“What sort of lady is she?”

I asked my friend Steve. He had suggested that he hook me up with a buddy of his, a woman he knew from the office who was, in his words, “on the prowl.”

“She’s your type,” he told me. “I know it.”

“That’s not answering my question.” I wasn’t intentionally being stubborn, but my string of recent sad dating stories had colored my view considerably. I didn’t want to strike out. Again.

“She’s a friend,” he said. “We talk over coffee. I know what she’s into. And" — he paused and eyed me carefully — “I think I know what you’re into, too.”

“What do you mean?” Now, I was half indignant and half curious. How could he… was he serious?

He leaned forward so that our conversation was really and truly private. “You know that dark club downtown? The one where leather is the new black?”

Well, yeah. I did know the club. How did Steve know the club? More importantly, how did Steve know that I knew the club?

“She hangs out there,” he continued calmly. He seemed to be waiting for me to interject. So I did.

“I do, too,” I said. “Sometimes.”

“I was beside myself with glee. The ice queen was punishing me!”

“I know. She saw you there, and then she saw you with me last week when you met me in the lobby. She’s the one who made the connection, and she asked if I would do the rest.”

“So she’s a domme?” I let the word hang in the air. Steve seemed more in the know than I’d given him credit for.

“Yeah… ”

I didn’t say it. I wouldn’t say it. There was no need to tell him that I was submissive, that all I truly desire is a beautiful, tough chick to put me in my place, to tell me what to do, to make me bow to her will. I simply told him to go ahead, give her my number, and we’d take it from there.

He shook his head. “Not the way it works,” he said as if I ought to have known better. He handed me her card. “If you’re interested, you make the call.”

That’s how it should go, I realized. That was the correct trajectory. I took the card, and as soon as Steve and I parted, I dialed her digits. She seemed to be waiting for me. When I said, my voice low and humble, that my name was Mike, that I was friend of her coworker, she purred a hello and asked if I wanted to drop by for a drink. Or something.

Definitely, desperately, or something.

I was caught for a moment in a quandary, because I wanted to meet her right then, but I didn’t want to appear forward. I stammered the words that I hoped would make her take a liking to me. I played the humble card, the yearning card. I practically knelt with my words, begging. She took pity, thank fucking God. She told me her address and gave me a shade under enough time to get there.

“Or you’ll be sorry,” she promised.

I rushed to her apartment, doing everything possible to fulfill her impossible expectation. When she opened the door, she did not seem pleased. My heart fluttered. Being displeased suited her. She looked haughty and striking, her eyes aglow, her face a mask of stern disappointment. My cock throbbed like a wild thing in my slacks. Would she punish me? Fuck, I wanted her to. I wanted her to take out every last bit of her displeasure on me. But in wanting that pain I had turned punishment into a reward. Could she tell? Did she know?

“She took off the cockring and let me fuck her. But my punishment continued.”

She gripped my upper arm and dragged me forcefully inside. Then she shut the door behind me and motioned for me to get on my knees. I dropped to the floor immediately, automatically. My breath was coming fast, and not only because of the hasty journey I’d made to her place, but because she was leaving me weak.

This woman — this gorgeous goddess of a woman — had taken note of me. I had made a strong enough impression that she’d sought me out. I longed to live up to the expectation I saw in her cold eyes.

“I don’t want to be forward,” I said, and then I cleared my throat because my voice had come out a jagged whisper. “But Mistress, Ma’am, please. I will do… I want to do… whatever you need.”

Would she be able to piece together these bits of phrases? Would she know what I was after? To my relief, utter glorious relief, she gave me what was almost a smile, and then she led me by the arm to her bedroom. There, she had me lick her boots for her, boots I had seen clicking on the cold floor of my favorite club. I remembered what she’d looked like, punishing sub after sub. Sometimes using a crop, sometimes a flogger. I recalled the sounds she’d wrung from her submissive lovers, the moans and sighs. Suddenly, I realized that while I’d lost myself in memories, I’d grown sloppy cleaning her boots. She was staring at me with that expression of complete displeasure. I froze, unsure of what to do.

She wasn’t unsure at all.

In seconds, I found myself bound to her wall, my wrists cuffed, my ankles wide apart. She attached a cockring around my member and stuffed a plug up my butt. Then I was reliving those memories of her punishment sessions — except, I was the one being punished. She chose a mean crop, which she used to heat my ass fully. Then she swapped that for a flogger. I was beside myself with glee. The ice queen was punishing me! My cock bobbed, but I couldn’t come.

She used me as I’d seen her use sub after sub. I knew my ass would be sore the next day. Then she released me, took off the cockring, and let me fuck her. But my punishment continued. She left the plug filling my ass the whole time, so I would remember who was really in charge.

I was delighted when she came on my cock, but saddened when she did not give me permission to come inside her.

“Maybe later,” she said, “after you finish polishing my boots.”

She turned on the light in her closet, and I saw dozens of pairs awaiting my tongue.

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