Consent Ch. 01-02

This was the part that Johanna loved, the beginning. She took her hand back and measured him, toes to head, lingering at his crotch, saying nothing. She made him stand there in his discomfort.

A small man, probably five foot seven, narrow features but with an odd fluidity to his torso, high cheek bones, narrow chin, cute button nose, an effeminate face actually, certainly not Hollywood masculine. Now his hands were interesting, she thought, as they seemed made for massaging music from the piano, long and graceful fingers blunted by bitten nails, hairless as was his face. Androgynous. She liked that. The hair on his head was shortly cropped, nondescript, perhaps blond, and even in this low light, some lighter hairs were shimmering at certain angles. Grayness? He was clearly anxious.

He shuffled his feet nervously. "Johanna?" he asked. She was so aloof, he wondered if he really did have the right table.

"To those who serve me, it's MISTRESS Johanna, or simply ma'am." She watched with delight as his brown eyes blinked in surprise at the emphasis on mistress.

"Yes. Yes, of course. I get it. After all, you are a dominatrix, right?" He laughed artificially and nervously, acutely aware of his satirical statement, while she only hinted at a cold smile, herself unsure whether this man was an idiot or simply anxious.

"So, may I sit down then?" He stood awkwardly for a few seconds, then realized his omission and added, "Mistress Johanna?"

"Yes, you may."

At this point, the server approached them and asked Jack what he would like to drink. Jack thought for a moment.

"He'll have a glass of White Zinfandel," she intervened.

Both men looked at her with slight surprise, and after a small hesitation and an amused look at Jack, the server said, "Yes ma'am," and dashed off to get the misnamed pink wine.

As a joke, Jack said weakly to the server's retreating back, "I'll have a glass of Shiraz please." Out of earshot, the server neither flinched nor turned around.

Jack observed Johanna, up close for the first time. Could this really be the person that had beckoned him on the website? She was actually more beautiful than that. There was an awe induced by her very presence that could not be photographed. Her left hand was hidden under the table but her right hand, weighted with rings on every finger, rested at the base of the martini glass, long red nails clicking the table lightly. Her eyes were dark, perhaps green, he couldn't be sure, but her hair was the most amazing shade of dark auburn he had ever seen, not falling long, but short, lower jawbone level, flared inward to frame her face and point to her cleavage, pushed up as it was by some influential underwear. He was sure her hair had been black on the website. Her skin radiated wealth, a manicured smooth and pampered porcelain look with scattered tiny freckles and the odd remnant acne scar sprinkling over her cheeks and slightly aquiline nose. Age was a question, perhaps mid-thirties, maybe late.

Suddenly her voluminous ruby lips smiled, and two dimples appeared on her cheeks, like two invisible fingers had poked a Pillsbury dough-boy. The smile softened what otherwise could be a very stern and unforgiving countenance. She was accustomed to telling people what to do.

He was thankful she smiled. She twisted slightly in her seat and a faint but distinct creaking sound came to him from her direction. Her low cut white blouse allowed an erotic peek at the possible source, a black leather bra or the top of a corset. The air seemed thick with her presence, a bouquet of leather and perfume, Aphrodite in person.

"You're a fine looking man, potentially pretty actually," she stated flatly, as she had reciprocated his observance of her.

Taken aback, he responded, "Pretty? Never been called that before." His cheeks burned red, but he managed a smile. Should he respond in kind, calling her what, handsome, he wondered? The term didn't fit. Did her term fit him? He mentally saw himself in the mirror like he saw himself last night, and he shook his head, guilt flying in all directions. Should he say to her, "You're very exotic."? Probably not, so he said nothing.

"Yes, pretty," she repeated, unwavering. She momentarily lost herself in fantasy. Physically, she could work with this one, she thought.

Changing the subject, she made some small talk, awaiting his drink, "Weather's weird lately isn't it? Windy and sinister feeling."

"For sure," he answered, "but, after all, winter is coming I guess."

"True, but this season always gives me the creeps you know? Like an unopened door in a haunted house. You just KNOW winter is behind the door."

They both found the small talk a waste of time. An awkward silence ensued while she calmly sipped her martini and observed him. Her eyes never left him.

Suddenly, "So, tell me about yourself. What's your name, first and last? Why did you answer my ad?" she asked. Her eyes rarely seemed to blink.

Very blunt and direct for a woman, he thought. Such easy questions, one with such a difficult answer.

The server arrived with the wine. Jack sipped it thoughtfully. He disliked White Zinfandel. For one thing, it wasn't white, it was pink. And its origin was actually a mistake, brewing gone bad, but sold as a new wine, like a new accidental dog breed. Like his life to date, the wine was a spin, a trick of mirrors and presentation.

He opened with uncertainty by saying, "Umm, I answered your ad, to be quite honest, for a sense of excitement I think. I don't even know how I got to your site actually. But then when you answered me so quickly, I started to take it a bit more seriously I guess. I don't know..." He went silent. She remained silent, staring.

"Look," she said, "You and I both know you want to be dominated by a woman. Just admit it and start again okay?" She took a sip of her martini and smiled deeply and honestly, reaching out for his hand, grasping it lightly, calming him.

If there was ever someone he could open up to about his inner fantasies, she had to be it. He decided to tell her his story, and he did, spilling almost everything, many of his fantasies, his hates, his loves, his failed relationships. Everything.

In a bizarre way he felt safe with this woman. What could he tell her that she had never seen or heard about or done anyway? Once he started he couldn't stop, or at least it seemed that way. Several times when he did stop to briefly ponder, she just stared at him with half dimples, not adding anything, just waiting, the interviewer's strategy of non-engagement.

When he was done she asked softly once again, "That's all very charming and honest, but why did you answer my ad sweetie? What do you want?"

Sweetie? Then he realized it was true, he hadn't really answered the question. "As I said, it was an impulse if you will, but now I believe there was method to the madness, cuz I'm here. And for some reason I'm telling you all this."

He stopped to think and then blurted out, "I, umm, I guess I want to reboot my life. And to be honest, I'm broke, I've just lost my job, and I have no other prospects. And I like your site. Maybe I want to be a slave like your other "guests" on your site (Jeez that sounds silly), I don't know. I'm not sure what that means in real life, or if that state really exists at all. Your ad sounded fun and interesting, if not intriguing. I do know I have kinky tendencies and I feel like I have no limits to my kinkiness."

He stopped, looking down at the table, and then added, "It makes me crazy sometimes. All the time. I, I don't know what I am, who I am, what to do..."

At this point he stopped suddenly and pulled his head back sharply in astonishment at his own statements. He noticed he was still holding her hand, and snapped it out of reach nervously.

"Shut-up Jack," he thought to himself in mock playfulness at his own chatter.

Johanna leaned back in her chair, shaking her head, folding her arms under her breasts and smiling slightly, "Dear me, you need a psychiatrist, not a dominatrix. On the other hand, maybe that's the same thing for you. I could at least make you useful, if that's important to you. I could change you, well, maybe not change you, but at least make you come to terms with who you really are. I need more though."

Her directness was shocking but as he reddened further he boldly stayed with her. "Ouch on the psychiatrist. Look, been there, done that, didn't work, the psychiatrist thing. I'm afraid this has become an obsession of mine. Maybe that's crazy, maybe not, I don't know. What's crazy or normal anyway?"

She thought for a few moments, wondering how to play this. Then she responded, "You know what? I don't think you really want to be a slave; you want kinky sex. Big difference. A slave, contrary to common belief, provides service (which may include sex), but does not necessarily get sex in return. If I took you, you would be used as an object for comfort and pleasure for me and others in my promotional videos. I'd also use you for scenario demonstrations to show some of my clients what I am capable of, to excite them, if you will. You would only have sexual gratification if it pleased me to allow it or if I felt it was necessary for the depiction of the fantasy. Oh, and in answer to your question...you are not normal. Neither am I. I am a deranged bitch who gets pleasure from using men for sexual purposes. And I'm thankful for that every day of my life. Just so we're clear on that."

Shocked, he sipped his wine in silence. There was no response to that. She sipped on the martini. Moments and minutes passed.

"Where did you work?" she asked, finally.

"Salesman for an Oil Service Company. No activity now, so until the price of oil recovers, I'm shit out of luck."

"Hmm. Do you have relatives and friends? Facebook page?"

"Parents have both passed away. Two brothers, one older and living in Nova Scotia, a teacher. Haven't seen him in uh, probably four years. The other is younger, a new doctor in Toronto. Never see him either. We're not a close family actually. A few gamer friends scattered about the Web. My Facebook page has all my acquaintances on it. Why do you want to know all this stuff anyway?"

"You expect me to request a resume for this type of job? Not likely, so I have to ask lots of stuff. I'm interviewing you, remember? Just getting information. You have a feminine face and delicate body. Are you gay?"

She had also taken due note of the fact that he was a middle child and his Facebook connections were really "acquaintances", not friends. That was interesting, a loner perhaps?

She had a way about her that always threw him off guard. "I look feminine? Hmm. No, not gay, I'm just straight, crooked straight." He was uneasy with this line of questioning. Feminine? Delicate? He had worked a lifetime to portray anything but that, but with his physique, it was hard. And his cross dressing was a forbidden fortress of secrecy.

"I see. Crooked straight. I think I like that. Genderqueer maybe? What does that mean to you?"

"Queer? That's gay, right? I told you, I like women."

Johanna corrected him, "Well, no, you told me you weren't gay. Doesn't matter, never mind."

Jack wasn't exactly sure what she was talking about and he felt out of his element. He said, "I haven't had any real experience in the world of kink actually. I think I'm into bondage (me being tied up, I mean), maybe S&M, possibly AT&T or M&Ms (sorry, I can't help myself)," and he giggled nervously at his joke, "I just want eroticism, anything sexual goes actually. I don't think I have any limits."

Johanna laughed heartily at this, dimples deep and dark. "Oh, everyone has limits," she warned, "Don't ever say you don't have limits. What if I made you into a human toilet? Would you like that?" She was testing, probing, trying to shock.

"Human toilet? What's that? Or do I want to know?" He grimaced.

Johanna rolled her eyes slightly at his naivety and patiently explained, "You'd be immobilized on your back on the floor with your head face-up inserted through the side of a type of toilet bowl. My device seals completely at the neck so that to avoid drowning, certain "fluids" would have to be swallowed. I would sit on the toilet and...well, now you get the picture. Don't ever say you don't have limits."

Jack gagged in shock, "That's disgusting! People actually do that?"

"I have four people I enjoy in Calgary alone who I piss on routinely. And they pay me to do it. They didn't even know they liked it until I made them endure it. Once my men or women are restrained I try all sorts of stuff on them. When one cannot escape, one must simply endure. It's really a lot of fun, and they're amazed when they have an orgasm while being treated in such a way. One admitted to liking number two as well, but I draw the line before that, so he's shit out of luck (pun intended). Don't ever assume anything." She paused for effect and then with a wry smile added, "Maybe you'd like it. If you were my slave, I'd try you out on that just to test you. Even if you didn't like it, I might force you to submit to it, simply because I could, and I like humiliating men. Fortunately for all of my subjects, they like being humiliated."

Jack had no words to respond, but he shook his head from side to side. All he could think of was that there were crazy fucking people out there. And maybe he was way out of his league. Or maybe he was one of them.

Johanna now started her search for the real triggers. "So, you like being tied up, choice removed maybe?"

"Yes, I think I would like that."

"You like being controlled, forced to do things?"

His cheeks burned. The words came out with sharp edges from his dry mouth, "Uhh, yes."

"How about being beaten?"

Jack hesitated as he thought about that. "No, I don't think so. Maybe, not sure. Depends on how hard and what goes with it I guess."

"I understand. Sometimes people don't fully understand what their fantasies are until they are introduced to them. Now, clearly you like to be forced to do things by a dominant woman?"

"Yeah, I guess I do. I answered your ad."

"Over the years (now this might sound strange) have you noticed your fantasies twisting around, so that you might enjoy being humiliated as well, like the excitement of something is sharpened by humiliation or guilt?"

Again Jack thought for a bit and then answered hesitantly, "I don't know. Maybe. Again, I'm not sure. Why would anyone want to be humiliated? That's what my objective logic says anyway."

Johanna smiled and softened her face, "I'm not looking for objectivism here. There are many reasons. It's a self-preservation trick of the human mind. If you feel for example that you are bizarre in your own mind, then to protect against the shame, you welcome it. It becomes part of the fantasy and it replicates into many facets from there. That human toilet I was telling you about, those that enjoy that humiliation don't necessarily enjoy the urine and feces falling on their faces. They celebrate the humiliation of it, and the inability to avoid it once restrained.

Okay, let's test you. If I had a drug that made you incapable of resisting, and I bound your wrists and put a collar and leash on you, walked you down 17th Avenue in mid-afternoon, what are your initial thoughts about that? Quick, answer me! Would you like it?"

His physical and sexual response was immediate and it surprised him. "Yes, no, I wouldn't want it, but I'd find it intensely exciting if I had no choice. Holy shit! I can't believe I said that!"

Johanna smiled and nodded her head.

"Hmm, I see...sort of," he continued, "I'm beginning to understand a bit, maybe. I do have those fantasies I guess. Not the human toilet," he corrected quickly, "but I often feel guilty and ashamed about, well, things, some things I guess..." His voice trailed off.

In silence, she contemplated him for a long time, so long in fact, that the meeting became even more awkward for Jack. She sipped her drink, set it down and stirred it with the impaled olive and gazed through him, occasionally drumming her fingers on the table between them.

Johanna thought. So, there was something else, something for which Jack was intensely ashamed, and he couldn't even bring up the name of it, like Voldemort, he who shall not be named. As she stared at him, his features seemed to soften in her mind, and inklings of his fears passed from his eyes to hers until he looked away.

The silence was unending. Was he supposed to say something, he wondered?

The social discomfort simmered to the eventual and inevitable point of simultaneous mutual interruption, and together they blurted the beginnings of a statement.

Jack was going to say, "So, is this going to go anywhere?", but she dominated, cutting him off, saying, "Are you wearing panties right now?"

His face felt like it had been staring at a winter campfire. It instantly burned with both shame and guilt-consumed excitement, while the rest of him went cold with dread. No one had ever asked that of him before. That was his ultimate secret and shame. He looked at his bitten fingers on the table when he tried to answer, "No. Of course not! No...that would be..."

Bingo, she thought.

"Right. Are you wearing a bra like a little sissy?" She twisted the knife.

Jack was suddenly out of breath and he couldn't answer. His face tingled with a sexual flush.

"I see. Cross dressing isn't gay, you know," she said softly, "You carry that fear, don't you? The same percentage of heterosexuals cross dress as do homosexuals. Did you know that? You ARE wearing a bra and panties right now, aren't you?" She was whispering in a conspiratorial tone and smiling, mildly teasing.

"Jesus Christ! Keep your voice down!" he whispered, squirming in his seat, his body ironically slipping on the satin of his panties.

He was getting confused. Where was this going? Why was she deliberately putting him off balance like this? Sulking and slightly petulant, he said, "Well, anyway, I'm not gay."

Ignoring him, but excited herself, she added, "Let me see now, do you masturbate when you dress up, and does it make you feel better? I bet you look pretty."

His heart was beating furiously as these questions came at him like a blitzkrieg but he answered with his eyes riveted to his hands on the table, "Yes, okay, yes." Why not tell her, he thought. He had never told anyone before, and where had that got him?

"Is dressing up good enough for you, or do you always masturbate when you dress?"

Jack fidgeted. He glanced around the room, his heart singing with lust, his mind mired in pain. "I always end it," he said after a long silence.

Johanna tilted her head in question, "End it?"

"Yes! All right? I masturbate and then, and then it's over. I take off the clothes. Most of the time. I can't stand myself. I end it. At least I used to."

"I see. Used to?"

Jack stared and didn't answer.

Johanna took notes in her head. So, he wasn't entirely a cross dresser and not really a transvestite; maybe a transvestic fetishist, a person who likes the feel and smell and the sexual impulses created by the clothing. It is often utilized as a form of stress relief by many.

She asked with genuine interest, "Instead of ending it now, what do you do?"

"I, uh, after I masturbate, she disappears, but now I stay dressed until I become...her...again."

"Hmm," Johanna soothed, "It's evolved to that point then. To ease the pain, you fantasize you're a woman. She's pretty isn't she?"

"That's enough. You're making fun of me. No more okay?"

She pounced. "Oh baby, you've come to the right place," she cooed, "I would dress you, so you'd be her full time you know. I'd force you to be her. You'd have no choice. That would be perfect wouldn't it?"