Copyright © Nicole Austin, 2015
Standing before the unremarkable yet forbidding industrial building, a carbon copy of every other white cinder-block structure on the street; I once again studied the details of an ad from a local BDSM circular. The sun beat down on me, relentless heat and humidity making the heavy air difficult to breathe. Rivulets of sweat trickled over my body, causing the cotton shirt to stick to my skin.
I felt as if I were standing on the edge of a high cliff preparing to leap into the abyss. Rationally, I understood the sex-slave position was for only one night. But this knowledge did not stop the conflicting emotions tearing me up. And facts couldn’t alter the desires that had driven me to this precarious point.
Chris, my last lover, had unleashed a hunger within me that still gnawed at my soul. He restrained me, took away all control and responsibility, and beat my willing flesh. When he insisted my true nature was that of a submissive, I balked. No way was he right! I denied the possibility with fervor, refused to listen or believe. Yet somehow he still managed to break my will, my resistance never lasting long before I began to beg, agreeing with anything he said.
I’ve always been independent and in command of myself. Well, until Chris came along, but there were confusing times when I wanted to take the dominant role. Times when I longed to be the one commanding his body. To make Chris sweat, squirm and beg for my every touch. But he wasn’t able to accommodate my conflicting desires. It made me feel like freakin’ Sybil with two vastly different personalities trapped deep inside. The dichotomy frightened me at a soul deep level. I imagine it terrified Chris.
As I glanced back at the paper in my hand, a sense of desperation settled over me. The ad didn’t provide much detail, but it sounded ideal since I hadn’t had sex in longer than I cared to contemplate. I knew that in reality it was just a job, even if they couldn’t come right out and say so. I’d heard of people who’d lucked into similar gigs and were highly compensated for one night of “work”. One night that would provide cash I desperately needed, along with another opportunity to try and determine my place in the D/s scene.
God, how I wanted to find my niche, bringing an end to the constant tug-of-war weighing heavily on my heart and mind.
My primary disharmony—Chris ignited a firestorm within me by introducing me to BDSM. One he wasn’t able to master, and my unquenchable need and desire to explore the limits of this newfound world had, in the end, come between us. I’d spun into a crisis of identity, not even knowing the person I’d become. Since then, I’d made several attempts to reach sexual satisfaction. All had fallen short. Nothing could compare to being with Chris. And I still had no idea who I really was beneath the superficial flesh and bone.
Dominant. Submissive. Or something else entirely.
With a heavy sigh, I checked the address one more time, rang the bell, and tried not to fidget as I waited for the mystery to be revealed. I waited…
What the hell? Had the ad been some kind of sick joke? Was there a total jerk-off inside getting his jollies laughing at the moron who’d shown up to stand around outside?
The now common indecisiveness waged a battle in my head. Ring the bell again? Wait a little longer? Walk away and forget the whole thing? It wasn’t as if a night of serving as a sex slave for a bunch of rich yahoos would resolve my inner conflict, right. Hell, nothing else I’d tried had worked so why would this be any different?
“Fuck it!” There was no sense hanging around any longer and making an even bigger fool of myself. I gritted my teeth. Curious or not, I wasn’t going to keep standing there, sweating under the hot midday sun, waiting for some practical joker to answer the fucking door.
Mind made up, I turned to leave. Poised to take the first step and walk away, I cringed at the sound of the door creaking open behind me.
The childish tactics pissed me off, but my intense curiosity demanded satisfaction. Clenching my fists, striving to remain calm and at least moderately submissive, I turned around if for no other reason than to satisfy my interest.
Nondescript is the only way to describe the man who stood in the open doorway. Medium height and build. Brown hair and eyes. Average shirt and trousers. Bland and forgettable. He stood silently, one eyebrow lifted in question.
Choosing to adopt a similar attitude, I held out the paper with the ad boldly circled in black permanent marker.
Average Joe didn’t speak and didn’t reach for the circular. He barely glanced at it and instead stared at me for an excruciatingly long moment, gave a firm nod then stepped back allowing me to enter the building.
Once inside, I glanced around the empty, cavernous warehouse. The windows set high in the walls didn’t let in much light through their dirty panes. Grayish paint peeled from the drab walls and the concrete slab floor was covered in grime.
“Follow me,” Average Joe said.
Well hell. What did I have to lose?
Nothing, a snide voice inside my head pointedly reminded.
“Shut up, you bastard,” I muttered under my breath.
Average Joe walked me to the center of the room. Looking down, I saw a black X made from duct tape beneath my feet. Before me—one of those two-way mirrors like cops use for interrogations. The whole thing made me feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.
“Umm…what’s the deal? This cloak and dagger shit is starting to wear on my nerves.”
That was all Average Joe said. He turned and walked away, disappearing through a door along the far wall.
Wait here, I sing-songed in my head. What a crock!
I stared at myself in the mirror, worrying about how I appeared to whoever was back there. Since it was technically a job interview, I’d worn my best pair of Dockers and a button-down shirt. The pants cuffs were a bit tattered and the shirt needed ironing, but it didn’t matter. This was as good as they were going to get.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, a disembodied voice came from a wall-mounted speaker.
“Take off your shirt.”
My first instinct was to tell Mr. Microphone to fuck off.
Well, shit. I was at an interview of sorts to be a submissive slave for the night. Not the time to get defiant. Not when I was being tested to see if I could give up control and follow orders. I needed the damn job, wanted the experience, and would play the stupid game—even if it killed me.
Averting my gaze from the mirror, as would be expected, I popped the buttons and shrugged the material from my shoulders, letting it fall to the concrete. Again I waited, struggling not to shuffle my feet.
My overactive imagination stirred an innate enthusiasm for exhibitionism. I pictured dark eyes scrutinizing the thick, corded muscles on display and flexed a bit to make them ripple. I tried to see myself through someone else’s eyes. Standing tall, I let them get a good look at all six feet, from my close-cropped light-brown hair to big, booted feet.
I’ve been told that I’m handsome. Not model striking but raw and rugged. Closing my eyes, I could almost see myself as if looking in the mirror. Warm green eyes framed by laugh lines. Soft hair lining my pecs, narrowing to a thin trail over my abdomen and disappearing beneath the waistband of my pants.
A sensual thrill zinged through my veins. At thirty years of age, I was proud of the defined body developed from hard, honest work and hoped whoever watched appreciated what they saw.
“Now the pants.”
Fuck yeah, totally on display.
To follow the orders, I had to first remove my boots. My knees popped when I squatted down to work the laces free. After kicking the heavy footwear aside, it was back to the assigned task. I saw no sense in drawing it out. Kind of hard to seduce someone you can’t see. Without fanfare, I popped the button, lowered the fly and pulled off my pants, adding them to the growing pile on the floor. It felt strange and exciting to be standing there in white athletic socks and briefs, but the predicament didn’t last long.
“The underwear too.”
You better be enjoying this. My gaze shot to the mirror as I gritted my teeth. Knowing it was not possible to see the person behind the glass, I still latched on to the idea of detecting a dark shadow.
“Are you a submissive?”