
Warning: explicit content and language.
There I was, standing at my front door dressed in a classic office outfit — white button up shirt, tailored skirt, heels, a slicked-back bun and glasses.
It was a little cliché, but it needed to be.
He messages me: I’m in my car outside.
I message back: When you arrive, knock on my door and tell me that you are here to inspect my fire alarms.
The doorbell rings, and I rearrange my face to look like a boss. A schoolmarm who rules with an iron fist. A ruthless business woman. Someone who ain’t gonna take no shit from some uppity young punk.
“Hello, I’m here to inspect your fire alarms,” he says, in a meek voice.
“Get upstairs,” I growl, closing the door and pointing upwards. “Go and wait in the bedroom, back against the wall.”
He does as he is told, not looking back.
I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle and watch him walk up the stairs. It’s showtime.
Let me take you back a bit. When I was on the apps I met a guy who made out as though he was a dominant type, which I enjoy. He also sent me some peen pics which turned out to be rather misleading (it’s all in the angle taken, I’ve discovered).
When we eventually hooked up, he was a small, sweet tech nerd who was trying out something new. His spanking was unconvincing, and the night fizzed into nothingness. But he continued to contact me and ended up asking me to ‘Domme’ (dominate) him. He wanted to be spanked, choked and degraded. He even offered to cum in a shot glass and then drink it, which I thought was quite specific (and a little icky).
But being a Dominant wasn’t my jam.
He persisted and begged and whined. I said no. This seemed to turn him on. Then he offered me money. I said no again.