I had another date with Jordan. He’d emailed me a few days before to ask if I’d like some “instructions” for our date. I immediately panicked, imagining what these instructions might amount to. Truthfully, once common sense prevailed, I guessed it would be something in the way of thongs, but I felt obliged to deny him, cause, like I said, I want to go slow. Also, even though I like being told what to do sexually, it seems to run contrary to every instinct I have. Besides, my funds can’t run to this sort of thing at the moment, though, it must be said, some of my underwear is literally in tatters (the lacy nylon ones I’ve had for years, but still).
I’d fortified myself with a bottle of $7.99 Lambrusco, which, for those of you who have sophisticated tastes, is a fizzy red wine much beloved by college students the world over for its sweetness, not to mention its cheapness. Nothing says “I can’t afford Merlot!” like Lambrusco.
Jordan came by at about 7:30, and, in keeping with the polite fiction that we’re friends, I introduced him to my roommate as we passed her in the kitchen. Then onto my bedroom. He sat against the wall, as he had before, and asked me how I’d been. I told him a bit about my date with Jefferson.
“He slapped your face? Wow,” said Jordan. “That’s kind of advanced.”
“Chuh!” I said. “I was really freaked out. (This was my way of telling Jordan to not try anything of the kind with me. Subtle, eh?)
At last he said, “Take off your clothes.”
When I was down to my underwear (pink nylon, bikini) he said, “Walk over to the wall.”
What--? I backed myself to the wall, where Jordan said, “Turn around, and lean against the wall.”
Jordan had thought this out, you know? He planned these scenarios. I liked that: the imagination that goes into it.
“Now stick your ass out, and slowly rub your ass against me,” he said in my ear. I stiffened, and awkwardly put my ass out against his, and pushed against him, clad in his dress trousers.
“Now slowly pull your underwear down—slowly—not all the way…”
Again, I felt strange and detached, like I was taking part in some German Expressionist play. “Now I’m going to slap your ass,” Jordan said. After my night with Jefferson, I was tense. He hit me. It wasn’t too hard; I relaxed.
“Now pull your panties back up, and rub yourself against me.”
“Now pull them down again.”
“Now take them off.”
“All right. Now come back to the bed.”
I followed him back across the room. “Beautiful,” he said, as if I’d just passed a test. “Undress me.”
I went to work. When Jordan was naked he said, “Put my clothes over there,” he said, gesturing to my chair. I balked. This, to me, seemed to be on the domestic ratheer than the sexual side of submission. Stiffly I dropped his shirt and trousers on the arm of my rattan chair. “Now ask for permission to suck my cock.”
“Tie your hair back,” he said, after a bit. “I want to watch you suck me.”
Soon he had me on my stomach, with his fingers rubbing against my clit. I longed, really longed, for him to slip a finger or two inside me, but he didn’t. I pushed myself against him, just as I had earlier, when my breasts had been pressed against the wall and my ass against his groin. “You want me to fuck you?” he said.
He slid inside me and rocked against me. Don’t come right away! I thought. He briefly kissed my cheek, which surprised me and is probably the most affectionate and least sexual physical intimacy we have ever had.
“Can you do something for me?” I whispered, thinking, hmm, this probably violates all laws of submission, but what the hell. “Can you call me a whore?”
He did – and came quite quickly. Damn.
Afterwards, he wanted to know what I’d thought. My real feeling was, of course, that it had been too short. I didn’t say that, though.
“I liked it,” I said, which was true, but also, what else is there to say? I mean, I think lots of things when I’m with Jordan: I’m scared. Is this it? This is weird. None of which I’m going to share with Jordan. They’re not particularly flattering thoughts, after all. Though, to be fair, sometimes I think Ah. Yes, go on.
“Hey, was that not submissive, to ask for you to call me a whore?”
“No, that was OK. Have you been reading about submission, like online or anything?”
No, I hadn’t. No, wait, I had! “Yeah, on Fleshbot...” And I froze, thinking, !@#$ !@#$!. Because, of course, the Fleshbot sex blog round up on submission (with sites chosen by Jefferson) had featured none other than me. And that blog entry was about my date with Jordan, in which I complained that (among other things) he came really quickly and “smelled wrong.” Oh God oh God oh God. I changed the subject.
“I like how you have this story,” I said, thinking of bring pressed against my bedroom wall, of the way it was clear he had thought about what to do to me.
“It’s always been about ideas with me,” he said, and he told about how, when he was growing up, the story surrounding the sex had always been of primary importance to him, in porn, fantasies, whatever.
“Narrative,” I said.
“Look, I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” said Jordan. Which I thought was strange, that diffidence. “But, I’m really hungry. I was thinking I could go get some food at that diner and come back.”
“Sure.” I wanted to have sex again. I hadn’t come.
“Do you want anything?”
“A vanilla milkshake,” I said promptly. I hadn’t even known that I wanted one, but it came right out of my mouth. And, yes, I love vanilla milkshakes, but I think part of the reason I asked for one is because it is, to me, the epitome of an innocent beverage (if beverages can be said to have such characteristics). I was suddenly eager to reassert my innocence.
“A vanilla milkshake. I think I’ll have one, too,” said Jordan, so possibly he missed the symbolism there.
He left and I drank the Lambrusco remaining in my glass, and then started on his.
When he came back we sat on my bed and I drank a bit more Lambrusco, and washed it down with my milkshake, to Jordan’s amusement.
“The only thing that weirded me out was when you told me to take your clothes,” I said, just to remind him that, despite being submissive, I am a feminist. Proving it to myself as much as him, I suspect.
“Yeah, I kind of saw that,” he said. “I saw that that bothered you, and I’m the kind of person who, if I see that it bothers you, pushes it,” he admitted. And I thought, Huh! I would never date someone whose personal sexual motivation was to make me uncomfortable. But then I thought, Oh, grow up. There’s no conflict here: you’re not dating. You don’t have to like Jordan. He’s here to get off, and to help you explore a bit. You’re here to learn something. (Actually, that last statement is sort of funny. It makes me sound like I've enrolled in an evening class at the local community college.)
“I’m naturally very law abiding,” I said, apropos of nothing. “My instincts are to be very obedient to authority.” When I was a kid, I was terrified of upsetting teachers, or my father, who has a very uncertain temper. Now, my father’s temper irks rather than terrifies me, but it still has the power to throw me off balance. But that’s another story. But when I was a kid, I never did anything wrong. I thought it was a sign of moral probity, rather than an overdeveloped fear of authority figures or a lack of a reasonable sense of the ridiculousness.
“Then, when I was sixteen,” I continued, “I suddenly realized that it didn’t matter if I didn’t do my math homework or was twenty minutes late, and for a while I kind of deliberately did things wrong.” Not very wrong: I still didn’t cheat on tests. My great rebellion consisted of cutting classes with my friend Sarah, smoking cigarettes with her in the handicapped stall of the girls’ bathroom. I fought with my parents and antagonized some of my teachers. That was about the extent of it. But still. “Maybe that’s what makes me kind of resistant to authority now,” I said doubtfully. Because I still resent all those years when I internalized all that authority; when I believed that disobeying rules meant I was bad; when angering my parents was shameful.
“Get on all fours,” he said, “And stick your tongue out.” Like a dog! I thought, and obeyed.
He stood in front of me and hastily rubbed his dick, then slid it into my mouth. I sucked him.
“Tell me you want me to come in your mouth,” he coaxed.
“Please come in my mouth,” I said, thinking, but wait! I want you to fuck me again. Damn! But I sucked him, and sucked him, and when I wasn’t sucking him he rubbed his dick up and down. I thought, he’s fucking my mouth. I’ve given many blow jobs before, but this, I thought, is having my mouth fucked. (I was wrong, but more on this later.)
“I’m going to come,” he said. And with a jerk he spewed into my mouth, a thin, transparent stream of cum. It sat in my mouth, waiting, so, after a moment, I swallowed it.
Jordan said nothing. Then I said, “Fucking HELL!”
He gave me a look, and I realized that might not have been the most tactful thing to say.
“Okaaay,” he said.
“No, it’s just,” I began. What I meant was, I never swallow. I swallowed for you. Show some appreciation. “I rarely swallow. I just wanted some acknowledgement,” I said lamely.
He sat back against the wall and I leaned against him. “Do you think you could fuck me again?” I asked. I was still unsatisfied.
He sighed: “No.”
“What, is that you being dominant? Denying me?”
“No,” said Jordan. “I’m forty. I just had a birthday.”
“Oh right,” I giggled, patting his shoulder. “You’re an old man.” I felt like Mirabelle Buttersfield.
“No,” said Jordan. “Even when I was twenty I don’t think I could have fucked you three times.”
I thought smugly of Daniel, who, at 26, has both a quick recovery time and the stamina Jordan seems to lack. Of course this could be because Daniel is pretty active, whereas poor Jordan has to rely on me for all non-solo sexual activity.
We’d previously discussed my job at Dor-Oops Industries (Jordan works in a similar industry), and when he was getting dressed, he said, “Do you work at 123 X Street?”
“Do you know Terry Milliven?”
Terry Milliven is the boss of Ken Smith (my boss – the man I would like to – but no doubt will never – seduce.)
“Terry Milliven is my boss’s boss,” I said, astonished. “How do you know Terry Milliven?”
Jordan smirked as he pulled on his jacket. “I told you: I’ve got connections.” I pictured Jordan walking into my office for a meeting with Ken Smith. And it occurred to me, not for the first time, that I have no idea of Jordan’s last name.
When he left I thought back to my idiotic slip about Fleshbot, and I hoped to God he didn’t get the notion to look for it online. When I didn’t hear from him afterwards I thought, Oh, God, he’s read it, and I felt just stupid and mean. But mostly stupid.
But then, just before Thanksgiving, he emailed to ask if I wanted to get together. I was relieved, since I figured it meant he had not come across that damning blog entry, but I already had plans. I declined, but said we should get together soon. Like, you know, when you give me more notice. I didn’t say that. Also, I think etiquette demands that a man thank his partner for his/her participation in his sexual fantasies on the day immediately following the event. This is something Jordan apparently does not consider important. Can I suggest that “Thanks, last night was fun,” would be in order, or, again, is that violating the submissives’ code? It’s bloody difficult, getting into the submissive spirit while still feeling compelled to insist on proper manners from the men I fuck.