Dance

(This one’s considerably longer than most of my recent stories. If there are situations or implements or dialogue that seem a little dated – or writing that seems stilted – that’s only because I wrote the story some time ago. I only just found it again, buried in a pile of old stuff. As usual, your feedback is welcome. Enjoy! – defiant^1)

*****

With one thing or another, Helen was as wound-up and tense as she’d ever been. The entire week had seen her more involved than usual with demanding customers, new business, lost business, and firefighting efforts to put to rest potential corporate problems. Arriving at her uptown home shortly after six that Friday night after yet another pushing and shoving match with commuters in rush-hour traffic, all Helen wanted at that moment was relaxation, sweet relaxation.

Her approach to unwinding wasn’t novel. In fact, she probably took the ideal course of action. Slipping out of her clothing, Helen stepped into a steamy bath complemented with a generous amount of bath gel and laid back in the refreshingly hot tub. Within minutes, the tensions of her workday life began dissolving as she sponged her body in the soapy, fragrant solution.

Now in her early 30s, Helen’s body was a sight to behold. Her well-rounded breasts had a perkiness to them, nipples aiming skywards, and her long legs drew rapt attention from men wherever she went. Her lustrous brunette hair hung shoulder length.

She spent a good 45 minutes in the bath, loving every moment of the luxury. Reluctantly, she left the cocoon-like warmth and moisture, and toweled herself dry. Helen did her hair, too, before having a light supper snack.

Picking at her salad, she scanned the evening newspaper for her information fix before turning to her favourite columnists and features. Then came the matter of critical importance – her evening’s amusement. The entertainment listings showed four separate singles dances that night. Checking them out by phone, Helen decided – using a combination of location and numbers of people likely to be there – that if she was to find any new blood, the event at the Triumph Hotel would be the most likely spot. As a bonus, it was only 15 minutes away from her house. She planned on making at least one conquest this evening, perhaps more. Helen knew she’d be bringing somebody home, plus she’d be giving her number to a few other “lucky” guys.

Now came the fun part... deciding what she was going to wear. Checking all her clothes, Helen came to a decision she’d never before reached. Up until now, subtlety had been a watchword. Tonight would be different. She decided to dress in a manner advertising her sexuality, and her preference. Helen chose her laciest, sexiest black bra – the kind that hooked in front and plumped her already-full breasts in the manner most men found riveting. Naturally, matching abbreviated black bikini panties followed. Sitting before her make-up mirror, Helen selected pink earrings as an accessory before adding lipstick and blush to complement them. She spent a lot of time on her eyes, wanting to make sure she projected a flirtatious yet dangerous look. Helen knew that after a man had visually sampled her body and clothing, it would be her eyes that sealed his fate. Satisfied, she added the lacy black garter belt and seamed dark stockings before choosing her outer wear. An over-the-knee, tight, black leather skirt was her choice, followed by a clinging, low cut sweater which would reveal – fully – her lovely cleavage. She reasoned that the idea was to make sure the guys saw the black cups and shoulder straps of her bra when she purposely leaned over to speak with them or during the slow dancing she was bound to be doing. Helen knew that by adding patent leather four-inch spiked pumps that she’d look exactly like what she was; a fetishist’s dream!

Ever since she’d been a teenager in high school, Helen had had a taste for dominating and humiliating her men. Since her first slave, Helen had used her mystique and mens’ submissive fantasies to fulfil her needs. Her last slave had become tiresome and she’d dismissed him three weeks ago. Now, she decided, she needed new action. checking herself in the full length mirror, she knew she was ready.

The taxi dropped her at the Triumph Hotel shortly after 11 o’clock. Finding the ballroom easily, Helen could see that the place was packed. Making her way to the entrance, she was reassured that her physical preparations were being appreciated. The guys stared then parted like the Red Sea, giving her plenty of room to move through the main doors. At the bar she ordered her favorite, but before she could reach her wallet, the man beside her offered, “This one’s on me.”

Politely, yet without smiling, Helen thanked him, giving the impression that nothing less than his paying was her due.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

“No,” she responded. “This is the first time.”

“Well, it’s pretty good tonight. There must be over 500 people here.”

Helen didn’t respond. Any fool could’ve made that observation. There was nothing to say, she reasoned. She surveyed her surroundings, making sure to catch and store in her mind as much of the action as she could. Of the men in her immediate proximity, she knew who was looking at her leather skirt and shoes, and whose eyes were focused on her face and breasts. She’d done the exercise a thousand times but still found it fascinating. Helen could peg the fetishists and potential slaves in an instant.

The guy who’d bought her her first drink hadn’t given up. “Would you care to dance?”

“No, thank you,” she said, and continued her brazen assessment of the room and the men in it. Taking her drink and wandering away from the bar, she meandered a bit, drawing attention from both sexes every step of the way. The women eyed her with looks that said they were sizing up the competition. Helen read those looks to be defeatist and malicious, that they couldn’t compete with her. But, the hell with them, she thought. She wasn’t here to win a popularity contest with the girls.

Finding an unoccupied table, Helen sat down. Once again, she did a visual exploration. Pleased, she noted that three potentials had followed her from the bar. Helen made a point of making eye contact with each of them. It wasn’t more than a moment later that the bravest approached, asking her to dance. It was a slow number so he put his right arm around her waist and got close enough to inhale her scent and to get an eyeful of Helen’s cleavage. Helen was delighted to feel his stiffening cock pressed against her mid-section. She introduced herself and he did likewise. His name, he said, was George. He was a tall, well built guy with a fair complexion – the kind, she thought, that shows her welts so nicely. Helen, while encouraging him as they danced, also remained a tad aloof. She was psychologically applying those age-old principles of dominance – affection and denial – by at one moment drawing him close, squeezing his hand and otherwise letting him know she was not offended by his erection, while not giving much of herself away in conversation.

When the song ended, Helen knew George was hers for the taking. She knew, too, that it was still a bit too soon to make her move so she sent him to the bar to fetch her another soft drink. She rarely drank alcohol in public. While he was gone, one of the remaining two potentials asked her onto the floor. Helen’s second impression, as he began to speak, was not good. This guy had all the body language of a potential submissive but came on as being too macho. When the song ended, Helen had struck him from her list and, wordless, turned and made her way back to her table where George stood awaiting her.

Good, she thought. He hadn’t sat down. George had promise as a slave. Making herself comfortable, she waited for him to take a small bit of initiative and seat himself. When he didn’t, Helen offered him the chair beside her. Both were overjoyed, Helen because he was already caught in her web and George because this beauty actually wanted his company.

They talked as best they could over the loud music. Helen made sure to allow him all the cleavage viewing he wanted. And he wanted a lot. His eyes were all over her. She suggested they leave the ballroom and go next door to the dining room where they could speak more freely and get to know one another. George quickly agreed and they left, him smugly escorting her past all the other men, lording his conquest. Helen observed his strut but she knew who got who. The maitre’d gave them a small table for two off in a corner. The couple had as much privacy as they needed for the kind of conversation Helen provoked. “Tell me, George, what made you follow me from the bar to my table?”

Taken aback because he hadn’t expected her to notice, George, to his credit, kept a straight face by responding, “Well, I found you so stunning that I wanted to know where you were going to settle-in so that I could find you later. When I saw I wasn’t the only one interested in you, I approached sooner than I’d psyched myself for.”

“Why did you feel you had to psych yourself?” she asked.

“Frankly, because I felt that if I didn’t steel myself for a possible rejection, the whole evening could have been a disaster. I hated the thought of being turned down by the first lady I approached.”

“George,” she said, “when I saw the way you stared at my leather skirt and my high heels, I knew we had something in common. I could tell you have an appreciation for things that go beyond the norm.”

“You saw me staring?”

“Yes, I did,” Helen said. “Are you embarrassed?”

“A little. I mean, most women don’t understand how powerful their visual impact is, or how much it can affect a man. I admit that I got caught up in your aesthetic presentation, especially your high heels and leather skirt.”

George had also been captivated by her low neckline, her eyes, her body language ... but decided not to mention it.

“Would you describe your taste in women as running to the kinky?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he said, “provided she has the understanding to be feminine, desirable, a little bit witchy and dresses the way you do.”

“I like having a man around who likes the kinds of things you do,“ she said. Looking him straight in the eye, she took the tone of the conversation directly to its heart, “In fact, most of the time I want a man to treat me with the respect a slave would give his owner.”

He lowered his gaze and said, “I often put beautiful women like you on a pedestal, imagining that I’d do almost anything for them.”

“If I demanded it, “ she asked, “would you do anything for me? Would you obey me and treat me the way a slave would treat a mistress?”

George again lowered his eyes, finding her cleavage in his line of sight. “Oh, yes. Yes, I would,” he responded.

“Well, I might give you the opportunity.”

The warm-up was over. Helen knew her game had now begun. Both were silent for a moment. George was absorbing the exchange of words while Helen stared him down. Suddenly, she said, “Let’s get out of here. Do you have a car?”

“Yes, it’s parked out back.”

“Go and get it. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

As he made his way to the exit, Helen slowly began gathering her things. Standing, she walked to the door of the dining room. When she reached the corridor, the third of her potentials was there. Awkwardly, he approached and told her that he’d seen her leave with a man but had hoped he might have an opportunity to speak with her. Helen said she’d committed herself that evening but gave him her number. He was kind of cute, she thought, and looked like he might be fun to while away a few hours with.

George was standing beside his car when she came out, holding the door open for her. Driving out of the parking lot, Helen gave him her address and the directions. Turning so that her back was against her door, she brought both legs up onto the seat between them. Extending one, she moved her high heel onto his lap, atop his genitals. George was beside himself with excitement as the high heel ground into his growing erection. Helen told him to steer with one hand and to massage her other foot.

He slipped off her shoe, then massaged her stockinged foot, squeezing, kneading and rubbing. As he did, Helen made sure her shoe on the other foot teased his cock. Up until now, Helen hadn’t taken the Mistress/slave concept all the way into the open. Deciding this was as good a time as any, she raised the foot George had been massaging to his lips and said, “Kiss it, slave.”

Shaken, George grasped her foot, kissed and sucked all five toes through the stocking, then passionately kissed her instep. His ardor increased to the point where Helen began to worry about his driving. Lowering her foot, she demanded he concentrate on handling the car. Naturally, her high-heeled massage of his cock quickly came to an end, too.

Helen liked the progress she’s made so far but now, she realized, it was time to close the sale. She knew she had to reinforce his desire. Snuggling close and putting her left hand on his upper thigh, Helen stroked it and said, “We’re almost there, pet. You know I want you to come inside but unless you agree to do everything I tell you, you’d better just drop me off.”

In a groan of longing, he promised to follow her orders and to submit.

In a stronger tone, yet still seductively, Helen said, “That’s good, slave.” She reached higher and squeezed his cock through his pants, “You’re going to be my little sex toy for the night and I wanted you to know beforehand what you’re letting yourself in for.”

Parking the car, George opened the passenger door and helped Helen out. She reached for his crotch and, taking a handful of his private parts, led him all the way to her front door. Once there, she said, “Last chance, boy. Once inside, you’re mine.”

George looked down and said, “I want to be at your mercy, Mistress.”

As they say on radio, that was the ‘phrase that pays’ for Helen. Quickly, she unlocked her front door, preceded him inside and closed it behind him. Immediately, she put her domination to work, ordering him to kneel.

He went to his knees on the instant, then heard her order to lick her shoes. He bent his head and Helen soon felt the slight pressure of his tongue through the leather. She enjoyed his submissive attention for a moment, then – leaving him where he was – walked into the living room. He began to follow but Helen pulled him up short, commanding, “Don’t make a move unless I tell you. Stay there on your knees.”

George could see her as she poured herself a glass of wine, made herself comfortable on the couch and crossed her leg. Helen let about five minutes go by before snapping her fingers and pointing to the floor in front of her. He began to rise but Helen commanded, “Crawl, slave.”

Blushing, George approached her on all fours, then pushed himself up so that he rested on his knees. Helen knew he could see her nylon tops and the soft, bare skin of her thighs. But that was fine. She wanted him hot. Extending the shoe dangling from the toes of her crossed leg, her desire was left unspoken. She loved the way his little pink tongue shot out of his mouth to lick the leather. She kept him at it throughout her enjoyment of the wine. From time to time, he had to take his tongue back into his mouth for re-moistening. Each time he did, Helen frowned.

“Stop, slave,” she said, withdrawing her foot. “Take off all your clothes, put them on the floor in the corner and come back here. Don’t even think of standing.”

He crawled into the corner and awkwardly took everything off before returning to her on his hands and knees. He knelt again, naked. His erection was standing at a 90-degree angle, seemingly saluting her shoes, stockings and leather.

Before leaving for the dance, Helen had choreographed how any scene might have gone later on. In anticipation, she’d placed various bondage and discipline toys in certain areas of her living room. Beside her was a small cabinet that doubled as an end table. Opening its door, she took out a black leather dog collar she’d originally found in the pets section of the supermarket. Leaning toward him, she put the leather around his neck and fastened it tight enough so that he knew he was wearing it but not so tight he choked. A black leather leash was next, snapped onto the collar’s D-ring. Helen held the leash so there was no slack between her hand and his neck. She wanted him to feel and to know that she had control and that she intended on exercising it.

Standing, she ordered George to follow her – “just like a puppy dog” – into her bedroom. Helen loved this feeling of power. She loved having a mature male human being collared and on the end of her leash. She ordered him to bark.

His “woof, woof” amused her and she acknowledged it by saying, “such a good boy.”

The wrist restraints and the rest of her goodies were in her bedroom. When she got him in there, she had him put his hands behind his back for shackling. Helen then attached her end of the leash to a hook midway up the wall. George wasn’t going anywhere. He was effectively staked out the same way you might find an animal pegged to the ground and held by a lead in a farmer’s field. In Helen’s case, her animal had his hands restrained behind him . . . he was collared and at the end of a leash that she, an attractive woman, had put on him . . . he was attached naked to her bedroom wall . . . AND he had a mighty erection.

Helen posed for him in a seductive manner just beyond the length of his leash before crossing her arms at the waist and slowly pulling the low cut sweater over her head. Black bra with breasts spilling over the cups, leather skirt, seamed nylons and spike heels were the adornments he now saw on Helen’s body. Involuntarily, he trembled and his penis throbbed at the sight of her loveliness. His reaction and his attention didn’t escape Helen. She took pride in the knowledge that she could affect certain men in this manner, and she intended to use her upper hand to the max. She determined that this slave was going to grovel, be humiliated, and whipped. She had already taken him a long way but was determined he would pay more than simple lip service about being a slave. When she was through with him, she thought, he genuinely would be.

George watched his beautiful conqueror approach, felt her cup his chin in her palm while she squeezed his cock with the other hand. “Slave,” she said, “you’ve got a lot to learn in the next few hours. Uppermost is the fact that you do not say nor do anything unless I give permission. Understand?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“When I snap my fingers,” she said, “you will come to me on your knees. When I squeeze your cock, you stand still. When I run my fingers up and down your spine, you don’t move. When I make love to your ass, you submit. When I whip you, you take it. You do only what you’re told and nothing else.”

“Yes, Mistress Helen.”

She released him and, taking a length of her favorite blue ribbon, wrapped it around his balls and over the base of his cock, tying it in a neat bow. “There,” she said. “Don’t you feel like a pretty slave?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Elbow length black leather gloves came next. She put them on and approached the tethered George. Holding one hand to his mouth, she commanded, “Use your tongue, slave. Smooth the leather up my arm.”

He worked and worked at making sure every crease was out of the glove before relaxing his tongue and head. Inspecting his work, Helen found a wrinkle. “You didn’t do too good a job, slave. That will cost you five lashes. Here, try the other one.”

Had he been any other person doing a job assigned him, George would have earned plaudits. In this case, Helen’s plan included finding fault. She did, a small crease just over her elbow, the most difficult area to make neat. “You call this smoothed on?” she criticized. “I call it lazy and haphazard. That will cost you another ten with the whip.”