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One of the best sexual compliments I've ever received came from an odd source (a man in his forties) and under circumstances that were even odder. So odd, in fact, that they defy neat description, hence the reason why I didn't complete the parallelism in the previous sentence and put in in parenthesis.
“You know, you have a really nice ass,” he said. “And you can't say that about the vast majority of men.”
Coming from a man twenty years my senior seated on the sofa in my apartment while my roommate was out of town would have been odd enough, as I said. But when you consider that at the time I was doing the dishes, completely naked, with a big, red, rubber ball strapped in my mouth, things get a lot more interesting. I mean, don't they?
How to describe my relationship to him? He was... what? Certainly not my lover. I'm not gay. I may not know exactly what my sexual orientation is (is “none of the above” a legitimate response?), but I'm not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, I'm just not. So what was he to me then, if not my lover? I mean, who else says “you have a hot ass” when you're alone together in your apartment while you're doing the dishes naked? Oh, and ball gagged too.
Well, to get all legal on you, I might have to just tell it straight: he was by blackmailer. I mean, that's certainly what he was doing to me. But “blackmailer” isn't really a word, now is it, and I don't know that that fully explains everything either. I mean, lots of people get blackmailed, with varying degrees of severity, and during the course of the blackmailing almost none have their assets evaluated while washing the dishes without a stitch of clothing on their ass. And a ball gag in their mouth. I keep wanting to leave that part out, for brevity's sake and because it still makes my cheeks burn with embarrassment, even all these months later. But you can't leave something like that out; that's like omitting half the facts.
Ok, so what was he then, if blackmailer isn't enough? Well he liked me to call him “master,” and in truth I was, for periods of time (including the dishwashing episode, obviously), his slave. But “master” isn't totally accurate, either. Because when I say that word to myself it has a different connotation; it hangs on my tongue like the willing subservience of a slave who loves to be enslaved – who sought his slavery out, in fact. That could not be further from the truth in my case. I was an ordinary twenty-something college student trying to get by on minimal effort and student loans until this random dude – this middle-aged might-as-well-be-old-as-dirt guy I had never met before shows up at my door and calmly presents me with evidence that could bring my world crumbling down on me. So “master” isn't accurate either.
I'm running out of words. Which I ironic, because I didn't use many when we were together. I spent most of the time with a rubber ball in my mouth and when he mercifully ungagged me a stray word could get me sorely punished (including, but usually not limited to, a return of the big ball to its ancestral home between my teeth). So apparently, now that he's not around anymore, his effect on my verbosity remains unchanged.
I guess I'll have to settle for “captor.” I mean, that's really what he did: he used blackmail to capture me; and once he'd made me his captive, he ordered me around like a slave. But to prevent all the BDSM stereotypes and misunderstandings about my sexual orientation or interest in being someone else's “sub” I'll refrain from calling him master. He was my captor.
And boy was he. He captured me in the fullest sense of the word. And by that I mean he had full power over me. Sat me down and basically said, “son, I know you cheated to get in here” (referring to the highly prestigious university I was attending, and on which all my world depended). “And I have the evidence. So it would be the simplest thing to have you thrown out. It would be the right thing, even, some would say.”
I waited for the punchline, uninterested in arguing morality with this guy who clearly had done his homework and could let the axe fall at any moment. My stomach had been kicked out of me; the only thing that kept me from crumbling then was the word “would”. It indicated he had another plan in mind, and I was all ears, waiting for him to dispense my doom.
“I'm sure you're interested to know how I found out?”
I said nothing. You can't blame me, I was still recovering my ability to speak at the time. See? This guy had a way with my words, right from the very start. Even before he used the ball gag on me.
When I showed no sign of encouragement, he continued. “Well, I do my own investigations – for various people, some savory, some less so – and this turned up (gesturing to the evidence on his lap) during the course of one of those.”
“I wasn't investigating you of course,” he clarified. Not that I had given him any sign of alarm; I was still waiting for him to get to the point. “While doing work for someone, I like to poke around a bit, just for fun. You never know what will turn up. And what do you know? You did!”
“Well,” he continued, clearly enjoying telling the tale, “that got me thinking, and I started digging a little. You know, to learn more about you.”
To figure out how much you could get from me, I thought bitterly. But I didn't say this out loud. In fact, I started to wonder at this point why he was here. I mean, what could he hope to get from me? He has clearly done his research – that much is obvious. Which means he knows I'm penniless, and that I come from penniless folk. And that the worst he could do was have me thrown out of school and crush the hopes and dreams and expectations of everyone back home. But that didn't seem his style. He didn't seem the type of man to care about such things.
“And, to my absolute delight,” he positively cackled, “I discovered your interest in bondage!”
Ok, let me clarify: I have always had a kinky streak. I've wanted to be tied up since I was little, and been fascinated by the thought ever since. And it goes further – my fantasies usually (ok, they pretty much always do) have me stripped to my underwear... or worse... by my captors. By I'm not into BDSM. Honest. No whips, no leather, no abject servitude. Just some rope, maybe a gag or two, and me in my underwear.
I've explored this fantasy just a little bit. Mostly online. I'm a member of a couple of websites, contribute the occasional fictional story, and comment on others' posts. That's all. How he found out about this – how he linked my online persona to me – I will never know. Apparently this guy was good. Really good.
Seeing my face go all surprised and worried and confused really had an effect on him. He relaxed; he smiled. He had been cackling just a moment before, but that was half bravado; this was real confidence. He knew he had struck pay dirt and his prey was all his.
“You won't believe it, but I too have a fascination with bondage. Only, my interests are, shall we say, the compliment of yours?”
This was when my soul started to sink. This was more than just my initial “oh, shit! This guy could totally wreck my life.” Now this was “I don't know what's happening, but I don't like it one bit, and there's nothing I can do about it.”
But to be totally fair – and to humiliate myself completely before all of you, my readers, I have to admit that even then there was a part of me (small, but real) that got excited. I mean, I was 65% stunned confusion and 30% fear right about then. But there was this 5% “oh my gosh, my fantasies are about to come true.” Yeah, I'm ashamed of it. But it was there.
Back to our one-sided conversation: “I see by your reaction that you're still interested. Good. Because I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse.”
Long pause.
“I've always wanted to act out my fantasies – to really know how it feels, what it's like to do it in real life.”
Stunned silence from me.
“I suppose I should be more specific. I have always wanted the compliment of what you so eloquently write about online: to tie someone up; to tie them down; to have complete control over them; to make them mine and command their obedience unconditionally.” Here he paused, as if embarrassed. The first moment of weakness he had shown since arriving. “And, yes, I too want to have this experience with a slave who is, shall we say, not always fully dressed.” Having said it, he broke into a wide grin that was half sheepish, half excited, and that struck a resonating note within me, like a bell rolling out my doom. It was now fairly clear what I faced. And I still couldn't grasp that this was actually happening to me. Literally a day ago I was just an ordinary struggling student.
“So here's the thing: you realize my fantasies, and I'll realize yours. And no one needs to know about all this.” He gestured at the evidence on his lap.
I let that sink in for a few moments. As far as my mind could process, I was being blackmailed into being this man's bondage bitch. He would do... well... I'm not sure exactly what... to me, in exchange for letting me stay at school.
You know the odd thing? What I felt when I finally forced my brain to get that far was relief. Strange, huh? I mean, given the proposition, you'd think my reaction might have been horror. You'd think I would have just taken a loss and packed my bags. But not when I thought of how soul crushed my father would be. How hideously disappointed, betrayed, he would feel. How our relationship would never be the same again. And don't even get me started on how my mother would react. How much this would devastate her. And then there's the entire community rooting for me. And it's not like they've had much to root for these past years. I couldn't do it. I had to do anything, anything, to prevent that outcome.
“What do you say? It's a lot to take in all of a sudden, I know.” He paused a second while I worked all this out. Mostly now my mind was trying to figure out all the implications of this. “But I'm not super patient, you know. Not with ordinary people I deal with in life; and certainly not with my slaves.”
He really leaned on that word. And that's when it sank in. This guy really means it. He wants me to, you know, be his bitch and all. I thought briefly about me as a bondage bitch. On my hands and knees with a ball gag in my mouth; and not alone in my apartment either, but with some dude standing over me, issuing instructions. My mind reeled at the thought. I really did not like that thought.
I still hadn't said a word since he walked in. And I wasn't about to say a lot more, either – but for different reasons, which I'm sure you can guess.
“I'm still waaaiitiiiing,” he said.
Bitch. Thrown out of school. Bitch. Thrown out of school. My mind whipped back and forth between the two.
“Alright. Fine. Ruin everything for both of us.” He stood up to go, visibly disappointed. And angry.
That snapped me out of my silence. “No, wait! Stop!”
He turned back to me, halfway to my doorway. “I'll do it,” I managed.
“You'll do what?” he asked, pointedly. He wasn't going to give in without a specific response; a clear verbal submission.
“I'll do it,” I repeated. Then, realizing it wasn't good enough, stammered out, “I'll be your... your bitch.”
He smiled at this. He clearly loved the sound of that. “That's not the word I would have used, but I like it!” And with that he turned and headed back into my apartment. And the fun began.