Your Place Or Mine
“Your place or mine?” It’s a question every man who walks into a bar would love to hear from an attractive woman, right? But in my opinion it’s now the scariest proposition known to man, one I’d now run from—assuming I’m able to, that is.
She dropped that question on me quickly enough into our innocuous bar chit-chat to arouse suspicion more than sexual desire. But even more suspicious was my own quick decision to simply answer, “Yours.” I felt that I had no real conviction towards that answer, and yet I also had total conviction towards that answer. I could think of little, say nothing, and do nothing other than rise to follow her from the bar to the cab she hailed. I sat in the cab blankly realizing we were going to her place, not quite feeling anything about it other than accepting it as a matter of fact. It wasn’t the shortest of cab rides, maybe ten minutes, yet it was completely silent. It was far less charged with erotic suspense than such a thing normally would be, and she didn’t return or acknowledge any of the glances I stole of her.
When we finally reached our destination she turned to me and asked, “Are you going to pay with cash, or credit card?” An odd question from the person not actually accepting payment, and yet I answered, “Cash,” and paid the bill. I then followed her from the street to the door of her house in silence.
Once there I seemed to snap out of whatever daze I was in and suddenly questioned what had transpired. I began to speak, but she raised her finger in a “shhh” motion and said, “We have to be quiet or we’ll be in trouble... would you rather come inside quietly, or spend the night in jail?”
It seemed an odd choice but I didn’t want to go to jail, so I followed her in without saying a word. She motioned to two identical chairs in her living room. “Which of these would you like to sit in and wait quietly until I say you can move?” And without giving much thought towards that condition, I chose the chair to my left. I sat obediently and found that sure enough, I had no real desire or ability to speak or move from the seat.
“Excellent,” she said. “I won’t be long.” She retreated from the room and left me to ponder the situation. My own behavior was understandably beginning to surprise me a little bit, even frighten me. I traced the events of the past 30 minutes or so and recalled that I hadn’t even actually been that attracted to her when we spoke at the bar. In fact, it was she who’d initiated the conversation and me who’d kind of been glancing around looking for a polite out. It wasn’t that she was unattractive—in fact she was quite pretty—but she had some sort of arrogance or conceit about her that was off-putting and the conversation was a bit on the condescending side. She had presumptuously asked personal questions and responded to my answers with a dismissive sort of humor. And just as I began to tell her that I needed to leave, she dropped the proposition on me that I really shouldn’t have entertained. And yet here I was, sitting in her chair with my arms rested on my lap, prepared to wait until whenever she decided to emerge.
After what may have been 15 minutes she finally entered the living room. She had changed into a long dark robe, certainly nothing terribly sexy, more utilitarian than lingerie. She had her hands in its pockets. She walked in front of me and grinned. I didn’t return it—in fact I wanted to look at my feet. But I stood and watched her.
“So quiet, so still,” she said. She approached me and fished her hand into my jacket inside pocket, taking my wallet. She began to thumb through it. “Isaac Parker,” she said. “Tell me Isaac, would you rather wear these panties?” She produced pink lacy panties from her right pocket and brandished them. “Or these nipple clamps?” she continued as she unveiled a chain with two clamps from her left.
I was horrified to hear myself answer the panties, and even more horrified when she tossed them to me and I began to remove my pants.
She watched as I stripped down and said, “I need you to answer with more detail Isaac. If I ask you to make a choice I don’t want you to just give me a simple answer. I need you to answer in full sentences. ‘I’d rather wear the panties.’ Like that. Can you do that for me?”
“What the fuck...” I started to say, my first honest response of the night.
“Let me rephrase that. Will you answer me the way I’d like? Or will you walk out of here in these panties and dance in the streets?”
That was an easy choice. “I’ll answer you the way you’d like me to answer you,” I said. I returned to my seat, the panties prominently on embarrassing display.
“Very good. Have you figured out what’s going on?”
I said nothing. I hadn’t, though I knew something very odd was happening to me. In retrospect what was happening should have been obvious and I imagine it is for you, but when something like this is actually happening, it’s simply too bizarre to guess.
“It’s easy really. Any choice I present to people... well, they have to entertain it. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but I don’t care. I just like to have fun manipulating people like you with it. For example...”
She walked to an end table near her front door and opened a drawer. She slowly returned to me with her hands obscuring some item. When she reached me, she revealed a revolver. I’m not savvy enough about guns to know what it was, but it was certainly large and definitely scary as hell.
“Will you shoot yourself in left knee, or the right?” she said as she offered the gun to me.
I had about half a second to register unspeakable panic before I grabbed the gun, responded “I’ll shoot myself in the left knee,” pointed it at my left knee, and pulled the trigger. I flinched as the hammer pulled back and released harmlessly. She laughed as I exhaled rapidly and deeply, and removed the gun from my hands. She then returned to the table, produced a bullet, and loaded it into the chamber.
“Usually I’m clever enough with my choices not to need this but it’s always a nice cheat to have on standby,” she said as she approached me again. “Anyway, would you like me to know what I’m going to do with you, or would you prefer to remain surprised?”
“I’d like to know what you’re going to do with me.” That certainly wasn’t true, but I guess it was slightly more true than not knowing. And actually... it was kind of true. I hate to say it but I found myself a bit aroused by the notion that she could do all manner of dirty things to me, and I actually kind of wanted to hear her say them.
“Good to know,” she said. “But just because you have to choose doesn’t mean I have to honor that choice.” She smiled at me again, and I was genuinely a little disappointed.
She continued: “We can either start off with you putting these nipple clamps on after all, or I could just skip right to whipping the shit out of you. What do you say?”
I found that I actually processed these choices, albeit very quickly, and determined that of the two options, the nipple clamps were actually more... erotic. “I’ll put the nipple clamps on,” I said. She handed them to me and I automatically put each clamp into position, tightening the thumb screws on each. She grabbed the chain and tugged slightly to ensure they were secured.
“Good. Now, would you rather kneel down and lovingly lick and suck my right foot, or my left?”
“I’d rather kneel down and lovingly lick and suck your left foot,” I said before again launching into unconscious, inexorable action. I knelt before her and then began greedily exploring every square centimeter of her left foot with my tongue, acting as though it were my favorite activity. She alternatively chuckled and moaned with pleasure. My lips then tightened around each of her toes as I sucked them one by one. She began to pull her foot away from me but I chased, unable to stop myself, unable to let her go. She led me across the living room in this manner, me greedily following her on my hands and knees.
“Have you had enough or would you like to continue?” she asked. I stopped and replied that I’d had enough. She took a few steps back. I just remained on my knees and gazed at the floor, at her feet, not daring to look up, for what seemed like an eternity. She was far more patient than I, not saying a word, letting me bask in this humiliation. I finally relented and looked up at her helplessly.
She began to untie her robe suspensefully, provocatively. For the first time I considered the possibility that this predicament might not be all bad...
...until her robe opened to reveal a large blue dildo attached to a leather harness she wore. I’d say it was actually larger than the gun, and of equal if not greater menace.
“I can tell by your widened eyes that you haven’t seen one of these before in person,” she teased as she playfully bounced it with her right hand. “But you should know this is the smallest one I’ve got. Now, will you suck it for five minutes, or 300 seconds?”
Bullshit! That was fucking cheating! Of course, I did not say this. I simply said, “I’ll suck it for two minutes,” perhaps simply because it was easier to say, and proceeded to wrap my lips around it and suck.
She laughed as she grabbed my head with both hands and pulled me towards her. I gagged violently, unable to pull myself away. My eyes watered profusely. I remember even pondering that absurdly—“I didn’t know blowjobs made your eyes water.” Live and learn, they say.
On and on this went. On the one hand I felt like hours had passed but on the other I instinctively knew I still had a ways to go. She was moaning with pleasure, and... did I actually respond? Did my pace quicken? I think it did, though that could have been by her guidance. In any case, I fought through my gags, tears literally streaming down my cheeks.
“You could either gag, or not,” she said. “The choice is yours.”
I feebly mumbled, “Not,” with the dildo in my mouth, and suddenly my gag reflex was eliminated. I felt the dildo striking the back of my throat, and my eyes met hers with, I’m ashamed to say it, something like gratitude.
“It doesn’t all have to be unnecessarily unpleasant,” she teased as I continued, though eliminating my gagging didn’t exactly make this activity an amusement park ride.
Finally the 5 minutes—or 300 seconds if you preferred—passed, and I pulled myself away from the dildo as if it were hot enough to burn. I rubbed my eyes and breathed heavily.
“Do you want to call me a bitch,” she finally asked, “or do you want to submit to me meekly?”
I had just a fraction of a second to consider that my answer would probably elicit punishment before I said, “I want to call you a bitch, you bitch!”
She slapped me in the face. Hard. I looked at her in shock. The playful or mischievous expression she’d worn up to now has was replaced by what looked like genuine anger laced with disgust. Suddenly I realized that I hadn’t truly been legitimately frightened until that moment.
“Some people in my position might appreciate your fighting spirit and like the challenge,” she said sternly. “I do not.”
I suspected that wasn’t entirely true, but she was convincing.
“It may take a while, but at some point tonight I’m going to simply ask you a yes or no question. You’ll be able to answer however you like. If you answer wrong, we’ll keep going until you get it. But you’ll finally accept being my slave, without me making you choose to be.”
“But for now, you can either get on your hands and knees and stay motionless until I say ‘Move,’ or until I say, ‘On your feet.’” Another fraudulent “choice,” and I realized that she technically had total control over me. As long as she phrased her choices in such a way she could get me to do anything she wanted. This particular tactic left me feeling absurdly cheated, as if the entire situation wasn’t already a huge violation.
“I’ll stay motionless until you say move,” I said. I assumed the position and then froze, as if paralyzed.
She walked behind me, out of sight. I then felt her fingers slowly work their way past my panties’ waste band. She pulled the waste band away and let go. They snapped embarrassingly against my back. She then pulled the panties down to my thighs with humiliating vigor. I felt the tip of what must have been her dildo touch my asshole, and I knew what was coming.
“I think I’ll make you choose to love this, to not be able to get enough, to be a total slut for it,” she taunted. I heard the wet sounds of what likely was lube being applied to the dildo.
“But for now, you can feel whatever you want about it,” she said as she slowly but steadily inserted it deep into me.
I guess I chose for it to hurt like hell.