Communication Skills He was different from the others. I could tell from my first glance at his profile. And the way he phrased his ad. He had been down this road before. He knew what he wanted. And he wasn't afraid to take it. If his tone of voice on the phone hadn't made this clear, his body language had crystalized it during lunch. Direct eye contact. Leaning forward, but just out of reach. This was his show and he was going to run it. Always the novelist, I wanted to see how it would all play out. There hadn't been any real intimacy that day; I never played on a "first meet." I always made sure these initial meetings were in a public place, so if anything happened later and I disappeared, someone, somewhere (hopefully) would remember we'd been together. Being extraordinarily picky, very few lunches evolved into anything further. This one would-I'd known it from the first time we'd spoken. We debated BDSM philosophy on the phone. The role of the Dom. The purpose of the sub. We seemed to be on the same wavelength. Lunch had done nothing to dissuade me. And the little intimacy we had shared-a few parting kisses at the end of the meal-had only whetted my appetite for what was to come. It was a week before we could see each other again. By that time, I was crawling out of my skin with anticipation. He had told me to meet him on the northwest corner of 38th and Madison at 10am. Wear whatever I wanted, as long as there was no bra, no panties and a button-up shirt. No problem, I loved being told how to dress to please. I was there a few minutes before, enthusiasm having gotten the best of me. He came from behind and squeezed my upper arm in greeting. I don't know if it was the surprise or the electricity he generated that made me almost gasp. He smiled salutations and then hailed a cab, pulling me along with that yet-unreleased squeeze. Once inside, he took that hand away, reached into his pocket, handed the driver an address and turned his attentions back to me. "Where are we going?" I asked coyly. He smiled again but said nothing, instead casing me up and down with his glance, lingering at my unencumbered bustline, like a jobber sizing up a new shipment of goods. No approval or disapproval registered on his face; he apparently had learned early that the power remains with the one who shows his cards last. I flushed from the strength of his gaze, looked down at the cab floor, lost in my thoughts. Patience has never been my strong suit and like I might have written in one of my stories, I very much wanted to straddle him, right there in the cab, and take the kisses we had started sharing at the end of our last lunch, kisses I now felt, after a seven-day wait, were rightfully mine. But I stopped myself. Maybe it was his powerful, no-nonsense demeanor-the very one that had propelled him so far in the business world-that made me think he wouldn't appreciate the overture. Or maybe it was because I still hadn't totally overcome the shyness of my youth, the Internet allowing me to appear much bolder in print than I ever was on the phone or in person. Whatever it was, I felt subdued and the best I could muster was to force my way back into his steely brown eyes. "May I ask you something?" I started, almost meekly. "Anything. I told you that last time. I expect you to tell me everything you feel and ask whatever's on your mind." I looked past his shoulder for a moment, regained my courage, and then again into his eyes. "What are my parameters here?" "What do you mean?" "Well, suppose I was in a cab with you..." I started, trying to inject a little cuteness, "And suppose I wanted to kiss you. If I did, would you look upon that kindly, as a way to provide you with pleasure, or would you see it as sexually forward, which is something I know you disapprove of...?" A look passed over his eyes that I couldn't quite read, but it seemed to have an approving note to it. A wry smile danced lightly on his lips as he composed a reply that he delivered in a very deliberate, almost professorial tone of voice. "It's a fair question. I'd want you to tell me that you wanted to kiss me. I want to know your desires at all times. It would be my choice at that point to either grant you your request or make you wait for it until a time that best suited me." I didn't know what to say. I had definitely not been the answer I was counting on. I looked down, letting it sink in. His finger found its way under my chin and lifted my face up, until our gazes met again. His eyes bore deeply into mine. "On my lap. Now." He had never used the imperative tense with me before and I hesitated in surprise. He did not. Without missing a beat, he pulled me onto him and I did indeed straddle him as I'd wanted to. He didn't correct my position, much to my relief. I decided to press my advantage and put one hand on each of his shoulders but he pulled them down and placed them behind my back. "Hands clasping opposite wrists. Now." "The driver..." I whispered, gesturing with my head to remind him where we were, and that we weren't alone. "...Has better things to do than worry about your lack of communication skills. That's my agenda and one I intend to deal with right now." I shivered involuntarily as I arranged my hands and wrists as he had demanded. This had become one of his meetings. And I was the subordinate being chewed out. "Your job is to be clear, concise and honest with me at all times. Is that understood?" he began. "Yes. Of course," I responded. "Fine. Then instead of sulking, why don't you tell me what you want," he continued. "To kiss you," I said, with utmost confidence. Now I would get what I was waiting for. "Why do you want to kiss me?" he asked in a most patient tone of voice. I hesitated. Maybe it wasn't going to be all that easy. "To bring you pleasure, " I answered in perhaps less assured a tone. My answer apparently didn't wash. "Why do you want to kiss me?" he repeated, his tenor becoming more direct, more insistent. I shook my head. "To please you..." I reiterated. Now his hands were on my breasts, searching for each nipple through my blouse. He found them easily; his tone of voice had made them stand up in response. No one had ever spoken to me like this, much as I had yearned for it. "Again, why do you want to kiss me?" His thumb and forefinger of his left hand imprisoned my left nipple, the same mirrored on the right. A dull squeeze, nothing earth- shattering but definitely something to grab my attention. I thought hard. What did he want? I tried again. "Because I would enjoy the way it felt..." I admitted. His nipple squeeze lessened but by no means ended.. "Why would you enjoy it?" he asked. I stared him straight in the eyes. He was an opponent to match wits with, whose treatment I was determined to endure. "It would feel good," I answered again. Not good enough apparently. Each nipple was twisted, just slightly. I grimaced and retained his gaze. "Again, why would you enjoy it?" Damn it, I thought. He knows it's hard for me to say these things. I felt my breath become labored and each second I hesitated prompted him to go harder on me. "I'd enjoy it...owww, please stop twisting so hard...I'd enjoy it because...because...because I want you..." Slight release. Apparently, I'd done well. "How do you want me?" he asked. It was becoming clearer now, what he wanted. But still difficult for me to vocalize. "Inside me...I want you inside me." I said it quickly so the twisting wouldn't start again. It didn't. I felt a slight triumph. "Where inside you?" This was hard for me...I had been brought up as a lady. Even as I wandered deeper and deeper into the D/s world, I had fought to retain that ladylike persona. There were some things, I felt, that should just be intuited, not spoken. "Where do you think?" I countered, somewhat sarcastically. The sharp twist of each nipple assured me that 'cutesy' and 'sassy' had no place in this discussion. I squeezed each of my wrists in order to relieve some of the pain. It didn't work. "Where do you think?" I searched desperately for some compassion in his eyes, but I came up empty. I decided I had little recourse here. "In my mouth," I whispered. "Where? I couldn't hear you..." Louder this time. "In my mouth." "What about your mouth?" I felt the squeeze beginning again. "I want...I want you in my mouth." "What part of me?" "Oh come on..." Bad answer. This twist was the worst yet. I felt like my nipples were going to come off. I threw my head back in agony but that only made him more insistent. "You...your cock...I want it in my mouth." Slight release, certainly not enough to bring relief. "Where else do you want it?" Somehow the shyness of my youth had faded fast. I was taking no more chances here, and answered quickly while still attempting to retain some semblance of dignity. "Between my legs...I want your cock between my legs." "Where?" he questioned, pointedly. "I told you," I answered, with inadvertent impatience. He took a bit of pity on me. His grip remained tight but no further twists. "My dear, considering how limited our time is together, when certain nouns and certain verbs have short, slang terms, I must insist that we use those for brevity's sake. For example, 'rape' is so much easier to say than, 'take you by force,' don't you agree? By the same token, each of our body parts has a specific name that I prefer we use...So I'll ask you again and for the last time, where do you want my cock?" I looked down. I knew I was defeated here. "My cunt," I whispered, using a word I absolutely despised. "I want your cock in my cunt. I want to feel it inside me. I want it to fill me." I instantly felt the momentum shift. He released my nipples, and then slowly began massaging them with the palms of his hands through my shirt. All at once, I felt relief and humiliation and lust, all apparently congregating in the aforementioned cunt. I felt tears well up in my eyes, and I tried to choke back a sob, having always prided myself on my stoic nature in scene. "Thank you. I appreciate your honesty," he said softly and in the most sincere of ways. "But what have you forgotten, dear? What was to be your primary focus in this endeavor?" I knew I should have been angry at his tone of voice. I know I should have resented his didactic, almost condescending attitude. But instead, and I may never understand why, I looked at him with my tear-filled eyes, almost grateful for his patience with me, for the way he was excusing someone who had obviously advertised themselves as far more experienced than they really were. I hung my head to show my shame. "Your pleasure, Sir." His finger again visited my chin and lifted it until our eyes met. He took the finger, brought it to his lips where he kissed it slightly and then brought it to rest against mine. I kissed it appreciatively. It then slowly traced my lips and while I was tempted to begin to suck it as I normally would to preview my anticipation of things to come, I refrained. I knew he would tell me when that would be appropriate. The cab came to an abrupt stop at a storefront, its mannequins boldly modeling all manner of fetish wear. "$10.25. Sir," said the driver in a humorous, almost mocking tone of voice, making me wonder just how much of that last interchange he had caught. The old me would have cared. The new me ignored him, ready to proceed with business. "Speaking of my pleasure, darling," said a man who had transformed himself from a playdate to my Dom in the course of a ten-minute cab ride, "Come along. It's shopping time."
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