In The Bushes Of Tompkins Square Park

You might find this story boring. Some experiences are very intense in real life, but it doesn't translate. Like when I tell you that I lay hidden among the bushes, it doesn't capture how much my skin was on alert and how startlingly vibrant every little noise was like the squirrel's claws crackling on the bark. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

To comprehend what it looks like, I've to introduce you to my local city park: Tompkins Square Park. The many mundane details are important to understand what I felt. The southwest corner holds a little space with stone tables with built-in chess boards. The park architects probably thought of the local intelligentsia connecting over brainy challenges and becoming a competitive community. Reality happened and brought a bunch of unsavory characters to huddle together the entire day, seemingly having nothing else to do, and being rejected by normal people found solace in the camaraderie. During covid, the police parked cruisers with flashing lights there to make them uncomfortable and leave.

Who's there? There are homeless people - wearing socks, darkened black from walking the streets without showering for days, hospital tags still on their wrists, and faces ragged from poverty and being in the street. There are the old Latin men: retired, aged, only speaking Spanish - having faces that they say never learned to express their emotions or talk like the modern day, but old-style people where the woman was meant to be at home and fetch the men a beer, not more. There were the drug dealers, rough, high, and always arguing with each other on the verge of violence flashing up with fists and knives. In between that medley were a few twenty-year-old college students: purple hair, black eyeliners, nail studs on leather clothing, torn-to-devastation panties, eating pizza and chicken wings while painting their fingernails hot pink.

The rest of the park had people playing guitar, walking dogs, and sunbathing - very cheery and upbeat. There is a beautiful center lawn where people have picnics. There are rows of benches where book people love to read for hours. There is a place near the statue where musicians play together and an artist paints abstracts on a giant canvas with his bare fingers. Bird watchers follow a red-tail hawk around with their binoculars.

The story starts when I met my Domme. A friend had told me to try the dating app Feeld. It's a more direct dating app where people say what they are really looking for. I risked being more forward. And then a man matched with me. He offered domination, servitude, and utter dedication to studying me. The profile explained a servant-leader dynamic. He'd do all the things to me that I had ever wanted to be done to in exactly the way I wanted to. He sounded sensitive, not the kind of abrasive domme - a mix of putting told to do things but wanting to be told to do those things. He twisted my mind up with how he seemed caring and cruel at the same time.

We were set to meet at a local Ukrainian restaurant that has been a neighborhood staple for years. I walked into the brightly lit, chirpy place with warm yellow and red decor. The color theme stuck with me. The waitress walked me to the back of the dining room. I was dressed neatly with a dark blue skirt, black slip-in heels, and a light jacket more for decoration than warmth, and had my hair down up cutely to show the curls like a pile on top of my body. I felt upbeat and chipper, ready in flirting mood.

The waitress walked me all the way to the far wall where plush leather couches rounded around the table. I saw him right away, a dominant figure because he was tall. He was also dressed in classic men's wear: black slacks, purple shirt, gray vest, and black jacket. There was a gold clip around his neck that made him look refined. I instantly smiled to make a good impression. He stood up slowly, buttoning his jacket, and with almost lethargy offered his palms to guide me to my seat opposite to him. A cool air of silence hit me. I calmed down my mood.

He sat down. He folded his hands on top of the white restaurant tablecloths. His blue eyes looked at me. His lips were relaxed. I hesitated. All these words were charged up inside of me to come out, but I felt out of place for speaking. He only looked at me. I wanted to say, "Hi, I'm Beth!" but the words chocked up in my throat under his gaze. I got mad. I wanted to yell and scream at him to who he was thinking he was. I felt my heart pounding, my belly churning, and my face distorting into a burst of anger.

He was very aware of my emotions. Underneath his face, I could tell that he knew I was going through these intense emotions. He sent me a calm that told me that he expected me to go through these emotions and that everything is going to plan. I wanted to send him a quizzical look that asked, "What's going on?" Yet, I could already feel in the slight emotional changes in his face that he anticipated my question and wanted me to go with it. Suddenly it dawned on me that he might be testing me. Only a truly submissive person would be afraid to speak up or storm out. And indeed, there was something in my personality, deeply embedded that made me that way.

So I sat. I watched his face. He was older. He had some folds carved into his face. The young face had faded to his cheekbones and jaw becoming more defined, having more character and more knowing. I could tell that he had voyaged through much in this world and navigated things. He was experienced. He had immense composure. He gazed at me constantly without staring. He seemed calm and comfortable to hang out in silence and absorb me. He was very reactive. Even though his face didn't twitch, he could read the questions, emotions, and twitches that ran through my body and would respond to them in his own way. I started feeling very unsteady for going through so many things while he held equanimity.

When the waitress came to take the order, I expected the silence to be broken. Yet, he simply pointed at a few places on the menu and then me. He was ordering for me! How dare! There was a strange sense that he didn't order random things but that he had studied me, not to simply give me food that liked, but to make me have a certain experience. The waitress left.

I started relaxing in his presence. I started feeling comfortable around this man. His jacket started becoming familiar. I had roamed the purple shirt and the way how the purple felt luxurious and old-world dozens of times. It was almost a slow induction. I could make out the faint smell of his breath once he coughed and ushered air across the table. It reminded me a bit of my father, which instantly put me a bit more into a submissive mood. At this point, I realized that I had bargained away a lot of my power by simply staying here and allowing myself to be submitted to such behavior.

The waitress returned with plates loaded up her hands and forearms. He took a small plate of green olives from her and placed it in front of me. I hate olives. I absolutely hate olives. How did he know? I don't like how they are tight, sour, and oily. Clearly, he had done it on purpose. He started eating calmly while I stared down the olives with fury. The way how he ate without caring if I ate the olives told me that he didn't care if I got up and left, but I had to eat the olives to earn my place to stay at the table.

With pointed fingers, I picked up the first olive. It took a deep breath to work up the courage to plunge the olive onto my tongue where it would make an indelible mark that I wouldn't be able to shake for a long time. I bit down, broke the olive into pieces, as the juices spread on my tongue - shudders running down my spine, actual shivering. He stopped eating to fully relish the tormented and disgusted expressions on my face. The corners of his mouth - a dark shadow of his facial hair visible and very many - pulled up lightly to display deep pleasure at watching my anguish. I fought with my resistance to get the next olive over my lips because I craved that pleasure that I could feel him having. His pleasure with such little outward signs was so intense on the inside. It gave me a high to be able to rouse such strong feelings in an older man. That moment, I realized how much power I had over him. I could affect him so deeply and make him feel things or deny those things.

Yearning to deepen the feeling, I smashed an olive against the top of my mouth to really squeeze out the brine and make it coat my whole tongue. I was so good at it that I gagged for an uncontrollable second. He broke a smile and flashed his teeth. He was so utterly lost in relishing my predicament that he lost his own equanimity. Our eyes flashed into each other, sharing that we understood the game that we were playing. We had formed a packed.

When I was done with the olives, he placed a raspberry cheesecake in front of me. He was able to read me. That's one of my favorites. I understood that it was a reward. He seemed more relaxed and at east. Easy smiles came across his face. His intense and dominating demeanor gave way to a warm, playful vibe. We ate our food in silence, stealing glances at each other.

After he finished the last fork of his kielbasa, he formally placed his fork down, took his time to wipe his mouth, and straightened out the plate. "Give me your panties!" he said. The voice had been surprising: a dark tone, a French accent, and a smoothness to it like he spoke a lot. A hot flash shot across my face. That was absolutely not acceptable. Yet, he gave me to understand that this was a red pill/blue pill moment. If I got up and walked out, it would be all over. If I handed them over, I'd get to find out what happened next.

My roommate had said that I shouldn't go on the date. When she looked at his profile phot, she had said that he looks dangerous. She had told me that I had no self-respect. I had gone in defiance because I thought he looked hot on the photo. I don't like people telling me what I can and cannot do. I would simply not tell her what had happened when she'd interrogate me later over ice cream to squeeze every detail out of me and live vicariously through me.

I reached under my dress. I looked around cautiously to check that nobody was looking our way. The darn thing was up way higher than I had thought. I had to lean almost all the way forward with my face on the table to reach up my thighs. As soon as I felt the string of the top edge under my finger tips, I wiggled it down my thighs as quickly as possible. I did not want to be caught in this compromising moment. I squiggled on my thighs to free them under me. They helplessly rolled into a bundle. I held them out under the table and begged him: "Quickly!" with a breathless, desperate whisper, shaking them in my hands for him to grab them and hide them already in his pocket.

"Over the table," he demanded.

Fuck! I would have never gone along with this, but now I had already been so far. I had them in my hand. I was simply trying to get the contraband out of the sight as quickly as possible. I cautiously scanned the other dinners, the ones in deep conversation and the ones idly leaning back and looking around. I pushed them across the pristine white tablecloths towards him. I got half way across the table. They rested there for him to take.

He didn't motion. I panicked. I squirmed. My face was begging for him to rescue me from the embarrassment. He didn't move. He kept my shameful intimate dress in plain display of anything. My face melted with red hot heat. And then then I saw that there was a giant wet spot. Not only was I exposed but also that I was horny about this was exposed. They were dark blue ones, tastefully, a little bit of a boudoir feeling from how they were cropped and shaped.

He left them out there until the waitress came. He let the waitress shoot a quick, scornful look at them before she decided not to give a fuck because the next table was waiting. He paid with his phone on the machine that she held out. I didn't want her to look at me. I was too ashamed. Luckily, she ignored me. When it was all done, he took the panties matter of fact and put them into his jacket pocket.

"Your hand," he commanded with a firm tone of voice.

I reached my hand tepidly forward. Without hesitation, he grabbed my wrist. His hand wrapped around my wrist like a restraint: tightly, strongly, and with utter knowledge about how to cinch down on a wrist to fully control but not hurt. He pulled my warm forward until my chest was pulled forward. He did not care for how much I had to lean, how discomposed I'd be. He only cared for the comfort of placing the wrist in front of him. So that it was at a comfortable space to work on it. He knew how to control bodies.

He pulled a pen out of his pocket. He wrote an address, date, and time on my forearm. He wrote in big letters with open circles in the turns. They would mark my forearm for anyone to notice. The sensual feeling of the pen poking, tearing, and caressing over my skin was uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time.

"Be there!" he ordered. "Wear nothing underneath a coat. When you arrive, ring the doorbell. Then place the coat on the hook at the wall and kneel."

He stood up and left.

As I walked home, I reflected. He made outlandish demands, but I was also curious as to what would happen next. He did things that no other man did. I was intrigued.

So a week later, I walked down the tree-laden streets of the East Village that painted the sidewalk into a cluster of light and shadow as the sun filtered through the leaves. I was wearing a beige coat, nothing underneath it, and my slip-in heels. His was a narrow gray building, squeezed beneath tenement buildings. The door buzzer panel was decades old, dilapidated and worn. I pushed a button. A hiss on the door told me to push in. The stairs were crooked. There were no decorations. The paint had peeled and faded a few years ago already.

On the third floor, there was a soft, luxurious, white bath mat in front of a door. There was a wooden board with hooks next to the door. The wood was stained and sealed many times to look luxurious. Compared to the plain, worn building the front of the door almost seemed like an altar. There was a little window nearby that filled the space with sunlight. Only he would have spent that effort to prepare the outside of his apartment. If I would kneel, I would be bathed in rays of sunshine coming through that little window. I checked the apartment number. It was his.

I took a deep breath. Here went another red pill/blue pill moment. I pushed the buzzer square in the middle of the door. I heard a loud gong like from a Japanese temple. I felt rushed to get ready and slipped my coat on the hook. I felt the urge to neatly place my heels next to the door to offer myself completely naked. I kneeled with my knees on the bath mat, and the balls of my feet off the mat.

My heart pounded for him to come quickly and take me inside before the neighbors would see me. Any moment, I told myself. I started counting, somehow expecting that it wouldn't take him more than twenty seconds to come to the door in such a small apartment. Then I bargained with myself that he might have to put something down and take thirty seconds. I upped the limit to forty seconds because maybe he was toying with me. There was just silence - inside the apartment and outside. I was simply kneeling naked in a place where anyone at any moment could walk in on me.

As it became minutes that I was kneeling, I realized that I was handing over more and more power. Other women would have walked away. By staying, I signaled how willing I was, how eager I was, and how submissive I was to his wishes and orders. He'd know that it would be hard and unlikely for me to deny what he was going to do to me once he took me inside. I felt a little scared that he would know how submissive I was and how far he could push me because he would surely take advantage. I got this feeling that he did this to many women. He did not care about their choice. Yet if one stayed, he knew that he had his free way with him to do unspeakable things. "Unspeakable things," I whispered to myself - shocked at hearing my own voice. I had been so lost. But the curiosity as to what might happen didn't let me go.

Then the door opened. I hadn't heard his steps because he was barefoot. He was only wearing a white bathrobe like a French lord. He gave my face one quick glance. My face uncontrollable melted and pleaded with him to take me. I had spent all this time wanting him to come outside to take me in. Now I was desperate. I felt the acute sense of loss if he didn't take me in to experience what I didn't know but hoped to experience.

"Open your mouth," he commanded.

Quickly, I opened my mouth to not miss the moment. I opened as wide as I would to please my dentist. Not even seeing his thumb, his thumb was in my mouth. Firmly, a bit painfully, he pinched my cheek between the thumb inside my mouth and his index finger outside. Without any delicacy, he pulled me forward, holding my head next to his hips. I was hunched forward, my butt was high. He pulled me into the apartment fiercely, almost violently. The pain, the sensitive spot in my mouth, the surprise, I had no other choice but to comply with him instantly.

With my head at this hip and hunched forward, I mostly only saw the floor and tried to strain upwards to see the room. The floor was dark mahogany. There was a rug with thick fur. A black leather whip was twisted on the ground. So many plants shone vibrantly green in the light-flooded room. He seemed to be an avid gardener. At the far end of the room was an X-shaped cross with restraints. That's the direction that he dragged me into.

That's how I met him. He never told me his name. He told me to refer to him as "Owner" to constantly remind me that I was his property. I wasn't simply a servant, but I was a thing that was completely owned. Despite the language, he was very caring. In long interviews, he asked me about all my preferences, dreams, and history. He keenly wanted to know every detail of how I experience things, feel about things, and react to them. He'd test me to do things to me and then ask me about the reactions that I showed him. "Why did you look away?" "What does that little smirk mean?" "I noticed you pausing. What went through your head?" He studied me intensely. And he fit his sessions to me like a snug glove.

One day, I told him about my fantasy of "free use." There is something entirely arousing about being used freely, without control, to be looked down on, to be mistreated, to be without influence. There is a whole world that I push away - impolite people, ugly people, pushy people. Sometimes, I want that whole world to flood in and take me over. I dared open up to him that sometimes, I want to be filled with lots of cum by lots of people. He silently nodded. I could see him making plans behind those quiet eyes - like a project plan was forming.

On a warm June day that will live into infamy, he walked me down the neighborhood streets to Tompkins Square Park. We looked like a normal couple. We are both well dressed. So it's natural that some heads turned to check us out. We walked into the park through the entrance with the chess board tables that I had described to you earlier. We hoped a small fence that's supposed to protect the flowers, shrubbery, and grass from being trampled on. I still vividly remember the yellow chalice-shaped flowers because their color was so vibrant and vaxy. The little plot wasn't large, but there was a tree with a giant canopy in the center and some bushes around it. He led me in between the bushes into that little cubby space between there.

He put his gym bag down. He took my clothes off - the summer dress, the bra, the panties, and the heels. They all ended up in the bag. We were sitting to be low enough to be out of sight. He guided me to lie on my back and placed my hands next to my shoulder. Then he wrapped a few runs of rope around my wrist and tied my wrists to lie open on the side of my shoulder. The rope ran behind my back and around the top of my biceps to restrain me like that. Then he ran two lines to the tree to spread my legs open in happy baby pose with my sex fully exposed. He ran more rope lines around my hip and from my body to make sure I was completely restrained but comfortble enough to lay like this for a long time. Finally, he placed a bright red ball gag into my mouth. He told me to speak. It was muffled. He told me to scream. It was muffled. Finally, he place a nanny cam hidden in a plush penguin in to the crook of the tree to watch me. Also a bottle of lube and a bowl of condoms next to my hips suggested what to do with me. He said that he'd watch me for safety, but not linger to not scare anyone off from using me. Then he walked away and was gone.