He looked normal.
That was her first thought as she entered the coffee shop. She knew who he was, what he was, from all their emails, texts, im chats. He told her that he’d be in a denim over-shirt, white tee, and jeans. She couldn’t see from this angle, but supposed he’d have on the beat up sneakers he’d said he preferred to wear on Saturdays.
She skipped the line for the barista, and headed over to the table. He was smiling, a slow lazy smile that took minutes to cross his face, and ignite in his eyes. So normal.
She clutched her purse handle for a moment, then consciously focused on her “relax mantra”.
She slipped into the seat he’d pushed out from the table. She looked at him and felt a bemused calm descending over her.
“Lola?” He asked.
They smiled at each other. “I can tell your name isn’t Lola. You don’t look at all like a showgirl,” he joked.
She almost, almost had the urge to begin to merengue in her chair, and start singing “at the copaaaaaa….” but she just let her own smile speak for her. There were enough nerves dancing through her already, she didn’t need to bring singing into the mix!
She wanted to be suave, calm. She was sure she was doing okay, answering him thoughtfully when he spoke, asking a few questions of her own, but when he leaned forward, close to her ‘space’ she felt herself pull back. It was just a smidgen, but of course he noticed it.
“Lola, are you nervous?”
“Yes Sir, i guess i am, a bit.” Her voice was wisp-thin, and he leaned forward to catch it. And took her left hand into his big hands. He talked to her then, leaning ever further into her “bubble of solitude”, all the while his hands massaged her fingers, rubbing and pulling each digit, his thumb caressing her wrist where the pulse beat, rapidly and unsteadily.
It relaxed her.
She wasn’t ever sure, later if that was the moment of no return for her. Her shoulders relaxed, her body language softened, and she leaned a bit into their conjoined ‘personal bubble’, a living Venn diagram.
He asked if she was ready to pursue this further and she gave a mental shrug, and a grin.
“yes,” she said, quietly but firmly.
“good,” He replied. “then let’s give this a trial run, see how you feel about things, see if we continue to connect.”He leaned even closer into her space, not quite whispering in her ear.
“Go into the bathroom. Remove your panties. Carry them back to me, in your hand. Not in your pocket, got it?”
Her eyes widened. Gods! Hadn’t she read stories about this?How wild and hot it made the girls in those tales. Her heart beat uncomfortably fast. Her breathing quickened too. Somehow, she was standing up, palms on the table, looking down at Him.
She turned and headed off to the bathroom, belatedly remembering her purse was tucked under her chair. She looked over her shoulder, wondering if it was safe there. He gave that annoying “push-tosh” hand gesture that people did, and with a final sigh, she headed for the bathroom.
She wondered why people got “turned-on” by being humiliated this way. She was actually feeling a bit angry. A touch belligerent. Not turned on.
Stepping into the stall, she stood for a moment, head bowed. How could she go through with this humiliating thing? Yet…..how could she not?
She fought the battle inside her. Wasn’t this what she always wanted? Be careful what you wish for. He looks so normal. His eyes were frighteningly intense. She wanted a lover. She wanted that intensity. Yet, she craved more. More than tenderness. Harder, deeper, rougher.
She had a big, bad-girl, side and it wanted “out”…
The blending of the two disparate needs had her panties in her hands. She stared at them for a minute. Little had she known when she awoke this morning, that she would have the bright pink panties in her hands, ready to hand to the man who might become her Sir. or Master. or what the fuck ever.
And, even more embarrassingly, despite her denial of arousal, the panties were wet. Very wet. And noting that, she became aware of the steady throbbing, slow, yet insistent, between her thighs.
This was a pretty big deal, she thought, her panties in her hand. Wasn’t handing him her panties akin to a D/s ring? She smiled fast at *that* image…’with these panties, i thee take, my body and soul to be given unto thee, to beat and to torture, to tickle and to bite, in submission and pain, for as long as we both shall live…”
She didn’t remember leaving the bathroom, nor crossing the busy foyer of the coffee shop. She was keenly aware, however, of the swatch of silk in her hand, hand fisted at her side. She knew it for what it was, a feeble attempt to hide the ‘evidence’ of her decision within the folds of her long peasant skirt.
He had seen her coming, and obviously knew.
His hand lay on the table, palm up. She stood at the edge of the table, and placed her underpants there.
His hand closed over hers before she could move it away.
“For today, you are mine. As we agreed. Right?”
She nodded, mute.
She smiled as He rose from the table, taking her arm in his tight grasp, and accepted His guidance from the coffee shop.
Her normal Saturday routine, shot to shit. Yet, she knew that sometimes one must step out onto the edge of the ledge to get the rush of the wind. To get the rush that would lift you, and help you fly.
And she was stepping out. Stepping far and away out on her own personal ledge.
She stood, knowing it was worth it, to take that risk, to live to the fullest, exploring the boundaries and pushing the perimeters of her safe life.
And really, when you got right down to it….wasn’t that…normal?