Fantasy Dom Ch. 01: Cry Uncle

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She winked at me from behind the bar. My long-time friend. My buddy’s wife. She who rendered me giddy with even a modest flirtation. She whose occasional raised eyebrow, sultry tilt of head and nearly imperceptible puckering of lips filled me with champagne buzz wooziness. My flirtatious bartender. The woman I’d fantasized about for so long…my secret fetish…please, oh please be my Mistress…my DOM…make me your minion…I beg you to sub me…oh…excuse me…there I go again…goddang it, I can’t help myself. I get carried away and digress. But my fixation might help you understand how this temptress turned me to putty with a sexy, confidential wink.

We’d been friends for more than a couple decades. It was her husband and my wife who actually made the first connections, working at the same software company. The four of us became friends as couples. We would share some dining, occasional travel, football games, golf, casual visits and we were often invited to each other’s social gatherings. We knew each other well. We were good friends.

I had always admired her. What was not to like? She was smart as a whip. Exceptionally well-educated. Professionally accomplished, a senior vice president of a small but vibrant firm. She was gregarious; conversant; and hip. She knew how to have fun. She could let her hair down. And there was this sexiness about her. She possessed it and knew how to carry it, how to exude it without trying to force it. Subtle sexy. Bottom line…she had many attributes that I found highly attractive. But it was the persona of female superiority, tinged with the self-assurance of a goddess with a splash of naughtiness for good measure that rendered me giddy. Pity she was unaware of that persona.

While we were friends for many years, it was only over the past couple years that my relationship with her changed. I can’t even recall exactly how it happened. Perhaps with the increasingly confidential conversations between the two of us when we played the exquisite game of bartender (she) and bar patron (I). It was under these circumstances that I made a confession to her.

After so many years, I finally bared it all and shared with her my deep secret that only one other person in the world, my wife, knew. About how I was, fundamentally, a submissive fellow who yearned to be manipulated by a dominant female. I revealed to her that she was more than a passing fancy in my fantasy fetish world. I admitted to her that I’d felt that way for as long as I’d known her. Somehow, from our first meeting on, she just seemed so perfect in that role. She had the personality, the presence, the temperament and the disposition to pull it off. I explained to her that she was my Fantasy Dom. To reveal this to her was a burden off my chest because I’d wanted to tell her for so long. I was nervous as hell confessing, hoping with all my heart that it wouldn’t backfire on me.

To my great relief, somehow, angel that she was, she accepted me for who I am. To my relief, she didn’t reject me. But she also didn’t explore it or act on it. My Fantasy Dom didn’t become a real-life Dom, which I knew all along was the longest of long shots. Still, it wasn’t like an unspeakable topic either. In fact, she’d tease me about it sometimes…make suggestive reference to my submissiveness in a private moment. Oh, how I cherished those moments. But, again, nothing really came of it. In fact, she confessed to me that it was unfamiliar territory for her, and not something she was altogether comfortable with. And, in spite of my assurances, she confessed that she feared she wouldn’t be very good at it. “If I thought I’d be good at it I might be more tempted,” she told me.

Once, while engaging in some light, private and utterly innocent cocktail banter, she told me to go get a couple coasters from the bar – and then added that I should conduct the mission on all fours and deliver them from my knees. Of course, her directive was like nitroglycerin to me. I eagerly carried out the order, savored every shuffle, and placed each of our drinks atop a coaster.

“You really like that don’t you – being bossed around,” she observed half quizzically.

“Yes, I do,” I answered in the understatement of the evening.

“Go ahead, sit down. I don’t want to spoil you.” She chuckled and then followed up, “You know, if I ever go too far, you should tell me to stop.” It was laughable, considering how genteel and tepid her “domination” was.

It was in that context that I told her, half-jokingly at first, that we should have a safe word. And that it would be “Uncle.” She agreed nonchalantly, saying something like, “Okay, I’ll remember to back off when you cry ‘Uncle’.” Then I chose a reaction that, in retrospect, was a tad arrogant and a bit patronizing.

“I will NEVER need to use the safe word with you. You’re just too…” (I tried to choose the words carefully)… “timid, tame – you’re too nice to push me to a point when I’d feel compelled to cry “Uncle!”

“Well, aren’t you a cocky one,” I recall her saying curtly, dressing me Eskort Bayan down with a cold stare. She held her gaze for several seconds but then she changed the subject, as if I’d said nothing. And that was the extent of our foray into the necessity (or not) of a safe word. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to be offended and I scolded myself for making a comment about her tender nature and her lukewarm embrace of dominance.

Still, we continued to play bartender and bar patron when we could and enjoyed flirting with each other. On special occasions I’d be treated to a fond touch or, if I was lucky, a quick smooch. If I were blessed, a long, lingering kiss. She was a good kisser. Mmmmm good! My friend – a real-life tease. My Fantasy Dom – a fanciful siren.

We’d been operating in that context for some time. Flirting, enjoying each other’s soft advances, an occasional text or e-mail exchange. Those with a naughty edge were my favorites. And then came an invitation to my wife and me to attend a football party they were hosting. My wife and I, as special guests, were invited to spend the night in their luxurious home, which was a special treat. I could feel free to imbibe a little more and not worry about the forty-mile drive home. It was a generous offer. We accepted. The day arrived and I was psyched to have a great time.

My Fantasy Mistress took her usual position behind the bar and assumed the duties of bartender. That’s when the wink came – the one I started the story telling you about. The one that melts me in my barstool.

She was serving everyone, with skill and panache. We all cheered the game while we told stories, shuffled about the party area, introduced ourselves to fresh acquaintances, nibbled snacks, joked and sat at the bar, which is what I was doing when she gave me that dang wink. We were for the moment alone. Then there was another wink. I was overcome by her attraction. She was a real temptress. A Goddess and my Fantasy Dom.

With just the two of us present, I sitting at the bar, she behind the bar, she put on a stern face.

“You’ve been a bad boy since you got here.”

I was taken aback and honestly didn’t know what she meant by that.

“You’ve been sneaking peeks down my blouse and at my chest,” she accused me. “Don’t deny it. I’ve watched you. I’ve watched your eyes.” She paused. Like a good prosecutor, without waiting for a response, she interrogated further. “Did I give you permission to do that?”

She’d never spoken this way with me before. I was startled…and aroused. She was acting as she had so often in my fantasies, out of the blue, a dream of mine I’d given up on some time back. She repeated the question.

“Did I give you permission to look at my chest?”

I had noticed a modest amount of cleavage when she bent over in her bar duties. And she was wearing a blouse that, depending on her twists and turns, revealed the outlines of her nipples when it was pulled taut. It wasn’t risqué. It was actually tasteful while being modestly daring. And yeah, I’d noticed. I always do. But I didn’t think I was staring or ogling. Still, I thought it was best to come clean, by the letter of the law.

“No…you never gave me permission,” I admitted frankly. “And yes, I stared,” I added, deciding to go along with wherever it was she was going with this. And oh, how it turned me on to confess my transgression.

“You were a bad boy, staring at me like that, without my permission,” she scolded again. She served another customer and engaged in some banter with some guy. She wrapped it up and came back to me, producing a small note from her pocket. She passed it to me, discretely. She pointed her index finger at me and then pointed to the note. Then she turned away and resumed her bartending duties.

Wishing to respect the confidentiality of the communication, I made my way to another part of the house, temporarily vacant. I opened and read the note.

“Go immediately to the downstairs guest bathroom. There’s a hair brush on the vanity. Report there. I want you to pull your pants down and whack each of your bare cheeks twenty times. Punishment for wandering eyes…without permission. And you’d better make them firm slaps. If your cheeks aren’t rosy and swollen, I’ll be VERY disappointed. Go! Now! I’m pointing my finger at you!”

Obviously, she’d made up this note ahead of time. That meant that she orchestrated the façade of me staring down her blouse. Although, yeah, I probably did sneak a few peeks. Was I that predictable? Was I that obvious? At any rate, thrilled by her daring new persona and the stern directive, I embarked immediately for the bathroom to do the deed.

Sure enough, after closing and locking the door I saw the hair brush on the vanity. It had a slender wooden handle and a broad head full of bristles. I loosened my belt, unzipped and pulled down my pants and shorts. I bent at the waist, securing myself by leaning one arm against the vanity in front of me. This was so weird. And humiliating in an arousing kind of way. WHACK!

Damn! It smarted. Okay, so I talk a big game, but I was actually kind of a neophyte at this stuff. I had fantasized about a wicked hairbrush but never really felt one slap my ass. I did it again. WHACK! Two. I realized immediately that the more I stayed on the same spot, the more it stung. I wasn’t going to be a pussy, though. I was going to prove to her that I was obedient, that I’d do anything she’d tell me to. WHACK! Three. Ouch! And I had to make sure I was a little red, like she warned me. On to the other cheek in rapid fire – one, two, three! I was paddling fairly hard. Then back to the other side. I’m telling you, by the time I hit twenty on each cheek, my rear was mighty sensitive. I turned around and looked in the mirror. Not red but definitely rosy. It looked like it smarted, and it did. I wondered how she’d ever know, one way or the other. I let my cheeks cool down before returning the hairbrush to the vanity, pulling up my shorts and pants, collecting myself and returning to the bar.

We exchanged glances as I sat gingerly. The first thing I noticed is that she’d changed blouses. I ordered a fresh drink, a gin and tonic. And I took special care to look at her only from the chin up. I admired her as she went about her bartending duties. It was easy to watch and enjoy, she did it so well. I sipped and kept my gaze high.

“Help me get some ice from upstairs,” she commanded all of a sudden. We dashed upstairs. When we were alone again she addressed me forthright.

“You do know you’re insulting me,” she said accusingly. I didn’t know what she was talking about. “You’ve been ignoring me. And it’s insulting.” She spoke as she filled a bowl with ice.

Whoa! Perplexed, I tried to figure out where this new gambit was going.

“I put on this special blouse for you, showing you some cleavage and offering you some special…” she hesitated momentarily, “…some special opportunities to admire me. And for the past fifteen minutes you’ve ignored the show entirely. I put on a special show and you neglect me. Frankly, I’m offended by your complete lack of interest. Admit it. You haven’t paid any attention at all to my tits, have you?” Again, a set-up by the prosecutor.

“No, I haven’t. I’m sorry. I thought I wasn’t supposed to,” defending myself with utter honesty. “I was actually averting my eyes. I’ve been avoiding eye contact with anything below your neck.”

“Oh, how flattering,” she mocked sarcastically. “You’re so unimpressed with me that you won’t even admire me when I make a special effort to flaunt it in front of you. That’s not very nice. You’re an inconsiderate guest and a very bad boy.”

“You know what you’re going to do, bad boy? A repeat performance. To the bathroom. She pointed in that general direction. Then she pointed at me. Twenty on each cheek. And they’d better be solid whacks! You’d better be red and tender when you get back to the bar. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I responded meekly.

“Good. Off with you.” And we both returned to the downstairs, she to her bar, I to the bathroom.

Enroute, there ensued a quick but pithy internal dialogue, about the joy, or not, of being subbed. I was about to end up with a genuinely sore rear end. I felt an odd sensation. It was kind of like resentment. How dare she! She’s just fucking with my head!

And then I laughed at myself. It was I who yearned for this. I who invited it. Hell, I practically begged for it. Then, when I get it, I start to wimp out? What, do I want to play by MY rules? Then you’re not a sub! The whole point is to play by HER rules. And, no matter how unreasonable they might seem, you just have to comply.

My compliant side won the argument, and my resentment melted into gratitude. It was generous of my long-time Fantasy Dom to actually explore my fantasy with me.

After closing and locking the door, there again I saw the hair brush on the vanity. It hadn’t moved since I left. I loosened my belt, unzipped and pulled my pants and shorts down, picked up the brush by its slender handle, bent at the waist, securing myself by leaning one arm against the vanity in front of me. And I began again. WHACK!

Damn! It smarted way more than before. I was already tender.

I’m telling you, by the time I hit twenty on each cheek, my rear was mighty sensitive. I had to recover a bit before pulling up my shorts and pants, collecting myself and returning to the bar.

When I returned to the bar I sat down, this time ever so gingerly and with genuine care. She stood in front of me with an inscrutable expression on her face. Gradually, there emerged the hint of a smirk. I studied her in admiration. I tried to muster a look of gratitude. And I now felt obliged and free to flatter her by peeking at the outline of nipples through her blouse. Very sexy.

“Are you staring at my chest?” she asked matter-of-factly.

And with that incriminating question the game was clear. I couldn’t win. I was skewered. Hapless Wily Coyote spinning his legs on a Mobius strip. No matter what I said, I’d be headed back to the guest bathroom for a date with the hairbrush. I honestly didn’t think I could take any more. I decided to beg for leniency.

“Uncle,” I conceded, recalling the safe word, feeling vanquished and thoroughly subbed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she chided, teasing and mocking me at the same time and leaning an ear toward my face.

“Uncle!” I replied with greater clarity and complete surrender.

“I’ll take that as a white flag,” she replied in a smug tone and sly grin. She savored the moment for many seconds before continuing. “Help me get some clean glasses from upstairs,” she added.

This time she strolled to the elevator, pulling a service cart with her. (I told you it was a fancy house.) I followed. She shut the door behind us but didn’t yet press the 2nd floor button. We were utterly alone and quite private.

“I want to see if you followed orders. Let’s see those red cheeks.”

I was a bit taken aback. I’d never had my pants down in front of her. I didn’t do anything for a couple seconds which was enough wasted time for her to continue.

“Can’t you hear me? Show me your cheeks. And they’d better be rosy red.”

I unbuckled, dropped my drawers, leaned into the corner of the compartment and exposed my bottom.

“Hmm…” she responded. “Good thing we agreed on a safe word, eh? Doesn’t look like you’d want to absorb another round.” I peeked over my shoulder and watched her pick up a wooden spatula from the service cart. She rubbed it ever so gently against my rear before giving me a solid whack with it. It smarted; yet it felt exhilarating somehow. I uttered an involuntary grunt.

“Remember telling me you’d never use a safe word with me? And you accused me of being so timid that you’d never need one?” She caressed me tenderly with her wooden tool and mocked me by imitating my challenge in a sing-songy reminder. “I will NEVER use the safe word with you!” Then her tone changed.

“Don’t EVER (whack!) TELL ME (whack!) what I am and what you will and won’t do. Got it?” (Whack!).

There was no hesitation on my part, nor lack of sincerity as I winced from the stinging slaps. “Yes, Ma’am,” I conceded. “I’m sorry.”

“Good,” she continued. “You’ll never be so presumptuous again (whack!) to accuse me of being too gentle (whack!) or too demure (whack!). What, do you take me for, a mousy teenage girl? (whack!) And don’t ever tell me what you will and won’t do. You’ll always do what I say. Do you understand?” (whack!) She spoke with compelling authority. A real Dom.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied meekly, gratefully, appreciatively, submissively. “I understand.”

“Good,” she replied tersely as she pressed the second floor button. “Now pull up your pants. You look ridiculous.”

I buckled up and then straightened my attire. The elevator stopped. But before she opened the door she spoke.

“Now, for the rest of the evening, would you like to sneak some peeks at my chest?” I did not hesitate.

“Yes, Ma’am. I would. That would be really nice.”

“I give you permission. You may admire my tits…discretely…for the rest of the evening. But staring is as close as you’re going to get.” she added with emphasis.

She opened the elevator door. We swapped used glasses with fresh ones, loaded them on the cart and returned to the elevator. On the way down she spoke as if nothing had happened.

“You enjoying the party?”

“Yeah. You really know how to entertain,” I complimented her sincerely. She took a deeper than normal breath, pulled her shoulders back, fixed her gaze on me and thrust out her chest. Her breasts pushed against the fabric and the outline of nipples was visible. As the elevator whirred downward I toggled my gaze lustily between her tits and her eyes, reveling in her permission to admire her breasts. She returned my lascivious gaze with a mischievous smile and a provocative rotation of her upper torso. She knew I was drunk with desire. And she oozed the self-confidence of a super model in a room of dowdy hausfraus. Before the door opened she spoke.

“Bad boys get punished. Good boys get rewarded. You seem to be trying to figure out who you are. Are you confused?”

“Yeah,” I admitted frankly. “I’m confused.”

“Good,” she opined. Then she secured the back of my head with a firm hand, squeezed my tender butt with her other hand and kissed me on the lips affectionately, deliciously. It was a lingering, arousing smooch. The kind that escalates in intensity. The kind you desperately don’t want to end. She released me and then opened the door, revealing to all observers a compartment of two innocents, transporting glassware. And into the party we moved.

We delivered the glasses to the bar. I took a seat, gently. She resumed her bartending duties. I stole a glance at her chest. She caught my admiring eyes. She winked. That wink. She was right. I had been stealing glances earlier. I’m a letch and she caught me. And she called me on my boastful claim that I’d never need a safe word, implying that she was incapable of subbing me to the point where I’d beg for mercy. She proved me wrong. Oh, so wrong.

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