The White Collar

My hands were sweaty on the steering wheel. I kept wiping them on my jeans, one at a time, and then putting them right back at ten and two like a nervous student driver. Which was stupid, because I’d had my license for six years. But that’s how I felt. Like I was doing something for the very first time.

I guess I was.

My car is old. Like, really old. A little silver hatchback with a dent in the back bumper and a radio that only gets three stations. One of them was playing some cheesy pop song, and I turned it off because I couldn’t concentrate. I needed to think. Or maybe I needed to stop thinking. I wasn’t sure.

The road out of town got narrower the farther I drove. First it was four lanes, then two, then just a strip of gray asphalt winding between fields. It was autumn, and the trees along the road were turning. Yellow, orange, a dusty brown. Some leaves were already falling, spinning down in front of my windshield. But it was still warm. Warm enough that I’d cracked my window, and the air that came in smelled like dry grass and something sweet, like apples.

I should probably tell you who I am. My name is Celia. I’m twenty-three. I’m not some model or anything. I have a normal body. My boobs are big, which is nice sometimes and annoying other times, like when I try to find a cute top that doesn’t make me look like I’m about to burst out of it. I have a round, big butt. A little belly, too. Not much, just a soft little curve that I always suck in when I look in the mirror. I could probably stand to lose a few pounds. I know I should work out. I’ve tried. I bought a gym membership once and went exactly four times. It’s just not me.

And the reason I was driving out to a farm in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday?

Okay. This is the embarrassing part.

I have these thoughts. Submissive thoughts. I’ve had them for as long as I can remember, honestly. Thoughts about being told what to do. About being looked at. About being made to feel small and exposed and… owned, I guess. I used to push them away. Then I started reading. Erotic stories, online, late at night under my blanket with my phone brightness turned all the way down like someone might catch me. Stories about women who were made to kneel. Women who were humiliated and loved it. Some of those stories were about women with women. And those ones made my stomach flip in a way I didn’t totally understand.

I’d never actually done anything, though. I mean, I’d had boyfriends. Normal sex. Missionary, sometimes me on top, the lights usually off. Nothing weird. Nothing like what was in my head.

Then I met Jennifer.

It was on a forum. One of those places where people talk about this stuff. She’d replied to a post I wrote, something shy and vague about wanting to explore but not knowing how. She was so kind. She didn’t make me feel like a freak. We started messaging. Then she told me that she actually lived this way. That she was a submissive, and she lived with a group of people, men and women, some dominant and some submissive, out on a farm. She told me what it was like there.

I’m not going to tell you everything she said yet. You’ll see.

But I’ll tell you this: when I read her messages, I had to put my phone down and just breathe for a minute.

We did a video call first. I was so nervous I almost hung up before she answered. Then her face popped up on the screen and she smiled, and I just… relaxed. She has this smile. Warm. Like she’s genuinely happy to see you. She’s thirty-one, has ginger hair that falls past her shoulders in soft waves, and freckles everywhere. Across her nose, her cheeks, down her neck. Pale skin, almost glowing. Green eyes.

After that we met for coffee in town. She was wearing a simple sweater and jeans, and nobody in that café would have guessed anything about her. We talked for two hours. She explained how things worked. And at the end she reached across the table, put her hand on mine, and said, “Why don’t you come out and visit us? Just for an interview first. To see if it feels right.”

I didn’t answer right away. I went home and thought about it for almost two weeks. I lay awake at night picturing it. And finally, I wrote her back.

Yes.

So that’s why my hands were sweating.

The GPS told me to turn onto a gravel road, and my car bounced and rattled over the stones. Trees lined both sides, big old oaks with their branches reaching over the road like a tunnel. Leaves crunched under my tires. Then the trees opened up, and there it was.

It wasn’t fancy. I don’t know what I’d expected. Some mansion with black iron gates, maybe. Something out of one of my stories. But it was just a farm. A really nice one, though.

There were two houses. The main one was big and old, two stories, painted white with dark green shutters. The paint was fresh, not peeling at all. A wide porch wrapped around the front, with a couple of wooden rocking chairs and a hanging swing that moved a tiny bit in the breeze. The second house sat a little farther back, smaller, made of red brick with ivy climbing up one side. The ivy was turning red too, like the whole wall was blushing.

Between the houses there was a big lawn, still green, and a gravel courtyard where a few cars were parked. Behind everything, a field stretched out toward a line of trees on the horizon, all gold and orange in the afternoon sun. There was an old wooden barn off to the left, and an apple tree near the porch with fruit lying in the grass under it. That was the sweet smell.

It was so quiet. Just birds and the wind in the leaves.

I parked next to a dark blue SUV and turned off the engine. And then I just sat there. My heart was going crazy. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. Brown hair, tied back. A little bit of mascara. My cheeks were already pink and I hadn’t even gotten out of the car.

You can still leave, I told myself. Just turn around. Nobody would know.

But I didn’t want to leave. That was the scary part.

I got out. My legs felt kind of wobbly. The gravel crunched under my sneakers as I walked up to the porch, and the wooden steps creaked. The front door was big and painted the same dark green as the shutters, with a little window of frosted glass. Next to it was an old-fashioned doorbell. Not a button, but one of those brass ones with a little lever you twist. I’d never seen one in real life.

I twisted it. It made this loud, rattling brrring sound that seemed to echo through the whole house.

I heard footsteps. Light ones. Bare feet on a wooden floor.

The door opened.

And there was Jennifer.

She was smiling that warm smile, her ginger hair loose around her shoulders, her green eyes bright.

And she was completely naked.

I mean completely. Nothing. Not a single thing on her body except a black collar around her neck. It was leather, I think, smooth and shiny, with a little silver ring in the front.

I just froze. My mouth actually fell open. I know I was staring and I couldn’t stop. Her small, perky boobs with pale pink nipples. Her flat stomach. Freckles everywhere, even on her shoulders and her chest. And between her legs, a neat little patch of ginger hair.

She didn’t seem embarrassed at all. Not even a tiny bit.

“Celia!” she said, like I was an old friend. “You made it! Come here.”

And before I could say anything, she stepped forward and hugged me.

Oh my god.

I had never hugged a naked woman before. My arms didn’t know what to do. They kind of hovered in the air for a second like I was afraid to touch her. Then I put them around her back, and my palms landed on her bare skin. It was so warm. And so soft. I could feel her boobs pressing against my chest through my shirt. I could smell her hair, something like vanilla.

It was weird. It was so weird.

But it was also nice. Really nice. There was something about it that made my stomach go all fluttery. She held me for a few seconds longer than a normal hug, and then she pulled back and kept her hands on my arms and looked at me.

“How was the drive? Did you find it okay?”

“Um. Yeah,” I said. My voice came out kind of squeaky. “Yeah, it was fine. The GPS was a little confused at the end, but…”

“It always is,” she laughed. “The gravel road isn’t on half the maps. Come in, come in.”

She stepped aside and I walked in past her, trying really hard not to look at her body and failing completely.

The hallway was wide, with old wooden floorboards and a long rug in deep red. There were coat hooks on the wall and a little bench with shoes lined up underneath. Paintings of landscapes. A staircase going up. It smelled like coffee and wood polish. It looked like a normal, cozy country house. Except that the woman closing the door behind me was naked.

“Was it a lot of traffic coming out of town?” she asked.

“No, not really. It was nice, actually. The trees are so pretty right now.”

“Aren’t they? This is my favorite time of year out here. You should see it in a week or two when everything’s really orange.” She smiled at me. “You look nervous.”

“I am,” I admitted, and I laughed a little because it was so obvious.

“That’s completely okay,” she said softly. “Everybody is, the first time. I was terrified.” She touched my arm again. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

And the weird thing is, I believed her. That’s just how she is. She makes you feel like nothing bad could happen around her. My shoulders came down a little. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“Follow me,” she said. “I made us something to drink.”

She turned and walked down the hallway, and I followed her.

And okay. I’m going to be honest with you. I checked her out. I couldn’t help it.

She was older than me, but you’d never know it. Her body looked amazing. Her back was smooth and pale and dotted with freckles, and I could see the little dimples right above her butt. And her butt… it was round and firm, and it moved with every step she took, the cheeks shifting against each other. Her legs were long and slim. Her bare feet made soft little sounds on the floorboards. Her hair swayed against her shoulder blades. When she turned a little to look back at me, I could see the side of her boob, the soft curve of it.

I felt my face get hot. I looked down at the floor. Then I looked back up at her butt again.

God, I’m terrible.

But here’s the thing I haven’t told you yet. The thing I’ve never told anyone.

I’d fantasized about her.

It started after the video call. That night I lay in bed and I couldn’t stop thinking about her face. Her voice. And after the coffee date, it got worse. Or better. Depending on how you look at it.

I’d picture it all the time. In the shower. In bed. Once, embarrassingly, at work, and I had to go to the bathroom and splash water on my face.

In my fantasy, I’m at her place. Somewhere warm and dim, candles maybe. We’re sitting on a couch, and we’ve been talking, and she’s been smiling at me that way she does. And then she goes quiet. She just looks at me with those green eyes. And she reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Slowly. Her fingers brush my cheek.

“You’re so pretty when you blush,” she says.

And of course that makes me blush more.

She leans in. I can feel her breath on my lips. She doesn’t kiss me right away. She waits. She makes me wait. And I’m sitting there with my heart pounding, and I want it so badly, and I realize she wants me to show her. So I lean forward the tiniest bit, and that’s when she kisses me.

It’s soft. So soft. Not like kissing a guy. Her lips are gentle and full, and she tastes sweet, and her hand slides around to the back of my neck and holds me there. Not hard. Just enough that I know I’m not going anywhere.

Then she pulls away and says, quietly, “Take off your top for me.”

And I do. My hands are shaking, but I pull it over my head. She watches me the whole time. Then my bra. She doesn’t help me. She just watches, and I feel so exposed with my big boobs hanging there in front of her, my nipples getting hard in the air.

“Good girl,” she whispers.

Every time I imagined those two words, I’d feel this jolt go straight between my legs.

She touches me. She traces her fingertips over my boobs, slow circles, getting closer and closer to my nipples but never quite touching them. I squirm. I make little noises I’m embarrassed about. And she smiles, because she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“Do you want me to touch them?” she asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

And then she pinches them, gently, rolling them between her fingers, and I gasp and arch my back.

She tells me to lie back. She tells me to take off my jeans. My panties. She tells me to open my legs for her. And I do, even though I’m so ashamed, even though she can see everything, how wet I am, how swollen. She just looks at me there for a long time. Not touching. Just looking. Making me lie there spread open for her eyes.

“Look how wet you are,” she says. “Just from me looking at you.”

And I want to hide my face, but she tells me not to. She tells me to look at her.

Then she kisses my thighs. The insides. Slowly, one side then the other, moving up. I can feel her breath on my pussy. Warm. I’m trembling. I’m begging. I actually beg her, in the fantasy. “Please, please, Jennifer, please.”

And when her tongue finally touches me, slow and soft, right up the middle, I just melt. She licks me so gently, so patiently, little circles around my clit, and her hands are holding my thighs open so I can’t close them. I’m moaning. I’m grabbing the couch cushions. I’m hers. Completely hers.

And right when I’m about to come, she stops. She looks up at me with her lips all shiny and says, “Not yet. You come when I say.”

Usually that’s the part where I’d come for real. Alone in my bed, biting my pillow, with my fingers between my legs.

Every single time.

So yeah.

Walking behind her naked body in that hallway, with all of that in my head, I was not exactly calm. I could feel my panties getting damp. I could feel my nipples getting hard against my bra. My face was burning. I was so scared she’d turn around and somehow just know.

Like she could read it all on my face.

She glanced back over her shoulder at me and smiled, and for one horrible second I really thought she could.

“Almost there,” she said. “I hope you like tea. Or coffee. I made both, I wasn’t sure.”

“Both is good,” I said stupidly. “I mean, either. Either is good.”

She laughed, a soft, warm sound, and pushed open a big wooden door at the end of the hallway.

And I followed her through it.