Take Me To The River

Sure, I'm submissive.  But I'm spirited.  I can't resist scripting my own lines at times, not just taking direction but adlibbing a bit.  I think it's more fun.  It's more me.  I'm a pleaser at heart, but I like to surprise those who love me with a little more than simply agreeing to do what they'd like.  If a man merely wishes to have an obedient pet, I'm probably not the right choice.

I'm a switch.

But I love some Doms, you see.  And the likelihood of them ever taking my ******* is about as remote as my son getting his wish to father a baby born on the moon.  So I resign myself to the notion that the Doms and I will have great fun together, but I shall never get the upper hand.  I can tease and be myself, but it is only one side of myself.  I cannot rotate, or revolve, or whatever it is that the moon does to turn itself around to show her other face.  That is a science-y thing, and unlike the majority of my Doms, I am not a hard science person.  I am a social science person, teaching and practicing the art, as well as doing so with theatre and cinema.  My dominant gentleman friend said those were all the same things, and I argued a bit, but I knew he was right.

He contacted me a few days ago, instructing me to ring him after my evening meetings were over.  I was uneasy about doing so, as I heard my mum's voice in my head saying that it was far too late to call anyone, let alone a man.  My mum was never big on girls calling my brother.  And I knew it would be late.  So I sought reassurance.  He gave me some, in his own way.  We would be speaking privately later on.  I trembled a bit at the thought.

‪Him‬: You'll do something for me this evening.

‪me‬: Tell me, love.
‪Him‬: You are driving home?
‪me‬: I shall be, yes.
‪Him‬: When you arrive, you remember you need something from the store.
You'll drive somewhere isolated
and you will call me.
‪me‬: I shall, yes.
But it is going to be quite late, darling.
The meeting with the artistic director doesn't begin until 10.
Do you mind my calling so late?
‪Him‬: What was my request?
‪me‬: When I get home...I will go out and phone you.

‪Him‬: You will drive somewhere isolated 
and do so.
Clear dear?
‪me‬: Yes
‪Him‬: Good. 
I will have you freely this evening. To do as I would like.

‪me‬: Yes, my dear, you shall. 
And I've no doubt...
that I shall like it too.
‪Him‬: Indeed you shall.

When I got done, headed for home, it was even later than I'd feared it would be.  I emailed him, seeking some sort of further reassurance that it was okay to call that late.  I received no reply.  Sighing worriedly, I slipped out and drove down to the river near my home.  I dialed and waited.

Hug me, squeeze me, love me, tease me
Till I can't, till I can't, till I can't take no more of it
Take me to the water, drop me in the river
Push me in the water, drop me in the river
Washing me down, washing me down

As clearly as if David Byrne and marvelous his Talking Heads band was in the back seat, I heard the sound of their iconic song.  Al Green is all well and good, but there's something about the avant-garde punk/art rock group that makes me happy.  Byrne's soaring, growly voice goes high at unexpected moments, as I do sometimes when I'm surprised.  Or when I'm *******.  I find these days, with these Internet Men, my ******* are far more vocal than they ever were in my marriage bed.  I stammer, I stutter, I sigh, I moan, I squeak.  And I say their names.  I acknowledge those who bring me to this place, drowning me in the sea of love.  Being at the river was a cue in my head to hear the song about the river.  So I did. 

My new Master's drowsy voice answered my call.  "I woke you.  I'm sorry," I immediately said.

"Where are you?"

"Next to the river."

"You're not in a park or near a school?"

"No," I faltered.  "I'm by the river."  I wondered if I'd misunderstood. 

"Good."  I relaxed. 

"What are you wearing?"  I smiled.  I'd heard this question many times before, from him and many others.  Sometimes I teasingly asked it of men, trying to turn the tables on them.  As I answered, I realized what was likely to come next, and tensed.  "You will follow my instructions, and after you have completed each, you shall tell me 'done, sir.'  Do you understand?" 

I did, actually.  This made sense to me, as he was not near to see if I had completed a task.  Besides, he is training me.  As anyone familiar with the military knows, learning to show respect by addressing one's superior as "sir" is part of basic training.  My jackass half brother had told me that he was expecting his little boy to show respect by answering "yes, sir" rather than "yes, Daddy" when he was instructed to do something.  This alone would not make me disdainful of my half sibling's parenting practices.  But the fact that he treated my nephew like a puppy performing tricks, expecting him to do cute things on demand when strangers were near to impress them with how cute and respectful the child was made me nauseous.  

In the past, when I'd been told that I should respond with "done, sir," I'd sought to wiggle out of it, changing the line to "done, love" or something similar.  Softening it.  Making it seem as though I still had free will, that there was a more equal, loving relationship.  This time, I decided to play it his way to see how that felt.  How it made me feel.

"Yes, sir," I said. 

"Good."  I felt a swell of pride, and marveled at it a bit.  Holy hell, I was being conditioned. 

As I'd suspected, he had me remove me clothing.  He listened to a string of "done, sir"s in fairly quick order.  Then he surprised me. 

"Are you alone?"  I hesitated, unsure what he meant.  Of course I was alone.  Did he think I'd driven out there with a friend?  Then I realized he meant the surrounding area. 


"Step out of the car and go to the front hood."

Oh, ****.  Seriously?  I made nervous noises.  He remained quiet.  I opened the door and stepped out, the cool night air chilling my skin as I stepped quickly to the front of the vehicle.  "Done, sir." 

"Bend forward and spread your legs."

"Done, sir."

He proceeded to talk me through a scene in which he had my fingers stand in for his hands and ****.  There was fondling.  There was penetration.  There was getting to the brink, and begging for release, per his earlier dictates.  I am not to *** without asking for permission to do so.  I gasped.  "P-p-pllease."

"*** for me.  Hard."

I did so.  I did not think to use the phrase "done, sir," for my ****** had me in subspace, ******* because he said I could.  And my moans and gasps, surely familiar to him by now, filled the quiet night.  When he was satisfied that my needs had been satisfied, he instructed me to hightail it back to the car.  I opened the door, slid in and closed it.  "Done, sir."  I was told to put my clothing back on.  "Done, sir."

Then it was time for the mission debriefing.  He commented that I had lost myself in ******* in an unprecedented fashion, with high pitched laughter.  "I like you giddy," he said.

"You make me feel desired," I confessed. 

"You make me feel -- "  he struggled for words.  I was surprised.  Finally he concluded "warm inside."  He paused.  "You make me feel needed.  You make me want to talk to you.  That's rather unique."  He said other things, too.  Lovely things.  I hear those words inside my head even now.  I feel a bit like I'm drowning.  And that scares me more than a little.
milkynips milkynips
46-50, F
1 Response May 20, 2012

interesting scenario Milky. To be the voyeur on the other side of the river as you got out of the car naked and to watch your pleasure yourself would be quite arousing. Quite a risk too. Perhaps that is what drove your excitement more :)