Consent Ch. 01-02


Author's Notes:

(1) I start slowly, and build up, so be patient.

(2) And please, please...erotica is in the minds of writers and readers. One man's erotica is not necessarily another's.

(3) This is for cross dressers and fetishists, and it is fiction. There are sometimes no boundaries on where one can go in fiction, so, you trolls out there, just park logic to the side, like when you watch a Star Wars movie.


Jack was lost. Thirty years old, unmarried and no girlfriend, zilch for savings, and now he had lost his job. Worst Friday ever, and only four weeks until Christmas.

The late November sun shone through the slit in the curtains in his 34th floor apartment on 8th Avenue, revealing clouds of normally unseen dust from his unkempt home. He wished it would go away (the sunshine and the dust), as too much was revealed in that slit of light, too much about his life. And sure enough, it did go away, blinking out like a light fixture, and the illusion of order and cleanliness was restored.

The sun had set over the Rockies and the bleakness of the coming winter crashed into him like an avalanche of cold, icy and wet concrete. He pulled the curtains back and looked west at the retreating light and the carpet of city lights spreading toward the foothills. Wind whistled through the crack in the balcony door like it always did, and he felt the draft on his legs. It felt good on his stockings, making him distinctly aware of his attire and the fact that he had shaved his legs earlier.

He looked down at his breasts, the plastic bags filled with 500 cc of water, nestled and heavy in his bra. He liked the feel of them when he moved, bouncing and squishing, the poor man's version of a breast prosthetic. And he liked the feel of his panties and stockings on his now hairless body. It was the only comfort left to him today. That and his wine.

He sat down once again at the computer, making sure he tucked his skirt properly beneath him. Brushing his long brown hair away from his face, he studied the ad again for the thousandth time.

"Join me in the Porn industry! Good pay, flexible hours. Presently seeking a submissive male model who enjoys BDSM, Femdom, Role Play, Fetish Play for position to serve Mistress Johanna. Must have no objections to extreme fantasy depictions. Your consent is required and once given, you will be pushed to limits you had no idea were possible. Meals, lodging supplied for proper candidate. In other words, live with me and fulfill your wildest dreams. Fill out application NOW!"

It seemed like an order, and of course it was meant to be.

Jack loved this site, and he had spent many perverted hours here, watching Mistress Johanna administer unspeakable acts of domination, humiliation, and discipline upon her hapless male slaves in video after video. He wondered how some of them could stand it, being caned or flogged until their backs or backsides were striped red and bleeding, and then being "forced" to masturbate on her boots and lick it off afterwards. Why would they do that?

Initially, he was shocked at these acts even as he masturbated to those same fantasies, in a very strange disassociated state. He had always thought that those people were weird. What did they do afterward? Where did they go? How could they go about normal daily activities?

But he wished he was one of them. How could he think this way, he wondered? He concluded he was sane, but perhaps sick. As he thought about it more and more, he began to think the sickness maybe wasn't the fantasy; it was his disassociation, and he resolved to fix that.

Mistress Johanna wasn't even that beautiful. Her body was slightly above normal weight, but her curves were stunning, being accentuated by the corsets she wore regularly. He studied her face now on the screen. It was a face that was ordinary in every way but one. There was a look in her eye that spoke silently of mystery, like she knew something that no one else did, much like the feeling one got from the Mona Lisa smile. There was a secrecy to it, and despite not being beautiful, it made her attractive and extremely desirable, making up for all of her imperfections, like the faint remains of teenage acne scars, or the straight short black hair that framed her face and made her cheeks seem a little on the chubby side.

Jack had filled out the application and his finger hovered over the "send" button.

"No!" he whispered out loud in a sudden denial of his desires. He stood up and walked to the balcony window again where darkness was descending rapidly. He took another sip of the cheap red wine, so cheap it had no name; it was simply red wine, and it was awful. But it was adequate in terms of alcohol content. Holding the glass up and away from him, he smiled at the lipstick markings on its rim, and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them he felt the heaviness of his eyelids laden with excessive mascara.

He thought things through. A recession. No job and no prospects for a job. Rent due and no way to pay. He had no friends, having moved to the city two years before, and being a gamer, had only continued his worldwide online gaming friendships from before, in a lost lonely realm. He had weird fantasies. Mistress Johanna wanted a submissive man with weird fantasies, and the job was here. In this city. Now.

A lot of things came together here. But he remembered university and being afraid of the hard drugs, afraid not because of their stoning effects, but afraid because he might like them. This was like that. In effect, he could actually become a slave, just like the ones depicted in Mistress Johanna's videos. And that could be a slippery slope; once tried, how do you quit the habit?

That's when he understood. He finally "got" it. Those slaves weren't slaves to Mistress Johanna; they were slaves to their sexual addiction, obliged to do those things because of their sexual fantasies, not because Mistress Johanna said they had to. After all, they were men who could have easily overpowered her in any scene, or at least they could initially, up until the time the final lock was closed and they found themselves actually helpless and at her mercy. Then it was too late.

He fantasized what it must feel like to hear that final click of the bondage lock, that instant of time when the realization hit that he was past a magical point of no return, when he was placed at the feet of a Goddess for her use as she saw fit. And it sent a vibration and a chill through him so that he shook. Or maybe it was that damn draft.

Whatever it was, it got him moving. He grimaced at the "send" button and pressed it. It was as though the "send" had two directives: one to send the email, the other to cause that same chill and vibration through his body that he had felt a moment before. Clearly it wasn't the draft at the balcony door.

Jack enjoyed the click of his high heels on the tiled floor as he put a frozen pizza in the oven and opened another bottle of the unnamed wine. He dug the remote out from under the sofa cushion, blew food crumbs off of it, and turned a sports channel on to get his mind calmed down. Sending that application had made his cheeks burn with excitement and he needed to maybe count to 100 or something. The Seahawks were winning again, and the surprising Flames were beating Dallas in hockey.

Suddenly the email alarm went off. He went to his phone and saw that it was from an address he didn't recognize. He opened it and gasped out loud. It was her. So soon.

"Your ad response is the third today. Since you also live in Calgary, and I am an impatient woman, I would like to meet you ASAP to see if you are suitable. Tomorrow night (Saturday) at the Palliser Hotel Lounge, 7:30, a safe open environment. You will wear something blue and something pink. Don't think. Just be there. I will find you. RSVP.

Mistress Johanna"

The pizza was ready. Jack was not. At least not ready for this.

He couldn't believe it. This wasn't some role playing game on the computer. This was for real. A professional dominatrix actually wanted to see him.

"Fucking A!" he said out loud, as a rush of excitement coursed through him.

He went back to the computer and her website. Mistress Johanna stood there still, frozen in time, frozen in her invitation. Her eyes seemed to see him, like the painting where the eyes followed you around a room. She knew he was there; people like him were out there. Clicking through the various parts of the site once again, he saw men and women in bondage, men in frilly dresses or impossibly tight corsets, men in baby's clothes, many on their knees begging to be allowed an orgasm, all held captive by their fantasies. Mistress Johanna was simply a proxy for ownership. But that proxy had unlimited power.

Could he allow himself to be like this? They were sick weirdoes, all of them. He shuddered at the thought of even meeting one of those men. Then he realized the extent of his disassociation. They were he, and a huge sigh, analogous to defeat, escaped his open lips. His shoulders slumped slightly and he surrendered.

Going back to the email, he clicked on "reply" and typed:

"Mistress Johanna,

I'll be there. Should be fun. Shall I be "naughty"? LOL


He pressed "send", half expecting no reply. But it was worth it for that moment of intense excitement it gave him to just acknowledge his weakness. He sat there sipping his wine and playing with his pizza, suddenly not hungry any longer, and incredulous at what he had just done. Astonishingly, within minutes a reply came back.

"Respondent Number 3,

I find your response an insult to my intelligence. Fun? I hope you were simply nervous rather than stupid. Is this how you respond to a job interview? You will come to me knowing what you need. What you want is irrelevant to me. If I hire you, you will be my employee and your needs will be met, but your wants are not relevant; they are only strings that I pull to satisfy MY wants. You will come prepared to divulge your secrets and I will determine if you are appropriate.

And naughty? You replied to my ad for reasons you alone know. Mocking better not be one of them. I am NOT looking for naughtiness. I am looking for an obedient employee for any and all purposes, many of which you can guess from my website. If you feel you cannot be that person, then let me know and I'll move on. There are others.

Respond now.

Mistress Johanna"

Jack's heart started beating quickly and his mouth went dry despite the wine. Really?

Interesting reply. She was no dummy. Very articulate. But at the same time she actually sounded like a real dominatrix, not just fantasy. This was real. Must be one strike against him already, he thought, as she sensed she was being mocked. Well, actually she was, but he had a hard time thinking this was genuine anyway, so what the heck. A real dominatrix with real sex slaves did not and could not exist in real life, could they? This meeting would be a fascinating experience, but it was only that, an experience that could result in a job sprinkled with kinky sex, and he was shuddering with excitement about that. This woman was living in a world that turned fantasy to reality, if only for a brief time, like a crystal born from evaporation of water, only to be reduced to nothing again by the flood of watery reality.

But it would be fun to crystallize. Just once. Oh, to be that crystal. If he got the job and it proved to be too much for him, he could just quit. Couldn't he?

That was his rationalization, but deep down inside he sensed that he was about to take fentanyl or opium. But now he didn't care. Fear had been replaced with need, a primal desire to fulfill some of his deepest fantasies.

He responded again.

"Mistress Johanna,

I am so sorry for that email. I didn't mean anything by it. I will meet you as requested. I know what I need and I think I know what you want. I do hope they match.


He waited but she didn't answer the last email.

Now the practicalities. Pink and blue. What was the significance of that, he wondered? Female and male? He had a pink tie. He could wear that with his pale blue shirt and a pair of black dress pants. That would have to do. Despite this bizarre situation, he felt intensely excited at the thought of this woman staring him in the eye. Those eyes, so dark and dangerous. This would be the first bit of fun he had experienced in a long time. Way out of control, and exciting.

In answer to her question, what did he need? Walks on a beach in the rain? No. Life wasn't like that. Sometimes a person didn't know what he needed until it happened. So be it. And his secrets? He laughed as he started that list in his head. They would need a lot of time.

Jack ate his pizza and watched the rest of the hockey game. By the time the game was over, another bottle of wine was gone, and in his desire to make tomorrow arrive faster, he went to bed, nestling comfortably under the covers in his silky negligee, still with his panties and bra on. Nothing made him more secure and comfortable than that, and he drifted off to sleep, wondering what the future would bring besides rent money.

If he had really been honest with himself, rent money was well down the list of his needs. In his case, desires had trumped that. Nothing else mattered.


Jack straightened his tie once he entered the grand mezzanine area of the early twentieth century hotel in downtown Calgary. It was 7:20. His hands had a slight shake, as they always seemed to have now. He made a mental note to clench his fists slightly to hide his bitten fingernails during the "interview".

He hadn't been here in years and in surveying the premises now, it seemed an odd place to have an interview between a dominatrix and a potential slave. Shouldn't it be in a poorly lit scuzzy bar or restaurant somewhere on the east side? But then again, was any place appropriate for such a meeting?

He looked around, slightly confused, and then realized the lounge was down one level on the main floor.

Feeling as if his every move was being watched, he descended the Titanic-like grand staircase, stiff legged and nervous. Abruptly he lost his courage and hastily turned around awkwardly to go back up the stairs to regroup. He was scared. Not scared actually, just anxious. After all, how often does one get a chance to chat with a dominatrix? And this was in public, not dirty and safe like skulking around dark and anonymous sewers on the internet. Would she be dressed in leather and carrying a whip? Not here, surely not here. Silly thoughts.

This was a stupid idea, really stupid, he thought while literally wringing his hands. Now his knees shook as he paced silently back and forth in a poorly lit empty alcove free from staring eyes. Minutes passed. Finally he emerged from the gloom and breathed a long heavy sigh. He would do this, and perhaps enjoy it, maybe learn something about the dark side. Or possibly run away after a brief talk. What did it matter? What was he afraid of here anyway, himself or her? Or something else?

Walking away was always an option. He could do that now too. But he didn't.

His breath came in short puffs as he descended the staircase once again and entered the lounge through a sturdy oak doorway. It was 7:34. He paused, uncertain, at the entrance. Suddenly he felt extremely visible, with the blue shirt and pink tie identifying him to someone in particular. This was not incognito. This was real life, however bizarre.

He could walk away still. But he didn't.

The lounge dripped with universal heavy oak elegance and plush leather padding and there was a quiet power to it. Immense mirrors with ornate frames graced the walls at strategic places, making the space seem even larger than it was. Many of the tables snuggled against the wall and were partly surrounded by high half-walls, creating nooks of privacy with hints of decadence or conspiracy, whispering with secrecy and shady deals. The floor space was filled with single pedestal weighty oak tables, all of which were low, affording the accompaniment of plush, low lounge chairs. The servers were male and dressed in black pants, purple vests and white shirts. A hushed opulence sighed throughout the room.

The lounge was darker than outside, so Jack stood for a few moments, adjusting to the diminished light. He searched the room, at the same time being deliberately noticeable to all, but to one in particular. He felt observed, a fish in a bowl.


Johanna rehearsed in her mind what her approach would be. She was good at this, finding strength and weakness in people, and she capitalized on whichever of the two was available.

She had just finished her first sip of virgin martini when she saw him enter. The applicant seemed hesitant and uneasy. That was good. A nervous man was a good candidate. The ones with the right stuff were always the same, trying to act like stereotypical men, but desperately lacking sufficient confidence and self-esteem to actually pull it off. Most of them were easy to pick apart, to disarm and confuse.

Physical force was never necessary with such men. They allowed themselves to be dominated, struggling not as much against the woman, as against themselves, the inescapable bondage of fantasy. She prided herself in the understanding of that.

She had posted the employment ad only two weeks ago, and the response had been good, better than expected actually. She had thought that most of the people that went to her site were just lurkers, nerdy little perverts, and she wasn't sure if any men would put themselves out there for ownership or for the uses she had in mind. Three responses in two weeks suggested that in time, there would be a suitable candidate from many applicants. What a world, she thought, mentally shaking her head, men willing to give up everything to belong to her. Power was so easy to gain, but so difficult to wield with balance.

This one, her third interviewee since she had posted the ad, had sounded interesting in his email response. The second one was also from Calgary, and the other from Seattle, neither satisfactory, the applicants being men of large frame and bulk. Yes, they were suitably lost and needy, but they didn't meet her requirements, neither in looks or fantasy in her mind. The interviews had drifted off to banalities and died. Although they would have been fun to dominate on a temporary basis (and she didn't rule that out), long term would prove difficult and uninteresting, and they simply weren't pretty enough.

She caught his eye and raised a single finger, motioning the universal "come here" signal. It was not a request.

He spotted her signal at the back of the room, in one of the private nooks, where she sat with what appeared to be a martini in front of her. She stared at him and waited. Time froze like a photograph in an old album.

He approached her like a dog seeing a new type of animal for the first time, sniffing and cautious. Periodically he scanned the room suspiciously for acquaintances. Arriving beside her table, he asked with uncertainty, "Excuse me. Are you Johanna?"

She held out her hand, palm down, wrist bent, and corrected him, "Mistress Johanna."

When he saw her up close, he became boyish and extremely awkward. He tilted his head and said, "Mistress Johanna? You're even prettier in person...I mean, uh, on your porn, uh, website, you look so...well, you're pretty there too...uh..."

She smiled slightly and said, "Thank-you. I think."

They stared at each other, he standing, she sitting with her hand outstretched. Moments passed. Clearly he did not know what to do, so he just stood there and stared at her. Finally he got it, and kissed her hand lightly, asking, "Sorry, this is kind of awkward. May I sit down?"

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