Water from my shower still beaded in my body hair as I knelt on the towel in the front room with my old battle-scarred wooden sword breaker across my knees. A simple roll of my shoulders showed the holder of the sword breaker to be just as battle-scarred as the weapon itself amidst several crackling pops from shoulders and spine. I focused on my breathing. Seven in through the nose, bringing in peace and serenity. Eleven out through the mouth, exhaling pain (emotional and physical).
And no little worry.
We had "met," if that is the word, on The Cage. A flurry of messages through the private messaging system there led to an exchange of email addresses and then phone numbers. Almost without me realizing it, we were soon spending more time on the phone with each other than off. Talking about what we were doing in the moment. Talking about the past, our histories. Talking about how we were feeling, what we were thinking.
And, yes. We spent more than a few hours engaging with each other sexually. Masturbating for, with, and to each other as I drew her through her every sexual fantasy and into mine between the power of my voice and my determined focus of will.
We even slept with the phone line open between us! Who the fuck does that silly shit?!
And, yet... And yet, it felt right. I slept better than I had in almost two years listening to her snore. Her one complaint was that I didn't snore enough, although I did wake enough every time she made a noise to whisper, "I'm right here. I've got you."
But, then...
Then, she started talking about coming to meet me. No, she started talking about coming to me "for you to fuck me, to use me any way that you want."
Which was a dash of cold water in my face. The truth was that while I had very carefully addressed all of her fantasies with things that I had done, had a proven capability with... I hadn't done them for several years. Some, in over a decade or more.
I spoke seriously with her at that point. I explained that I was no longer what I once was. That I wasn't sure that I could do some of the... more acrobatic stunt fucking anymore. Hell, I wasn't even sure my hands could still manage hemp rope since I struggled with buttons and zippers now.
It didn't matter. She still wanted to try. She wanted to find out what I could still do. If it would be enough.
Would it be? I wasn't sure. And often when we weren't on the phone, weren't speaking, I had moments where I wondered if I actually could do what I once had. What I described to her in loving detail through typed text or my spoken words.
The day had come. She was on the road. Soon, I would be standing in front of her. No computer screen between us. No miles of telephone line. Just she and me. Face to face. Breathing the same air.
Fuck! What was the matter with me?! I'd outgrown this sort of adolescent angst way back when I was fucking fourteen! And now, at fucking fifty, or damn close enough, it was back?
Fuck that! I was... No, I AM a Dominant. From balls to bone and back there is not submissive give to me. So what if she didn't feel I was enough for her? What difference did that make in who and what I am? Fifty fucking years... or at least thirty-six... I had done what I damn well pleased and fuck anyone who didn't agree so long as what I was doing didn't impinge on their consent or safety. If I wasn't enough for her, then that just meant that she wasn't right for me. Pure and simple.
A knock at the door caused my heart to give a cold spasm in my chest as if a fist of ice were wrapped around my heart, squeezing.
I rolled from my knees to my feet, ignoring the pops of ankles, knees, and hips, whipped the towel from the floor to wrap around my waist and strode to the door. Opening it... It would, perhaps, have served me right if it had been some unsuspecting delivery person or proselytizer. Or perhaps that would have served them right?
It was her.
She was here.
Her pictures hadn't done her justice.
Her wide eyes met mine for maybe two seconds before dropping to my damp chest and lower. Her lower lip caught between her teeth.
Something...
Something that had lain dormant in me for so long. Something I'd thought dead within my breast until I felt it stirring and stretching, taking a lazy interest once I began interacting with her. Something came howling awake from the recesses of my mind... my soul... to reclaim every inch of me inside my skin.
A firm hand on her wrist pulled her inexorably inside my dwelling, into my arms, nestled against my chest... where she fucking well belonged!
I felt the towel slip as the arm not busy holding her to my chest slammed the door behind her. I ignored it as I pressed her back against the door, felt it slide completely to the floor at my feet, leaving me clad only in a sardonic, hungry smile as I stepped closer to her, pinning her body between mine and the door as I crossed her wrists above her head.
"Tell me to stop," I growled, "and I will."
Her pulse pounded in her throat as her wide eyes studied mine. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her throat worked and she tried again.
"No," she whispered.
I almost pulled back. Consent is everything to me. But, I realized that she was saying that she wasn't going to tell me to stop.
A rumbling growl of contentment rattled my chest and seemed to reverberate with her as she shivered.
Her wrists crossed in an X over her head, I slipped my left thumb under and my fingers over, to hold her in place with a grip that had once tested as sixty-three pounds per pressure per square inch. I knew in my bones that she would not be getting away unless I allowed her to. But, also that she wouldn't even try to get away.
My mouth found hers and ate the moan which escaped her as my right hand trailed from her shoulder to her breast and beyond, fetching up between her thighs.
A squeak from her tasted like sweetest cinnamon on my tongue. Her squirms sent my blood racing to fill my exposed cock.
I regretfully peeled my mouth from hers and locked eyes with her.
"Tell me to stop and I will," I growled again.
It would be hard... Rather, it would be difficult. But, I could stop if she said she didn't consent to this. Consent to me.
"P-please d-don't. Please, M-master. Please don't ever stop!"
"Mine!" I half-growled, half-roared as my fingers touched my goal.
Her body jerked and spasmed, though whether from my victorious growled roar or from my fingers reaching my target.
"Y-yours," she whispered as her body sagged and shivered in my grip.
