When I started having sex, I enjoyed being dominant in bed. I particularly liked “corrupting” virgins or the inexperienced (I still have this fetish if truth be told). I would do it for their pleasure, push their boundaries as much as they’d permit and then I’d discard them. In hindsight discarding them was a pretty shoddy thing to do. When I was with experimental or kinky folk I could be dominant. In fact, I loved it. But, isn’t there always a but!
The kicks I get from being dominant are not from doing things to people or forcing people to do things for their own pleasure. No, I get kicks from being powerful, from getting people to do things I want, even when they don’t want it. This makes me a fantastic dominant in very specific sexual situations, but a lousy one in most.
The idea of using power in this way is not one which sings to me in the way that giving away my power does. I am a cliché, powerful and dominant (a total control freak) in real life and utterly enthralled to anyone who can make me give that up. But still, today is a day for female dominance and male submission, so this is the first part of a short story. The next part will be up on Christmas Eve. Each part can be read as a standalone, except maybe the first one…it sets the scene.
Unless you thoroughly object to tea, this should be safe to read, even at work.-------
Tea and Spoons
The man hears someone at the front door and ignores it; he’s too busy looking for filthy porn. He hears muffled chatting.
“Jon!” His landlady calls out.
Shit! How did that happen, he realizes she is just outside the room. Reluctantly he puts down the tablet, gets off his bed and answers the door.
“Jon, a ‘friend’ of yours,” she hesitates with the word friend, not quite sure what to make of it, “she is downstairs. She says that she was staying with someone else nearby but they had a big row and she has nowhere else to go. Her name’s Charlotte. You’ve never mentioned her before, so I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I send her up? If she really is in trouble, she’s welcome to stay.”
Jon’s first thought is “fuck.” He instantly knows who it is. What the fuck was she thinking? “Yeah, Jemima, send her up. I don’t know why she didn’t call first, must have been something big.”
A couple of minutes later Charlotte is standing at Jon’s bedroom door. He hurriedly shuts it behind her. Not touching her. Not smiling. He doesn’t know whether to feel livid or turned on, so naturally settles for both. “Are you mad? What the fuck?”
Charlotte merely smiles at him. She is carrying a smallish backpack. It gets casually dropped on the floor. She slowly unbuttons her overcoat and drapes it over the bag. She is wearing a severe black dress, made of very heavy fabric. It sits just above the knee. It is very high cut and respectable, quite prudish in fact. It is even an A-line skirt. The only concession to her femininity is a grey band around the waist, showing off her curves. She is wearing thick black tights and formal black shoes. Over her dress she is wearing a tailored suit jacket, the same colour as the band. Her hair is slicked back into a very tight bun, with just a couple of strands of hair coming down.
“Hello Jon” She grins wickedly, her eyes slowly devouring him from top to bottom. She kneels down and fishes something out of her bag. She hands it to him.
“Have a look, Jon”
He looks at the pages. Dozens of them. Printouts of emails he has sent her. Each one is marked in red. Spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, unreadable prose....it is all marked with bright red crosses. “Charlotte, what the hell is this?” Jon starts to suspect that this isn’t going to end well. He looks through more pages, some have been highlighted as well as corrected. As he reads them he realizes they are all unfulfilled promises, things he never did. His blood runs a little cold as he stares at her. What is looking back at Jon terrifies him.
Charlotte is glaring, a terrifying stare piercing through to his soul. He feels himself involuntarily stepping back. “Charlotte, my landlady in the house. This is ridiculous. Seriously, you’re being stu...” There is a knock on your door.
“Jon...” his fastidious landlady looks at the unlikely duo. She can feel the tension. She looks Charlotte up and down, curiously, not quite sure what to make of such a formal looking woman being friends with her incompetent lodger. “I am off out now, I’ll be back Sunday, quite late I suspect.”
“What? When did this happen?”
“Did I not tell you? Oh, I must have forgotten. I won tickets to some jazz thing in London, you know how much I love it. Anyway, it is all expenses paid. Travel, two nights in a hotel. Amazing really, I hadn’t entered, I thought it was a joke, but no, it all panned out.”
“Oh, that does sound wonderful, how very fortunate.” Charlotte smiles at her before facing Jon and grinning. His landlady leaves and his whole body tenses.
“You set this up! How? What the fuck? You’re mad.”
Charlotte smiles at him, slightly cocking her head in delight.
“I need a cup of tea. Let’s go downstairs so you can make me one.”
“What?” Jon feels bewildered, angry, and excited all at the same time. But he follows Charlotte downstairs all the same. He follows her into the kitchen, perturbed that he is following, yet increasingly curious.
“Could you get me a chair please, and make me some tea?”
He doesn’t know why, but he does as he is asked. Something, somewhere at the back of his head makes him want to. He feels the strangest need to see what happens next. His heart rate increases just a little. The anger starts to subside, giving way to curiosity and excitement.
Jon makes the tea while Charlotte intently watches the whole process. No words are exchanged, just glances, occasionally a smile or a nod. The room is filled with tension. He wants to say something. He wants to hug her. He wants to kiss her. He wants to throw her against the kitchen counter and fuck her. Something stops him doing any of that. This is her story and Jon knows it. He hands her tea.
She sits there and takes it. She stares at it and says thank you. Twenty minutes go by and she doesn’t touch the tea. The pair chat inanely about the weather and work. The kind of thing people talk about with their parents, not the kind of thing people talk about when they have done the depraved acts these two have.
“Do you not like the tea?”
“I wait for it to cool before I drink it. It should be cool enough to sip now though.” She sips it once, twice, then she puts it down. Ever so slowly. Jon watches her head lift up. Then she stands up. She picks up the mug from the table. Jon watches her movements. Every one is precise and careful. The room practically crackles with electricity. At that very moment, Jon realizes what he did wrong. The milk! Charlotte likes her milk added after the water. He watches her go to the sink and very slowly pour it out. The warm, wet, milky liquid pours from the mug. He bites his bottom lip. He finds himself holding his breath. It’s caught, just waiting. Waiting for something.
Jon’s eyes follow her as she neatly folds the skirt under her and sits back down on the chair.
“What should I do with you now? That tea was undrinkable. That will not do. It will not do at all. I think you need to be given a little lesson, don’t you?”
Jon freezes like a rabbit caught in headlights. He feels utterly ridiculous. He wants to run, but he has never imagined Charlotte like this. Commanding in quite this way. After what seems like an eternity, he nods.
Part TwoThis post was made for the prompt "Have I always been....". To see other answers clickety click:
appear on Christmas Eve! is here