Читать книгу The Stranger - Desmond Blume - Страница 2

I couldn’t wait to see her inside. I was parked in the back of the building. My hands were sweaty and I felt a surge of sexual energy rising up inside me. It was fifteen minutes to three o’clock in the afternoon, the time we had planned on. I sat and waited. In my head, my thoughts were running wild. I couldn’t wait to touch her, to feel her, to dominate her, to fuck her.

This was something we had planned. We had met each other online about a month before. In particular, I usually look at two questions from a person’s online profile. The first is a gauge of where the power dynamic would fall; “not as in whips and chains, but in general, do you prefer your partner to be… dominant, submissive, or balanced.” She had answered “dominant”. The other one is purely for my own pleasure, “when having sex, do you like to have your hair pulled?” The options were: “Yes, and hard!”, “Yes, but gently.”, “No way.”, “Not sure.” She had answered, “Yes, and hard!”

The first message I sent her was not indirect.

“So, you like to have your hair pulled?” I said. “I feel like most women on this app won’t admit that, for fear of giving the guy the wrong idea.”

She didn’t respond right away. I got worried I scared her off. When she did reply, it was curt.

“Yes. It drives me crazy,” she said.

“We might have something here,” I said.

“I’m intrigued,” she responded.

Before we even met there were sparks between us. Our first meeting was delayed by a week long trip I took to see my parents. We texted each other throughout the whole week. I started by asking about her history with BDSM and power dynamics.

“So you’re a sub?” I asked. “Tell me about your experiences so far.”

“I don’t know if I’m a sub yet,” she told me through text. “I haven’t had the opportunity to try it a lot. I know I would like to try it. I’ve only been with guys who tried to be dominant but weren’t really natural at it. We used handcuffs but the guys were all so gentle. There was no exchange of power.”

“Interesting,” I said. “So, what did you wish that they would do to you?”

She had to think about this. She didn’t know me and she was unsure about how much she could share with me at that point.

Another minute went by. I looked at my phone. No messages. I looked out the front windshield of the car at the brick wall of her apartment building. I checked Instagram. No likes. I looked inside my bag. Ropes. I got out of my car and walked across the parking lot. I found her car. It was a small, white hatchback, at least ten years old. It was the one she drove us to our first munch in. She wore a fucking hot short tight skirt that day. I had just tied her up and fucked her for an hour before the munch. All the other guys were staring at her during the munch. If they only knew how I had just fucked her brains out.

I walked around her car, stood next to the driver’s side door, and looked around. There was no one in the parking lot. A group of black birds sat in the bare branches of a tree. One or two of them intermittently jumped off a branch, flitted around, and landed again. I reached under the wheel well of her car, feeling the top of the tire. I couldn’t find it at first. Then my fingers touched something metal. There it was. I grabbed the key to her apartment building, put it in my pocket and walked back to my car. Now my thoughts were really running rampant. This was really happening. I checked the time again. Seven minutes to go.

“I don’t know where it comes from,” she told me. “I work really hard. I’m progressive. I don’t believe that women should ever be controlled or degraded by men. By anyone, really. I have all these beliefs about equality, power, and rights in the world. I work my ass off as a designer and I’d like to think I make the world a better place for women.”

“Yes,” I responded. “I can resonate with that. I love what I do in the bedroom, but outside of it, I would never want control over anyone. This is the inner conflict with which we constantly struggle. Sometimes I will go to a meeting and there will be an incredibly sexy woman in a short skirt sitting across from me with her legs crossed, bare enough that I can see really high up on her thigh. I will sit there, completely distracted by fantasies I have about her. I will imagine myself taking her by the back of the hair, pushing her forward onto the table until her skirt is tightly stretched across the curve of her butt, pinning her arms behind her back, and sliding my hand up between her legs. All of a sudden, I will snap out of it. Suddenly I’m back in the meeting. I will instantly feel guilty for the thoughts that just passed through me. I will smile and submit to any request that the lady may have. You’d be surprised at how often this happens.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t,” she responded. “I have these fantasies throughout the day as well. It’s perhaps worse for me.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” she asked me. “Can you imagine what it’s like for the woman in that meeting? To sit there with this handsome man across the table from her? To have this devilish fantasy where the man stands up, walks powerfully over to her, takes her by the back of the hair, pushes her down across the table so that her skirt rides up high across her butt, so that the wet part between her legs is almost exposed? To feel her arms being pinned behind her back and the man’s hand sliding up between her legs? To not want it to happen but to want it more than anything? Can you imagine the conflict inside of her? This feeling of wanting to resist but being so utterly turned on by his control, by his firm movements, by his unwavering and clear decisions? Can you imagine the history of women’s progressive movements weighing upon her shoulders?”

“I can’t,” I told her. “But I love the way you talk about it. I’m fucking hard right now.”

She sent a blushing emoji back to me in response.

Late at night we would text each other. Sometimes I wouldn’t go to bed until three or four in the morning. I would wake up throughout the night and check my phone knowing there were sexy messages waiting for me. I didn’t want to push too hard at first. I could tell by her pictures on her profile that she was sexy. She was a dancer with long legs. There was a picture of her dancing on stage in a black dress. One leg was bare and her torso was bent back, blurred with movement in the picture. I had so many ideas for instructions I could give her. But I decided to wait. I needed to let her drive the desires until we met. Or until I felt like I could give her instructions. I began by getting her to tell me some of her fantasies and desires.

“What is it that you really want to try?” I asked her.

“I’ve always had this fantasy about being dominated,” she told me. “Right,” she said and then she paused. I waited. “Umm, it’s hard to describe. I feel like if I try to describe it then all the mystery and suspense will be gone if we actually try it. Then you’ll just be doing what I told you about.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” I said. “When I’m standing in front of you, and your back is up against the wall, and you feel the desire and sparks between us, I want you took look into my eyes and watch the dominant animal come out of me.”

I paused and imagined her breathing quicken.

“Yes, I don’t think you need to worry about the mystery and suspense disappearing,” I said. “Besides, it’s fucking hot to hear you describe what you want.”

“Alright,” she said. “It’s still hard for me to describe though. I have so many fantasies. I want someone to tell me what to do so I don’t have to think about it. I want someone strong to take my arms and clasp them behind my back, to grab me by the throat and kiss me hard. I want someone to push me down and…”

She stopped the text there.

“...and what?” I asked.

“I think you should finish the thought,” she said.

“Push you down onto your knees and tell you to open your mouth,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

We continued texting like this for days. It was clear that every desire she described matched perfectly with all of my fantasies and vice versa. I asked so many questions that I felt like I knew every desire that she conveyed. We got to a point where we knew we were going to meet. We ran out of questions at some point and were on the verge of just purely sexting each other the dirtiest of things.

“Would you like to please me?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Then the correct answer to that question is, ‘Yes, sir’.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded.

I couldn’t help but grin at this. I knew I had her at this point.

“Be careful with that,” I said. “It drives me crazy.” I paused. “Alright. Here are your first instructions on how to please me. This will have to suffice until we meet. Do you own a short skirt and thigh high stockings?”

“Yes,” she responded.

“Yes, what?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“Good girl,” I said. “Alright, let’s test out your ability to follow instructions.”

“Okay,” she responded. I could tell she was hesitant.

“I want you to send me a series of photos. Five, to be specific. I’ll start by describing the first three. Let’s start with what you should wear. A short, tight skirt. Thigh high stockings. A black bra. You should stand facing a wall. Put your palms on the wall above your head. Spread your legs. Arch your back and stick your butt out towards me, towards the camera. Imagine that I am standing behind you. You can feel the heat of my energy. You can feel how hard I am as I brush up against your butt. Imagine I am about to grasp your hair on the back of your head, pull your head back firmly and kiss you. Imagine I am about to take my other hand, pass it around in front of you, fondle your breasts and then slide my hand up between your legs. Take three pictures like this. Each time I want you to pull your skirt up a bit more until in the last picture your butt is exposed. Does that make sense?”