I’m not sure which outlet I had in mind when I wrote this but I know it was turned down by my Penthouse editor as “too rough” and by Michael Perkins as “not rough enough.” So I don’t think it was ever published. But it was written while I was at Penthouse, so sometime in the 1993-1995 neighborhood.
From across the room I saw him: tall, handsome, interesting glasses and shiny, shoulder-length, curly brown hair. He had wide, strong, shoulders that tapered to a tiny waist, cinched into a pair of almost-tight Levis. His button-down shirt didn’t disguise his muscular physique, in fact the blousing accentuated it. I took a long draught of my beer and stared, scheming a way to meet him.
When the models came on stage, parading in a line of leather and latex, leading groveling slaves on chain-link leashes, he pushed toward the front and started snapping pictures. Although his stance appeared professional, his camera was certainly amateur, but the mere fact that he had a camera made him accessible.
“Go up and ask him what the pictures are for,” my friend suggested. I banked on his being a photo buff as an ice breaker and wove my way through the crowd.
While he captured the regal women in their suggestive garments, I admired him from my closer vantage point. He was handsome, with a sharp jawline and a straight, patrician nose. After the models’ finale wound down and the stage lights dimmed, he lost no time getting to the bar, where he ordered two beers. Ah, I thought, he’s here with someone after all. But when he was joined by a six-foot woman in a red latex corset, their body language told me that if they had ever been lovers, they weren’t any longer. After a few words she excused herself and he was alone.
He crossed the room, passing right by me, to sit on a bench against the wall. Now’s my chance, I thought. He looks like he’s just waiting for someone to talk to. I strolled over. “What are the photos for?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“A friend of mine was modeling,” he answered. “They’re for her.” Hmm, good time to end my questioning, I thought. In my 30-odd years I had learned that everyone has walk-in closets positively bursting with skeletons and it’s always better to wait and fall in love—or lust—before allowing one’s past to scare me off. He was here, at this party, simply to photograph his friend. I had no idea whether or not he’d be interested in what I was doing here: invited, peripherally, by a friend who was sleeping with—and supporting—a newly initiated dominatrix. I decided to probe in other directions, resorting to the standard question.
“So, what do you do for a living?” I asked.
“I’m in advertising,” he answered. Excellent, we already had something in common. I swallowed hard at the prospect of him being even more perfect than his mere tall, dark handsomeness made him.
“Really?” I mused, trying to conceal my eagerness. “I’m in advertising, too.”
“Oh? I’m an art director.” Too perfect! “What do you do?”
“I’m a copywriter,” I enthused, thinking that we would make an unbeatable team.
From there the conversation wandered through the usual territory and we discovered that we had a few former coworkers in common. After exhausting advertising we talked about high school and living in New York and people we knew who had married too young. We were getting along unbelievably well and I could barely contain myself. He was sexy, smart and tall and I wanted so badly to collaborate with him. On a number of levels. When my friend tapped me on the shoulder to say that our entourage was leaving, I almost smacked her. However, I turned our impending departure to my benefit and told my new friend, Jansen, that we were moving on to a bar and he was welcome to join us. I gave him the address as we left and hoped he would follow.
An hour later my friends and I were sharing our third pitcher when Jansen walked in. Brilliant, I thought. Nothing better than having a guy track me down. We leaned against the bar and resumed our conversation. When he yawned, apologized and said he had to get some sleep, I boldly ventured, “Mind if I walk you out?” figuring that if he’d followed me to the bar he had to be somewhat interested.
“Sure!” he smiled, and we made our way to the door.
I stood in the street beside his sparkling Harley Davidson and looked into his eyes, attempting to discern just how interested he truly was. I bravely reached out and grabbed him by the belt buckle, pulling him close. His eyes widened and a sort of frightened grin spread across his face. “I hope you don’t mind if I’m a bit aggressive,” I told him. “I usually know what I want and am never afraid to get it.” This was only partly true. I was, in actuality, quite terrified. But he needn’t know that.
“Uh, no, uh, it’s okay with me,” he stammered and I kissed him. It lasted for a long, breath-stealing, spine-tingling time and I could feel his passion pressing hotly against my thigh. Finally I pushed him away and gasped and told him he’d better get on his motorcycle and go home before I ravaged him right in the street. He laughed and reluctantly climbed onto his Harley. I gave him one last quick kiss before he slipped on his helmet and in seconds he was off, guh-guh-guhhing up the avenue. The fact that we hadn’t exchanged phone numbers hit me as he disappeared in a cloud of exhaust and I cursed. Well, I thought, he knows where I work; perhaps he’ll call me at the office.
Returning from a long lunch spent regaling a girlfriend every detail of my having met Mr. Right, I found a pink message slip: “While You Were Out: Jansen Phoned. Will Call Again.” The afternoon was looking bright. Around 3:45 it became blinding when I answered my phone to hear his voice. We made a date for the following Thursday.
So it was dinner on Thursday, a media party the following Tuesday, dinner and dancing a week later, all in a swirl of swooning excitement. By the third week I was ready to have him, take him, to finally, after the proper and polite amount of anticipation and panting and unbearable waiting, pull him into my bed. Readying for yet another date, I fussed over my makeup and wondered what kind of lover my tall, handsome Jansen would be and, after an impressive meal at the trendiest new restaurant in town, I suggested we go back to my apartment for Kahlua and coffee in hopes of finding out.
“I make extremely strong cofee,” I warned him. “You may be up all night,” and I cocked an eyebrow to see if he caught my double entendre. I should have known that my wit wouldn’t be lost on him.
He arched his eyebrow in response and answered, “I usually don’t need much help staying up all night, but if you’d like to make sure, feel free.” I smiled and kissed him deeply, running my fingers up his thigh. The waiter dropped the check onto the table just as I grazed the bulge in Jansen’s crotch.
He stood close behind me as I fumbled with my keys. I hadn’t been this nervous about a guy in years and I attributed it to the fact that, up until now, everything had been so moving-picture-perfect that I was terrified about the sex being anything less. It couldn’t possibly be, I thought stubbornly. As I closed the door and pushed him gently against it, I reached for his fly. I took a good grab of his erect cock, trapped beneath his civilized slacks, kneaded it a bit and listened to Jansen’s breathing becoming heavier. I pulled him by his belt loops over to the couch, sat myself down and positioned him between my legs. I pried open his belt buckle, carefully unzipped his slacks and slid them to the floor.
His burgundy boxers came as no surprise. They seemed to fit the mid-30-year-old art director image I’d had of him. But the protrusion leaning out at me was slightly startling and I groaned in anticipation of taking it full-length into my throat. There was a dark spot at the point where the fabric was stretched and I dabbed my tongue on it, feeling the head of his cock through the satin. Then I sucked it, tasting his ooze mingled with the faint flavor of laundry detergent.
Jansen stood quietly, with his arms at his side, as I licked a sloppy trail of saliva along the waistband of his shorts, prolonging the anticipation. I could hear his rasps but he didn’t make any other sound. No encouragement, no verbal urging. I hoped he was at least enjoying himself as I wormed my tongue under the waistband and then grabbed the slippery fabric, sliding the boxers to his ankles.
When I was face to cock with Jansen I held onto his hips and leaned back to take him in visually. What an impressive body—and prick—this guy had. His tapered torso and all its accompanying muscles culminated in this magnificent cock, jutting out of a triangular forest of sandy curls. He smiled down at me, seemingly proud of his fine physique and as I returned his gaze, I trailed my left hand along his hip, across his thigh and up to his balls, cradling them gently. Still no noises to indicate approval, just a slight hitch in his breath. Well, he wasn’t telling me to stop. I raked my nails through the hair on his balls, pausing to pinch and tweak. This caused Jansen to grunt slightly and as I drew my tongue slowly up his shaft I contined to take little grabs at his scrotum. Reaching the shining head of his cock, I echoed the tiny tweaks by taking a little nibble at his cockhead and Jansen’s hips jerked in response. Ah, he likes a bit of pain with his pleasure, I thought, and as I sucked his cock into my mouth, slathering him with saliva, I ran my teeth across the tightly stretched skin, back and forth, stuffing him slowly into my throat.
With my mouth completely full of Jansen’s stiff cock, I sucked up and down his shaft, my spit dribbling and dripping off of his balls. I worked my hand around them, squeezing, with increasing force, in rhythm with his sliding prick. I concentrated on scraping my teeth against him and at one point I lost a beat and his cock caught more teeth than I’d intended. He let out a deep, animal-like moan and started thrusting into my face frantically, his arms still at his side, and seconds later he was shooting hot spurts of semen across my tongue. As he emptied himself into my upturned throat, I gave his balls a severe squeeze and he folded over, spewing his last few drops, and finally groaning his approval, a long, throaty “Ooohh, yeeeaaahhh.”
Between an assortment of strenuous sexual acts, I gave Jansen head twice before I let him leave the next morning. Each time the scraping and squeezing got more serious and his orgasms intensified. I’ve always been a quick study when discerning exactly how to pleasure a partner, and it became obvious that the way to pleasure my handsome art director was with a liberal amount of pain. I’d encountered men who preferred a delicate mixture of discomfort with their pleasure, but it seemed that I had yet to cause Jansen enough pain to completely blow his mind. I looked forward to giving him whatever it was he needed to experience absolute ecstasy.
Throughout that evening and into the morning, in between orgasms, the two of us had divulged bits and pieces of our pasts. I told him about my few significant affairs and he told me about his most serious—and most recent—with the woman who’d been modeling at the fetish fashion show. After a six-month whirlwind romance they’d moved in together and were engaged to be married. Everything was perfect, he said, until she found herself a night job to make a few extra bucks. A friend had been working as a dominatrix and suggested that she give it a try. At first it seemed a lark, but as it began to take more and more of her time, she quit her day job and devoted all her working hours to the house of domination. Soon she was spending all her free time there and the relationship gradually fell apart. He said he had missed her terribly for the longest time, but now, he allowed, he was over her. Comforting, I thought. But somehow he wasn’t completely convincing.
After he left I stood over my bathroom sink, rinsing out my lingerie, and wondered precisely how much pain she had actually caused him. Someone who was professionally employed to cause pain had to have done a bit more for him than just give his balls a good grab. How extensive a repetoire did I have to live up to? Perhaps, I thought, I should buy myself a book.
As our dates became more sex and less dinner, I expanded my scope of painful pleasuring to include nipple clamps and spanking, assorted straps and strings and clever cords, and even a rather serious-looking pair of handcuffs that I’d run across at an antiques auction. I had, indeed, bought myself a book. And that had led to a few more books and eventually a trip to a discrete sex boutique. As I’ve said, I’m a quick study. On nights we didn’t spend together, I would curl up on the couch with my latest S&M bible and voraciously read about the myriad ways to make Mr. Right the happiest man alive. There was truly nothing I wouldn’t consider and every time we were together he would eventually groan his enthusiastic, orgasmic approval of my latest lesson. No words were ever exchanged about what he preferred and his arms were always either at his side or behind his back, so without his physical and verbal encouragement I was left on my own to improvise and improve upon what I’d gleaned from my books. It was all a bit like a game—or a proving ground. But he was still calling—and coming—so I naturally assumed that I was satisfying him. That was until a certain cocktail party.
The party sounded innocent enough. One of our common ex-coworkers was moving to another city and it seemed the entire advertising industry had been invited to bid him farewell. I was anxious to be seen in public with Jansen. It had been well over three months and things were going so well. He seemed happy and I was way beyond that. I had confided to a few girlfriends that Mr. Right was looking like THE Mr. Right and now I wanted to show him off. I agonized over what I could wear, buying four different outfits, wanting to look as radiant as I felt.
My friend who was under the spell of the neo-domme was going to be at the party, too, and I was especially looking forward to seeing him. He had looked like hell the last few times I’d seen him and our mutual friends attributed his disheveled appearance to his obsession with this vixen. I wanted him to see what true love could do for a person. He’d dallied with this domme long enough. People were worried about him.
After finally settling on a flowing pair of black silk pants and a transparent vest over a stiff, black lace bustier, I tried on a half-dozen different shades of lipstick in an attempt to find just the right color to complement my recently lust-flushed complexion. The choice was made for me when Jansen arrived with an armful of mauve roses that matched my latest trial shade perfectly.
When I put my arm in the air to hail a cab, I suddenly became aware of how much our dynamic in the bedroom carried over into the rest of our lives. At restaurants I was always the one waiters gave the check to, even when Jansen was buying, and I couldn’t recall his ever having hailed us a taxi. I’d always wanted control, and in this relationship it appeared as though I had it.
The cab ride to the party was full of my babbling about who would be there. Jansen volunteered that there would be plenty of people he knew as well and I briefed him on my friend with the troublesome dominatrix. “It sounds to me as though he’s headed for the same ending you experienced with Gwen,” I told him, squeezing his knee tightly and leaning into him. “God, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all poor Stuart!” And Jansen mumbled in agreement.
The party was over a four-star restaurant in Soho and the place was crawling with ultra-hip people—much slicked-back hair, expensive fabrics and of-the-moment footwear. I eyed the crowd, pleased with my wardrobe choice. Jansen appeared to be happy with it as well, as he shyly ran his hand over my silk-sheathed ass. He had fetched us both cocktails the second we’d arrived and we stood, arm in arm, beside the crudite. Neither of us recognized anyone and we laughed that the truly cool people always need to make an entrance. Our friends—who were nothing if not cool—were no doubt waiting for just the right moment.
Before we’d finished our second drinks, the room was full of familiar faces. Jansen and I became separated in the rush of the crowd. Standing in the kitchen with a couple of account execs, I saw Stuart slink in with his dominatrix. Shit! I thought, not out of exasperation that he’d brought her, but at the sight of him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and he held onto Belle’s arm as though she were his mother, leading him through a crowded shopping mall. When he spotted me, he pointed and she nodded. I guess he had told her of my disapproval, because she avoided speaking with me whenever possible. She melted into the crowd as he skulked over to me in search of a seltzer. As he poured—for her, no doubt, since he’d never been one for soda—I asked how he was doing. He mumbled that he was just fine and then brightened as he told me how great I looked.
“Yeah, thanks. I haven’t felt this good in years,” I told him.
“It appears as though love agrees with you,” he said, craning his neck to see where his domme had disappeared to.
“Come, I’ll help you find her,” I said, pulling him through the party.
When we finally spotted her my stomach siezed and my nails dug into Stuart’s arm. She was leaning casually against a wall running her index finger up and down the chest of MY art director, and Jansen didn’t appear nonplussed.
“Fuck, she is the LAST person I wanted him to meet here,” I hissed under my breath.
“It looks to me as though they may have met before,” Stuart offered meekly, and I shot him a stabbing glance. The two of them watched us approach and neither altered their stance. Jansen stood stock still, his hands clasped behind his back, as Belle continued to rake her fingers across his chest. A wave of nausea whooshed over me as I noticed the large crest at Jansen’s crotch. That bitch, I thought, it’s not bad enough that she’s running my poor friend Stuart through the ringer, but now she’s determined to run me through it as well.
I tried to modulate my voice and appear nonchalant. “So, you two have met?” I squeaked out.
“We’ve known each other for months, haven’t we Jan?” There was the most hideous, tormenting tease to her tone of voice. I wanted to throw her up against the wall and shove her perfectly manicured nails down her throat.
“Oh?” I managed to gasp. Jansen hadn’t moved an inch since I’d seen him from across the room. His gaze was directed at the floor and it stayed there.
“Jan here has been one of my best customers ever since mean ol’ Gwen dumped him. I’m afraid I haven’t been able to break his heart or anything, but we’ve had our share of intimate moments.”
I was certain that the entire party could smell the smoke I imagined puffing out my ears. I couldn’t remember ever having felt so unbelievably enraged in my entire life and it was a frighteningly electrifying feeling.
Grabbing Jansen’s chin and lifting his face to mine I asked him, “Is this true?” and he nodded, shaking my arm. A thousand thoughts shot through my mind as I cast around for the proper response, the proper reaction to such a situation. I was casting around in vain. Never having found myself in such a situation, there was no way to determine what the proper reaction would be.
I was entirely too pissed off to enjoy myself, so there was no question—I would be leaving. However, handling my exit gracefully would be difficult.
“Well, I’m out of here,” I blurted. “Are you coming?” I asked, poking Jansen in the chest that Belle had been stroking seconds before. As if a chain had been attached to my finger, with a ring through his nose, Jansen jerked and doggedly followed me out the door.
Down the steep stairs, passing arriving revelers, we did not speak. Out on the sidewalk, the heat of the summer evening wafting up off the pavement, we still did not speak. I thrust my arm in the air and a cab screeched to the curb. As we sped up the avenue I fumed. I had spent these past weeks imagining I’d found Mr. Right and Mr. Right had been out paying for what I thought I’d been providing. I couldn’t undersand it. If only he’d been more verbal. Surely he could have told me what it was he wanted. At least I could have saved him a few bucks. I was mortified.
Throughout the ride, Jansen didn’t move, didn’t speak—he barely breathed. At least he knows I’m pissed, I thought. Maybe I hadn’t been taking things seriously enough. I’d been playing the part with a certain amount of humor. Perhaps I had not properly risen to the stature of my role.
We pulled up to my apartment and I barked, “Get upstairs!” as I paid the cab driver. Jansen slid out of the taxi and scurried to my door, holding it open for me. When I unlocked the door to my apartment, I spat, through clenched teeth, “Get inside. Now!” and I pushed the door open, kicking him in the calf as he hurried in.
I locked the door behind me and turned to see Jansen standing in the middle of the room, staring down, still, at the floor. I let out a torrent of verbal abuse and he cringed. As I approached him, he cowered, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through my body.
“How dare you embarrass me like that! If you feel the need to satisfy yourself elsewhere, the least you could do is tell me. You are a fucking sneak!” and, spewing that last word, I kicked him sharply in the shin. He let out a small squeal and I kicked him again. “What the fuck were you thinking? Alone, your time is your own. But when you are with me, it is mine! Do you understand?” I was shocked at my tone. For the first time, my position felt palpable, no longer a role scripted in a book. I was positively electrified by the combination of adrenaline and the sheer power of my voice. Jansen squeaked out a “Yes.”
And following that meek reply, I was transformed. My chest swelled. My posture became more erect. I felt positively imperial. My partner had become more erect as well, so I snatched up my newest prop, a riding crop, suddenly assured of its uses, and prodded Jansen’s groin with the stiff leather loop.
“You find all this adversity exciting, do you?” I demanded.
“No, no! I knew that sooner or later our paths would cross, but no, the soap opera bullshit doesn’t do anything for me!”
“Then why this?” I scraped at his cockhead with the crop’s loop. He lowered his eyes.
“I love the way you look when you’re angry. Your eyes glisten. Your chest rises. And look at your nipples. They’re hard.”
I looked down. He was right.
“You look…excited. And THAT excites me.” He raised his eyes and looked straight into mine.
“If I excite you, then what were you paying HER for?” I twisted the crop and the loop tightened around his cock. He sucked in a gasp of air with a satisfying hiss. “Hm?”
“Because she can get herself really worked up…really pissed…like you are now.” I loosened the noose. “And she’s comfortable with her…severity.”
“Is that all?”
“Well,” he began slowly, his cock still hard in the lax loop of my crop, “I’ve never been with anyone who was so eager to indulge my fantasies. So, I would get what I could from our relationship and what I couldn’t get, I would pay for.”
A sudden flash of anger gripped me and I gave Jansen another kick. “Are you so ashamed of your desires that you’re terrified to verbalize them?” I didn’t wait for him to respond. Obviously he was able to verbalize them when there was a cash transaction involved. “What are you thinking right now?” I demanded, and I slapped his face. His brown curls shook with the impact of my hand and I watched the skin of his cheek bloom to a deep pinnk. “I’ll tell you what you want! You want to be treated like shit. And that’s what you deserve for treating me like shit, do you understand? I will not tolerate being treated like shit! Understand?” I cracked the back of my hand across his other cheek. My knuckles stung but, judging from the way Jansen’s neck snapped, the blow stung his face even more. But instead of crying out, he groaned. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Is this what you pay HER for?” I shouted.
Jansen squeaked out a “Yes” and that was all it took. I closed in and rained a series of blows on his chest, his shoulders, his neck. And in the midst of all the pummeling, I glanced at his crotch. He was still hard. This WAS what he wanted. This was what turned him on. His dick was hard and his breathing was labored and the small squeals he was emitting were the exact sounds I had been wanting and waiting to hear the dozens of times I’d sucked his cock. I ripped open the oxford cloth shirt and the sound of the buttons ripping from their fragile threads was complemented by another little shriek from Jansen.
I scraped my fingernails across his chest, etching a pink web across his Hamptons-tanned flesh. His knees buckled slightly and he wavered. Deftly unbuckling his belt, I slipped it smoothly out of its loops and dangled it as I undid his slacks and slid them to his knees. Then I grabbed at the satin waistband of his boxers and yanked them down, dragging his erection along with them before it sprang back up, smacking his belly with a little “ttthip!” His cock was swollen to a bulging burgundy and it made me unbelievably hot just looking at it. I was wildly torn between pushing him down into my crotch or climbing onto that beautiful cock. The cock won.
Dropping the belt and grabbing Jansen by the lapels of his torn button down, I shoved him onto the carpet. He kind of collapsed, since his knees were still bound by his boxers and slacks. I wished for tile floors so he would be more uncomfortable, but decided that there were other ways to cause him discomfort. As I slowly unfastened my chiffon vest and reached behind my back to free the clasp of my bustier, I pressed my foot into his groin. His cock was hard under the heel of my pump as I jabbed it, nudged it, scraped it. I ordered him to watch me undress and continued to tease his dick, leaving little round, red marks up and down his cock, across his abdomen and along his thigh with the spike of my heel.
Jansen had suddenly bcome a communicator, grunting and squealing his excitement and groaning encouragement. And I was finally able to pleasure him in the exact way he’d wanted to be pleasured all along. At one point I wondered aloud why it was that he hadn’t communicated his desires sooner, why he’d felt compelled to pay for services that I would’ve gladly rendered him free of charge. As he thrashed beneath my heels, a dribble of spit trailing across his cheek, he gurgled that he’d never met anyone who would completely indulge him outside the boundaries of bondage houses. I found that ridiculous and told him so, and he sobbed that he’d had no idea of the extent of my desire to indulge him. “Well, now you know,” I growled at him, aiming a sharp toe at his anus and prodding.
“Lay there, and don’t move an inch,” I commanded him.
I stripped off my silk pants, tossed them aside and straddled Jansen’s stomach. Then I squatted and slowly slid down onto his erection. He sank deep inside me and although he felt incredible, I wanted to frustrate him into a frenzy. I slid off and let his cock slap back onto his stomach with another “ttthip.” I repeated this little game until Jansen was practically howling. When I raised my hips and slammed myself back down onto him once more, I simply couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull myself up off his hot cock. I began to ride him. I ground into his pelvis with a passion I’d never experienced before, shoving my tits into Jansen’s contorted face.
I could tell he wasn’t far from orgasm and I didn’t want to forfeit the powerful spasm of semen that I knew would be forthcoming, so I sped up my rhythm. When he started panting as though he was about to climax, I warned him that his orgasm was not to come before mine. I squirmed on his thrusting pelvis, taking him in as deeply as I could, until I felt the familiar tingling sensation start in my toes. I dug my nails into his shoulders and his resulting squeal was the last bit of stimulation I needed. My cunt clenched in waves of orgasm. Jansen’s cock took its cue and spasmed as well, spilling pent-up streams of hot come deep inside me. When my head cleared, I knelt and looked down at Jansen.
“You are mine, do you understand?” I panted.
“Yes, Mistress,” Jansen responded gravely. “I am yours.”
“Your last girlfriend, she was getting paid to…I mean, why didn’t you ask her to…um…indulge you.”
He sighed. “Yeah, you’d think that would’ve been the perfect situation. But all she wanted with me was vanilla sex. She saw the dominatrix thing as a job, just a way to make some extra money. She couldn’t deal with the fusion of dominance and love. To her, they were completely separate concepts.”
“I believe I can deal with the two as one concept,” I said sternly, twisting his cock into the noose again. “But you’ll have to teach me. And with more than your little groans and twitches.”
Grabbing the riding crop, he pulled me to him, took my wrist and drew my hand over his chest.
“Scratch me,” he whispered. “Hurt me.” I blinked questioningly. “Don’t be afraid.”