We’ve started this new game. He picks out men he wants me to fuck. I fuck them. Pretty simple (in theory.) A bit more complex (in reality.)
And possibly quite a bit…darker…than that as well.
I had a first date the other evening. W was still in Florida, so he didn’t actually want me to fuck the guy, but he thought a first meet would be okay, and fun for us all. He had been in contact with the guy (we’ll call him FD) for a while before I spoke with him at all, talking about the types of scenarios both might enjoy, the kind of “use” W would allow and that FD wanted to make of me. When the time came, I was told to make arrangements with FD directly for a lunch or early evening meet. (Future meetings with men will probably be orchestrated by W, but with him being out of town he decided to let me handle this one.) A glass of wine, some talk, that sort of thing.
I wasn’t expecting any kind of “play,” but had been instructed by W as to what I was to wear and that I was to be pleasing in attitude and appearance to this gentleman.
I arrived wearing a short, body-hugging-but-not-tight black dress with my strappy high heels, my tit collars on and no panties.
I know, for most BDSMers, the “no panties” thing is pretty much the standard uniform, but not for me. W’s never been a big “you must wear this, you must never wear that,” kind of dominant. In our first meetings, he never requested (or demanded, or instructed) that I wear anything in particular. I was a little surprised at this (and yes, I’ll admit, a little disappointed.) Every Top I’d ever met requested some kind of particular style of clothing or mode of dress, that I be pantiless or braless, or be wearing a thong or…something. And getting ready for those first dates, knowing I was dressing to please someone new, someone that I didn’t even know, was hot.
W will suggest (and sometimes insist) I wear something like a buttplug or the cuntclamp, maybe the tit collars. There was even one infamous date where he stuffed my cunt full of chains and took me to the movie theater. He also, of course, insists on high heels. But as a general rule, he has continued his initial trend and doesn’t tell me what to wear when we go out. And I can’t recall a time that he’s ever told me to go without underwear. So I have to assume this was part of FD’s fantasy. Then again, perhaps it was W’s idea to send me off on a “vanilla” date in a short dress with no panties. And suddenly, that made it hot. It was hot that W wanted me to do it. I couldn’t care less if the guy wanted me to. In fact, who the guy was or what he wanted barely fed into my own excitement over it all, except inasmuch as I really wanted to make W happy by making this guy happy, by making this guy want me, and eventually, by fucking this guy in whichever way turns W on for me to do. So, with that in mind, when FD actually did initiate some mild, public play, I played along–and then turned the tables a bit and gave him a little more than he’d asked for.
“Are you shaved?” he asked at one point.
“No,” I said, and waited a beat. “I’m waxed. But only down low. I like to keep a little on top.”
“Hot,” he breathed. Then, “But how do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Now, anyone that knows me knows how much I loathe my honesty being called to question. What the hell reason would I have for lying?? So, that got my back up a bit, and, honestly, any hope he had of actually topping or dominating me went right out the window. I decided to play with him a bit.
“Well, gee,” I said, feigning naivete. “I don’t know. How do you think I should prove it to you?”
“Show me,” he said, leaning forward. “Spread your legs.”
Inwardly, I grinned, knowing I’d got him to ask for exactly what I wanted to do–for W. But that didn’t negate the fact that it made me pretty nervous. We were in a favorite wine bar of mine, sitting on one side of the room on tall barstools around a small round table, with me facing the couches that made up a cozy corner. There was a couple on one of the couches, and with me being up on the high stool, they had a pretty clear view of anything I cared to expose.
I breathed. Thought about W and what he would want me to do. Not about what this stranger wanted me to do, which is a fine, but significant, distinction. A significant enough one, in my mind, that there really was no question but that I would do it, because I knew W would want me to, and it would make him hot when I saw him and told him about it.
I glanced at the couple, then turned slightly so that I wasn’t being too blatant (I really don’t want to involve anyone else in my sex games–that hasn’t expressly asked to be ;-) ) and opened my thighs.
“Go ahead,” I said, “take a look.”
FD swallowed visibly. He claims to be dominant, but I don’t know that he’s ever been around someone like me, or someone with W’s and my dynamic. I had told him earlier: “I’m here because W wants me to be. And I’ll do whatever he wants me to do, with you–or anyone else–that he tells me to. It’s that simple.” I’d liked that moment. It was a powerful one, seeing every bit of him grow instantly, completely alert as he realized that what W had told him about me was true. And here I was proving it.
His hand shook a bit as he lifted his soda glass to his lips, and then, trying to appear casual, bent down to tie his shoe. And incidentally, get a good look at my recently waxed cooch, and all my lovely hardware down there. I almost did grin at the look on his face when he sat back up.
“I saw…something else,” he said, trying for nonchalance, but the pulse pounding in his throat betrayed him.
And suddenly I realized that I was the one in control here, I was the one with the power. It was…an odd juxtaposition. I could control him by my actions, even as W was controlling me from afar.
Never taking my eyes from his face, I reached down under the table, watching as his eyes followed the movement, and stroked the soft folds of my inner lips, brushing the rings that hang there, and then brought my fingers back up to my mouth, stopping just short of licking them. “Yes,” I said. “You did. Have you ever fucked a girl with piercings?”
His eyes widened and his voice actually went up an octave when he replied, “No.”
Still holding his gaze, I asked him, “Do you want to?”
I saw him visibly struggle for control, of himself, of the situation. He stood up abruptly, reached over to retrieve my book from where I’d placed it on a side table, and held it front of himself, blocking the view of the other patrons. “You tell me,” he said, back in “dominant” mode, and indicated I should touch him.
He was, indeed, hard. I grasped him and squeezed, then stroked through his slacks from his balls all the way up his shaft, circling the swollen head of his cock with my palm. He let out a small, involuntary gasp, and stepped quickly back. I stifled a positively vulpine grin, and looked away while he resumed his seat and regained his composure.
“I’ve got something else beneath my dress,” I said. “Something else W told me to wear. Would you like to see?” I didn’t wait for his answer but stood and moved to stand next to him at the table. I leaned against him, letting him feel my breasts, with their rigid tit collars, through my dress. Then I leaned back and opened the neckline of my dress just enough that he could see them.
I don’t know if he even understood what they were. His eyebrows shot up and he just said, “Do those hurt?”
“They make my nipples…tender,” I said. “After I’ve been wearing them all day. Like I have been today, in preparation for our date.” I could tell he wanted to touch them, but I moved away, climbed back up onto the bar stool, crossed my legs demurely, and asked him about his job. Just as if nothing had happened.
But I’d rattled him, that I could tell, and I relished it.
He tried to get the upper hand several more times, talking about what he’d like to do to me, where & how, and I let him think he had–but there was never any doubt in my mind who was in control. And if you think I mean myself, you’d be mistaken. Wherever he is, wherever I am, it is always W. I know it, W knows it–and, I suspect, FD knows it.
And apparently, we all like it that way.