Mild-Mannered Man Transformed

Only here could you see the Abominable Snowman walking hand-in-hand with a Wood Nymph. Steve Batson, on the other hand, wore khaki pants, a button-down shirt, and a navy sport coat. As he strolled down the convention center hallway occasionally weaving through the clustered crowds that were milling about on the dark and geometrically-patterned hotel-grade carpet, he considered the ironic fact that almost any other day of the year he would fit right in here, but, presently, he felt entirely out of place.

Among the bustling throng with whom he co-occupied the hotel's convention center, the vast majority were either elaborately costumed men and women coalesced into pairs or small groups, or they were nerdy young men and women clad in Johnny Cash casual (i.e. jeans and T-shirt – all black.) The juxtaposition of the futuristically costumed characters and the mundane beige and burgundy décor of the hotel's conference center created a kind of cognitive dissonance – making one reflect upon what it would be like if superheroes attended conferences like insurance salesmen or auto parts distributers.

Every Labor Day weekend for the past four years Batson had driven from Huntsville, Alabama - where he was, quite literally, a NASA rocket scientist (more properly a Junior Propulsion Engineer)- to Atlanta for the annual Dragon Con convention. Dragon Con was a massive comic book, science fiction, and fantasy assemblage that attracted swarms of fans of Star Trek, Star Wars, and the like, but it also brought out everybody within a hundred mile radius, and in some cases vastly further, who liked to play dress-up as a favorite superhero or science-fiction series character. Hulks, She-Hulks, Batmen, CatWomen, Captain Kirks, and Uhuras were all out in force; as were many lesser known characters.

Steve liked sci-fi and had had a comic book collection from about first grade through high school, but, in recent years, the large number of girls in costume, many of whom had exhibitionist streaks, were a bigger attraction. While one might have expected such a geek jamboree to be almost devoid of females, nothing could have been further from the truth.

The costumed women ran the gamut, and included young, mature, buxom, petite, athletic, blonds, brunettes, and redheads and everything in-between. They portray old favorites like WonderWoman, Princess Leia (most often in her skimpy slave garb), Lara Croft, and Poison Ivy, as well as obscure characters like Orion Slave Girl, Starfire, and Leeloo. More often than not these characters seemed to be of the scantily- and/or tightly- clad varieties. There were always a surprising number of svelte gorgeous young women – who one wouldn't expect to give a nerd the time of day- in attendance, and, if your preferences ran in other directions, there would almost certainly be someone to meet your fancy. Perhaps in an era in which Bill Gates and Steve Jobs were running the world, women were beginning to look at nerds in a different light... or maybe these girls just got their freaks on by being ogled and made the subject of fantasy. While Batson, as a bit of a nerd himself, would have preferred the former, he was willing to accept the latter.

Batson ambled aimlessly around the convention center snapping photos here and there as a subject would strike his fancy. The high-end clunky black SLR camera that hung from his neck on a thick embroidered strap, along with a kit of readily interchangeable lens to meet a range of photographic needs, served him well in this voyeuristic endeavor. Besides taking good pictures, the rig seemed to result in many of the young ladies posing for him because they assumed he was either a photo-journalist or one of the event photographers. Batson was as surprised as anyone how uninhibited the various heroines and villains were to strike a pose when they saw his lens pointing in their direction.

The mindset was not unlike that seen at Harajuku in Tokyo where, on Sunday afternoons, college girls dressed in various colorful anime get-ups and gathered on the wide sidewalk of the road that crossed over the train tracks from the station toward the Meiji shrine. Those girls, too, were happy to let anyone and everyone take pictures of them before they headed back to their dormitories and the mundane existence they lived out in the alter ego that was their real life. Batson had been to Japan a couple times for technical conferences, and always made it a point to visit Harajuku.

Consulting his program, Batson noted that a signing by one of the artists of his favorite comic book, Martian Manhunter, was due to begin and he wanted to get an autograph. Unfortunately, the signing was taking place in one of the smaller breakout rooms, and he couldn't seem to find it.

He saw a girl standing off to the side of the hallway, ostensibly either people-watching or waiting for someone. Given her elaborate costume, he figured she might be in-the-know about the event. Furthermore, given the provocative nature of her costume and the fetching features of the young woman, he figured that his need for directions would provide the perfect pretext to approach a girl that he doubted he would have the nerve to approach out of the blue.

Steve suspected that she was a little younger than he, and that, if she went to college, she was probably a junior or senior. The girl had short auburn hair that was cut longer in the front than the back such that the arcs of hair bracketed her cherubic face, but the back of her neck was exposed below the neatly rounded hairline. It was an apropos hairstyle for the event at hand because it had a futuristic look to it and was a feminine rather than boyish short hairstyle.

The girl was portraying some kind of slave girl. Her midriff was exposed, and her top consisted of a metal mesh bikini-top behind which there was a shear material that was probably intended to keep the sensitive parts of her breast from grating on the cold rough steel. At least Batson suspected that because it didn't do much to reduce the degree to which the costume was revealing. The material was not entirely opaque and the outline of her areola showed through. She wore pasties over her nipples either to reduce the potential for hassle or chaffing (he knew not which). The bottom was also metal and consisted of two pieces. A front and a back piece were attached with a chain. As an item of metalwork it was impressive in that graceful curves had been molded into it with the front portion having a gentle "V" at the crotch joint, and the back consisted of two form-fitting rounded buttocks. It was meant to look like some type of chastity belt, but the fact that it was entirely split up the sides didn't leave one to hold out much hope that it would offer defense of the girl's virtue. There was a minimal cotton undergarment to mitigate the effect of exposure to steel. The costume was topped off with a leather collar around her neck that had a steel D-ring through it that would allow for the attachment of a leash.

The girl had a pretty face with full lips, reddened cheeks, and a button of a nose. Her body was graceful curved in what might be described as a voluptuous way. She had probably been described in less charitable terms on occasion by the supermodel worshippers, but she looked about like the models that Manet had painted. Steve found her attractive, and well within the range that he would call "doable."

"Excuse me, could you tell me where the Stonebrook room is? I can't seem to find it." Steve forced himself to look her in the eye after he realized that he had been looking at her cleavage when she looked up at him.

"Yes, Master. I would be happy to take you there." The girl said in a pleasant tone with just a touch of a southern drawl discernable that indicated she was from the region and a transplanted northerner.

"Thanks a lot. I didn't mean to put you to all that trouble." Steve did his best not to show a reaction to the word "Master" in the girl's reply. He had had an impulse to laugh out loud about how seriously people took the role-playing, but he figured that maybe it was just a Freudian slip, or, maybe, she was an employee and had to stay in character and be helpful as part of her job. At any rate, he did not want to be rude.

"It is no trouble. I am at your service, Master." The girl said, this time giving him a warm smile. Not the kind of smile that would indicate that she was fucking with him. It was more the kind of smile one gave when one really wanted to convey cordiality.

"Well then... Thanks again." He said, not sure how to take her response, and beginning to wonder if he was on Candid Camera. Then, in a yet more surprising act, the girl took him by the hand and began to walk him through the crowd in what he presumed was the direction of the signing. Her hand was warm and soft as it enveloped his bony mildly-calloused hand. The momentary silence between the two as they walked hand-in-hand gave rise to an unrestrainable impulse by Steve to make small talk. Though he was taking advantage of her being out front to stare at the smooth bare bronze skin of her back and then down to the tattoo in the small of the back. The ink was a simple but precisely drawn series of rudimentary shapes reminiscent more of a cattle brand than a statement of personality. "Are you enjoying the convention?" Steve asked.

"Master, I enjoy it if you tell me to enjoy it. Also, if I may be permitted to say so, you don't need to thank me because I am your insignificant servant." The red- headed beauty said without the slightest hint that she was putting him on.

Steve stopped dead in his tracks, and the girl spun to face him as the slack in their conjoined arms played out and her shoulder was pulled back toward him. He wanted to know if he was being scammed, because, if not, he was horny enough that he would gladly put his time to better use than standing in line to get a sloppy signature scrawled by a bored artist. "You should be careful. A guy could get the idea that you would do ANYTHING he asks." He put emphasis on the word "anything" with his best attempt to convey sexual innuendo. Batson was emboldened to make the less-than-subtle suggestion by the fact that this buxom slave girl was so adamantly in character. Yet, he was ready to play it off as a joke and to brace for impact if there was to be a bitch-slap in his immediate future.

"Of course I will do anything that you ask, Master. That is my purpose." The girl almost looked incredulous that he doubted that she was completely at his command.

Batson didn't know where this was going exactly, but he did know that: a.) he was so far beyond horny as to be mega-horny, not having had sex in weeks and tired of jerking it every few days, and b.) as long as she was playing her part to the hilt, he might as well play along. He might just end up slapped across the face, but he would take it only so far as the girl did. "In that case, take me here instead." He reached into his coat pocket and handed her a small paper envelop with the hotel's logo on it that had a magnetic key card in it. Hand written in blue ink on a line on the front was '#712'.

"Yes, Master." She turned around and walked back toward the escalator that would take them to a glass-encased crosswalk leading from the ballrooms and meeting rooms of the convention center to the hotel's lobby. All the while, she was still holding his hand firmly but gently.

As they crossed through the hotel lobby toward the bank of elevators, they entered another world. It was no longer all Dragon Con attendees in costume, but, more typically, businessmen and women in suits and tourists in shorts and polo shirts. Here he would have fit in if it weren't for the fact that he was being dragged along by a conspicuous girl whose limited clothing was made mostly of metal. The sight of the scantily-clad slave girl leaning forward to pull what looked like a photographer across the lobby drew stares, in contrast to when she was leading him through the throngs of caped-crusaders and robots moments ago. The loud reverberating clack of her stiletto boot-heels against the marble floor called to attention anyone whose eye had not already been grabbed by the glinting costume or the girl's deep red hair. Batson was a little embarrassed, and wondered if he wasn't blushing. When the elevator doors finally closed, leaving them alone together, he asked: "Don't you think those people in the lobby might have thought you were taking me back to your room to fuck my brains out?"

"Maybe so." It was the full extent of her reply.

He probed further. "Doesn't that bother you?"

"No, Master. But, if you say it should bother me, it will. I was under the impression that I was taking you back to your room so that you could fuck me or otherwise have me pleasure you. In which case those who thought as you said would only be wrong with respect to inconsequential details, would they not?" Her answer would have to suffice for the moment because the doors opened on the 4th floor and a bellboy got onto the elevator. It was not a conversation that Batson wanted to continue in front of other people.

When they got off the elevator, the slave girl led Steve out, and then, looking to the signage on the wall, led him down the hall toward his room.

Batson asked: "What is your name?"

"It is whatever you want it to be." She said.

"No, what's your real name? I order you!" Batson was more interested in finding out if there were limits to what she was willing to tell him than in finding out the girl's name.

"I don't have a name, Master." With that reply from the slave, Batson figured he had reached one of the girl's limits. Steve was happy with the arrangement of anonymity, and if that were the extent of her hang-ups he would be an ecstatically happy man.

When they got to 712, she adeptly dipped the keycard into the slot, retrieved it, and, seeing the green light, pushed open the door holding it open for her master.

On the way up to the room, Batson had given thought to how he should proceed. This might be a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he decided that, blue-balled as he might be, he shouldn't just rush to bust a nut. He would get his rocks off - true enough, but he would do it with a little style. He figured that if the girl got off on being a slave, it would be better for her as well that he got into his role. When it was all over, he didn't know her and she didn't know him, and they could go their separate ways with a great story to tell for it.

"Get me a Heineken from the mini-bar." Batson said as he crossed the floor to sit in a yellow paisley upholstered armchair on the far side of the room near the window. He added, "Your name is 'Veronica', but I will just call you 'slave' or 'whore' when we are alone." The name was that of a hot bitch of a cheerleader who had badly embarrassed him in high school. Batson figured it couldn't hurt his ability to be a stern master if he thought about Veronica, rather than the sweet stranger, as the subject of his domination. It was method acting of sorts, and, besides, if they went back out, he would need to be able to call her something.

Veronica did as she was told, and, kneeling at his feet, presented him with the opened bottle. She then sat on the floor next to Batson's chair while awaiting further instructions.

"In the room, you are not allowed to wear any clothing." Batson then added for effect, "It does not please me. I wouldn't even let you wear them outside, if it weren't for those damned laws. But, in here, I am the law."

Veronica stood and began to disrobe slowly and quietly. Batson watched with stiffening wood as she reached around and unchained the top and then took it off, letting her pendulous breasts hang free. The gorgeous orbs were almost as bronze as the skin over the rest of her body, and she had dark areolas. She clearly took advantage of opportunities to tan in the nude. As she peeled off the pasties, her thick nipples were revealed and soon showed engorgement.

She next turned to look down at her right side as she worked the chain connecting the front and back metal portions of her "chastity belt". It was a picture of loveliness to see her twist and reach across to one side as she looked downward in contemplation. It was a statuesque moment, and made all the more attractive by the way her left arm pressed her left breast up and forward.

Batson's approval was notable in the tent formed in his khakis. Veronica finished disrobing of her boots and collar and placed her costume in an empty drawer. She then sat back down at Steve's side looking up at him like a dog to its master. He caressed her hair gently in a manner similar to the way he pet the head of his Labrador at home. Given her docility, it took all his willpower to avoid just standing up and shoving his cock in her mouth, and then thrusting away until she began to choke on his spurting seed. He reminded himself that it would be well worth playing the game. He continued with his rapidly evolving plan. "Bring me the room-service menu." She did as she was instructed. Steve watched her breasts and the forelocks of red hair sway in unison as she turned from picking up the menu, and moved back toward him.

She kneeled down in front of his feet and held the faux-leather bound menu up opened toward him so he could read it. He didn't take it, but, instead, he told her to when to turn pages as he reviewed it. When he had made up his mind, he gave her another order. "Call down and order me the meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans and a sweet iced-tea to drink." Steve repressed his natural inclination to ask if she wanted anything because it seemed so un-like the behavior of a master.

Veronica did exactly as he said, and then returned to sit at his feet. Steve just looked at her for a moment. Incredulously, he took in the surrealism of having the sweet-faced, big-breasted, red-head sitting naked on his floor waiting to respond to any whim he might develop.

Batson realized that the food would be a while, so he decided to press forward. "Go ready the shower. It's time for you to give me a bath." He tried to state this matter-of-factly, as if it weren't the strangest order that he had ever given anyone.

Veronica stood and moved briskly toward the bathroom. The next thing Batson heard was the sound of water spattering on the fiberglass pan of the shower. Soon his slave came back and reached out one hand to assist Batson up from his chair. In the other hand Veronica had a hanger on which she put the jacket that she helped Batson disrobe of.

Veronica led Batson to the bathroom by the hand. Steam was already beginning to make the mirror opaque. She took her time in undressing him. She pulled the shirt-tails out from the waistline of his pants, systematically unbuttoned the shirt, and then lifted it off Batson's pale shoulders and lanky frame. The slave then eased herself to both knees, and, holding his belt with one hand, she tugged the free end with the other hand to ease the hasp from the hole and unbuckled it. Unbuttoning the button-fly, she pulled his pants down to his ankles. Batson's erection was now poking straight out- barely restrained by the soft cotton fabric of his boxers. As Veronica tugged the boxers down, his cock was pulled down and, snapping free, it popped up with a bounce that nearly smacked her under the chin because of her close proximity. She kneeled at his feet to get his shoes and socks off, and he stared down at the heart-like shape formed by her two round buttocks and her relatively narrow waistline.

The slave followed her master into the shower. Veronica cleaned Batson thoroughly from head to toe. She shampooed his hair first, and, after rinsing, went on to work down his body. She lathered up a washcloth to scrub his chest and back. Batson was skinny, with the kind of body that might have inspired bullies to kick sand in a man's face, and, while his nine inches of cock had been a pleasant surprise for a couple of girls who had expected far less, he was not exactly an Adonis. However, Veronica looked intently and longingly at Steve's body as she cleaned him, and he thought he heard her breath catch once as though she covetously desired that which she could, for now, only scrub.