Chapter 3 #2
In every aspect of my life. I open the app up, and click on her message.
If we were to do a scene, what would we do?
God dammit. I feel myself getting hard just thinking about it. I’ve never seen a picture of her. We haven’t traded any physical descriptions or anything like that. I don’t know how old she is. I don’t know anything except she’s new at this.
But she told me last night what she’s interested in.
And it’s so, so easy for me to imagine the scene in my head.
Of course, without features for this woman, it’s far too easy for me to put Avery in her place.
Naked, on her knees in front of me, her hair in braids.
Just like it was when I saw her two hours before.
She would look good in rope. Just thinking about it makes me hard.
I decide to go ahead and use it for fantasy fuel for this exchange with the sub.
First off, I would take my time undressing you.
Then I’d have to get a good look at you to decide exactly how I want to bind you.
But we would start with something simple.
Something that takes time, but doesn’t push you too hard.
Something that makes you feel helpless. That’s what you want, isn’t it?
I don’t always get instant responses from her, so I’m surprised when I do this time.
Yes.
Whether or not we fuck is up to you.
I’m fine doing a scene that doesn’t include fucking, though obviously I prefer it. But as hesitant and inexperienced as this woman is, I want to be careful.
I want to.
My cock is aching at this point and there something in the denial that I like, and I’m not usually into denial for myself. Though, denial for a submissive can be that way for me. It’s just usually I’m getting to witness their torture too.
Hard limits?
This takes her a little bit longer.
I can’t think of how to say this right.
You have to be clear and explicit, there’s no room for being squeamish. If you want to play consent games you need to be abundantly clear about what your limits are.
It’s always important, but never more important than when a scene might involve her resistance as a feature.
It takes a long time for the next message to come in.
I’ve never had anal and I don’t think I want to.
I stare at the sentence. I ought to send her away with a virtual pat on the head. She’s out of her depth, and so I am I. If that’s the thing she had trouble saying…This just won’t work.
I should tell her to forget it. It’s not that I need that or anything, it’s just that this girl hasn’t done any experimenting as far as I can tell if that’s the one hard limit she can come up with and she’s never done it.
I don’t know how old she is. I’m thinking of her as a girl because it’s clear to me she’s got no real concept of what she’s signing up for.
And so I list them out.
Everything I can think of. Thinks I’m not even into, things that go past my hard limits, even as an experienced Dom, because I need her to understand that she’s stepping into a whole world where the only limit on possibility is you. And you have to be very clear about how far you’re willing to go.
I probably scared her off and it’s probably for the best.
I put my phone back in my pocket and start to head back into the barn.
My pocket chimes again. I take the phone out.
I don’t mind pain. Or dubious consent. Some of those things are a not right now. And some of them are a probably never.
I’m mad that I’m relieved she’s still in.
Fair enough. We’ll start with what you’re comfortable with.
What’s obvious to me is that this is already pushing her boundaries.
I would have a safe word, right?
I take a sharp breath.
Anytime you’re experimenting with sex there should be a safe word. Any guy who doesn’t offer you that doesn’t know what he’s doing.
I’m the one who doesn’t know what I’m doing.
I do.
I know better than to push. I know that if I leave it here, she’s going to come to me.
And when she does, I’ll do a more clear map of what I think would be a good starting scene for her.
I don’t want to give everything away, necessarily.
But there’s a fine line between expectation and rehearsal like it’s a performance.
And a lot of people like performance. That’s just not me.
I don’t do this in a club for a reason. I have, but I don’t get off on being watched.
It’s the practice for me. The meditation.
And the pleasure.
I can’t pretend the pleasure doesn’t have a lot to do with it.
I don’t want to go back to the house right now, not while Avery still there and my mind is on this, but I have a 3 o’clock business call I have to take and it’s going to be on video so I need to be in my office.
I finish up with the horses, and head back toward the house.
Thankfully, when I go inside I don’t see her.
I make my way upstairs to my office and I’m about to get started on the video call when the next message comes in.
I want to meet.
Fuck.
I can’t respond to her right now. Because I have to do this phone call and I really never resented this business that pulled me out of poverty more.
The entire time, I’m thinking about her.
And as I listen to the general droning of the call I start slowly typing out a response on my phone.
It’s not that this doesn’t matter to me.
It does. But it won’t soon. I’m going to be hands-off and only involved anymore as a shareholder, and once that happens, I’ll be free of bullshit like this.
I didn’t get into development because I love it. I got into it because I was good at it and because I could make a lot of money doing it.
People say that money doesn’t buy you happiness, but those people have never been fucking homeless because they didn’t have the money.
If they did, then they would understand that money is pretty much the only thing that makes you happy.
But I’m busy constructing a scene to see if she’ll agree to it.
She wants to meet, and I need to make it clear I’ll train her and I’ll be careful, but it is going to be a full-on scene.
Again, I’m imagining it in my head, and it’s Avery.
Tied up and helpless, laying on the bed on her knees, her ass in the air. Powerless to do anything as I…
No. That’s enough.
“Thank you for sharing all of this,” I say. “It was a productive meeting. I will see you all next quarter.”
I end it then and walk out of the room, finishing the last few words in the message, and then I hit send. And as I stand there in the hallway, from behind a closed door I hear the sound of the Club app chiming.
I freeze, everything in my body stopping. Going still. Is it possible that what I think just happened… Happened?
In my head, this little sub has been Avery the entire time, yearning to be instructed, yearning to be taken in hand, but I thought that was my fucking perverse imagination. My completely inappropriate obsession with the woman next door.
Now I think it might’ve been an instinct that I was ignoring.
One that I was telling myself I couldn’t trust, because after all, you want to question your instincts when you think that the object of your obsession might have kinks that line up perfectly with your own.
No. It wasn’t a good thing. It was actually the worst case scenario. It was her…
The door opens and she comes out, her eyes connecting with mine and her mouth dropping open. She gasps. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t know you were here.”
“You didn’t think I’d be in my house?”
“I mean, it’s your house,” she says. “Of course.”
My playroom is behind her and she’s backlit perfectly by all the windows.
I like that room because of all the natural light, and it’s also more of an oasis than my actual bedroom.
It’s a place where only encounters happened and it’s the closest thing I have to a retreat.
If she had any idea she would run away screaming.
Or maybe not.
I’m already questioning what I think I heard. Questioning everything.
She swallows, and moves past me. “Did you want me to clean your office?”
“Sure,” I say.
I wonder if she’s been in there yet. At all.
If she’s seen what the books on my shelves are, many of them guides and schools of thought to BDSM and different techniques.
I’m a completist in everything that I do.
And when I’m interested in something, I’m all in.
If I don’t care about it, I can’t make myself read even one sentence about it.
But this? It’s pretty much the defining interest of my life.
The amount of books I have on ropes and knot tying is probably pathological.
But then, I’m pretty fucking pathological.
She slips past me and goes into the office and I turn away from her and start to head toward the stairs. And that’s when the chime goes off on my phone. I stop.
It was loud enough for her to hear, I know that for sure.
I turn around just as she comes out of my office, her face pale and waxen, her mouth partway open. “I…”
My phone is in my hand, and I open up the message that I know she’s just sent me.
Yes, please.
I look up, and make direct eye contact with her. “Well hello, Dove.”