She walked the length of the terminal and looked at her watch and then at the arrival/departure display as if it would change anything. As if this futile pacing would make his plane get here any faster, faster or slower, she did not exactly know. And now that she had done it, finally consented to meet him, pushing aside all her misgivings and doubts, she was consumed with a bewildering mix of impatience and uncertainty.
She wondered about that; there was nothing she loathed more than being out of control, control of herself; control of her surroundings, and ultimately, the control of the few people she let get near her. And now she had allowed herself to be lured from her safe little controlled world and was letting someone get close to her for the first time in years, maybe ever. There was part of her that wanted to panic, turn around on the tall black heel of her gleaming leather boot and catch the first flight home.
It was madness, this was madness. That was the word she had used so many times in the past to argue herself out of this. He was too young. He was too far away. He was too inexperienced. He was foreign, he liked rap, and was a vegetarian and prayed to gods she had never even heard of. She had said to him a hundred, maybe a thousand times, that they could not be any more different. He was a fucking virgin, for god’s sake. And she was old enough to be his mother, hell, older than that. And she was shit at relationships. She did not even want to think about her past.
But he was persistent, so persistent. At least a half dozen times she had deliberately stopped responding to his emails, hoping he would disappear into the vast anonymous sea that was the internet. But he kept struggling back to the surface, grasping at her with a desperate innocence she could not ignore. There was no way she could not reach out and take that hand.
It was that poignancy, that sweet needy innocence that kept her attention; that, and the smile and the laugh, and those eyes, and those hands. All of them spoke to her, made her hunger, made her want to sink her teeth into him and feed on that innocence.
So when he had pleaded to meet, to offer himself to her, to do all the things they had only spoken of, she had finally relented. Her last book had sold well and the advance for the next one was generous, and after all he had been the inspiration for that last book. She smiled a sharp hungry smile. If just talking with him was inspirational; she wondered how the words would flow with the taste of his blood in her mouth.
She told herself that it was just a meeting, a brief fulfillment of a fantasy, nothing more. She could even write it off as research for her next book. She would use him, abuse him, and show him that reality was not as sweet as dreams. And once she had plundered his soul, fed on him, she would be able to walk away. She told herself that once she had tasted him, he would no longer be so tempting. And the ruthless, violent part of her whispered that if she destroyed his innocence, it would not be there to charm her anymore.
His flight was late, and she had been waiting in the airport for an hour longer than she had anticipated. They were meeting half way, on a tropical island in the pacific. She had rented a small private kink friendly cottage far from the tourist crowds. There would be no one to hear him screaming, and she had every intention of making him scream and scream and scream.
Her heart was hammering in her chest and her mouth was dry as she peered at the tired passengers as they oozed from the plane. She felt almost disgusted with at this betrayal of her body. She was determined to be in control, to be cold, distant, and demanding, not some panting ridiculous old woman. Yet when she first saw him, and he saw her, and that wonderful smile broke across his face like the sun rising, she forgot to breathe.
As he approached, he loomed tall and even though she knew he was taller, man sized, it was a revelation to see him thus, in real life for the first time, not a voice and a picture on a computer screen. She could not help but reach out to touch him, the lightest caress on one cheek, to prove he was real, really there. At her touch, he trembled and breathed the word, “Ma’am.”
Snatching her hand back she spoke tersely, “You have your instructions,” and handed him her carryon luggage and turned away, her heels clicking on the smooth linoleum floor as she led the way to the luggage claim. He did have his instructions, at the airport and in the car he was not to speak and to obey her every command. Not once in the whole time together was he to ever touch her without her directing him too. He had promised to submit to anything she desired, everything she desired, that if he refused one time she would send him home and never speak with him again. She knew that she had been extreme in her demands, but in many ways she had hoped he would become afraid, take back his wish to meet her, set her free from this growing fear that she might have already lost her heart to him.
Her words were cool, and short, pointing out the suitcases that were hers, telling him to get his bag and put it with them while she got a porter and a car to take them to the rental. Carefully following his instructions, without words he nodded that he understood and turned to watch for his bag. He frequently turned to look at her, and she knew that he was doing the same things she was doing. Somehow resolving this living breathing human being with the person he had grown to love on the computer screen.
He had only one bag as per her instructions to bring little with him, that all his needs would be provided for. She had been adamant that he not bring any gifts for her. The only thing she had insisted he pack were the pajamas, the ones he had worn from the beginning as they had spoken on the web cam. Funny brown print without any special erotic meaning, they had come to symbolize more. Whenever she had closed her eyes and visualized him, they were there, hanging from his broad shoulders.
The sights out the window must have been breathtaking but she did not remember any of them. She sat carefully rigid on her side of the back seat, barely watching him out of the corner of her eye. Twice she caught him looking back, and their eyes met, fathomless inky black meeting glacial blue, east meeting west, but both of them would almost flinch at the intensity and slide away. They were too close, and the driver’s head was only inches away. He rode with his hands carefully still, palm down on his thighs, but she could tell he was nervous, tense almost to snapping.
The cottage was on a hillside, surrounded by thick tropical vegetation. The driver helped carry their luggage up to the front porch and she had given him a tip in American dollars. And then they were alone.
Again she touched his cheek, longer this time, and reveled at the shiver that ran through his frame. His fingers flexed and then curled into fists and she knew he was resisting the urge to reach out to her. He lips quivered and he almost moaned the words, “Oh Ma’am.”
Gently she touched his lips and murmured, “shhhh,” and unlocked the door. “Boy, bring the bags inside, and put them in the bedroom.”
He rushed to obey, almost hurried and clumsy in his eagerness to please her. She had an odd thought, ‘a puppy, he is like a puppy’, and could not help but smile at his back as he struggled to carry all the bags in a single trip. She followed him and stood in the doorway, looking at him as he carefully sat them down and turned to freeze in the heat of her eyes.
Her hands were eloquent as she pointed at the floor and he knelt without her needing to say a word. She nodded in approval. His eyes followed her as she moved to sit on the foot of the bed and then she gently beckoned him to come closer. Tentatively he inched closer, and closer, until he was finally within grasp and she reached out and touched his hair, so black that the light reflected almost blue, it was thick, a little coarse and springy under her hand. It was like she had directed, just long enough to be easy to grip, but no longer. And grip it she did, pulling him firmly to lay his cheek in her lap, and she held him there, sensing his growing agitation. And when he burst into tears, wrapped his arms around her waist and burrowed his face into her she did not censure him. She just stroked his hair and let him cry. He cried soft silent sobs, trying to contain them but his whole body quaked under her hand.
When he finally calmed and drew in a deep shuddering sigh she lifted his face to gaze into his eyes. Her voice was low, “Boy, I know that it is hard to remain silent, but there are no words for a moment like this.” His eyes were wide and his lashes soaked with tears, and he nodded mutely. Gently she wiped the tears from his face and brought her salty fingertips to her own lips, and the taste made her breath catch and a rush of hunger so strong that it made her almost growl rose up in her.
Keeping her voice under rigid control she spoke in the same low tone, “Boy, you will crawl back exactly to the center of the room, stand and remove your clothing.” His eyes flashed up at her and his already flushed cheeks darkened perceptively but he did not hesitate. Her heart pounded deep and hard in her chest as she watched him creep backward and then stand and begin to unbutton his shirt. He stood nervously in his undershirt, holding his shirt in his hand, looking at it like he was unsure what to do with it and she gestured impatiently, “Just drop it.”
A look almost of relief softened his features and he let it fall to the floor and then pulled off his the rest of his clothing until he came to his underwear. She could see the bulge of his cock, pressing against the fabric, and his eyes met hers, wide and imploring, asking for what, she did not know and she just kept her face neutral. His fingers slipped under the waist band and slowly he pushed them down his thighs and her heart jumped as it popped free, half hard, bobbing and swaying a little as he leaned down and stepped out of his last garment. He stood up, and faced her, his expression still a confusion of beguiling innocence and supplication.
Her eyes drank him in, he was slender, but not thin, she could see the strength in his limbs, long flat panels of muscle. He was smooth; the only apparent hair on his body a fine dark nest around his sex, but it was neat, clean and added only to his maleness. She could feel the heat growing in her belly, a steady sweet ache that made her mouth flood with hot saliva and her lips feel dry. Her breathing was slower and deeper, but the air did not seem to satisfy her. Suddenly the room seemed hot, too hot for the light black dress she was wearing, her feet felt slick and sweaty in the boots. Her outfit had been light, not nearly warm enough when she left home, but now it was hot and confining.
She could feel that her control was slipping, that having him within her grasp was clouding her mind. Before even leaving home she had this all planned out and now she could not remember what it was she was planning to do. She knew she had not planned to rush, to keep the pace slow, tantalizing, but now all she wanted to do is leap on him, to bear him down to the floor, to tear at him like there was something precious concealed within his chest, something she could not live without.
She knew this was not rational and that it was pure lust clouding her mind and she smiled inwardly. Perhaps this is why, in all those formulaic Dom meets sub first time stories, the man orders the hapless girl to her knees and promptly forces her to suck his cock almost the instant they were through the hotel room door. Maybe there was a kernel of truth to those fairy tales. Perhaps this tension was unbearable, that pacing and rational thoughts were impossible to maintain in the face of this potent mixture of power and vulnerability. Yet she was reluctant to reveal her raw desire of his body any more than she was willing to strip in front of him. Somehow the idea of being nude seemed like it would somehow reduce her to his level, compromise the tenuous sense of power she had over him.
Still she sat on the foot of the bed staring at him, her eyes drinking him in and he seemed transfixed, standing there exposed, naked before her. She took a deep breath of the air, trying to find some oxygen to clear her mind, and then cleared her throat. Her voice was strangely hoarse, “Good, you are doing fine. Kneel again and come take off my boots.” Her words echoed in the quiet room and she wondered at them, wondered if it weren’t true, he was doing good, in fact perhaps better than her.
She watched him as his trembling fingers reached for the zipper on the inside of the boot and steadying her foot with one hand slowly lowered the zipper and pulled it from her leg, his hand sliding down the slick nylon of her stocking. She shivered as his fingers gently held her foot for just a moment and gently placed her foot on the smooth floor. His head was bent down, lowered over her foot, almost but not quite touching and she watched in wonder as he slowly inhaled the scent of leather, sweat and feet. As he reached for her other boot, his eyes reached up to hers, shining with awe and alight with joy. She said the words almost without thinking, “Is it like you had imagined, boy?”
And his face broke into a wide, embarrassed grin, his voice low but jubilant, “Oh, much better, Ma’am, very so much better than I had ever imagined.”
This time as he pulled off her second boot, she gently stroked his hair, and whispered, “You may kiss them if you wish,” and he eagerly, fervently pressed his kisses on the insteps of her feet, kissing one and then the other.
Even through her stockings his lips felt hot on her skin and it sent a rush of heat through her body that made her unconsciously press her legs together. It was like she was teetering on the edge of control, that one tiny nudge would set loose the madness inside her. Scooting to the edge of the bed, she slipped her hands under the hem of her dress and hooked her fingers in the tops of her thigh high stockings and slid them down to her knees, “Take these off too.” His hands trembled as he pulled them down the rest of the way and neatly place them on the floor next to her boots.
For the first time she called him by the name she had used so many times before, “Sweet boy, you must have rubbed my feet a hundred time in fantasy, now do it in reality.” She felt a deep tingling rush as his long strong fingers began to stroke and knead at her feet. Each touch set off another wave of sensations that made it nearly impossible to sit still, and she found herself almost squirming on the foot of the bed. And when he sent a questioning look up at her and then bent to kiss her foot once more, she sighed a soft moan out loud as she felt his tongue lick and then his breath simultaneously hot and cool, blow on her flesh.
She could feel her pulse throbbing in her temples and a matching echo in her clit. It was almost like his fingers were there, rubbing, massaging her very center. He shifted on his knees, sitting back on his heels, his hand nervously trying to shove his growing erection down, trying to trap it between his thighs. Her voice was choked, “No, don’t, don’t ever hide it from me.” Again his eyes flashed up to hers and he nodded and shifted again, his thighs spreading and his rigid cock springing up. She watched mesmerized as it swayed and quivered and again almost without thought she reached out with her feet and gently pressed both soles against it. The connection was electric, and for an instant the world stood still, and then he jerked and shuddered, his face contorting with panic, and his cock flexed and began to twitch against her as he lost control and began to cum, hot white semen spurting out and splashing on his belly and her feet. He jerked away and cried out, a soft panicked wail, “Sorry, Ma’am,” but she did not hear. She had fallen back onto the bed, her hand between her legs, pressing through the fabric of her dress, clutching at her own pulsing and spasming sex, her own orgasm refusing to be denied any more than his.
She lay there for an instant, a minute, an eternity, and then could not help but giggle and mutter, “Well fuck.” Then she turned to look at his burning face, “I had not anticipated that.” His expression was so stricken, so mortified that she could not help but laugh again, “I think we both might have been a little over excited. Perhaps it is best that we gotten that out of the way. I must say, I am thinking a little more clearly now.” His face was still so miserable that she could not help but sit up and pat him gently on the head, “Boy, don’t worry so,” she eyed his slowly sagging cock and bit her lip in an effort not to laugh, “I am sure that you have many more just like that in you.” She lifted her feet toward his face, “But you do have some cleaning up to do now.”
This was not new. It was something she had demanded of him before, watching him masturbate and then eat his own cum as she watched on the computer screen. But the sight of him bending over each foot, slowly sensually licking it clean, the warm wash of his tongue instantly relit the flames within her. Resolving not to experience a repetition of the previous loss of control, she pulled away from him, “Boy, go into the bathroom and clean yourself, and start a bath for me. The plane has left me feeling somewhat grimy.”
The look of relief was priceless. This was a ritual they had both rehearsed dozens of times, a bath, with him standing behind her, slowly sensually washing her hair. When she heard the water running, she slid off the bed and opened the suitcase containing her clothing, and drew out the black satin dressing gown, and pulled the dress off and quickly stripped off her bra and underwear. Somehow she was still shy about being seen doing these mundane things, bending, twisting and leaning over, perhaps staggering in some futile attempt to be graceful. She looked critically at her body, and told herself that is was fine, better than most, and he had done nothing but rave about it the few times she had let him catch a glimpse of it. Still it was not as young as it used to be, there was no way it could be. She smoothed the black satin over her hips and flat stomach and forcing her face to be more confident than it was she walked into the bathroom.
The bath was full and had a thick layer of bubbles covered the warm water. He knelt at the head of the bath, shampoo in his hand, his eyes on her, curious, expectant. She met his gaze and he blushed and turned his eyes to the floor. Dropping the robe she stepped into the tub and let the bubbles come up, up and cover her, she leaned back and instantly his hands were in her hair, pulling it back and up over the edge of the tub. His fingers were firm and thorough, working the lather through her long blond hair. And she sighed, “Boy, it is exactly as I had imagined.”
And for the first time she heard him laugh, that same wonderful laugh that had seduced her so long ago and she knew she was lost. And it had been exactly as they had always imagined. She had bound him, stretched him, tortured and tormented him. He had met each test, and given her everything she had asked and more. He gave his tears, his voice, his strength, his heart. She had decorated his body with marks of pain, welts, scratches, the bruises of her bites. Oh how she loved to bite him, the salt of his skin, the shuddering pain under her lips, the copper tang of his blood in her mouth.
She had made him lay between her legs without entering her, had ground her starving empty cunt on his hard and needy cock, taking her pleasure while denying him his. She had writhed and screamed as she had made him serve her orally until she could not come again and had pressed his lips to her once more. She had forced him to perform for her, watching with greedy eyes as she had directed him to force himself to come and then come again and then again. Demanding he beat at his cock with a desperate fist, forcing it to grow hard once more.
True he had much to learn, but his heart was in it, and he had the courage to never once retreat from any trial set before him. For three days she kept him bound with silence telling him she preferred the eloquence of his eyes, his moans, his screams and then on the fourth, she had freed him, told him he was free to speak his mind, to ask his questions. But he just blushed and murmured that she was right, that there were no words to express his feelings.
But then she had demanded he speak, to give voice to his hopes, his dreams, his deepest fears and secrets, telling him that she had to hold his soul in her hand, as naked as his body. He had wept and choked on the words, words of loneliness and isolation, fear that he would always exist in this limbo between his dreams and reality, fears that if he spoke the truth he would be lost. Yet she would not relent, she kept at him, refusing to let him elude her, and in the end he had given her even this. And she was well aware this was the hardest of all, to give her this with no promise of a life line. For she had not once promised anything beyond this moment in time, this brief rendezvous, this small sanctuary from his endless life. To tear down his fragile inner walls with no guarantee of safety once he was defenseless was perhaps the cruelest thing she had ever done. And he had given her even this.
He had been left shattered, limp, drained and she had held him cradled in her arms, his spirit raw as if she had slowly torn his skin from his flesh. Only then had she had kissed his lips for the first time, feeding on his mouth like one starved. Her kiss held both a price and blessing. She had inhaled his spirit as she had breathed back of her own life energy into his spent and empty heart. She had held him and rocked him and kissed him until he had finally came to life under her lips, trembling, straining toward her, whimpering as he convulsed in the agony of his rebirth.
Then, only then had she taken him, pulling him into her embrace, enveloping him, his shuddering body within hers. His first entry had been transcendent, filling her with power and joy. They had spent nearly all that day together, trapped in one another’s arms, each powerless to make even the smallest move away from the other. They had made love endlessly, made love until it had hurt and yet still strained against each other. They had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, his cock still lodged deep within her.
On the last day she had spoken little but touched him often. He was silent, and seemed to flinch from her touch, like the sensation of her fingertips was unbearable. Over and over he would pause and inhale as if to speak, but then would softly let the air back out of his lungs, and this time she did not press him to reveal his heart. She knew.
Her flight would leave before his and as she was called to board, she pressed a small square of paper into his palm and turned and walked away without speaking.
On it was written an address and two words, “No promises.” He had arrived on her doorstep twenty two days later.