She walked out , her hair pulled back in a blond ponytail. She was wearing the leather, restrictive, body harness with nipple and hogtie lock rings. She’d bought the outfit two years ago in anticipation of finally meeting. . .him.
There had been others, some wealthy, some not. They had the gleam, but they weren’t him and she’d never taken it here, to this level. She’d never revealed her dark passion, her humiliating secret, her secret need to be humiliated, to be bound and dominated. They had never seen this side of her. They’d never even gotten a glimpse of what she was tonight. They’d gotten a girlfriend, a friend with benefits. A “fuck buddy” one of them had called her over appetizers on a third encounter; she wouldn’t call these “dates.” She never took his calls again and they certainly weren’t “fuck buddies” that night as she knew that he wasn’t the one. But this time was different, this one had more than the gleam, he said the right thing the right way.
They had met at the jazz bar a few streets off the main drag. It was a place apart, a place removed from the reputable venues. It was where you went to hear the real and the raw. It was the only place where you could experience the dark soul of jazz. During a sax solo he’d leaned in close, though they had just met moments earlier, and he commanded, “You will come back to my apartment. You will put on the outfit. You will call me ‘Master.’”
Her knees became weak. She was instantly wet. He knew. He had looked right through her and knew! He knew how she needed it. He knew she had the outfit. Had he been with her that day, two years earlier, there in her head selecting the outfit? Had her master been with her, watching her, guiding her hand when she selected the shoes and the restraint system that went with the outfit? Had her master been with her all this time, grooming her for this moment? The thought raised her skin in a cold thrill. She came into the living room feeling more vulnerable, helpless and excited than she had in her entire life. She kneeled and closed her eyes, her head spinning with anticipation. Then she heard the footsteps, strong, precise, forceful. She was certain he would have a riding crop in his hand, its length held backward between the crook of his arm and his erect body. She heard him stop. He was silent. She awaited his command. The silence continued and she hesitated to open her eyes. But she decided she would open her eyes and declare him her “Master.”
When she opened her eyes she saw him and paused in her declaration. He was in black leather shoes and formal trousers, with precise creases. His jacket had clean lines and gave his body angles that drew her eyes upward. It was then that she saw something held in his left arm, flat along his left side. But it wasn’t a riding crop it was a . . .hat. The suit was a familiar color and she thought of it after a pause. ..Air Force Blue. Then he spoke.
“Um. . .” he said, shuffling in his Air force shoes, and shrugging his Air Force Major’s uniform jacket. “I thought you said you were into Sidney Sheldon television shows.”
“Um, no. I said I was into S&M and B&D,” she answered angrily.
“Oh. So I guess you won’t be calling me Major Nelson,” he stammered, still hopeful that she would help him work out his “I Dream Of Jeannie” fantasy.
“No. Definitely not,” she said getting up and heading to the guest bedroom.
“Oh, well what about Major Healey? Could you call me Major Healey? I always figured there was a kind of swing thing going there,” he said following her.
“No,” she said, and slammed the door in his face.
So it was that her hopes were once again dashed. Men never listened and she was going have to bottle up her dark secret until her true master arrived.
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Text Copyright 2015 Cusper Lynn
Text Copyright 2015 Hellbent Press
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