Fantasy Dom - A Prequel

She was working the bar like a real pro. It was her bar, in her beautiful home, nestled in the pine forest, adjacent to a golf course carved through spectacular red rock formations. She and her husband had invited about a dozen of us over to watch some football, eat, imbibe, chat, laugh and have fun.

Quite the hostess she was. Always was. When it was her party she made sure that everything was as perfect as it could be, from the plentiful hors d'oeuvres to the custom-made cocktails and libations that she created and served to guests from behind the bar.

She and I had a most unique relationship. We'd known each other for some twenty-five years. The initial connection was between her husband and my wife. They met professionally, working at the same IT job at one time. They'd gone their separate work ways but our "couples friendship" endured. She and I had always been friendly, admired each other and genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

In recent times, say the past couple years, she and I have appreciated each other even more. It began with a little harmless flirting and was fairly innocuous. Oh, we engage in some light touching, some ribald humor, some suggestive banter. But it became apparent in recent times that there was something special about each other's company and we developed a unique kind of bond. When she discretely planted on me a delicious kiss about a year ago it opened up in me a recognition of just how fond I was of her. And, I assumed, she of me. Still, our relationship remained relatively chaste, by mutual agreement. Touching, flirting and a little kissing were in-bounds. Beyond that was not. So far as I could tell, she and her husband were committed to each other as were my wife and I.

The only times when those boundaries blurred a little were when she became bartender and I became her patron. The persona she transformed into as bartender became a little more daring with each subsequent drink...as did mine. I suppose we were some kind of rendition of drinking buddies. And as we imbibed with each other the flirting became a bit more impulsive and bold.

It was under these conditions that I made a confession to her. One time we were sitting together sipping martinis. For the moment, no one else was around. I gazed at her in admiration and perceived more than a casual friend. Beyond being smitten with her, I saw her as my confidante. I trusted her. I'm not sure how she inspired such confidence in me. But she did. Especially in this tipsy state. And I'd been obsessing over a desperate need to share with her a secret of mine - a secret that no one in the world but my wife was aware of...that I was a sub, a guy who yearned to be controlled and dominated by a female. It's what got me off, pushed my buttons and aroused my passions. So, I told her. I was nervous as hell. But a martini, my comfort with her and my infatuation with her won me over.

She was far too worldly to be taken aback. She'd definitely been up past midnight on many a Saturday night. It's one of the things I loved about her. I did detect, however, a smidgen of disappointment. I think most heterosexual females have a natural attraction to a virile, take charge, aggressive, sweep-me-off-my-feet kind of guy. But she was accepting and non-judgmental, as I'd guessed she'd be.

From that moment on, she'd occasionally make passing remarks that acknowledged by subbiness. Harmless, playful buddy kind of remarks, like, "Watch out or I'll make you go deadhead all the flowers," or "Go fetch me some ice from upstairs...and that's not a request." She knew that when she said things like that I melted like a puppy, spellbound by his treat-packing owner. And she was able to conjure up the most stern visage with me. It reminded me of a grade school teacher admonishing an unruly student. Not messing around! I just melted with that stare of hers. And she knew it.

And that's how it went pretty much until this fine autumn day when a dozen or so of us descended on their beautiful home. We were enjoying the football game and camaraderie. I was sitting at the bar, in my usual spot. Everyone else was coming and going, to watch football, step out on the deck, play some pinball, gorge at the snack table, tell stories and jokes, etc.

Occasionally, we'd be left alone, in between drink orders from others. She and I were sipping a potent concoction of hers, a St. Germaine gin martini, and were just starting to feel a little giddy from the alcohol. That's when she leaned over the bar and whispered, "You've been dying to be my sub for a long time, haven't you?" I recall it so well. It was more of a statement than a question.

I was taken aback. We really hadn't spoken explicitly about this since my confession. But I was electrified by the remark. I chose the honest, forthright path.

"Yes. I've dreamed about being your sub for a long, long time. But you kind of knew that, didn't you."

"Yeah, I suppose I have." She wandered to the far end of the bar to put a couple glasses in the sink before returning and resuming the conversation.

"You wouldn't wimp out on me would you? I mean, if I subbed you, really subbed you, you'd do everything and I mean everything I tell you to, right?"

"Yes Ma'am," I responded eagerly.

"Well," she remarked as a "customer" approached the bar and came into hearing range, "I don't believe you. You'd never make it," she chided me.

"Never make what?" the somewhat inebriated and slightly sloppy gentleman asked as he plopped his glass down on the bar. "Rum and coke, please," he continued, without waiting for a response to his question. Nonetheless, she continued the train of thought, half addressed at her new customer and speaking of me in the third person.

"I don't think he could survive in a military setting, obeying every command. You know how the saying goes. When your commander says "Jump!" he doesn't want you to ask why. He wants you to ask, "How high, sir?" And I don't think he'd be that obedient. He's not the subordinate type. He'd question authority. You just couldn't count on him to follow..." she paused and pronounced with great emphasis, "...ALL orders...without question," she added.

Where the hell did THAT come from, I wondered. THAT was such nimble thinking, the military thing. And so well-spoken. Gawd, I admired her wit. I thought, this chick is wicked smart with a bit of a crazy edge...which was soooooo cool. I decided to pursue this train of conversation, sticking with the analogy. And I couldn't help but defend myself.

"Whoa. Wait a minute. I have more self-discipline than you think. Once I set my mind to something, I can focus and do it."

I stopped for just a second. I knew what I wanted to say and decided to go for it. After all, the only people listening were my bartender "girlfriend" and the slightly inebriated older gentleman I didn't know and who really didn't care what we were talking about.

"If I were, let's say, a recruit, I'd tell myself that I'm being filmed as the model recruit. I'd pretend that everything I do will be recorded for posterity. I'd tell myself that I'll be used as a universal model for all future recruits, world-wide, an example of how a recruit SHOULD respond to orders. And I'd be utterly compliant, respectful and obedient." I hoped she'd appreciate all the double entendres. "I'd follow every command, like the perfect recruit."

"Ooooooooooh!" laughed my personal bartender. "Pretty cocky there, buddy," she finished, before tending to two others at the end of the bar.

She returned after several minutes of cracking bottles of beer and kibitzing with the patrons. She leaned over and spoke to me, audibly but discretely, "Let's find out if you're really sub material. I'm going to give you one shot, and today's the day." She paused. "Are you wearing underwear under those shorts?"

I knew I'd heard her correctly but wasn't quite sure how to respond. I know I blushed three shades of red before I thought about her previous challenge and answered her. "Yeah, I am." I hesitated. "Why?"

"I'm disappointed. Go take them off and then come back." There was an awkward moment of silence and inaction which she brought to a quick end by ordering, "NOW!"

She must have known that in that short span of a thirty second exchange my libido went from warm to simmering. Of course, I followed her instructions. I dashed to the bathroom to do as she said, driving myself crazy wondering what in the heck she was up to. I stuffed my underwear into my fanny pack in the hall closet and returned to my seat at the bar. She wasted no time with small talk. She spoke discretely to me, as no one else occupied the bar.

"I think you've been trying to sneak a peek down my blouse and at my nipples since you got here. Am I right?" She knew me well and had observed me accurately.

"Yeah, I guess I have," I admitted sheepishly.

"Actually, I think you're ALWAYS trying to sneak a peek at my tits."

"Yeah, I guess so," I admitted again.

"Yeah. I guess so, MISTRESS," she corrected me. "Try it again...have you been staring down my blouse and trying to catch a glimpse of my nipples?" Sub that I am, I knew exactly what she meant.

"Yes, I have, Mistress," I confessed with even more deference; and a huge appreciation for the relationship she was establishing. "I've been sneaking as many peeks as I can at your tits, Mistress."

"Good. Stay where you are. Watch me bartend. And I'm giving you permission. No, I'm telling you that I want you to keep admiring my cleavage and my nipples. And imagine what it would be like if I ever let you kiss them."

With that, she went about her business at the bar. Gawd, but she was good. At both flirting and bartending. Her flirting had sent my libido through the roof. And it was seemingly without effort that she tended to the needs of all patrons and any reasonable drink request. When someone wanted something off the wall, she'd steer them in a better direction. All the while she laughed with them, complimented them, cheered with them. What a hostess. What a bartender. I sat back, sipped my cocktail and admired her. Oh, how I admired! I gawked at her tits as often as I could without being blatant about it. How did she know I love tits? This was fun!

She returned to me when we were relatively alone.

"Have you been admiring?" she asked matter-of-factly.

"Yes, I have," I answered honestly.

"Yes, I have MISTRESS," she reminded me.

"Yes, I have, Mistress," I corrected myself, disappointed in myself that I wasn't catching on more quickly. "I've been adoring your nipples, Mistress, especially, since you told me to."

"Good. I bet you'd like to touch them." She paused. "And kiss them."

"Oy, yeah. I would soooo like to do that, Mistress," guessing that I may soon have the opportunity.

"Well," she changed her tone, "that's not very likely. BUT..." There was a long, long pause while she tended to her duties.

"I want you to stick your hand up the leg of your shorts and rub yourself, to show me how much you appreciate the opportunity to stare at my tits. A light, discrete masturbation."

No sooner were those words out of her mouth than a somewhat inebriated woman approached the bar and asked if she'd make her another of those delicious limoncello martinis.

My bartender gave me a stern look that communicated again her expectation before she swiveled and began to fulfill the order. I'll admit that I was floored. She'd never assumed this persona before, so that was strange. And I'd never heard her speak with such explicit sexuality. It was so out of character. But it was also really, really hot.

Over the next ten minutes or so I sat and admired and ogled while she played the perfect bartender host, serving, bantering and flattering all who showed up. And as I caught as many discrete glances at her tits as I could, I did as she said. I reached judiciously up my pant leg and massaged the head of my cock, as best I could without drawing any attention to myself. I was so turned on. I was hard.

Finally, there was a lull in the action and my bartender approached me with undivided attention. She pointed her finger at me and pointed to the storeroom, adjacent to the bar. I followed her into the room with shelving, refrigerator and freezer. We were alone.

"Tonight, when you and your wife go to bed..." She paused. We were spending the night at their place, as we often did when we visited. "You're going to beg her to let you kiss, lick and suck her nipples. And you're going to do an unbelievably solicitous job of it. You're going to make her feel like you adore her nipples. I want you to take extreme care to make it one of the best experiences she's ever had." She stared at me, stone-faced and serious. That stern visage.

"Girl talk," she said. "I happen to know that her nipples are the most erogenous part of her body. And the whole time you're worshiping her nipples, you're going to close your eyes and dream that you're doing it to me. It just might be as close as you'll ever get. So, do a fabulous job." Then some silence, before she continued.

"And you never know...girl talk, like I said. I just might ask her tomorrow how she slept and whether or not you were attentive to her needs and then fish for some details. And she'd better tell me that you have never shown so much tenderness and attention."

That was the first indication that my good friend, hostess and bartender, was willing to play games with my submissive side. Later that evening, in bed with my wife, I went wild trying to meet my Mistress's expectations, as an obedient sub should. I desperately wanted a stellar report.