Working night receptionist at the entryway of a ritzy building of apartments and penthouse suites was a dream job for a college student like me. It was stupidly unfair how easy it made my life because there were, like, two basic rules for the rich people who lived there and they all followed them to a t. After my shift started, no one got in without a key and there was no drama. Literally, whatever the laziest solution was on my part was the correct solution.
For someone taking a full slate of accounting classes during the day, this was perfect. Boring was good. Boring meant getting homework done. The security doors meant I was always safe, always. There was never any danger. The worst part of the job was the crazy, old money guy on the top floor who randomly called and asked about the weather for the rest of the week, but the six other major tenets in the penthouse suites were wonderful. It wasn’t a large building and even the weird guy randomly left Werthers laying on the desk, when I was busy running end of the month reports and whatnot.
The rest of the time, I did my boring homework and lived my boring life. The only other interesting part about it all was that I got to see the guy who lived on the sixth floor when he came in some nights. His name was Aramis Kilgore.
No, really. That was it. I remember when I first saw his name on the roster and thought that was the most amazing name ever. And then I instantly felt bad for the guy. On the one hand, being named after a Three Musketeer was awesome. On the other, holy shit, but his parents must have hated him. I remember the first day on the job when I waved to him, he introduced himself as his middle name. Shane. I didn’t even realize he was floor six for a long time, but I knew he was a tenant. He had a key and he was always polite, always.
“Good evening, Hunter.”
The night when my life ceased to be happily boring, I waved at him as he walked through the door, smiling at me like he did every night. God, he had these teeth like the big bad wolf, straight and perfect, and these sky blue eyes with the proverbial blonde hair. In high school, I had hated blonde hair and blue eyes, because they went with pretty faces and I couldn’t stand that then. But he had the standardized, serial seducer perfection. It made my brain forget whatever class I was working on at night. “Good evening, Aramis.” I grinned when I said it.
And he grimaced. “Jesus, no. It’s Shane.”
“All for one and one for all,” I called back after him, proud of myself for even managing to kind of flirt with this man. He never brought girls back when he came in at nights, and I always wondered what the hell he did that he got in so late on some nights. He was obviously rich as fuck, because he lived in the most expensive suite in a ritzy building and he was the only somewhat younger tenant. But he always seemed to be energetic when he got in, too. Sometimes, he would stay at the desk and talk with me about my classes, ask me about myself, ask me how I was. I never asked about his life because it would have felt nosy when I was just supposed to “hold the door open” for him.
Sometimes, he would just shake his head at my statement and go up to his suite, leaving my fantasies to wander, leaving me to daydream. I looked at the cameras, biting my lip. He was the last person to get in for the night and there was no one left to take care of. The rest of the night was going to be quiet as the grave.
On my tablet, I closed the website I used for school and opened the word processor I used for writing instead.
Athos wasn’t the type of person I usually would have lusted after, but he always had this air of control, no matter how polite he was, and he was always polite. Being his secretary was even worse. I didn’t realize quite what I was getting into when I applied for the job, but having accounting experience and being polite seemed to have gone in my favor. It had taken about two weeks to realize I had a very big problem.
I idolized him, wanted him. God, the way he looked at me for any task, with this direct gaze that wouldn’t let me look away. I couldn’t say no to him. And it had all eventually led to this.
“Savi, I thought I said I wanted the ledger done at 8:00. What time is it?”
I whimpered, knowing where things were headed. Over the course of months, things had gotten way out of my control and it was probably immoral, probably bad. But I also kind of didn’t care. “8:15, sir.”
My sex ran wet just from saying that word now. He commanded it, made it seem like a natural thing, and I wanted to call him that. “Bend over the desk, kitten, there’s a good girl.”
And those words. Holy hell. I bent over his desk and placed my hands flat on the surface, like he had trained me to do. When he lifted my skirt over my back, I shivered and closed my eyes, already dying from hot arousal. “I’m sorry, sir.” And even though I really liked this, I also really was sorry because I liked pleasing him more.
In answer, he chuckled behind me and his palm slapped against my ass, gentle but controlling. I groaned into the surface of his desk, lifting my ass for more of his strikes.
“Huh, yup, what?” I tapped out of the processor... and straight into the erotica website I posted my kinky fantasies on to share with other people, even while I dropped the tablet on the desk. Internally, I kind of panicked. I could either hope he wouldn’t see anything, where it landed behind the computer screen, or I could draw attention to it, when I was already blushing, and see him tease me more.
Because he was definitely already going to tease me. He was grinning as it was. “Getting bored late at night, huh?”
I laughed. “Yes, actually. And The Stand is a scary ass book.”
He lifted an eyebrow, smirking. “Uh huh, sure. What part are you on then?”
“Larry is in the tunnel with that random girl he runs into and there’s dead bodies everywhere, Korn reference intended.”
Shane’s eyes were glittering with amusement. “Damn, you did actually choose a book you had read and thought quick on the spot. I’m impressed.”
“Because I’m telling the truth.” Stop blushing, stop blushing, stop fucking blushing.
I didn’t stop blushing and his grin only widened. “Alright, sure. Will you get the mail that was dropped off for me so I can leave you to The Stand, then? It wouldn’t have been from today. I just haven’t gotten a chance to pick it up yet.”
He leaned against the counter and I took a deep breath. Shit, that was going to leave the tablet right behind the computer screen. Well, at least it wasn’t opened to a specific story. That would have been way worse. I forced myself to leave and went to the holding room, searching for a box that would have been dropped off for him. I did find what he was talking about, something from nearly a week ago. Jesus, how busy was he? Normally, I kept up with mail that came in pretty well, but not for something that showed up on a day I had off a week ago.
I took it out to him, blushing again, but this time it was because I felt incompetent. “Sorry that took me so long. I’m really sorry.” I lifted it to the desk, unable to meet his eyes and cringing with apology. This was why I worked a night shift job, incidentally, and also why I was trying for a degree that would make sure I didn’t have to have much human interaction. I had zero backbone. “I normally keep up really well.”
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s my fault for leaving it here so long.” Finally, when his voice didn’t sound angry, I looked up and he winked with that damn charming attitude he had. He was the nicest person who lived there too. Any of the others would have totally yelled at me for not having it accounted for and ready. “Thanks Hunter.” He smiled easily. “Enjoy the rest of The Stand.”
It worked. I laughed and he went back upstairs. When I was sure he was gone that time, I double checked the tablet. It was untouched and on the same page it had been when I left to get his box.
Maybe if I’d stopped to consider it, I would have realized that the display timer settings meant the screen should have turned off by then. I didn’t, though. I just went back to my writing app and started again, fantasizing about him spanking me as his secretary. I had gone through all the daydreams fueled by standard porn stories by then, too. I wrote about buying a dress from a department store he owned and being unable to pay. I wrote about him being a mafia boss and getting caught double crossing him. There was one where he was a personal trainer and I was a rich man’s daughter who blackmailed him, only to have it backfire when I got addicted to his cock. Still another starred him as my teacher and my grades went bad when I started to fantasize about him instead of paying attention to him. Story after story after story.
Full disclosure? I was a dream child growing up. I was demure, always polite, my grades were perfect, and they were still perfect. I was good at everything and even my boss for this job loved me. Her only problem was that I wasn’t assertive enough to work during the daytime. I was too good. But I kind of had one major character flaw.
I was horny as fuck. But I was too shy to do much about it, so I masturbated a lot and wrote kinky stories with not very creative storylines, but kind of hot sex. They actually turned out to be pretty well liked when I posted them, too. I wrote in all my D/s daydreams, wrote everything I could think of. And I tried to change up the appearance of the people in them, but really they all started with my fantasizing about him. It was probably a good thing I was this shy or I’d be one hell of a slut, actually.
If given half the chance to reenact the stuff I wrote, to feel what it would be like, I’d probably take it.
First thing’s first. I hate my name. I think it’s a nightmare and the way it goes with the last name of Kilgore? Holy God, no. It’s freaking terrible. I give my mother playful hell over it all the time because she was way too in love with Dumas. The Count of Monte Cristo was something she read to me in the cradle.
And yet, I discovered a good thing about my name that night after I flirted with Hunter. Okay, so, it was wrong of me to turn her tablet and glance at her pen name, but the thing was I recognized the logo and background of the erotica site she had opened to a writer’s page. I had a writer’s page on it as well, though I never wrote. I just liked to favorite stories so I would receive recommendations in certain genres like BDSM and taboo tags. So the truth was we shared in the embarrassment. Even so, it was wrong of me to look for her private writings when she used a pen name.
But I was feeling... frisky. I owned a hospitality company and a couple of hotels of my own. Basically, franchises had standards and sometimes hotels didn’t always meet those standards. When that happened, the franchise forced the owner of the property to hire someone, like me and my brother, who had proven themselves in those standards and they had to pay us to manage and bring their property up to par. And let’s just say they had to pay us a lot. That day, a year’s worth of work had come to fruition and I had succeeded in acing an inspection with a property that had failed for about five years or so before I was hired.
Needless to say, I felt giddy. I had gotten the news while I was at the office of one of my own hotels and then had a drink with my brother, who owned the business with me, to celebrate. So I did something a little too forward of me and looked up her pen name.
I wasn’t sure why her, though. That was a strange thing. Normally, I would find a one-night-stand at Sulfur’s, which was my favorite fetish bar, or call someone else I knew to play with me, but for some reason the cute little night shift door guard made me grin lately. She had this way of bowing her head and she apologized way too much for everything. It had taken me months of kind greetings just to get her to even kind of flirt back with me, the quiet thing. Not that I minded that, but damn, I was used to girls reacting to my charm and good looks. Maybe it was going to my head. Okay, it was probably going to my head.
I opened her writer’s page out of curiosity, feeling light and playful. I couldn’t help myself. It had gotten my interest that she would have a page on that site.
I would never regret doing it. Oh man, she didn’t just have a page. She had lists after lists of stories and all under different tags. “Woah.” Noncon, incest, BDSM, and all kinds of fetishes. But that wasn’t what got to me. What got to me were the ones with the name Athos in the de***********ions. “No way.” I was grinning when I opened one.
It couldn’t be. This was just my narcissism chasing her, the same way it was my narcissism needing her to flirt back and talk with me, right? It had to be. She was going to my head. I opened one of the stories and went down to read.
Athos was blonde, blue eyed, pretty faced, and he hated his name, first and foremost. The Three Musketeers, really? At least, that’s what he thought.
I thought it was crazy awesome. The only thing more awesome would be to be named after Aramis, the priest played by Charlie Sheen. But Athos was pretty cool too, honestly. The truth was I was kind of a sucker for literary references. Maybe that’s part of why he got such control over me like he did. Maybe that’s why I gave over and things got a little out of hand.
What tag was I under with this one? Reluctance, right. I scrolled down to the sex part and my eyes went wide.
“I think you know exactly what I mean, little kitten. You’ve been doing a little bit of questionable accounting and now you need to pay me back.”
My heart thundered and I ran soaked between my legs, hating myself for the response. He was so handsome and this was going so wrong and this shouldn’t be how it made me feel. “S-sir?”
But I knew what he meant and he knew I knew because he was smiling that perfect smile with those wolf teeth. “A little bit of punishment sessions, shall we say, until I tire of having a little toy to play with. Let me acquaint you with the idea, since you seem to need to be shown. Take your skirt off and bend over that chair for my belt. We’ll start with five this first time, if you can be still for me. If you move, I add five more.”
I read myself belt her pussy, causing her to move so that I ended up belting her 15 times in total. Jesus, she had great fantasies. I clicked out and went to another Three Musketeer themed story. And in that one, the main character had dark hair and dark eyes, but I was onto the gist of this. He spoke with an easy smile, with perfect teeth, and he had a pretty face again. And in that one the tag was under mind control, so I could read myself brainwash her to be an out-of-control, horny slut. I read myself holding her in chastity belt toys so often that she broke and craved cock, turning shivery after three hours would go by where I didn’t fuck her. That one obviously wasn’t supposed to be as realistic, but I was stroking my cock thinking of it. What was more, I was imagining it really was her and I.
Holy shit. It only got more and more interesting and her favorite nickname to write me saying was “kitten”. “Such a horny fucking kitten I have” or “look at this kitten’s drenched cunt at being turned into a whore”. Punishment. Manipulation. Sometimes she could write sweet little love stories, and not just porn, and the sex in those was hot as fuck too, even while it was romanticized.
I masturbated harder than I had in weeks and glanced at the door of my home office thoughtfully. I had a kinky little dungeon behind my office door, a playroom. But I hadn’t used it since I’d gotten divorced from my past submissive. It was a story that kind of made me sad, if I was honest with myself. We had felt something for each other, but I had a bit of a character flaw. Maybe it’s an obvious one.
It went with being a Dom, actually. See, I was a little bit of a control freak. Control soothed me down to my hardest edges and made me calm, made me see life clearly. And I tried to warn the girls I dated, especially the girl I married. And she had been okay with it. At least, she thought she had been okay with it.
But then, as our marriage went on, she started to realize that it wasn’t a game to me. I controlled her diet, controlled her clothing, all of it. And it wasn’t for any degradation reason, even. That might have been the worst part about it, actually. It was purely my own selfish proclivity that I needed control. It wasn’t that I distrusted my partner when I wanted them to text me when they left work and got home. It was that I got off on their obedience. It was my drug and I craved more of it the more I cared about the person.
I hadn’t played with another person since my divorce because it made me realize that my love might not have been very desirable. I had been wary since then.
But now, I kind of wanted to play a little more seriously. I kind of wanted to be back in the relationship pool, maybe not to date, but to feel companionship and to play. To dominate again, maybe just a little. I grinned at the thought of the playful scenarios in the stories she had written about me. She was so adorable and maybe this kinky edge was something I had sensed. My dominant radar was pretty well developed and it wasn’t like she was obscure with her submissive tendencies in her day-to-day life. Granted, I had certainly not expected this from her at all.
Now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure why. It was usually the quiet ones that hid such deviancy under their shyness when it came to BDSM. It was amazing how many shy submissives would stay around the edge of the clubs and then come to the forefront, only to beg the loudest when their submission was nourished and encouraged. It was a quality like any other, one that could be shamed during childhood and one that could leave scars of embarrassment.
I didn’t want any of that for her, even though I was trespassing with these stories and thoughts. I thought it was a sin to shame a submissive for any kind of hedonism. They often came with kind hearts and a love language of service. When a submissive gave you a gift and looked at you with a hopeful gaze, you always praised her and expressed your gladness. So I didn’t want to make her feel embarrassed for writing the stories about me. I did kind of want to fuck with her and flirt though.
I grinned and went to my own writer page, using the writing interface for the first time ever. I wasn’t sure how good this would end up being. In fact, I was pretty sure this was going to be shit, but if I threw myself out there as well, it put us on equal level, kind of. I had the story title before any of the rest. “It’s Always the Quiet Ones”.
Fisher hated her name because she thought it was a guy’s name, but she was born of a career marine and there it was. And for all that, she didn’t have any of the qualities that a daughter of a marine should have. She was quiet, too quiet sometimes, and she was shy. Her father had always thought her submissiveness to be a weak quality, but I loved it. I thought it was the greatest part about her.
There was only one quality, in fact, that I would have changed. You see, Fisher thought that boring was synonymous with safe and I wanted to make her blood race with filthy games from the beginning. I wanted to tie her down and watch her be scared, while I snapped a crop to her thighs, so that she squealed with laughter and fear at the same time. I wanted to watch her break while she laughed.
The trouble with Fisher was how wary she was to actually play my games. Oh, she definitely fantasized, wrote all kinds of filthy little stories, but when it came to real life? I eventually realized that I was going to have to force her.
I wrote and wrote and wrote and sometimes it was definitely shit that I would have to go back and carefully edit. I wrote a noncon story where I hunted her down and forced her, where I played out the part of the big bad wolf and called her my little red kitten, the prey I wanted to eat. I wrote how I would lick her little pussy until she screamed in need, how I would slap her tits roughly. It wasn’t a long story, but I ended up all night editing and working on it before I posted it.
Two days later I got the notice that it had been approved and then I sent her a private message with a link to my story, grinning with mischief.
I stared at the story that had been linked to me, blinking. This was the first time something like that had happened. It was rare I got private messages on the kinky erotica site I wrote on, so when the message had come through, I had smiled happily, thinking this was another writer to upvote and help out.
But then I had read it and with every word my eyes got wider and wider. This was... was this me? It was described like me. A girl with blonde hair and a single light pink stripe in it. The daughter of a career marine who hated her name. It seemed like me. Like real life me. I was sitting at my little reception desk when I read it and the sound of the door opening made me jump and close the site. “Hello, Sh-Shane.”
He grinned. “Wow, it only took you months to use my middle name instead of that godawful first name.”
I blinked, then grinned. “You caught me on an off day. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to annoying you later.” I forced her bowed over my bed, now that I had tricked her to come into my apartment. “You’re secretly a naughty little girl, kitten. You just need a little encouragement to let loose. I think it’s time I gave you that.”
“Well, how do I make it an off day again so I can keep hearing you call me Shane instead, kitten?”
My face went blood red with the nickname. Had he ever called me that before? Holy Christ, I didn’t think so, but how the hell would he know? How? I thought of leaving my tablet on the table a couple of nights ago. “I don’t know.” My voice came out a squeak of fear and he laughed.
“Maybe I’ll just keep calling you that.” He winked. “That seems like it threw you off. Will I get to see you tomorrow night?”
You call me sir, kitten, when I have you under me and mewling for orgasm. My mind was going haywire, wondering what was fantasy and what was reality at the moment. That disconnect bled into my response and the damage was done even while I tried to stop the words from escaping. “No, sir. Not until the next day.”
Holy. God. No. I didn’t. The word made my heart thunder, that magical word that I had written and never said to guys I was interested in because I was way too shy to ask someone for what I wanted in bed. Holy shit. Holy God fucking shit, my body went hot all over just from saying it. The thought of him having some kind of authority over me turned me on. The verbal acknowledgment of his having authority over me?
My gears cranked in all the right ways and I was desperately trying to ignore the feeling of heat between my legs because it was freaking painful. When I shifted under his gaze, which lit up with his own wild light, I could feel wetness in my little heart patterned g-string. His lips lifted and there was a moment between us where I forgot everything. It was almost like... like deja vu maybe. “Such a pity, little kitten. Well, then, I hope you enjoy the rest of your night and your day off. Have fun reading The Stand.” He winked.
And then he left while I trembled and wondered what the hell had just happened. I swallowed and dove back for the story, reading more. My heart went even crazier with the sexy content and the reluctance story. ”Bad girl, kitten, for being a little tease.”
“I’m just shy, I swear I didn’t mean to tease!”
And then at the end of the story, there was another sentence that made me choke, one that let me know what was happening. It ended with the guy tying the girl down and training her to ask readily for cock. He forced her to go to him for more training and sessions of his mastery and at the end of the story, she started to realize that she was his plaything and she couldn’t even get off to thoughts of vanilla sex anymore. So the guy had her tied to his bed, with her ready to be used as his pet toy, and he teased her nipples and asked, “Are you enjoying The Stand, kitten?”
He knew. It was him and he knew and he wrote that story and it was supposed to be me and I wasn’t crazy. God, no. I thought over the flirting look in his eyes and realized that I wasn’t crazy at all. It was him. At first, I felt horror for about thirty minutes, but then it was erased as I went back through the pages of his own story and realized that he had described himself. And then I realized, mind racing, just what I was reading.
“I’m going to punish you again for being a tease. Using shyness is just a cop out, an excuse. I will train it out of you until you’re my little wanton, kitten.”
And suddenly I realized something. I couldn’t talk to people or flirt very well, couldn’t do anything out loud, but when it came to writing I could be very bold. My fetters of terror, the ones that came from interaction and fear of confrontation of any kind, were off my wrists. I was free to play back in this form.
My heart thundered with nerves and excitement and thrill and it was amazing. All my life had been boring monotony, menial night shifts where I would read my books and do my homework and write my sex stories, where I would study like a good girl and where I ruined grade curves in difficult classes. I had always kept my head down and always put in the work.
And now I felt excitement. And it was wonderful! I could play and flirt back in this way. I went to my notepad and did something I had never done before. I wrote a short story for the “fictional correspondence” tag.
I hope this letter finds you well. Your previous games of training have been intense and I know you wanted me to be more forthcoming on things I love, things I like, and things I hate so you can better use them in training me. Being trained to be more sexually open and less timid is difficult, but I know you said you want a slave who is nice and greedy, eager and slutty for cock.
Things are starting to get confusing. I used to hate the thought of receiving oral because of how bare and vulnerable it makes me feel, but when you held the vibe to me with my legs spread apart every day for a week, I couldn’t help but need more. I love the feel of your tongue fucking me open and I love the filthy things you say the most, like how you taunt me for hating oral when my cunt drenches at the first touch of your tongue now.
I wrote and wrote, forcing myself to let go in the fantasy. It helped, when I wrote, to try to relate to my characters and I was imagining myself as the girl suffering through his training in his story, so I went back to reread periodically. The result was that I wrote something sluttier than ever, playing the part of a slave in mental control training who was being forced to be more open. I went for my own shyness in the character, while displaying my secret, inner horny self, that part of me that religiously masturbated three times a day. I even “confessed” to some of those darkest fantasies I masturbated to, ones I had never told anyone. I forced myself to edit the letter while still in the throes of playing a role, keeping myself in it.
Afterwards, when I was home because it had taken so long, I forced myself to post it and then I threw my tablet onto my pillow and grasped my hair with wide eyes, mortified and terrified and grinning with a wicked excitement that I had never felt before. Oh man. This was a dangerous feeling. I had never acted on these crazed fantasies, and they had grown insanely out of control and intense over an amount of time. It had been driving me crazy, the thought that I might never get to try bowing to a man, just to see how it felt. I had gotten so desperate that I was thinking of ways to be servile to someone in real life without even having to add sex to the factor. I wanted the sex, craved it, but I burned to feel authority over me. I don’t know why that was, only knew that it was a deep part of my being and it had been confusing me all my life with a secret torment. My father was a career marine and I had been raised in a feminist world. And it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in things like female empowerment! Not at all, because I did.
But I kind of wanted to be made to dress in a maid outfit. I kind of wanted to do things like serve a man food and be made to kneel until he finished, submissive and sweet at his feet. I felt like it was something I would be good at in life, like I was good with Microsoft’s Excel and accounting and numbers. It was probably wrong and my fantasies concerned me because I didn’t want to set feminism back, but I kind of wanted to feel a patriarchal over-the-knee spanking and to tremble in a male’s arms. I kind of wanted to feel the fact that he was bigger and stronger than me and there was nothing I could do about it.
What was even worse? The deepest part of the desire held hands with my horny arousal, but it didn’t stem from it. No, the deepest part of me craving male dominance stemmed from the fact that I kind of wanted to be taken care of, so I could feel safe and secured. And I wanted that “taken care of” bit to involve being a sexual servant, as well as any other kind that would please my partner.
Good lord. Maybe I was totally setting feminism back anyway. I was supposed to be a strong female, making it through college to take care of herself. And then I decided I was sick of thinking about it because whenever I did think about my submissive tendencies, I only felt worse about myself. So instead, I grabbed my vibrator and went back to his story and held the toy against my clit until I forgot everything but the pleasure, laying in my tiny little apartment. I liked to think of it as my kitten cage, because it was so small.
I grinned at that thought and went to my bathroom with a new idea and way to flirt with him. This one would involve a little bit of face-to-face, but I found myself emboldened by his foray.
When I knew she was going to be there two nights later, I deliberately stayed out late so that I would get in when she was there. She had written one hell of a hot story in the form of a fake letter and it had posted that night, right before it was time for me to go home and see her face. I ended up staying a little later so that I could finish reading it, where she confessed to fantasies she didn’t want anyone to know about in her little role play. I wondered how close those fantasies hit to her heart at first, but then the fake letter said,
These are things I have to confess to masturbating to a lot, but I don’t want them to happen ever. You see, sir, I have some fantasies that I use to orgasm hardest because of how horrified they make me. I couldn’t ever get aroused by something like scat in real life, for instance, but if I’m drunk and it’s hard to orgasm, I might have to use the horror of the thought to get off. If that makes sense.
And I knew that these things were very close to her heart. That made me blink when I read it, because I felt... sad for her. It was clear that she was all alone in these fantasies, in real life, and she was using these stories to find some sort of connectivity with other people like her. But even so, she had those fantasies. The ones that were so dark they scared her and they were masturbation fantasies because of, like she said, a certain mental shock and awe factor. I had some of my own actually. One of mine that I masturbated to, like that, was of having a slave whose head I shaved, to teach her a humiliation lesson in vanity.
Did I really want to do that? God, fuck no. I loved the western female appearance I had grown up with. It was a beautiful appearance. If a girl I was with was proud of her hair, then I wasn’t going to do fuck all to it, except style it in ways I liked, to feel in control of her. There were huge differences between fantasies that were only for the thought and fantasies that one wanted to make a reality. Having both was nothing to be ashamed of. It was the sign of a healthy mind, to have both and distinguish which folders held which fantasies. Real life didn’t work like daydreams. I felt like so many people in the world really just needed to be told that it was okay. It was okay to have those dark paths, at nights while getting off, and to know you never wanted to indulge in that. As someone with a little bit of sadism in my desires, I had struggled with the thought for a long time.
Poor Hunter. I had had friends when going through my self discovery, had gotten to experiment with things in real life to learn the difference. It didn’t sound like she had had anyone to even talk with.
And then, of course, besides my moment of heart in reading my little receptionist’s story, I ended up having to go find a private place to masturbate before I left too. When I read her talking about getting off with a vibrator just thinking about me tongue fucking her, it was game over. I went to the bathroom, with some fucking tissue paper like a goddamned teenager, to the thought of lifting her onto her receptionist’s table and kneeling to suck her clit into my mouth, while she shouted in need.
See? Now that’s a fantasy that is obviously just to stay a fantasy. We could both get arrested if I did that right there in the doorway and she’d get fired. But I loved getting off on the thought of forcing her to do it. And it made me feel more sane when I was leaving, more in control enough to flirt with her.
It turned out that I needed that control too. When I used my key and walked into the lobby, I felt my lips curl up into a grin of wolfish delight at the sight of her. She instantly looked up and froze like a bird meeting a snake’s gaze, but I was frozen too.
She was wearing a set of kitten ears with silent little decorative bells in the corners. I broke the moment first and walked to her desk, trying to quell some of the raging lust she was giving me. He likes to use the nickname as a degradation, as if I’m a pet. “Hello, kitten.” I purred the word out, imagining her curled up at my knees with a little collar on. Except I wouldn’t make her play the part of a kitten. True little kittens were mischievous and they liked hunting things.
But she wasn’t a kitten. No, she was a soft little puppy who would be playful, but not rebellious or bratty. I would plug a fluffy tail in her asshole, fix some furry ears to her hair, and I would make her bark for me. “Hello, Shane.”
She was blushing fiercely again, too, and my smile widened. She trembled a little beneath my gaze, so afraid of even this confrontation. Jesus, she was a delight in all the best ways and now I was starting to realize that fact. Now that I knew what daydreams went through that head of hers, I couldn’t help but notice every little nuance. The way her eyes remained respectful and downcast, for instance, or the way she took breaths for bravery at even the smaller interactions. I wanted to pull out the girl I knew was hiding in that mind and see if she would play with me. So I grinned playfully. “Aw, now I’m starting to worry that I’ll never get to hear someone call me Aramis again.”
It worked. She smiled up at me, with a playful little gleam in her eyes. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll get back to it eventually. It’s just for right now that we aim to please.”
I laughed. “I see. Just for right now we’re being a good little kitten and doing what Sir tells you to.”
She swallowed, eyes going wide with my straightforward flirting. “Yes. Yes, sir.”
The word was breathy coming from her lips and I felt my cock get hard again from it. Oh, but I had never gotten to play with a submissive who wasn’t experienced with the game and now I was wondering why that was. It was clear she was very inexperienced and not trained or used to these things at all. But it wasn’t irritating, no. It was sweet and made me imagine petting her hair while I trained her, made me imagine calling her a good girl and teaching her the difference between kittens and puppy girls and bunnies. “That was very polite. It was so polite that I’ll order you a present, little kitten.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “Wait, no, don’t do that! No, really, I-“
I cut her off. The submissives I had played with all knew that gifts were for their top’s pleasure. But for a little new one like Hunter? I knew she wouldn’t see it like that and I couldn’t let her feel so shy over receiving a present from me. I made a tsking motion with my fingers. “Are you telling me what to do? I don’t think I like that.”
She swallowed. “Ah. No. No, not telling you what to do. I didn’t mean it like that. Honest! I guess I meant that... um... I don’t know what I meant.”
I grinned. “I do know what you meant. Gifts are like compliments, kitten. Learn to accept them. It’s a gift that will make me happy to give you and you’ll see what I mean when you get it. Try again and say ‘thank you, sir’ instead.”
She took a deep breath, clearly uncomfortable, the notion at war in her mind. I wondered what kind of gifts she had gotten that had made her wary of receiving them. Many people ended up fearful of surprises when previous relationships used them for unwanted leashes or for guilt trips, I knew. And then there were people who lied and said it pleased them to give a significant other a gift, when they would have rather spent the money on something else but wouldn’t confess it and would harbor a sense of martyrdom instead. My own past relationships had shown me how complex guilt could make things like gifts.
“Thank you, sir,” she managed out.
I leaned over the desk, feeling playful and wanting to show her this world of mine, wanting to teach her about it. Oh, but I hadn’t given enough thought to something as basic as teaching. “Good girl,” I said softly. “That was brave of you.”
Her eyes lit up. They turned purely delighted with those two basic statements. I didn’t even think she realized it, but her whole face came alive and the way she smiled... It was something magical to see. “Um. Thank you, sir?” She answered bashfully.
I laughed and winked. “There we go. Have a good night for now. Maybe you’ll get a link soon.”
She giggled, face red with exhilaration and shy blushes, but eyes so alive. When I was almost to the elevator, she called after me for one last thing. “Oh! And I am enjoying The Stand, thank you for asking.”
I was still laughing when I got on the elevator and went to my floor.
The sudden abrupt dance of flirting I found myself in made me too thrilled to be upset by it. On the one hand, it was true I was too shy to ever initiate something like what he was doing. On the other, I was glad he had initiated it in such a way that let me flirt back because the adrenaline rushes were starting to be a delight. And that was something that shocked me because I had never considered myself as being particularly edgy or much of a thrill seeker, but it turned out that I could have fun outside of my cozy little box and kitten cage.
It was a day before I got the link to another story in answer to my letter, due to processing and posting approval time, but my heart thundered as soon as I checked my notices and received it. I grinned at the private feedback message, and copy and pasted the title into my tablet, going to the story. My smile grew when I saw the exhibitionism tag and I started to read the setup of a shy submissive being trained by her master to be more of his little slut. The master took the submissive to a fetish club, where he displayed her for everyone to see, and my heart raced even while I moaned at the thought of being cuffed, spread eagle, to a cross like the girl in the story. I trembled when the girl quivered in shy embarrassment.
“Oh, don’t you like being displayed open for everyone to see or touch, kitten? I think I’ll let a couple of friends feel how wet you are for me and once they’re done touching you all over, I’ll make you cum so hard that you scream, right where everyone in this place can hear you. Everyone can see how much of my good little slutty kitten you are and how much you love being displayed.”
“But I don’t like it, sir! Please!”
“Liar.” And I knew she was lying because I thrust two fingers inside of her hot little cunt and they glided so easily that it made me laugh. Her cry was equal parts wild arousal and humiliation, a mix so pure that it was the hottest goddamned thing I’d ever heard.
“Oh... my God.” I ended up in the shower, stroking my clit in a frenzy. I closed my eyes and imagined I was blindfolded. And then I stayed naked for bed and imagined I was sitting in a room full of other Doms, with him commanding me to pet my pussy to orgasm while everyone watched. I imagined hearing them talk around me, to humiliate me more, and orgasmed so hard I had to grab my sheets and bite just to keep from screaming and disturbing another apartment.
Fortunately, I didn’t see him for another few days after that. And that was definitely a good thing with my statistics class test coming up. That test specifically was one that concerned me and if I had been seeing him at nights, I would have been writing sex or reading more sex or daydreaming of more sex to write about, even while I stared at my textbook. Oh, I wouldn’t have failed or anything, but as it was when I didn’t see him, I got slightly depressed, from the lack of my new adrenaline addiction, and went through the statistics formulas and they stuck that way. At the end of the nights I rewarded myself by writing another story. I wrote about a girl being kidnapped for enslavement, wrote where she struggled and fought the process at first, but then gave in to the training so well that the slaver fell in love with her and ended up buying her for himself. At the end of the story, the girl lay beside her lover and he had started to encourage her to do things like read again. He asked her what book she had chosen and what part she was on and I ended the story with, “I chose the Stand and I’m at the part where Trash gets anally raped with a gun. Have you read it yet? It was in your library.” And I posted it, grinning as I did.
It was a couple of days after that that I saw him again. He walked into the lobby and laughed at me. “Yes, I’ve read The Stand, kitten. And the Dark Tower, too. If you haven’t read those, then you should because they’re definitely as good and they tie into the world. They tie into all of King’s worlds actually.”
I grinned. “I haven’t read those. I’ll find them and check them out. How has your week been?”
“Boring. I had to stay at one of my hotels for longer than usual to ensure some repair work got done. I’m teaching their manager how to measure this stuff, but that’s slow work at the moment. But enough about all that. Let’s see what we have here.” He set the box he had with him on the counter and glanced up at my cat ears with amusement. “Those are cute ears and I’ve enjoyed them, don’t get me wrong, but they’re not very fitting.” He opened the box while I watched, staring down at it nervously.
“Not very fitting? But they’re kitten ears!”
He grinned. “Exactly. Let’s see.” He ripped open some plastic and reached up to tug off my cat ears before he held up a different headband for me to see. And this one had ears too, but they were fluffy puppy ears, ones that were short enough to sit on top of my head. One ear was bent like a curious little puppy would have it. “Kittens are brats and you don’t strike me as the kitten type. Puppies, on the other hand...” He fitted the cute ears to my head while I stared at him, wide eyed. I was kind of glad the fluffy black ears weren’t the long kind, the ones that would go down to my shoulders. These just sat on top of my head, as if I was a German Shepherd. “Puppies are sweet and loyal and they might mess things up when they’re so playful, but they’re never actually brats.” He laughed at it when it was on my head. “Definitely more of a puppy.”
“Um. Am I supposed to call you Aramis now and prove you wrong?” I took my cat ears when he handed them back to me and he laughed.
“Ugh. You could, but Shane is better.”
I grinned and touched my dog ears. They were so freaking cute too, and soft as all hell. “Thank you, sir.” I was still grinning when I said it, a goofy grin. What was it he said? Puppies were loyal and sweet and playful. Not like cats.
I liked that. It made me feel good in all the right ways and it seemed like he could tell. “You’re welcome, kitten.” He ruffled my hair like I was a puppy and... and...
It made me shiver, while cum coated my thighs in heated arousal. Holy hell, the look in his perfect blue eyes when he did it. It was this playful affection with just the perfect amount of condescension, like I really was a pet puppy. And the way his lips quirked with amusement, as if he knew and was reading everything I felt as it crossed my face. Damn. Just... damn. “I like having my head pet.” How did he do that? It wasn’t even a sexual touch in any way and yet my sex opened for him. It was flooring and crazy.
“Of course you do. You’re a stray puppy. You need a water and food bowl to lick from. And some treats.” He was playful when he said it, his eyes alive with mischievous energy that made me want to play too.
“Ruff!” It was almost automatic to keep making him smile like that, almost something that I didn’t think about at all. Besides his playfulness, he was also really damn smooth and charming, so much so that it soothed over my own terrible awkwardness.
And he made it really clear when things made him happy. He laughed at my barking, delighted. “See? Definitely not a wicked little kitten. Keep practicing being a good little puppy for me. Do you work tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.” It felt like overload, getting to say those words all the time and being encouraged to say them. It felt like a dream come true, like something I had long ago quit hoping to ever really have in any place other than fantasies.
“I’ll talk to you then, after you read...” My heart thundered when he got out his phone and I watched him send me a link. “After you read that. Have fun on night shift, kitten.”
“You too, sir,” I said before I could think about it, staring at my tablet.
He turned while he was walking away. “Alright, I’ll have fun on night shift.” And, swear to God, it was only then that I slapped my palm to my forehead. My mind was on sex and once it went there, it was a one track place, but his laughter was amused and wicked while he went to the elevators. And once he was out of sight, I grabbed the tablet and pulled up my messages, finding the link he had just sent.
I went to the story under the BDSM tag and opened it, looking around myself before I started reading.
I liked to think of myself as a bit of a pet collector. I had three little pets, as it were, and all of them were unique, with personalities of their own. And they all came into my life in different ways. My fox girl was easily the most curious of the three, oftentimes too curious for her own good. My bunny, on the other hand, would always go to the toys and places she already knew, and was too timid to color outside the lines very much.
But it was my puppy girl who came into my life first and she was the most interesting, so I’ll start there. Because my puppy was both timid and curious, but she was a puppy girl because she was, first and foremost, a loyal little pet. It didn’t matter how timid she was, her favorite place was at my feet or in my lap. It didn’t matter what toys I had or if they were new and shiny or if they were old and well known to her. She looked at them all the same way because I held them. And I had known she was a puppy from the first time I saw her say “thank you” for a gift, even though she was so shy to receive one. She was uncomfortable, but she made herself be brave to please me.
A puppy. Through and through, a puppy. I liked to picture a German Shepherd, specifically, because her eyes sparkled with intelligence and energy and, with some careful training from her Master, she was the most loyal pet I could have ever hoped for.
I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust, like my body was going to ignite from the heat I felt. Part of me wanted to scroll down to a sex part, but I couldn’t do that because I was too enthralled with this erotic, and twistedly caring, build up. He wrote it in such a way that it had just the perfect amount of condescension, like his eyes had. It was just that right amount to be nurturing and dominating. He talked about how he found this little puppy as a stray, how her eyes just begged for some approval. He talked about how his puppy was so lonely and insecure and needed to be told that her fetishes were okay to have, how she needed a Master to help her indulge in those fetishes safely and legally. She needed someone to teach her and show her the ropes of his world. And he spoke of how his world was the fringe edge world. It was where people liked to find ways to press the standard boundaries and that it just so happened that he knew all about the fringe edges, knew all the ins and outs of fetish play, not just in fantasies and stories and theory, but in real life.
“See, little puppy? I told you it gets better after some training.” I pet her behind her ears in the way she loved most and smiled down at her. It hadn’t been a sadistic playtime with the leather covered paddle, only a light little domination session. And after it was over with, she got that look in her eyes that shy submissives got, the one that said they felt safe and controlled enough to let go of some of that propriety. And she did. She whimpered at my feet, in her collar and on my leash, looking up at me, and she wasn’t in pain from my paddle. Oh, no. “Is my little puppy a naughty puppy? Does feeling Master’s control make her little pussy horny and needy to be filled up?”
She was deep in subspace, floating on those intense and wonderful waves, too far in the ambience to even talk anymore. Instead, she lifted her paw gloves to her chest and whimpered, begging me with pitiful whines. She stuck her tongue out and pant in her need and I grinned with approval. She was such a good girl. “I think that means yes. And it’s certainly okay for my puppy to be naughty after such good behavior. Put your face to the floor, little pet. You know how dogs fuck.”
She moaned to my crass words and I laughed when she eagerly obeyed, slapping her ass when she lifted it for me. Her moans rose to cries when I pressed my cock to her entrance for her reward fuck. Because good puppies get very good rewards.
Wouldn’t you agree, little puppy?
Jesus, this man was going to be the death of me. I had to stop and breathe through how horny it made me to read it, to get my shit together. God, just sitting there I already smelled like sex. The clean scent of my arousal was impossible for me to miss. But through the night, I made myself keep reading as he trained the puppy girl in the story. He taught her to fuck and suck cock, oh yes, but he taught her other things too. Things like how to snuggle up to Master and how to lap water from her dog bowl like a good girl. He dressed her in paw mittens, with tape around a fist, so she couldn’t do things like open doors for herself and had to beg instead. He taught her how to wear furry ears, but also how to wear a sexy, partial leather dog hood and mask setup, one that held a dog bone gag in her mouth.
And then at the end of the story, he was trying to get her to be a little more bold because he’d noticed that she had wicked fantasies, noticed that she had a wild sex drive that just needed to be encouraged and coaxed out. She was still too skittish to play very deeply with him, although he knew she wanted to and had seen how brazen she could be when she was horny enough and in subspace and free to let go of her stressing. So it ended with him asking her a question.
“Would you play with me a little in a different environment, little puppy? Like, say, an exclusive and safe fetish club named Sulfur’s? I know you’re shy and it’s scary, but can you be a brave puppy for me and let me show you what some of your fantasies look like? I really want to play with you. Stop reading The Stand for one night and live a little.”
“Oh, my God,” I whispered under my breath. No way. There was no way.
Yes, way. I looked up the club name on my tablet and, fuck me, but the place actually goddamned existed. It was real and, like he said, exclusive. The next open door night wasn’t for a couple of weeks, but vetted people could apparently take others in if they took responsibility for the person they were taking. The rules were clearly laid out and clearly dead set against any form of drama.
But that’s not what I paid the most attention to. I had seen all kinds of staged BDSM photos and videos online, it was true, but I found the photos tab of the website in about two minutes and pulled it up, my heart thundering with excitement. I knew there were other people like me in the world, but I hadn’t ever hoped to actually find myself able to meet them. I was not assertive enough to seek them out for myself, at least not yet. It’s entirely possible that my needs would have gotten to me eventually and I would have sought that world out on my own, one day. But his story and the name of that place sped the process way up.
I pulled up the photos and was lost because they were beautiful. One of them showed a Dom holding a whip coiled in his hand while a submissive knelt before him and his eyes were deliciously stern. You couldn’t see her front, could only see him and that whip, the tail left down from the coils so that it stroked her shoulder. Another one showed a male sub kissing a female sub while their two masters stood over them, presumably giving them both filthy commands. There was a male sub with his mistress, a female sub with her mistress. There was a photo of a girl who could have been a sub, dom, or both and she was by herself, dripping candle wax onto her thighs, with a wicked little smile of exhilaration and excitement. The photography was an art form on that site. I couldn’t stop going through the pictures. Some of them weren’t of people at all. They just showed a main dungeon room and other smaller, private dungeon areas. There was a picture of a bar and even that looked threatening in the low light, with its spiky backdrop and portraits up of people behind the seating area. There was a stairway that went up to a balcony, for better views of what happened on the dungeon floor. And the equipment... God, I didn’t even know there was that much variety in play setups. I recognized the basics, of course, like the Saint Andrew’s Cross and the spanking bench, but there were different forms of spanking benches too.
I wanted to say no, to go back to my shy, safe little world and not go and meet people because crowds scared me and that club looked wicked. But I had to admit that I couldn’t anymore. My last relationships had been awful things, filled with stress and anxiety where I wondered, all the time, whether or not the person was pleased with me. I was forced to admit that I had a demon calling to me and it didn’t want to be ignored anymore. I was getting really desperate to have that major need inside of me fulfilled and it wasn’t going away. What did I have to lose, really? God, I really hope I’m not setting feminism back fifty years.
I gathered my courage and sent him a social media message back for the first time, instead of writing in a story.
Yes. Yes, sir, I can be brave.
He messaged me back almost instantly. Such a good puppy you are. When do you next have a night free?
We went back and forth for a while, until we agreed on a night a week out and all the while my heart thundered in my chest, making me question my sanity. But then I went back to those pictures and I got horny all over again, turned needy with the thought of kneeling at S