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Meeting Domina Of My Dreams

A polite telephone conversation followed weeks of email. A date and time was set. The ground rules were simple: we would meet for drinks at an elegant old Nob Hill hotel. I knew that its lounge area offered privacy among the sumptuous, overstuffed chairs and sofas. It would be drinks, and only drinks, if she did not want to proceed. But if she did want to go further, there would be a second stage: dinner at a quiet Japanese restaurant on Union Street that I had known since the early 1970s.

If I passed this further examination, or "chemistry test" as she liked to call it, we would return to the hotel where I had a room. I had done the required prep work there: a bureau drawer contained all the implements that she had requested: ankle and wrist cuffs, various lengths of rope, a black silk scarf that would serve as a blindfold, one of those intricate little leather-strap devices full of snaps called a ball separator, a stiff leather paddle, a riding crop, extra towels, lubricant, some Fleet enemas (ever the optimist, I had already used one on myself), condoms, etc.

Her choice of paddle and riding crop had struck me as particularly interesting: one is an instrument for gross effect, the other for utmost specificity. Rounding out her list was a CD player and external speakers with music she had requested. The music would serve a dual purpose: it would both afford listening pleasure and help to mask any unusual sounds created in the room.

The music made me think of what words would flow from her if we did act out our yin and yang in that hotel room. If she ordered me to dr*pe myself over her lap, what language and tone would she choose as her paddle strokes landed? Would they be formal or casual? Stern or humorous? What would she say when she slipped the main loop of the ball separator over my cock and snugged it down tightly? There might be silence as she expertly completed affixing that taut little web, pulling on each ball in turn, wrapping the tiny leather belt around the drawn skin of the scrotum and securing it with the snap. The first time I tried doing this myself, on orders from an online Mistress, it took forever. But the final result, I finally had to admit to myself, was deeply satisfying. There I was, all trussed up, vulnerable to the whims of the Mistress. I even had to chuckle that it all looked like a flying goose: the shaft of my cock flanked by two balls, straining like Tootsie-Pops in their wrappers.

My reveries then leaped ahead to how she might take advantage of my being so intwined. Would she order me to lie on my back, arms and legs splayed wide? Would she then stand above me, straddling me at shoulder level and teasingly run the tip of the riding crop up and down the inside of my legs? Perhaps without warning the first smack of the crop would land on an inner thigh or ball. I would not be able to control my reaction with that sort of pain. I would emit a gasp and gird for the next, and next. To mute my cries and hide the next destination of the crop, she might even lower herself onto my face, almost smothering me. Would the circle then close? Would the pain in my loins become one with the bliss of what my tongue was being allowed to explore?

Enough! My reveries were getting way ahead of things. Reality check time: I was about to meet a bright, articulate human being who shared my interests, or, to be more precise, their complement. We were each seeking a kind of exquisite completion. Deep down, reality always trumps fantasy. I counted my blessings.

I had gone down to the hotel lounge 20 minutes before the appointed meeting time and tried to submerge my nervous anticipation. It was a Monday night, and there were few patrons in the tall-ceilinged room. I chose a small sofa by a window with a commanding view of the bay, but angled in such a way that I could monitor the room entrance. She strode in at the appointed hour. There was no mistaking her, not because she wore any tell-tale Domina garb, for her attire was fashionably understated. What was striking, however, apart from her natural beauty, was her self-assured air, the aura of someone who is truly comfortable with herself and looking forward to the evening.

She smiled as I rose to greet her and offered a cheek for a polite kiss. Her perfume was intoxicating -- a musky, earthy aroma. We quickly fell into easy conversation about everything from the upcoming presidential elections to the ethereal qualities of San Francisco fog to which Napa Valley wineries offered the best tours and tastings.

We sipped wine sparingly, as we both seemed content drinking in each other unalloyed. Or was it wishful thinking on my part? She did seem relaxed, but there was really no way of knowing how the evening would evolve. I was simply enjoying her company; anything else would be a gift.

I did have to throw out a lot of my preconceptions. She was not a brassy extrovert, a personality type of many Dominas, or so I imagined. She was rather more tranquil and meditative, emphasizing points by slow, soft speech rather than by dramatic gestures and effusive verbiage.

Her seriousness drew me in at the same time as it excited me. Imagery flooded my brain. What would it be like to kneel at her feet? What would she have me do or do to me? She said that she would bring some toys of her own. What would they be? Thankfully, this flood of thoughts did not distract me noticeably from our conversation, and before I realized it, we were headed for dinner at the Japanese restaurant where I had reserved a private room.

We sipped hot rice wine and amused ourselves with the elegantly prepared sushi, but those fervent thoughts kept pushing their way up. I knew by now that if she did allow me to serve her that it would be unlike any other such session I had ever experienced. There would be no clock ticking and false priorities. It would just be her wishes and my supplication. And maybe, just maybe, it would all be glorious foreplay to a loving encounter at the end of the evening.

Time was racing. The kimono-clad waitress served tea following dinner and left the room. Then the surprise. We were sitting across from each other on tatami mats, feet in the foot wells beneath the table, that amusing concession to Western comfort. I had my back to the curtained doorway; she faced it and could easily tell if anyone were coming into the room. She told me to close my eyes. I heard some rustling, which must have been her reaching into her purse for something. She next ordered me to extend my right hand, palm up, under the table. She grasped my extended hand from beneath with her left hand as her right hand placed a long plastic object in my palm. Her words came in measured cadence: "I am going to take you with this. I shall start ever so slowly." She then began to move the object back and forth slowly in my hand. I quickly realized that the object was a dildo with a flange at the bottom meant for use with a strap-on harness.

She continued, "To prepare, you will first feel my fingers, clad in a latex glove, loosening you up with a generous dollop of lubricant. I will be wearing my cock and you will then suck it lovingly. Once you have shown it proper respect, I will buckle on your wrist and ankle restraints, secure you face down across the bed with some rope, and make sure you are comfortable. I will secure the scarf over your eyes. You may hear me stretching the condom over my big rubber cock, which then gets a coating of lubricant. Its size may have scared you. But you do want me, darling, don't you? Just as you feel the head of my rubber toy probe your tight rosebud, you will feel my full weight on you. You will be mine. I shall pin you and fill you and ride you and we will be as one as long as I wish."

Her soft words, that perfume and the motion of the dildo in my hand were more than I could bear. The feelings that had been kept at bay all evening erupted. Tears flooded my eyes -- tears of joy. She was quite literally extending her hands to me and beckoning me to follow her to some of the darkest recesses of both of our psyches, to those neglected corners of ourselves that too often don't see the light of day, but when shared with another trusted human being, make each of us so much stronger and able to accept and love life more fully. I muttered some utterly banal "thank you's" and composed myself. She put away the toy and smiled warmly at my uncontrolled expression of feeling.

Thirty minutes later we were closing the hotel room door behind us. The agony and ecstasy would unfold in ways I had never imagined. I would be changed, nay empowered, and ever in her debt. She had known me better than I knew myself.

The End

End of Story