A wasted day becomes the most erotic experience of Michael’s life when he runs into the domme of his dreams.

Traffic school was not the way I wanted to spend my Saturday. Does anyone? But it was either attend the class or receive a ding on my traffic report and watch my insurance rates skyrocket. I couldn’t afford that, so one boring Saturday was penciled onto my calendar, and I begrudgingly crawled out of bed at an ungodly hour.

I’ll admit, I did not put my best foot forward that day. I didn’t even bother to brush my hair. I threw on a pair of jeans, yesterday’s sweater, and a pair of old motorcycle boots. I scowled all the way to the class at City Hall, wishing like hell I’d seen that stop sign. Wishing the cop had been napping in his patrol car. Wishing that I could find a way out of this drudgery. Wishing …

That’s when I saw her. She was walking down the hall toward me. I wondered where she was going. The woman was tall and dark-haired. She had on a monochrome skirt suit that was cut severely but not unattractively. Nothing could have looked unattractive on her. I couldn’t stop myself from checking her out from top to toe. With the suit, she was wearing a pair of simple high heels, but when she turned I saw that the tips of the heels were metal. It was like they’d been dipped in silver. The woman didn’t even glance my way as she opened the door nearest me, disappearing forever, I thought.

Then I checked the card in my hand. That’s where I was going, too. Was there a chance she was a fellow traffic scofflaw? Could we possibly bond together over stories of yellow lights and octagonal signs?

I headed into the room, my eyes rapidly scanning over the students already seated at the desks in the classroom. Where was she? Then a closet door at the front of the room closed, and I realized the truth with a rush of lust to my loins: She wasn’t a student. She was our instructor.

I couldn’t have done more of an about-face — I mean, I made a 180-degree turn in two seconds flat. Suddenly, rather than dreading the day, I was thrilled to be at traffic school. I sped to the nearest desk and sat down. I ran my hand through my hair, popped in a mint, and put on my most earnest expression.

She didn’t look my way. She seemed busy setting up papers on the desk and rummaging through a large, vintage-looking briefcase.

At the start of class, she introduced herself and explained the rules. Her name was Ms. Peters, and we had to spend the day with her. At the end, there would be a test. I resolved to listen carefully and to pass with flying colors. I wanted her to notice me. More than that, I wanted her to like me.

Someone else might have made traffic laws boring, but not Ms. Peters. Everything she said made my dick hard. She had this way of talking that sounded like music to me. Was that some vague accent that I couldn’t place?

I was a model student. Any question she asked, I shot my hand into the air. Any time she needed a volunteer, I offered. She didn’t call on me, however, and I was sadly sure that I was not her type. At least, that’s what I thought at first. Halfway through the class, we took a lunch break, and she seemed to be watching me the whole time she ate her sandwich. I wished I had the nerve to approach her, but I felt that wouldn’t be appropriate. Not while I was her pupil. I decided to wait.

The rest of the afternoon was a mesmerizing blur of intensity. I loved the way she spoke. I loved the way she held chalk. I loved everything she did. Eight hours have never passed by so fast in my life.

At the end of the day, the students all received our certificates. Now was my chance. Now was the time. I lingered until everyone had left. She was packing up her briefcase, putting all of her gear away. Finally, she glanced at me.

“Still here, Michael?”

“Yes,” I said, thrilled she’d remembered my name. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Is there something else you need?”

I did. I needed something else. Anything else. I couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving and me never talking to her, never seeing her again. Although I felt as nervous as all hell, I managed to say, “Yes, please. I do. I need something else.”

“Well?”

I looked at her with a helpless expression. Then I cleared my throat and said, “You didn’t make an example of me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You called on other students throughout the day, but you didn’t use me for an example. Not once.”

“And you think that you’d like that?”

I nodded feverishly.

“Are you sure?”

Again, I nodded. She pursed her lips. “Yes,” I said, my voice strangled with emotion. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“In that case … ” she grabbed my hand and held it. “Let’s go.”

She followed me to my place. I made sure to obey every single traffic rule on the drive to my apartment. I waited nearly twice as long as necessary at every stop sign. I signaled far ahead of when I was actually turning. I tried my best to be a model traffic-school student in every way possible. She pulled her car behind mine on the street. When she got out of her car, she looked expectantly at me, so I led her into the apartment building.

We took the elevator to my floor, and I thought of conversation starters, but all died on my lips. Ms. Peters didn’t seem to want to talk. What she did was stare at me, similarly to the way I’d drunk her in on first sight. She looked me up and down, and then she tousled my hair and smiled at me.

My dick pressed forcefully against the seam in my jeans. I wondered if she knew that her touch created an electric current of longing inside me.

At my floor, I ushered her to my apartment. I got us inside and tried to figure out how to behave. We weren’t on a date. This was something else entirely.

“Would you like a drink, Ms. Peters?” I asked her cautiously.

I half-expected her to tell me her first name. Shouldn’t she say, “My name’s Julia.” Or “You can call me Annie,” or something normal like that? If she should have, it didn’t matter. She didn’t. She thanked me and asked for whiskey, neat. I watched through the kitchen hatch as she wandered around my living room, lifting items and inspecting them. She seemed to be curious about my various collections — the ships in bottles on the mantle, the vinyl by my antique stereo. I saw her pause and read the spines on my bookshelf by the window.

When I brought in the drinks, she said, “Do you like kinky sex?”

My eyes must have gone huge, but she simply smiled and said, “You have all sorts of dirty titles right there on display — DeSade, Marsden, Reage, Roquelaure. You must appreciate some kink.”

I nodded and then sipped my drink for courage.

“Tell me,” she said, settling herself on my sofa and crossing her legs. All I wanted to do was serve her, but she was not giving me any obvious clues that she’d appreciate that. So I said, “I crave a strong hand.” That seemed safe enough.

She smiled. “What did you mean when you said I hadn’t made an example of you?”

“I just want you to tell me what to do,” I said because I didn’t have anything to lose at this point. “I will do whatever you say.”

“Anything?” she asked.

I stared, waiting, hoping.

“Take off your clothes, Michael.”

I stripped and then stood still. I felt good standing in front of her. I knew I looked strong, my body hard and lean. I knew I could be proud of my erection, a solid eight inches pointing in her direction. I hoped the next command would come soon.

“Stand in front of the window.”

I hadn’t expected that. I don’t know what I’d thought she might do — but this wasn’t even remotely in my daydreams. I walked slowly through the room to the window.

“Open the blinds.”

Swallowing hard, I obeyed her command. I wondered if there would be anyone outside, if one of my neighbors might be walking past on the sidewalk below, or if someone in a building across the way might choose that moment to look over and see me.

“Touch your cock.”

My hand went to my dick as if she had me under voice control.

“Stroke it.”

When she said those words, I realized that she’d stood and closed the distance between us. Her hands trailed over my naked back. Her skin was cool and delicious. A shiver ran through my whole body.

“Harder.”

I stroked my cock harder. I was dripping pre-come, leaking pre-come. It wouldn’t take long for me to shoot with this gorgeous woman standing so close to me, whispering such sexy orders for me to fulfill.

“Give me your palm.”

I brought my hand up. She grabbed my wrist and licked my palm. Her warm wet tongue made my hand feel like an erogenous zone I’d never known I had. She took her time, tonguing each of my fingers. I moaned softly and shut my eyes. My erect dick was now thrusting forward on its own, fucking nothing but air.

“Now work that cock for me,” she said, her voice a lustful melody.

I resumed my handjob with my spit-slicked palm. I felt as if my knees might give out. I was so turned on I could hardly breathe. Ms. Peters seemed to appreciate my state. She said, “Is this what you meant when you said you wanted me to make an example of you?”

That was a trick question. What I really wanted her to do was to dominate me — but I’d had no set fantasy about exactly what that might entail.

“Yes or no?” she asked harshly.

“Yes, oh, yes,” I murmured.

“But there’s something more you want, isn’t there?”

I didn’t know what to say. My hand was a blur on my shaft, and I was nearing my release. Ms. Peters stepped to the side and regarded me with a curious expression. I felt as if she might be trying to gauge where I was in my pleasure, how long I had left before I shot my come on the window. I was close. She reached down and dragged her nails along the skin of my balls. I groaned and bucked my hips forward. She squeezed my sac firmly in her palm. I babbled something nonsensical. She was driving me fucking crazy.

“You know, anyone could walk by and see you up here,” she said.

I nodded.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I think you like that a little too much,” she said thoughtfully. “I think that once you come all over the pane, I’m going to have to give you a taste of a different type of pain.”

I came then. I couldn’t help myself. The words she sent, the image she painted, was all I needed. I shot my sloppy load against the glass, and Ms. Peters pushed me immediately to my knees.

“Clean up your mess, dirty boy,” she demanded.

I didn’t hesitate. I licked the come from the glass. I didn’t care if my neighbors saw. I didn’t care if anyone saw. I would do whatever this icy-cold domme asked of me.

“Stand up and put your palms on the glass.”

I was up in a heartbeat. I heard her behind me, and I wondered what she was up to. Then I felt the heat of my own leather belt slap across my asscheeks.

“You get ten,” she said, “for coming without permission.”

I held still. My cock was already starting to stir once more.

“Count each blow and then say, ‘Thank you, Ma’am.’”

I prepared myself.

“That first one didn’t count,” she said.

“I hadn’t thought it would.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. Why had I said that? I heard a low chuckle from behind me, but there was no mirth in her laughter.

“Twenty,” she said, “for insolence.”

I resolved not to let her down.

Ms. Peters began to strike me with my own belt, crossing both asscheeks with the leather, catching the fullest part of my ass sometimes, the tops of my thighs other times. I managed to count and thank her, never missing a stroke. Then she paused and let one hand wander along my body. She petted my flat stomach, then teased my erection. My breath caught in my throat. The feeling of her fingertips was so lovely on me. Nothing had ever felt that sublime.

She set the belt down — even though we were only halfway through — and what she did next made me harder than I’ve ever been. First, she had me suck one of her fingers in my mouth.

“Get it nice and wet, Mikey,” she said. “Pretend it’s a dick. Pretend you’re sucking on a dick for me.”

I got her pointer as wet as I could.

“Now, don’t you dare come,” she said. “I just want to play with you a little bit.” With those words, she began to insinuate her pointer between my asscheeks. Then she simply rubbed my anus with her slick finger with one hand while fisting my erection with the other.

I still had my palms on the glass. I was thankful for the support. Without that, I might have dissolved to the floor. Ms. Peters tickled my asshole with her finger and worked my hard-on with her palm. Then she started to gently, ever so gently, slide her pointer into my asshole.

I yelped with pleasure. My dick throbbed in her hand. Of course, that’s when she moved away and resumed the whipping. The final ten strokes were harder to take because my arousal was so amped up. But I managed. I counted. I thanked her. And then when she hit twenty, I sagged against the window.

“Now, you have a choice,” Ms. Peters said.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Either, I can jack you off with my hand, or you can suck my dick for me, and I can fuck your ass.”

Suck her dick? What did she mean?

To my delight, she went to her purse and pulled out a harness. I was thrilled and surprised. The woman carried sex toys in her briefcase! The question was a no-brainer to me. I told her without hesitation I would suck her like a fiend. She excused herself to my bathroom and went to get ready. When she returned, she was nude, that harness and cock in place.

I went on my knees and awaited her command. “You may serve me,” she said.

I opened my mouth, and she let me take the first inch of her cock down my throat. I bobbed my head, trying to deliver a world-class blowjob to her plastic toy. She stroked my hair and encouraged me with compliments.

“That’s the boy. You suck it nice and hard. You get my dick good and wet for me. You know where this is going to go.”

I did. My asshole clenched and released in anticipation.

When she was ready, she produced a bottle of lube from her case and had me stand in the window once more. I felt her slick the lube between my cheeks, really working the liquid in deep. I lowered my head and let her do whatever she desired. Then she held my cheeks apart and let me feel the head of her cock pressed to my hole.

She didn’t move for a few seconds. I could feel my heart starting to race. All I wanted was for her to thrust forward and impale me on her dick. She didn’t move. I could feel the stripes from the belt; I could feel my cock waving in the air.

“Please,” I finally whispered. “Please, Ms. Peters.”

“Please what?” she taunted.

“Fuck my ass.”

“Like this?” She slid in a tiny bit. My asshole opened to allow her entrance, but then that was it. I felt robbed. I wanted more. I tried to back against her, but she pushed me away.

“Not until I say,” she barked.

I held still.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me,” I wailed. “Fuck my ass!”

“No,” she said, and my heart fell. “But you may fuck yourself,” she continued. I braced my palms on the window, and I started to push back. This felt so dirty, fucking my own ass on her rock-hard dildo. She didn’t help me at all. She let me fuck myself at the rhythm and pace of my own choosing. I let one hand lower to touch my cock, but she saw that and told me to release myself. She was in charge, and I had better not forget that. I was not to touch my dick without her permission. I was not to reach orgasm without her permission, and I was not to stop moving my hips until she said so.

I felt her adding more lube, and the ride was like this glistening journey to paradise. The only thing I worried about was coming without her permission. I didn’t know how to stop myself.

Thankfully, she said, “Five more thrusts,” and I bucked back against her, reverse-thrusting, really, on her dildo. Then she undid the harness, lost the toy, and got in front of me. She pressed herself against the window, her ass to my neighbors, and she said, “Now, fuck me with every ounce of that power, with all of that pent-up desire.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I fucked her sweet, dripping snatch. My cock was so grateful to be inside her wet honeypot that I would not have been surprised if it let loose the sigh of gratitude that welled up inside me.

I ground against her, and I let my fingers slip between our bodies to touch her clit. She leaned her head back, and I could see how stunning she was. She seemed undone now, not so buttoned-up, but breathtaking nonetheless.

“I’m going to come,” she whispered, and I felt when she did, her inner muscles milking me with the power of her magical orgasm. Then she opened her eyes and said, “You may come, too, Michael.”

I lifted her body off the floor with the power of my energetic thrusts, and I reverently cradled her asscheeks in my hands and showed her exactly how thrilled I was to be allowed release.

We were both panting when we finished, and I set her back on the floor and looked at her sheepishly. What next? What now?

Ms. Peters ran her hands along my face and kissed my lips.

“My name is Betsy,” she said. “And I have to say, Michael, I’m so fucking glad you got that traffic ticket.”

We sat on the carpet together, drinking our whiskey and staring out at the lights in the other apartments. I was pretty sure nobody else had experienced as wild or sexy a night as we’d just had.

I am a model driver now, but my beautiful girlfriend makes an example of me every chance she gets.