Learning from Stacy Ch. 01

Ch. 01

Two work friends become kinky lovers.

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Ch. 1 Two work friends become kinky lovers.

Ch. 2 First dominance and submission, and public sex.

Ch. 3 Three days of rough sex at a rented beach house.

Ch. 4 The Spanish Inquisition and dark art.

Ch. 5 Opera and sex in Amsterdam.

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This is a true story. It is as true as my memory and story craft can tell it. It is the story of how an ordinary divorced guy who works in an office enjoyed two years of dominating two very submissive beautiful women along with some adventure sex travel. Of course, some of the details are disguised. Some events have been consolidated. The first series is about Stacy and how it all began.

Instead of one long story, I have broken it into five parts published together. Please favorite, score, and offer constructive comments to guide me on the companion series yet to be written.

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Intelligence made it possible. Not mine, although I think I am a pretty smart guy -- Stacy's. Stacy had off-the-charts intelligence compared to her co-workers. Sometimes it caused problems for her, such as when she was anticipating client political risks several moves ahead of her plodding managers. Or when her productivity made others uncomfortable. I met Stacy when she was an outside client rep at my new job as an inside support specialist. I often would travel with the outside reps if they were helping a client with my particular subject expertise -- call it development.

We became friends and foxhole buddies when the management dolts were shelling our positions. Stacy did terrific work but was under-appreciated and under-paid. Before too long, she took a better paying job with one of our larger clients.

To stay in touch, I would arrange with the new replacement rep to schedule longer meetings, including lunch or happy hour, whenever we went out to meet with Stacy's new employer. We would talk on the phone occasionally. And about once or twice a year, we would take in some culture. Stacy always chose the symphony. I sometimes picked a museum, but mostly I wanted to go to the opera, my new passion.

There was always a light spark of attraction between us, but we were co-workers or used to be, and friends. So nothing ever happened, not even suggestive flirting. We liked nice restaurants, we liked our conversations, and we liked the music. The years went by. Stacy married and divorced. Sometimes more than a year would pass between either official client visits or social outings. Eventually, my season tickets to the opera fell on February 14, Valentine's Day, to see Carmen. I wasn't seeing anyone, and most women have a date that night. I emailed Stacy, and we made plans.

The lobby was filled with opera fans and date-night couples. I always imagined that an opera audience was snooty rich people in fancy dress. There were a few sometimes. Mostly it is older couples, the man in an ill-fitting suit of dubious quality regardless of the price paid, and the wife in a comfortable dress she might wear to a family reception. There are more disheveled opera nuts than rich people, dragging themselves out of overstuffed apartments in moth-eaten baggy decades-old finery. There usually would be a few attractive younger women looking like uncomfortable cake decorations in prom dresses. I was happy to ogle them, and their firm breasts, but felt sorry for them when they looked around and realized they were overdressed. I admired the culture-pro women, wearing simple, comfortable monochrome cocktail dresses or pantsuits highlighted with eclectic jewelry, bold scarves, and good shoes.

The men, well, American men are schlubs, always dressed wrong in baggy clothes, especially the expensive logo-crazed crap. I keep a tux fresh for special occasions, but that's not what I wear to the opera. It is easy to dress well and be comfortable and appropriately dressed for any occasion. The key is to buy good shoes, take care of them, and then work up from there. Women notice your shoes, your grooming, the fit of your clothes, and then if they are thinking about sex, your ass. So, do your best to show them your best -- if you don't pass, they have no time for you. Maybe one day I'll write a guide for men of modest means, to teach them how to dress as the male equivalent of the female culture-pros mentioned above.

I was standing near the bar with two drinks, taking in the lobby show, when Stacy arrived, precisely on time, and where we planned to meet. I love that, and I strive to deliver it to others. Stacy is not tall, about average, and not thin. She had a curvy ass and hips, a narrower waist, and large boobs that she was displaying freely. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder sleeved cranberry velvet dress that scalloped deeply across her chest, with an extra dip between her cleavage. Her breasts were held up proud. There must have been some kind of strapless bra holding them like that. They couldn't stand up like that on their own, could they?

The dress was cut tight to fit her curves snuggly. It wasn't too short, which I appreciated would be wrong for this dress on this girl. She was wearing some inexpensive nylon filigreed hosiery, pantyhose presumably, and two-inch red pumps suitable for walking. Stacy is usually an average-looking girl with a cute face, but that night she had made the right magic, and she looked sexy.

I won't say much about the opera. Carmen has been produced and written about thousands of times. Look it up. The big news of the day was that the movie version of the biggest selling modern fiction book ever opened that day. Yes, that book, that movie, all Fifty Shades of Dross. Of course, we talked about it while we sipped our drinks in the lobby, waiting for the three warning tones to signal time.

We both had read the book. We both thought it was poorly written. We both marveled at the sales. We thought that said something about the times, something about people and society, and something about women. The book didn't have much to say about men. The man was just a simple prop to be recovered and redeemed. The book is about the woman's conquest of the man. The penis is a needed part of the story, perhaps, but less so than the whip.

I told Stacy that modern men are lost, confused, and useless. There is not a lot of demand for bashing other clans with clubs. Schools, and now most office jobs, are administered in a way to neuter the cocks and favor the clucking of hens. A male is supposed to be a genderless euro-drone with a baby carrier strapped to his chest. The housework gets done, but the sex withers away.

There is only the thinnest layer of this so-called civilized behavior over millennia of biology and culture. Men are not happy in the modern world. I added that I didn't think women were more satisfied either, especially with their relationships, even though they had gained more financial independence.

"I think men need the polarity of distinct sexual roles," I said. "They need lust. They need to play to their natural strengths, and they need to be needed." Then I added, "And, maybe the popularized version of dominance and submission is speaking to something deep in women that they haven't talked about very much." In my pocket was a pair of handcuffs I had brought as a prop in case we had this very discussion. "Women are certainly buying the books. They want to be desired and pursued. Maybe they want to be owned."

Stacy, oh that beautiful, intelligent Stacy, had something to say. "You are seeing the story only from a male point of view, as correct as it may be in its way," she said. "The book is the story of a contradiction, the contradiction of culture and expectation. It is the story of a woman's surprise to find that total sexual submission, willingly given, enables freedom of self and empowerment for her that is still taboo to talk about. At least, it almost tells that story. It doesn't quite get there."

The three tones signaled the beginning of the opera. Afterward, I walked Stacy to her car and kissed her cheek good night. The opera was good. Not much happens in the first act; it just sets-up the themes for the rest of the story.

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The spring weather was lovely and warm. Since our night at the opera, I had only seen Stacy once. She had taken me to the symphony to hear a favorite piece of hers. We didn't repeat our conversation, but we both were flirting overtly. Something had shifted in our relationship. I was determined to explore it a bit more. I invited Stacy to go wine tasting with me at the weekend.

There was a particular winery with a bit of history Stacy found interesting, so we went there first. We were the only customers there, it was a lovely spot, and there was a picnic table on a shaded porch. So after a tasting, we bought a bottle and decided to have lunch. I had packed a picnic of cold fried chicken and a variety of cheeses, olives, bread, vegetables, and other finger foods. We sat next to each other, facing the scenery. We talked, flirted, touched, and got tipsy. I told her that I had handcuffs in my pocket at the opera.

"You should have taken them out," she flirted "and used them."

Our next winery offered a beautiful hilltop view of the wine valley. The wine was terrific. The next had two friendly wine buddies of mine, the winemaker and the tasting room manager. They were glad to flirt with Stacy, as well. After that, I drove to a somewhat obscure winery known more for its vineyard of Marshall Foch grapes than its wines. But it was close to home, and it served an excellent wood-fired flatbread pizza. We ate, drank some more wine, and flirted.

As we left, we groped and smooched on the way to the car. Once in the car, we kissed a lot more. Stacy put her hand on my thigh. I moved it to my crotch so she could feel my erection.

Stacy said, "I want to suck your cock." Her eyes sparkled. I opened my pants. Stacy repositioned herself so she was kneeling in the passenger seat, her head down on my lap. She licked my shaft and twirled her tongue around the head. She stroked me with one hand and started sucking my cock into her mouth, a little deeper each time. Not a lot of women in my life had been eager cocksuckers, so this was a treat. She used her talented mouth on me while we drove, unsafely, the seven miles back into town and to my townhouse.

"That's it, baby. Just like that," I moaned. "Suck my cock."

Luckily, we made it back alive and got into the house, and the bed, without ever disconnecting from each other. I pinned her hands above her head and pounded my sex into hers. I told her not to cum until I gave her permission; she bucked and squealed when I ordered her to let go.

As we recovered from the first round, we talked about all the sex we could have been having over the years we were friends. I think that is true for most mixed doubles; we are wired for sex, and it is always there and ready, even if we maintain a veneer of acceptable behavior. Men and women are never really just friends. A lot of social and societal constructs get in the way of people having sex just for the enjoyment of it. Once we leave school, we meet new potential partners at work. A lot of horny co-workers could be a lot happier for a lot longer. But instead, we are made miserable by the rules we pretend will change the behavior of jerks. When we outlaw romance at work, a lot of creative energy is forfeited; all we have left in the office are dullards and jerks.

We fucked again and then again before morning. Over breakfast, Stacy suggested I read 'The Dom's Guide to Submissive Training.' She told me she had been feeling empty and defeated after her divorce. She experimented with promiscuity, dressing up to go to out-of-the-way bars, and allowing herself to be picked up and used by strangers. She told me of her sexual explorations, the precautions, the readings, the fetish gear, and about a roommate who became her first dom.

Stacy said, "By nature, I am a pleaser and a nurturer. I'm always giving to others, but it is like trying to fill a hole in myself that can never be filled. Most men are like my ex, lazy and only interested in getting themselves off, having a sandwich, and doing as little of whatever it takes to get either. Sleeping around did not change any of that, or make me happy."

Stacy looked wistful. She said, "But my roommate at the time talked about being a dominant, and how his women friends seemed happier than me. I gave it a try. It was like coming home, safe. Now I know the difference between being a sexual submissive, and being a doormat or a victim. Most people think it's all the same. It is not." Stacy sat up straight, with a determined look on her face. I had seen that formidable posture in lots of client meetings.

"Listen to me. I am a sexual submissive. It fulfills me in a deeply connected way. And, with that part of me fulfilled, the rest of my life is free to kick ass -- without the anxiety I used to feel."

Stacy smiled and said, "That roommate moved to be near his old girlfriend. I need a new dom. I want it to be you. And I want you to be good at it because I deserve that. So do your homework, and get ready."

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Next up, Ch 02 First dominance and submission, and public sex.