Ms. Morrigan's Thanksgiving

The city skyline rose into view as Ron crested the hill, and he felt his pulse quicken and was suddenly aware that his palms were wet on the steering wheel of his brother's Toyota. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and he was finally on his way to his long-awaited encounter -- could he call it a *date*? -- with the older woman who had become his obsession since that party seven weeks ago. Seven weeks, during which he had kept the impetuous, incomprehensible commitment to deny himself any orgasms until their next meeting.

Ron was a sophomore in college, and Morrigan was his roommate's older sister. He had met her in October on a visit to his roommate's home, and was immediately enchanted with her charisma, her sophistication, and her aura of bemused unattainability. That evening, at a party in her apartment, she had invited him into her office, but instead of offering him a furtive kiss or grope, had had him strip naked for her and kneel at her feet while kissing her boots. And he had done so, discovering that "eager" and "powerless to resist" were indistinguishable.

They had kept in contact by frequent text messages in the meantime, and Ron had been thrilled to receive each message and bereft when a day went by without one. Almost every message reminded him of his promise to refrain from having orgasms until he saw her again, challenging him to maintain his fidelity, rewarding his affirmations with "good boy."

He had no idea exactly what she had in store for him this weekend; and he felt like asking or probing would break the spell. Of course, he had read everything he could find on the surprising and troubling subjects of tease and denial, dominance and submission ... new and foreign concepts for him. Some of the scenarios he had read or watched online shocked and frightened him. But he couldn't imagine *not* finding out what would happen when he showed up at Morrigan's apartment and yielded to her.

Their first encounter had been at a Saturday evening party, and Ron had come to associate sex in general, and kinky sex in particular, with the secretive cover of darkness. So he was a bit surprised when she had asked him to appear at her door at 2 PM on a Friday afternoon. He pictured returning to her office, kneeling before her again, this time in filtered sunlight, this time actually removing her shoes. He pictured going into her bedroom and undressing her and exploring her body for leisurely hours on the smooth sheets of her bed. He didn't picture spending the afternoon at an art museum.

***

Morrigan truly enjoyed her afternoon with her young friend at the art museum. She was amused at his initial nervousness, his obvious sense of being out of place; and she was pleased to watch him gradually relax and simply enjoy her company and the art and the conversation.

She was sure that it had not occurred to Ron that she had attended the same university a decade earlier; taken some of the same classes, and known some of the same professors. (In fact, she was certain he would be stunned and titillated to know just how well she had known a couple of them!) But the shared knowledge from their classes allowed her to reinforce and reward his sophomore-level grasp of culture, and she beamed as he began to increasingly offer his own perspectives. Plus, she smiled to herself, he did have an innate sense of good taste!

For much of the afternoon, she put her hand into the crook of his elbow. She could tell he loved it; that it made him feel like he was on a date; although the gesture was much more formal and demure than "holding hands." It was much more like walking down the aisle as a bridesmaid with a groomsman in a friend's wedding, or, perhaps, like being an heiress to the throne, escorted by a dashing but nervous young military officer, like Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip.

She could tell, from watching him watch the people around them, that he was self-conscious about their age difference. It was as if he expected every other person in the gallery to be either looking askance at her, or envying him. Every time she noticed this, she wrapped her arm tighter around his bicep and leaned into him more aggressively. Morrigan knew, of course, that for most people a ten-year age gap between a man and woman was unremarkable. If anyone noticed at all, she imagined, it was probably women older than herself, admiring the attractive young man and quietly thinking, "You go, girl."

Later they stopped at an upscale bar for a drink and a snack. Morrigan had a martini; Ron simply ordered a club soda. She allowed their knees to touch under the tiny table, and at one point playfully fed him a peanut from the bowl of trail mix. She noted his delight as he accepted the gesture, and also his impeccable restraint in not trying to reciprocate. She loved this young man's instincts.

By the time they returned to her apartment, darkness was starting to fall with all its seductive promise. She adjusted the lights; put a Bill Withers CD on the stereo; and poured them each a small glass of Woodford Reserve, as he moved into the middle of the room but continued to stand, as if awaiting instruction. She handed him his glass and then invaded his personal space, her lips just inches from his and her body close enough to feel the heat from his erection on her stomach. "So what would you like to do next?"

She waited while he considered his options. Then he replied, "Whatever you would like ..."

She smiled. Good boy, she thought. "Well, these heels are *killing* me," she said, and then turned toward the hallway. "Come."

Straight ahead was the sanctum of her bedroom; to the right, the door to her office. She paused, and then turned right. He followed, wondering, she was sure, whether tonight another episode of foot-worship would just be foreplay, or whether he was in for more denial and frustration.

She took a seat in her wing-backed chair and crossed her legs. He started to close the door, but she shook her head. "Leave it open. I want to be able to hear the music." He grinned and blushed. Even though they were alone in the apartment, it felt illicit to her for him to be performing this ritual of submission with the door open. It must be making *him* positively dizzy.

He placed his hands on his top button and cocked his head, silently asking whether she wanted him undressed. "Of course," she said, sipping her bourbon. And so he stripped, methodically, folding his clothes and setting them on the corner of her desk, and knelt at her feet. She admired his naked body, reminded again of his youthful charm. He had not yet filled out to the masculine ideal, but he was lean, not scrawny. His chest was smooth, his stomach flat; and he had just the beginnings of a treasure trail leading from his navel down to his manhood, which was quite adequate and delightfully rigid.

She extended one foot and he gently removed the leather pump, and the cool air immediately drew her attention to the fact that her stockinged foot was moist with perspiration. She couldn't wait for him to taste it. He removed the other shoe, then turned his attention to the first foot, stroking and kneading it with more devotion than technique. It felt good, but she was impatient to feel his warm mouth and wet saliva around her silk-encased toes. So she raised her foot, and he compliantly opened his lips to receive her, taking her other foot now between his hands. *Good boy!* She closed her eyes and let herself luxuriate in the contrasting sensations -- firm pressure of thumbs and fingers on one foot, soft movement of lips and tongue around the toes and instep of the other. Minutes went by, and his attention did not flag. Nor, she realized, did his erection. Well, the young man had certainly earned his orgasm.

"Scootch back a bit, and get up off your haunches," Morrigan instructed. Ronnie obliged, nudging himself further away from her, so that when he straightened his posture, she had to extend her legs to touch his penis with her foot.

And that's what she did. She twisted her ankle to place her right foot between his turgid erection and his belly, caressing the top of his shaft with the contours of her instep, drawing it down so it was perpendicular to his body. She relished his whimper as she brought up her left foot, nudging each of his testicles with her big toe. It amused her, the way they tried to evade her touch within the confines of their little pouch. She spread her toes and allowed the fleshy underside of his cock to nestle into the gap between her big and second toes. Then, holding him in place with her right foot, she slowly drew her left foot up the nice length of his shaft, letting the silky fabric of her stockings trigger every nerve ending along the way, detonating explosions inside him like a minefield being cleared. She was watching herself stroke him, watching his penis twitch while his knees, thighs, and hips quivered. Two slow strokes, three, before she looked up into his face. His eyes, too, were locked on the tantalizing scene between his legs. When he became aware that she was trying to make eye contact, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, and she was struck by the amount of whiteness around his pupils, the look of desperation on his face.

But the instant their eyes locked, Ronnie gave out a little cry like a rabbit caught in a snare, and she knew his orgasm was already starting. She looked back down in time to see his glans flare and jerk and spit a solid stream of semen all the way up to her knee. She squeezed him tighter between the sole of one foot and the ball and toes of the other, concentrating on the sensation of him pulsing. She had to giggle at the sound of him almost sobbing; but she had to be impressed at the generous amount of seed that he was lavishing on her ankles and insteps. Seven weeks' worth of a twenty-year-old's pent-up ardor. She felt ... *proud* of him.

And then it was over, all too quickly, as it always is for all males. The boy slumped back onto his heels and hung his head. "I'm sorry, Miss Morrigan," he mumbled.

She suppressed a smile. She was a bit sorry, too ... she would have enjoyed stringing him out longer, but, there would be time for that soon enough. "Don't apologize, sweetheart," she reassured him. "It's a compliment."

He gave a sniffle of gratitude, but his eyes remained downcast. She looked from his bowed head, down to his deflating penis and the puddles of congealing semen, starting to trickle down around the contours of her feet. Now was the time that she loved to double down on a man's submission and shame by instructing him to lick up his cum. And, she realized that she was tingling between her legs at the thought ... the image of this adorable boy, already shattered by having erupted into orgasm within seconds of her first touch, descending further into humiliation by lowering his face to the floor and slurping his own ejaculate off of her fragrant stockinged feet.

Yes, yes, she wanted that. She wanted to experience it, to say the words, to watch him comply, to revel in the sensation of his lips and tongue on her ankles and the out-of-control emotions radiating from his trembling body. He was earnest and precious and fragile, and the urge to break him was powerful. But she sighed deeply and refrained from saying anything.

Part of her wanted to lead him into her bedroom, let him undress her, invite him to take her in the way he had no doubt been imagining for two months. Morrigan enjoyed a thorough and vigorous round of intercourse with a powerful man between her legs as much as the next woman. (The "next woman" just didn't enjoy as many ... *alternative* ... approaches as she did, she thought ruefully.) And Ron could no doubt provide the "vigorous" part.

And part of her also wanted to just lead him back into the living room, wrap him in a throw blanket, fix him a cup of tea, and cuddle with him while reassuring him that he had impressed her mightily.

But then, she remembered, what she had really wanted from the first time she had met her brother's roommate, was to make him into a drone. To add him to the cadre of men who, over the years, had revealed their true nature or their hidden desires and knelt at her feet. Some younger, some considerably older; some meek, and some outwardly confident and powerful. The difference with Ronnie, of course, was his innocence and his potential. At nineteen or twenty, he had the physical and intellectual attributes to be one young woman's dream man, or to get laid by half the coeds on campus. He just didn't realize it yet. But instead, she wanted to lure him away, rescue him, from both of those possible futures. At first, she had just wanted his submission. She hadn't really expected him to yield his orgasms to her for two months.

Now, she wanted this virile, healthy young man at the peak of his sexual potency to make kneeling at her feet and serving her be the focus of his sexual desire. The sole focus. Foregoing all the erotic adventures available to him as a college student, for her. Until Christmas. Until spring break. Until graduation. Indefinitely. The idea thrilled her. And she was beginning to believe that it would thrill him, too.

"First orgasm in seven weeks?" she asked.

He nodded.

"That's so very, very good," she told him. "I'm so pleased. Would you like to please me more?"

"Oh, yes ..." he croaked.

Oh, the hell with it, she thought. "Then, dear boy," she whispered, raising one semen-splattered foot, "Lick me clean."

She watched him quiver briefly, but then without hesitation lower his face. And just before her foot disappeared from her view behind the curls on the top of his head, she noticed that his cock was fully erect again.