control. Something new.

There's something about control I still can't get my head around without stumbling and calling it a "mindfuck".

I met him in a small city cafe' in a good suburb. He had it all arranged, I simply had to get there and be of a decent quality. I chose a fortified wine (at $17 a glass) and sat outside; half to project a kind of confidence, and half to feel as though a cat in sunshine does. I was early by over half-an-hour and brought a book for such an occasion.

My confidence isn't as grand as I'd like it to be. It ties in with a quiet, anxious nature. Men have used it both ways and you can cause great suffering and consequence, or make a woman smile with it. It depends on how the male spins the tale. Though I felt I looked decent, and probably a little too much of age for the meeting I was here to have.

Ripped denim shorts, a little high in the waist. Patterned, loose shirt which tucks in at the front. Hair loose and down to my waist. G-string, lace. I felt I looked adequate.

He tapped my shoulder and my calm demeanour shook. He was handsome, tall and had the intensity in his eyes I never had the gall to get myself. Sooty blonde(?), very light blue eyes, strong build -- probably quite athletic in his day when his life wasn't consumed by work. As soon as he opened his mouth I knew I was waaaaay out of my comfort zone.; not for the fact of our major social differences, but because this was a man of straight shooting, much beyond what I'd encountered before.

I could feel the rift right away. His eyes were looking me over not unlike a man curious about the nature of a slab of meat. That rift was making me uncomfortable. He could see I wasn't going to look him in the eye. The people around here don't have that skill, they don't have that intensity or unbroken smile in them. I knew this was probably going to be a painful endeavour, just from that look in his eyes that said I wasn't good enough. I liked his words though. His words and his slow quiet movements. Fuck that intensity. I can deal with it or dodge it. I'm too curious.

He sat down; green tea. Made a complaint about coffee giving him problems, and I kept quiet that green tea has a similar amount of caffeine.

Then it started. I could feel my stubbornness rising before he even said it.
"White marks on the nails. Calcium?"
Fuck, that was sharp.
I curled my fingers back into my palm.
It takes people like this to bring my nerves and stuttering out.
People who are better than me.
And know it.

"Scars on the shoulder?"
"Self mutilation when I was younger."
"Now there's some honesty."

No point in lying to him, you probably won't see him again. Explore this. Explore this like one of your Leonard Cohen poems. Service him and find the beauty in it. Forget what you want.

"I read your blog."
"Mm?"
"Very messed up young head."
I sighed, maybe too young to have a vocabulary decent enough to say how I feeling.

I knew I'd fuck him right away, of course. I needed to know.

He hadn't even asked yet and already I felt the need to apologise to him for smudging the air with my presence. These feelings are not new to me; it's probably the reason I haven't found a relationship I can stay in. I feel like I'm bothering them, wasting their time, and I slink away quietly not to be heard from again.

I don't remember his precise words to take me to his apartment, but I agreed with my eyes trying to hold his. Just to show I wasn't just young and useless and I could do this properly.

"You might call this love, I call it service".
Get the fuck out of my head, poems of yesteryear.

He led me to his car. Led, me in front, it was obvious that's where I had to be. His hand on my lower back, very gentlemanly, but I could feel the sex in his touch. I knew it must look awkward to the passes by, just because my stiffness contrasted so much with his relaxation.

I kissed him.
He said no.
I battled that deep inner stubbornness and shock again that was a an not doing what I wanted.

Cheeky boy. He's probably seen more than he was going to tell me.

His apartment although small was definitely chosen well on his behalf. Simplicity all the way through. Black and whites. I assumed the painted-over damage on the walls was from a previous owner. Organised, clean, consolidated. I suddenly felt bad for being in a whore's clothes. Even naked would have been classier in that moment.

Leather, pleather couch? Something smooth, easily warmed by body heat. "ass up, head down."
It didn't take me long. I assumed position. In my head I pictured the males who had long harboured fetishes for a dominatrix woman and finally, in their early 40's, had hired one. That excitement of knowing you're getting something, and hoping it was as good as the fantasies.

He stood in front of me, shirt being pulled up a bit, pants slinging lower. He allowed me to unbutton him and as I succeeded and reached in for his cock (impressed), he tapped me on the cheek.

"Don't touch. I didn't say you could touch."

I cooked. I make noises only a dominant male can understand. The childish whining, the longing, the "but siiir!" in a quiet moan.

He slapped my ass a few times, somewhere between softly to test the waters and hard enough to make that smack noise that makes kids everywhere cringe.

"Do you wanna kiss, huh?" tipping my chin up to his, expecting concerned and exciting eyes no doubt. "Yes". He lifted his hand, quickly, "YES SIR."

Better.

God his lips were soft. They took me back to somewhere else, someone else. I remembered those kind of lips. They were the kind to make girls melt inside despite any kind of treatment.

He stepped behind me with a sense of… probably the first time he lapsed out of power in my eyes. He was too quick about it. He wanted it too much.

He pulled my shorts down.
My panties were of the the side, from the position and the shifting.
He pushed them back over me and said harshly "I did not want to see your pussy yet."

Again with that rushed motion. He was in front of me again and breathed deep. "You can touch it, now."

Eagerly, wanting to show him yes sir I am worth your time, I took him into my mouth and found a rhythm. I didn't realise how big he'd be, and put some effort into taking him as far as I could. He didn't seem as pleased as usual. He's encountered all the things I have a lot of pride in before, probably more than once. Young enthusiasm, totalitarian whorism. Desire for comfort, affection.

He's seen it all before.
My game needed to be stepped up, but I wasn't sure where to.

He led me into his bedroom. "Stay in front. Kneel on the bed."
Way ahead of you, man.

Underwear off.
And now he's observing.
"are you clean?"
"Yes sir."
He didn't seem pleased which made me extremely tense. I've never had a problem before. I take a bit of pride in being clean cut and looking like a woman. I like my hips and the way my tummy sets into my pussy. I like my muscular thighs and rounded ass.

I could NOT tell if he found my attractive or not, and I've never had to deal with this.. Not in the throws of sex, anyway.

Fuck he made me tense, nervous.
This is not what a sir is supposed to do, sir, please make me comfortable my head was saying.

The last man I was with spread my legs for the first time and stayed there, for 2 hours, praising me, telling me how beautiful I was. How he loved how tidy my pussy was built. How tight I felt around his fingers. How sweet I tasted.

This man looked at me quizzically as though I was sub par.
He slipped a finger into me and moaned "why are you so tight? I thought you were a good whore."

Fucking someone is hard to describe. It felt as thought he hadn't fucked someone for quite a while, I wasn't going to ask. He stumbled a bit, but once he found his rhythm he was a damn good lay. He reached down to my pussy and fed it to me. "That's not my spit, that's all you."  I could feel he was a stop-start kind of man though.

Something in his head clicked and he decided he was going to teach me to suck cock.

"Tongue out, no teeth, I do NOT want to feel your teeth at all. Just lips and tongue. Do you understand?"

I tried. This was new.

"Your jaw is going to hurt. Your tongue is going to hurt. Deal with it."

If he hadn't critiqued me so strongly I may have tried harder, but his control made up for it. I tried, and I gagged, and I coughed and I spat.

"Do you need some water?"
He lowered himself to my hight.
"It'll help you service my cock."

I declined but was fucking needing to show him I was good enough. That's all.

That fucking mirror on his wardrobe. The light in there made me look so good. The contrast between how I looked in there and how he looked at me. I looked like a porn star, that's how I felt. My skin was white and smooth and my hair was so dark in contrast. Fuck, him pulling it around though was making me quite disheveled.

He came on my tongue, my face. He fulfilled a fantasy of saying "show me".
He tasted not as sweet as he smelled, but not bad.

His cum dripped off my tongue…

He tried anal but I could not handle his size.
I'm not experienced enough.

I never lay on people's chests. I want it more than anything, to lay with someone, but this man offered an invite. I took it before my "don't do that this is how it is made to seem important" kicks in. He was soft skinned, smelled lovely and his stubble was probably only a day old at this point.

Looking at him was interesting for me. A movement of emotions and control. He probably felt uncomfortable but I wanted to look at him. Very handsome. A nice smile. Devious, eternally youthful. I wondered if he hated the grey hair starting to grow? I liked it.

I needed to go.
I would have liked to see him again.