Turned Out Nice Again - Pt. 01

"Submissive?"

I'm having a quiet cigarette in the local shopping centre carpark when I hear this spoken behind me.

Startled and disoriented, I turn to see a large-bellied middle-aged man looking me over with a mocking smile. Yes, he really is talking to me! My jumpiness clearly amuses him. He stares calmly into my eyes making me feel even more awkward and flustered. I look down and struggle to speak.

"Um, er, what do you mean? Why would you say that?"

He pauses for some time, coldly gazing at me, but with the occasional smirk, assessing me maybe. The long wait amplifies my unease and he seems to like that. He eventually speaks.

"Well, there are so many reasons. Where should I begin? OK. Let's start with your demeanour, shall we? You lower your eyes when spoken to. You can't look me in the eye, can you? Also, you don't see many men smoking menthol. It shows that you are not ashamed about what you put in your mouth even though you must get a lot of funny looks. People will think there's an opening there somewhere, for sure. You are shy and crave approval. You are not asserting yourself. Anyway, that's just some of what immediately struck me about you. But maybe I am wrong?" he said sarcastically, as if daring me to disagree.

"Um, I don't really know, I am married", I reply, blushing a little now and trying and failing to look him in the eye.

The truth is that I had always preferred menthol and knew full well that men rarely smoked it. In fact, I had heard that sort of comment before, but many years ago. I hadn't thought much about it for a long time.

He continues to inspect my eyes. I glance at him on occasion, but I have to avert mine from his intense gaze. It's too much. He makes sure I notice his smug victory smile though. He is enjoying his win over me and brazenly licks his lips to show me. Again he pauses, savouring my discomfort.

"Being married doesn't stop you from being submissive, you know that don't you? Why did you say that? Ah! You've got nice soft, delicate, slim fingers too I see."

I realise that I should really be objecting to his taunts, but I do not. I feel very confused and overwhelmed and can't think what to say. Is he coming on to me? It seems that way almost, but not quite. There is no sign of affection. I dare not pursue the submission issue as, well, to be honest, he does have a point.

He smiles coldly and winks at me. "Oh, and this is the sealer: here you are: loitering around the toilets and sucking on a fag!"

I protest that I I'm not deliberately here for that reason. I just wanted a quiet place to smoke, though he is now starting to make me second-guess myself.

He laughs. "Well, if you say so, but you left yourself wide open there. No need to freak out mate. I'm just having a lend of you, well, to a degree. The main reason I am here is because I saw you and your wife moving into your house the other day. Well, I presume she is your wife. Don't worry, I won't bring it up in front of her."

Bloody hell, news moves fast in small towns. I am still unsure what to say, when my wife returns from her shopping. I have little choice, so I introduce her to our new neighbour, whose name turns out to be Bill. I am a bit alarmed when he tells us that he lives right next door to us.

He is all charm with her and even invites us over to watch the game tonight. I make half-hearted excuses, but my wife insists that we at least make an appearance. We are new here after all and it would be rude not to.

So here we are at his house. Bill continues to flatter my wife, borderline flirting more like, but not being that keen on watching sport, my wife leaves after just one drink, but insists that I stay and enjoy the game. She says it might be good for me to have a boys' night out sometimes. Bugger! Well, I suppose I at least won't have to do too much small talk, I can just focus on the game.

The house is a bit shabby and seedy, rather grim and sordid to be honest. The sort of place where one could imagine bad things happening. Bill apologises to my wife about the untidiness, but she makes light of it, tells him not to worry; it is what one would expect from a bachelor, though it could obviously benefit from a feminine touch. Bill laughingly agrees and says he'll have to do something about that.

I'm sure I would be much happier at home, but I say nothing. Bill tells me that he is divorced and semi-retired. I start developing exit plans, but it is a good, close game and the alcohol is now beginning to work. Before long it is quarter-time and I realise that I'll probably have to do some conversing, but my thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door.

Bill opens the door and a balding, overweight man enters confidently. His belly is even bigger than Bill's and I'd guess that he is probably in his fifties. I stand and am introduced to Vic who looks at me unsmilingly and barely greets me. I nod as he deigns to look me up and down. He's not exactly what you'd call a charmer and then he proceeds to sit down in the same chair I was just sitting in, so my next best bet is the sofa, but it doesn't have such a good view of the telly. I sit there anyway, feeling a bit annoyed that I have been relegated like this, but -- what the hell -- it's not as if I have to be here, though realistically I probably won't leave early this evening. I can hardly complain anyway. It's not as if it is my chair. Why am I even worried about it? It's totally illogical. But still, Vic is clearly lording it over me.

Bill informs me that Vic is an old acquaintance of his.

Vic speaks: "So, your wife won't let you fuck her. Eh?"

He must be talking to me! Fuck, say what you mean, why don't you? I adjust my position to look at him properly and try to pause for a respectable length of time in order to maintain some level of dignity, but I feel that I do have to reply and I guess that sort of crude banter is just the way some people speak. Maybe I have led a sheltered life. So, rather than telling him bluntly to mind his own business, I meekly say that it is just that she has lost interest due to the menopause and all that.

"Amounts to the same thing. Bill reckons she's a really nice piece of arse too. Eminently fuckable. Yeah, they were the words."

How dare they talk about her like that! But they are being accurate after all and it's not as if they are insulting her exactly, so I choose not to verbally object. However, my expression surely communicates that I am not enjoying this line of questioning.

Bill asks me why I have never looked elsewhere for cunt; why I haven't been a real man. He really is so crude. It must be quite liberating really, I suppose, to express one's feelings. I tell him that I would never betray my wife, that she would go birko if she ever found me with another woman. He tries to persuade me that I could probably get away with it, but I remain unconvinced.

He goes on. "She's so close and so sexy, but you can't have her. You're constantly getting horny, but with no relief possible. It must be so frustrating!"

After a brief uncomfortable silence, Vic chimes in and asks me whether it would still count as betrayal if it were a man she'd found me with. Not that he is offering necessarily, mind; he's just interested in hearing my opinion.

I can hardly believe my ears and my face immediately reddens. It's a tendency I have always had - flushing at the slightest trigger and it can be quite embarrassing. "That's not what I meant!" I blurt out, a little ashamed by my condition. I look down finding it difficult to look directly at him in case it gets worse. He laughs and tells me not to get my panties in a bunch.

Is he trying to wind me up? Maybe he can read me, maybe I am inadvertently giving signals? Nah, it's probably just that all men in my situation do. No, that can't be right.

So, I am in a bit of an awkward position, as in fact, recently I have sometimes thought of men and have got hard watching and reading gay porn. I couldn't imagine fucking one, but their cocks were fascinating. I'd started to think about cocks more and more often, wondering what it would be like to touch and even suck one. Vic is looking directly at me now and again I almost feel as if he can see into my thoughts. I blush again. Oh, how awful! I must look such a fool. It seems to amuse him though. He smiles, winks and says that I shouldn't worry too much, as he won't say a word about it to my wife.

He looks at me with a surly expression, as if daring me to challenge him. I am flabbergasted by this sudden onslaught and am left speechless.

"Well?"

I feel ambushed and off guard, so try to play it down, to act calm. I mustn't let him know how much he has unnerved me. Nonchalantly as I can, I admit that yes, I have considered it, but that doesn't mean much. For some reason I don't even try to deny it. Why did I say that?

I'm stuck now, so I blurt out my reply. "It's just the occasional fantasy. Fantasies rarely translate to reality and anyway; ideas, words and thoughts are all a lot easier than actual deeds. Actually doing anything in real life would be well... " I run out of words for a while.

"There are words and there is action. They belong in completely different categories. For me it's just purely hypothetical. I had no idea how I would react outside fantasy."

After my rambling, spirited defence I half expect him to make a move on me for protesting too much, but no. Maybe I am not his type, or maybe he just likes talking about it. I gulp down more drink. All this talk is making me drink more than usual. I must be careful.

I am now rather flustered and would very much like to change the subject. My throat is dry and my words didn't come out as I intended. I feel like I'm being taken advantage of.

Vic watches me intently as I say this, the sneer on his lips giving the impression of him being rather unimpressed.

He perks up, leaning forward to ask me what type of man I would like to fuck. I gulp and say that I don't really want to do any, um, fucking but I do occasionally wonder what it would be like to handle a cock.

I quickly and inaccurately add: "Not very often though. Just curious."

He sighs and announces that he suspected that I was that way inclined. My eyes narrow. I feel wary, a bit unnerved by how he could know that. He asks whether I would be a good cocksucker. I consider ending this line of enquiry, but I can't help myself. I reply that I couldn't possibly know, but probably not since I had never done it.

"Ha, but there's more to it than that, isn't there? You're submissive too. Aren't you?"

Bloody hell! Bill certainly doesn't hold back on the gossip. Part of me wants to flee, but some very influential part of me is hanging on to his every disturbing word.

It is going to be hard to totally deny it, so I offer him a compromise for now. I tell him that I can in theory be submissive, but only sometimes and not in all ways.

The game has resumed now, but I am no longer able to be absorbed by it. My interrogation and the idea of cock keeps raising itself for my attention. I look out the corner of my eye quite often - too often probably - but he is not doing anything overt. I don't think so anyway. Maybe he wants me to make a move. Well, I don't think that's going to happen. He does seem to notice my glances though.

"Just one more thing, so that I have this exactly right. When you think about men sexually, it's always you in the submissive role isn't it?"

This time I blush much more brightly than before. Fuck! Am I really that transparent? He stares at me coolly and I know that I have to give him some sort of answer, so I say as casually as I can: "well yes, sort of, I suppose, but it ah, depends on how one defines submissive. I am not submissive about everything." He seems unconvinced, so I try and explain. "Just because I don't want to fuck a man doesn't necessarily make me submissive. Does it?" I am finding it hard to actually say the word submissive. Am I speaking in a higher pitch? And whispering? I am also caught off guard. Damn, I am actually trembling. Why is he asking me this? I'm quite flustered and get the impression that this amuses him. A lot.

He smiles and says that it is very interesting that I am blushing like that, 'like a defensive trigger'. Maybe he knows that my 'sort of' was redundant. He says to me that I should think deeply about this, decide whether I really am submissive, as I am making no sense. I am nonplussed by this, as it sounds rather like an order and I am now feeling puzzled and quite rattled.

Then, in an attempt to give me more time to think I ask Vic who he thinks will win tonight.

He exchanges glances with Bill and they laugh. "That's a very good question. Well, it depends on exactly how you define winning."

Eh? But the game is about to resume and I am allowed some respite from the inquisition. I cannot help my sideways glances though and every time I look over Vic seems to be staring at me, anticipating me, taunting me, amused. I'm annoyed, intrigued and compelled all at the same time. Why am I not making my excuses and leaving or asking him to tone it down or at least trying to defend myself? I suppose all this proves is that I really am submissive. Yeah, that's almost certainly what they are thinking right now.

At the main break Vic turns to me again.

"Your type quite interests me you know, though I do wonder just how genuinely submissive you are. I have found that many just want to be very selectively submissive, and when it comes to doing the dirty, they just bail out. A lot of people are just talk: you know, time wasters. So, are you like that too? All talk? Or are you capable of being better than that? Is it true that despite all your big talk you've never actually been with a man?"

I reply quietly and confusedly in the affirmative to the barrage of questions and notice that Bill is watching us closely. What is going on? I can't help but go along with him.

"Ah, yes, maybe you are capable. Do you think?"

I am uncertain how to respond, so I just frown. He's starting to scare me a little. Was he drunk, or more before he got here?

"You stated that you think you are submissive. Well, are you or not? Make up your fucking mind. Tell me honestly!" He has raised his volume.

I gulp, a bit outraged, unsure of how much I should admit. A bit hurt by being spoken to that way. Unsure of exactly what I am, for that matter. How far can I trust this foul-mouthed bastard? I blush and immediately feel ashamed. Why am I blushing so much? It feels so unnerving to be cross-examined like this, but in some ways, I can't deny that I am enjoying it. Is it the attention? I'm not bored, that's for sure. I feel very much in the moment, intensely alive, even if I feel uncomfortable.

In normal day to day life I'm not particularly submissive since, like most people, I don't like being told what to do; but for some reason, I sometimes crave it, though I suspect he isn't very interested in my usual life, so I offer an attempted summary instead.

"I am sort of submissive, but not all the time." I manage to squeak out, immediately knowing that I am being unhelpfully vague.

"Well, for how long then? The next two minutes? Or is it twenty-six minutes? The next two hours? Two and a half hours? The next two days?"

The bastard is deliberately confusing me now.

"Um. An hour?" Why am I asking permission? What am I saying?

"So, you will do anything I tell you to for an hour, eh?"

"Well, uh, no that's not what I mean, well nothing extreme."

Why on earth did I say that? It just slipped out. I couldn't help it. I should definitely have started the bidding lower, but I feel like I lack full control of my mind. He is manipulating me. With ease.

He snorts with derision. "Well, it didn't take long for your true colours to be revealed, did it? So then, general degradation and humiliation for sure and then much more. But, only if you permit it, eh?"

WTF? I swallow, nervously. The way he sneered "If you permit it" was laden with sarcasm.

"No! Maybe. That's not what I mean. I don't, um I'm not sure." My voice sounds higher pitched than usual. Why is this happening?

"You do want to be humiliated though?"

"I don't think so," I say, but it comes out meekly, unconvincingly.

"Oh, I think you'll find that you do!"

Remembering how I reacted a few minutes ago, I decide that it's best to not contradict him.

He pauses and nods in silence, thinking. My heart races. I want to retract my statement, but it seems too late now. I have already said it or my subconscious did, or something.

"So, you have never actually done anything before, but you think you will like it because you fantasise about it all the time. You're naïve and inexperienced and you don't really know what you want. And you wouldn't do anything if you did know what you wanted. You sound exactly like a time waster. I see now, you're just a dishonest tease."

Even though I feel like I have been manipulated and I wonder what he is up to, I still don't like being called a naïve time waster. He is doing a good job of winding me up. I can't help but frown.

"Oh, you're sulking now, eh? Tell you what. Let's see if you are just a common or garden bullshitter or whether you are capable of being useful in some way. Wash up a glass then make me a drink: vodka, tonic and some ice. In a nice glass, honey and be sure to do it demurely and in a ladylike manner. Show me how you walk."

What sort of madness is this? I am confused and disconcerted. I'm pretty sure that I never said anything about wanting to be effeminate. I hesitate, but in some way I am determined to show him that I am not wasting his time or maybe, deep down I am addicted to this. Either way, I head off to the kitchen. My walking style doesn't please Vic at first, so I am made to keep trying and then again and again. I'll humour him for now. Finally, after many attempts, he says it will do, for now. The first correction is when he gets me to take much shorter strides and after a few goes I manage to subtly wiggle my hips and walk with a bit of a swish. It is quite exciting really, as well as embarrassing and a bit annoying. But I can never quite satisfy him, no matter how hard I try. I'm feeling more relaxed though now. Maybe it is the drink.

From the kitchen, I can hear them talking but cannot quite make out their words. I find a nice heavy crystal glass, but it is grimy, greasy, like the rest of the place, so I clean it carefully and make his drink.

Dust lines the surfaces and dirty glasses and I wonder when the floor was last cleaned. The kitchen light illuminates the squalor harshly, though the lounge room is more dimly lit, but rather than hiding the flaws, the slight gloom is still depressing and oppressive in its way. One can almost feel the unhealthiness, lurking just out of sight.

When I return he seems pleased with my efforts, but says that I need to be much more graceful and ladylike when walking, but that he'll give me some deportment training.

He sips. "Not bad, honey. It's washed and nice and strong. You trying to get me drunk, eh? You want me to lose my inhibitions, don't you? Now, that wasn't so hard, was it? And I'll modestly suggest that you got a little thrill out of it too, didn't you?"

I blush slightly and bite my lip, not wanting to give too much away.

"I thought so! One thing though for next time. Make sure you say, 'here is your drink, sir', in a demure voice of course. Think Marilyn Monroe."

Bill also wants a drink now. Why didn't he ask me before and save me the extra trip? Oh well, Vic tells me to be nice to Bill, even when he is grumpy, so I do my best. Again I walk to the kitchen as well as I can, taking small steps, make Bill his drink and walk back the way Vic wants me to, as best I can. Bill doesn't seem to care, he's not really playing the game, so I feel a bit foolish, but Vic is watching me. To Bill I say, "Your drink, sir", but Vic says I'm not saying it the right way. I think of Marilyn and after a few more attempts Vic is grudgingly satisfied.