She got there early. It was something she always did, just in case she got lost, got a flat, had a panic attack. She much preferred punctuality to being “fashionably late”, which she considered unfashionably rude.
Living only a few blocks from the park, she had decided to walk. Her stomach fluttered with nerves. Her pussy fluttered with a burst of sexual craving that was hard to contain. She was going to meet the man who excited this…this raw need in her. She was going to meet the man who might, maybe, perhaps….oh, how she hoped he would…become her Dom.
She held the picnic basket in her hand, a pair of plates, forks, napkins, and a bottle of white Chardonnay inside, along with two sturdy wine glasses, and the pie. She was setting a scene, she supposed. Or catering to him. To needs that she had no idea if he felt or even wanted. But …what the hell. He couldn’t fault her for trying, could he?
She set the basket on the wide ledge that surrounded the fountain. She’d been here dozens of times, but had never really looked. The statue of the mermaid captured one’s fantasy. The girl who wasn’t satisfied with the life she had, although it had been a perfectly fine life. Who’d craved that something else that was hard to explain to her family. Just something different.
She smiled as she realized the metaphor there. She, she was the mermaid. There was a sound behind her and she whirled. She blinked.
It was His voice.
“I understand the package may not fit the predestined vision you may have of a Dominant.” He smiled, waving a hand down to encompass the chair he sat in. It was spiffy. It was different. A sports-like wheelchair.
“I…had no idea, no.” She looked at him, met him eye to eye. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Hell it doesn’t.” He stated it baldly. “But eventually it won’t. For now, as I say, I understand the adjustment in your thinking. You expected a tall, strapping burly man, like from one of those sex movies. And to be sure there are those. Just as there are vanilla movie stars. But most of us…and by that I mean all people…most of us are just people. Not movie stars. Flawed, human, too fat, too thin, too pimply, too awkward. I can accept your honesty, girl. In point of fact, I demand it.”
“I didn’t expect the chair, but how could I? I guess …I didn’t have an “expectation” like you were going to be 6’2″ or something like that. You were a nebulous person. And now you’re real. And I’m okay with that.”
He blinked, obviously taken aback.
“I have your pie, Sir.” Turning to the fountain, she stretched. He’d see she had a big ass, the bulge of a roll around her midsection. Fucking pop tarts! Not to mention her own love of tasting what she baked. She was great cook, and her belly bore the proof of her skills in the kitchen.
“I’m not perfect. But I make a damn fine pie.” She smiled, then opened the box to reveal the bounty within. The smell of cinnamon wafted to him. He took an appreciative sniff.
“My mother taught me to never trust a thin cook,” he said, taking the plate she offered, then the fork. “Napkins too? Smart.”
“I have wine. I don’t know what you prefer… but I think a crisp white goes nice with apple pie. ”
“Unless you’ve got a tall, cold, glass of milk in there, I think the white will be fine.”
She offered him the wine glass, but he gestured for her to hold it as he eyed the pie. The smile was genuine as he perused the thick stack of apples, the softly oozing filling, the flecks of cinnamon, and the flaky crust.
“This,” he said, holding it aloft, “is more than a ‘damned fine pie’. This, my dear, is a piece of art.”
Without further ado, he dug in with gusto. He didn’t stop, nor speak, until the plate was bare. She watched him eat with a faint smile. It wasn’t often she had a man appreciate her cooking this way.
“That was …. well beyond “good”,” he said, wiping his mouth with the napkin; then handing it back to her with the plate, he took the glass from her. She watched his lips as he sipped, then caught his eye, as he slid the wine around in his mouth. . She felt her heart bump up a notch. Their gazes locked as he tasted the bouquet. How someone swirling a mouthful of wine was at all sexual was a mystery. Yet, he was getting her all churned up, stirring her, making her blush. She felt her pussy swell, felt the dampness in her palms, and in the folds between her thighs. He made her nervous. He turned her on.
For another long moment, there were no words. She watched as he swallowed the wine, fascinated by the play of his Adam’s apple moving up, then down. Her eyes slipped back to his face, to his mouth. It was …sultry, if a man’s mouth could be described by such a female term. His bottom lip was full and round, and the hint of a beard on his chin only accentuated it. She swallowed, trying to speak, but she could only stutter.
He smiled, and she wondered if he knew how much he discomfited her. She could only look at him, that nervous feeling back in her belly.
“And so we have met. Where do we go from here, little one? Obviously I’m not going to knock you unconscious and drive away with you. It might attract a fair amount of attention should I do that, eh?”
She giggled again, shaking her head no.
“You make me…” her eyes dropped to the tips of her sneakers. Her voice dropped, then stopped.
He looked up at her. “Do finish.”
She glanced up at him, startled at the steel in that statement. Statement, hell, it was an order, steel wrapped in the velvet of his voice.
“You…make me….” She flapped her arms. “Gods, this is so …”
“….so? Interesting? Appealing? Amusing?” He supplied as she faltered to a stop once more.
“Embarrassing. It’s embarrassing. We’ve just met. Okay not just…emails. …and the phone…but…”
More steel. This time wrapped in steel wool. Prickly. Tougher. Domlike.
The word flitted in her head a moment. Yes. He was Domlike. The chair didn’t matter…it was all about the attitude of the man. And he had it, in spades.
“You make me feel nervous. And…excited.” Her voice dropped.
“Nervous…and excited…are two halves of the submissive coin, yes?”
“I don’t know!” She waved her arms again, pacing in a small, tight circle in front of him.
“How can I know that? I’m not a submissive. I’ve never done ANYTHING like this before and I…”
“Sit.” He pointed to the ground beside his chair. Her rant cut off mid-thought, and she moved beside him and sat, looking up at him quizzically.
The sound of his laugh made her blush for some reason. Even the mermaid, frozen in bronze, was smiling at her. He shook his head fondly, it seemed, as he gently ran his hand over the top of her head, cupping her chin to raise her eyes to his.
“You doubt you are submissive?” His smile was wide, and lit his face.
Her blush deepened.
“Oh, little one, there is no doubt in my mind about it. Nor, I think, should there be in yours. After all, here I am, and there you sit. Just like a good little girl should.”
He smiled again.
There was something there in that wicked grin that made her butterflied stomach dance a nervous jig.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she kind of liked that about him.