The Last Submissive – A Femdom.dating Testimonial (2)

SubmissiveThe next day at work, I, the submissive, could hardly concentrate. I do video digitizing for the National Archive, taking old 16mm and 35mm newsreel footage and turning it into digital video. It’s tedious, repetitive work, and I found my mind wandering to those images of Mistress Hunter. I don’t go online when I’m at work; it’s a good way to get in trouble, so I had to wait until I got home. Home is an older (post-WWII) fixer-upper in Maryland, an easy commute to work and close to a park. I checked my email—nothing—and then went for a run through the park. I ran an extra mile to burn off my anxiety, but it didn’t help.

Back home, sweat dripping from my forehead, I went online to check mail. Low and behold, there was an email from Mistress Hunter. I opened it with trembling fingers. OMG, she wrote that I had made her final cut; she wanted to meet me in person.

The Final Cut

She named a restaurant in Alexandria and a time, 7:30 p.m., and gave me the option of one of three days. One appointment was tomorrow, Friday, the other two were next week, Monday and Tuesday. It occurred to me that sooner would be better—if she found her perfect Submissives tomorrow, she might cancel the rest of her appointments. I wrote back immediately, saying that I was available for the appointment tomorrow.

That evening just before bed, her reply landed in my mailbox. We were on for tomorrow. She told me she would make the reservation and meet me in the restaurant; I was to greet her like we were old acquaintances, a friend of the family, and give her a kiss on both cheeks, addressing her “Savannah.”

Savannah. Holy shit. This thing had just become real. My body felt like it was plugged into an electric socket. OMG, what would I wear?

Preparations

I know, that sounds like a girl, but I hadn’t been on a date for ages (to be precise, not in over a year; it’s a long, sad story) and my wardrobe had gone to hell—old, ragged blue jeans and grubby sweatshirts. I’d have to go shopping after work, remember to cut off the tags and launder whatever I bought so it didn’t look brand new. And get a haircut, too. God, I was a mess; I barely slept all night.

The next day, I skipped the Metro and drove my Jetta so that I could get to the mall right after work. At the mall, I went to a men’s store and bought a pair of dress slacks, a button-down shirt and nice wool sweater, a pair of Italian loafers, and got a haircut at some unisex hairstyle place (I hated it, but oh well).

The Submissive first meeting with his Mistress

I rushed home. Clipped the tags off and into the laundry went the slacks and shirt. I took a long shower, debated shaving, decided against, a five o’clock shadow being more manly, put on too much deodorant and paced around the house in socks and underwear until the dryer finally beeped. Got dressed and was out the door by six, at the Metro station fifteen minutes later.

I made it to the King Street station by seven p.m., walked twenty minutes in my spiffy new shoes and arrived at the Columbia Firehouse (a remade brick firehouse) five minutes early. So, should I go inside and wait for Mistress Hunter, or should I arrive exactly at the appointed time? I walked for two minutes down St. Asaph Street, turned around, walked back, arrived at the canopied entrance one minute early, took a deep breath and went inside.

Columbia Firehouse

It was crowded in the waiting longue and the bar; there was a throng of people clustered around the hostess, so I eased my way against the wall and surveyed the place for Mistress Hunter. What does a beautiful, dominant woman look like in public?

I soon found out: she was tall, beautiful and impeccably attired. She stood out in the crowd, wearing a body-hugging maroon blazer and skirt. She spotted me and made her way through the crowd, male (and female) heads turning in her wake. She wore strappy 4-inch heels that put her at eye level when she placed her hands on my shoulders and said warmly, “Paul, it’s so good to see you.”

She had the face of a thirty-year-old woman, flawless skin, classic Italian or Greek features, perfect teeth, piercing blue eyes, dark eyebrows plucked into sculpted airfoils that slanted up as they thinned out, and dark, almost black hair that draped on her shoulders in soft waves. Yes, I was smitten.

A Smitten Submissive

I embraced her lightly, offering grazing air kisses on her left and right cheeks, and then boldly said (yes, I had rehearsed this line a hundred times on the way), “Savannah, it’s so good to see you.”

She kept a hand on my left arm and gently pivoted me toward the hostess station, murmuring into my ear, “Be a good boy, Paul, and tell her the Hunter party is here. I’ve reserved a booth. Go ahead and be seated. I’ll join you in just a minute; I have an important business call I must return.”

I froze for a fraction of a second, wheels spinning in my head as I considered my reply. She had told me to be a ‘good boy’ in a tone suggesting she was speaking to a subordinate. I concluded I wouldn’t be calling her ‘Savannah’ again tonight. I nodded and replied, “Yes, Ms. Hunter.”

Yes, Ms. Hunter

She gave me a faint nod of approval then turned away while pulling her cell phone from her purse. She moved into the space I had occupied against the wall, thumbed in her password, hit dial and stuck a finger in one ear. It occurred to me that I had just passed her first test.

I left her and made my way to the hostess. When I finally made it in front of her station and offered the name, she ran a slender finger down her list until she found the entry, “E.S. Hunter.” She looked up, her eyes flaring with an odd look of recognition, almost foreknowledge, appraising me. She collected two menus and led me to an open booth. I wondered if Ms. Hunter had tipped her in advance.

“Do you care to order a drink while you wait, sir?” she said as I slid into the booth.

The wait

She was beautiful, my age, late twenties. Under other circumstances, I would have flirted with her. Not today. “You don’t happen to know what Ms. Hunter drinks, do you?”

She smiled. “Actually, I do . . . she drinks a very dry martini; shall I bring one to the table?”

“Yes, please. And a Sam Adams for me.” Another test passed.

The hostess turned toward the bar. I surveyed the restaurant: the place was buzzing, not a table or booth empty, filled with date-night couples and after-work dinner parties. Waiters scurried about with drinks and trays of food. I was a little surprised that Mistress Hunter had chosen such a busy place; I had imagined a more intimate setting for the interview I presumed would take place over dinner.

Submissive

Mistress Hunter’s Arrival

When Mistress Hunter approached the booth a few minutes later, her martini was waiting and I had a glass of Sam Adams, which I had resisted drinking. I stood up as she slid into the booth across from me. I couldn’t help but admire the vertical line of cleavage revealed by her blouse, like an exclamation point. “Your pictures don’t do you justice, Ms. Hunter,” I said, lifting my beer toward her cone-shaped martini glass, hoping she didn’t think the compliment presumptuous.

She gave a demure smile and lifted her glass, clinking mine. While I took my first swallow of beer, she took the olive from her drink and closed her painted, dusky-red lips over it, pulling it off the stick and slowly chewing, her eyes appraising me with a gaze that left me unsettled. “Congratulations for making it this far, Mr. Green. You are one of three finalists out of sixty-four candidates.”

She Knows EVERYTHING

Wow. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, I took another sip of beer. I presumed she had read my résumé, probably looked me up on Google and Facebook, maybe done a background check, and knew everything there was to know about me. Almost everything, or we wouldn’t be here.

Just then our waiter came up and introduced himself. He listed the daily specials and asked if we wanted an appetizer. Ms. Hunter ordered the grilled asparagus and a Perrier. Our waiter left. We sat in silence for a moment, me trying not to overtly gawk at the exquisite woman sitting across from me, thinking that I should probably not speak unless spoken to. After all, this was not an ordinary date.

“So, Mr. Green, tell me about your family and upbringing,” Ms. Hunter began the interview.

Let the Interview Begin

I went through my life story, which took the better part of thirty minutes, into the appetizer and the first part of dinner. Here’s the thumbnail version: born in Ashland, raised in Portland, one older sister. I’m a geek but a bit of a jock, lettered in high school cross-country and track. Went to a local community college, then Oregon State, then a lucky summer internship with the Smithsonian that led to a master’s degree from Georgetown, then I landed the cherry job at the Library of Congress film archiving facility north of D.C. Mom and Dad divorced a few years back, Mom still lives in Portland, Dad moved to Seattle. Bess, my sister, lives in Rhode Island, married, one daughter.

I’m a gamer, which means I don’t get out much, but I had one serious romance that made it all the way to an engagement. Then she broke it off. Poor broken-hearted me.

A Typical Millennial

So here I am, a typical Millennial saddled with student loans up to my ears and struggling to make the mortgage payment. Back to the break-up; all my ex-fiancée would tell me was, “You need to learn to be a real man.” Not quite sure what that meant, but I started lifting weights, and gained ten pounds. Of course, I spun the story to make it sound far more interesting.

Mistress Hunter listened attentively, probing here and there, collecting details and asking about my mom and dad. Mom is an artist type, she works at a gardening center and paints oils at home, Dad is a software engineer; he wrote the programs used by used-car lots all across the country. Now he creates iPhone apps. Eventually Mistress Hunter broached the $10,000 question: How did I get my submissive leanings?

Submissive

My Submissive Training Explained

I joked that I had a bossy older sister, but that’s really not it. I stared down at my swordfish, thinking hard, then I told her my Big Story: when I was a sophomore there was this girl, a dangerous girl, a sexy, hard-looking senior named Libby Friday, always dressed in black. She made my knees shake.

Miss Hunter perked up. Obviously, this was the nugget she had been digging for. For the first time in our interview, I sensed acute interest. “Did you date her?”

Yes, I did. Sort of. It happened this way. Each year at our school we had a disability awareness day, an event that mixed classes. We rode in wheelchairs, experienced being blind, practiced signing, etc.

By a stroke of good fortune (or destiny), I was paired with Libby Friday for the blindness experience. Holding her hand was awesome, but doing it blindfolded was a huge turn-on for me.

The blind leading the blind

Then I got to lead her around blindfolded.

I led her to the student snack bar, where I bought her an ice-cream cone and had her guess the flavor. Raspberry swirl, she guessed right. I think she found me charming or noticed the hard-on in my blue jeans. Whatever the reason, she invited me to her house after school.

Inside her front door, she blindfolded me with a scarf, led me up to her bedroom, pulled down my jeans and underwear, tied me to the posts of her bed and left me there with a rigid hard-on for at least 30 minutes. I totally freaked out, thinking someone would come home and find me that way. Thankfully, it didn’t happen. When she finally came back into the room, she said she would jack me off, but first I had to agree to let her paddle me with her hairbrush.

Yes, Mistress

What was I going to say? Of course, I agreed to her condition. After she untied my wrists, she ordered me to stand, bend over and grab my ankles. She gave my ass a dozen hard swats, making me call them out. Then she took my cock in her hand. It took all of a dozen strokes before I came. She made me clean up my mess and then showed me to the door. We had more encounters like that through the school year and into summer, until she left for college.

I finished the story, “Her family moved away, so I never saw her again. But that experience changed my life forever. I’ve had a few girlfriends, but nothing approached what I experienced with Libby.”

“You wrote that you’ve been with some professional dominatrixes.”

I nodded. “Yes.” I sensed something amiss, a glint in Ms. Hunter’s eyes. “I mean, ‘Yes, Mistress.’”

The next test

Another test passed. Her gaze softened. She lifted one eyebrow inquiringly, “And?”

“And they were okay, but I found it unsatisfying, impersonal. I mean, they were going through the motions, but it felt clinical. One wouldn’t even talk to me, she said she liked to play in silence. The thing about Libby was that it was personal, she knew my sister and my family; she would taunt me and tease me, she got inside my head. She would make me run errands all over the place, she would instruct me to show up at random places, then she would order me to remove my belt and bend over, then she would smack my butt with the belt, then order me to jack off while she watched. I could not resist the strange power she had over me. I would have done anything for her. It’s haunted me ever since.”

Work?

“And you feel like you need to work through it and understand it more fully.”

“Yes, Ms. Hunter.”

“Mr. Green, you realize that I’m looking for a full-time, live-in slave, not just the occasional erotic rendezvous, like you had with this girl? You wouldn’t have to quit your job, but all your time outside of work would belong to me . . . all of it. Do you understand the extent of this commitment?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, I think I do, Ms. Hunter.”

“Tell me why you think I should pick you over the other finalists.”

I didn’t know what the magic answer was, but I had made it this far, so I stuck to what I had written in the email. “Because I hope to become a better man, and learn to please a woman more fully.”

Submissive

Well, You could do better than that Mr. Green

She was not impressed. She caught my eyes and held them, making it impossible to look away and try to think of something more intelligent to say. “You can do better than that, Mr. Green.”

What the fuck, I cleared the frog in my throat and told the truth, “It’s because the thought of worshiping at your feet is the most exciting, worthwhile thing I can imagine doing with my life.”

She smiled back at me, a Mona-Lisa smile, all-knowing. “That’s better.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. She pulled out a pen and scribbled a number on the back. “That’s my direct line at work, you’ll get my secretary. Call next Wednesday at three. If I’ve chosen you, you’ll be given an address and time to report on Friday. Make sure your entire weekend is free.”

Submissive, but still a Gentleman

Our waiter approached the table. Mistress Hunter motioned for the check with a jag of her pen. Apparently, dinner was over; there would be no small talk over dessert and coffee. When the waiter came back to the booth, I snatched the folder from his hand. I might be a Submissives, but I was a gentleman, first; no way I was going to let her pay for dinner on our first date . . . make that, our first encounter.

Mistress Hunter smiled, rose from her side of the booth, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” she said. She drew closer and whispered, “One more thing, Mr. Green. No playing with yourself between now and next we meet. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.” Without another word, she pivoted on her stiletto heels and sashayed out of the restaurant.

The Submissive Paid the Bill

I pulled out my credit card, inwardly jubilant, thinking I might have just passed Mistress Hunter’s final test. Through a foggy restaurant window, I got a glimpse of her striding down the street with her phone to an ear. The bill came to a whopping $126.15, but worth every penny. I signed the credit card slip, then me and my hard-on made our way up King Street to the Metro station and the train home.

It would be a long wait until Wednesday at three.

Next: The Chosen One.

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Freelance author living near the Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia.
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