1! Introduction
When I stepped off the train, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’d sat in a carriage for an hour and a half, just to meet up with some guy off the internet. Admittedly it was first class, because he was paying for the tickets, and they brought me a pretty good breakfast on the way, but I was still nervous.
Not nervous about meeting up for sex. I mean, that was a pretty common thing, and I knew a bunch of my friends at college had done that. Nobody would judge me for that. But I didn’t know if that was the plan. Not nervousness about a long-distance relationship finally turning into the real thing, because I didn’t know if we even had a relationship. It was one of those things that was hard to define.
We’d started chatting six months before. I’d been looking around on FetishLibrary; that’s a website where you can share all kinds of kinky stories, and browse by any kink under the sun. The filters are pretty sophisticated, and it was my primary source of fiction when I was in a certain mood. The kind of mood that ended up with my pants around my ankles and fingers buried inside me until my thoughts exploded and disappeared. I always tried to leave a comment, letting the authors know how good their stories had felt to me.
This particular day, an author was asking for ideas for what they should try next. I’d made a suggestion, typed it all out, and then realised that another fan had already suggested the same thing. I posted it anyway, with a line appended to make it clear I wasn’t just copying. I’d suggested a story about a totally submissive girl at a party, so horny at the thought of being told what to do, blurting out to her crush that she would do anything he ordered. That was a fantasy and a half; I’d always been turned on at the thought of being ordered around, before I even learned what the feeling meant. And I’d gone into some detail about what orders the cool guy would give. Not the sexual stuff she’d expected, but something completely degrading, that she would never have expected to get her off until she tried it. And some guy I didn’t even know had suggested almost the same scene, and the same commands.
The next time I saw he had commented on a story I was reading, I left a reply. Asked if he was stalking me. His reply was in a reply to one of my comments, on a story I’d read a month ago that he was now enjoying. Our conversation was all over the place, jumping from story to story, before we finally exchanged XV usernames so we could chat directly. We talked about music and movies, the relative merits of hard sciences and social science, and of course a lot of story recommendations. We had a lot of the same tastes, but different things too. He liked girls barefoot; I didn’t get that, and I might have read a dozen different stories that mentioned the feel of soft carpet caressing the sub’s toes without even realising it could turn somebody on. I preferred dominant guys to wear glasses; it made them seem more confident in my mind’s eye, lending an air of authority to raise them above common thugs. He was into pregnant sex fantasies, which I’d never really understood until he explained how it made him feel. I liked to read about sleepsex; in my imagination, the fantasy of waking to find a guy making love to me was about a hundred times hotter than the simple fantasy of riding some guy. I couldn’t really compare, as I’d never done either, but I was quite confident about what I liked. And there were things that we both loved, fetishes front and centre for both of us. Those were the same.
We had chatted a lot. We became good friends. I told him that I would obey any command he gave. I trusted him not to be like the jerks in so many of these stories, and he said he was glad I could trust him. He told me if I really wanted to be helpless, he could make it happen. He was a psych graduate, he said, and an expert hypnotist. We didn’t even need to meet; he could make me absolutely obedient to his orders just by the words he sent me in an XV session. We talked a lot about how that could work. He said it was like a metaphor. Telling your brain a story, and you get lost in it like reading a good book. Like when you’re so deep in a story that you don’t stop to think about whether magic is real. Your brain doesn’t question the narrative; you see these characters as real people, and everything the words describe is happening to them. And then you put yourself in a story. He could tell me a story about myself, he promised, and about how I was becoming more and more obedient. And afterwards, because I’d accepted that could happen to the character in the story, my own brain would ensure that I felt the same way. I could imagine it so easily; that trickery manipulating someone. It was the same idea as a nested script exploit, I told him, and he’d said that he didn’t know that much about computer stuff. But the brain’s just an organic computer, so it was kind of natural they might have the same kind of security flaws.
We talked about that a dozen times, but never found the time to actually try it. Maybe we would have done, but the conversation always ended in multiple orgasms on my end. There was no way I could imagine being controlled like that, being so completely helpless to a calm and intelligent guy, without my mischievous fingers finding their way into my pants.
He was looking at a new house, he said. His company wanted him to move to they new facility, so he was in the area househunting. And I got butterflies when I realised that he was like three times closer than he had ever been before. I didn’t know what I was expecting; if I thought we could hook up or something. Or if he wanted to go out for coffee and discuss books. If he’d try to hypnotise me; or ask me to roleplay. I didn’t know what he was thinking, or even what I was thinking. I was just sure that whatever happened, whether or not he tried one of the many tricks I’d given him permission to play on me, I would love every minute I spent with him.
Two weeks later. Two weeks of planning, only to realise I didn’t have the first clue what the plan was. I had a change of clothes, in case he wanted me to stay the night at his hotel. I had one of my favourite board games in my bag too, because he’d seemed interested when I described it. I was desperate for him to like me.
I was here.
I was getting off the train. I didn’t know what we were going to do, just that I would love it. And as I disembarked, I realised that I didn’t even know what he looked like. His profile picture showed only his hands. I glanced around, but there was nobody obviously dominant there, or swinging a pocket watch. I swung my bag off my back and put it on the ground, one foot to either side so I could rest my shoulders. Then I pulled out my phone, and sent an XV message to say I had arrived. I hoped he didn’t have message delay turned on, or I could be waiting quite some time.
Would he recognise me? I didn’t know. My own avatar when we started chatting had been a picture of somebody’s crochet project; surprisingly detailed models of male and female genitalia made from rainbow wool. Now it was actually a photo of me, but an extreme closeup that showed only my eyes and nose. I added another message. How could I recognise him? Should I wave or something to let him know who I was?
“What are you wearing? Tell me now.” The message was terse, abrupt. But my heart did a backflip at the unnecessary instruction tacked on at the end. He was giving me orders, and even when it was something so mundane that turned me on. Just like the girls in the stories I loved most. He could have been polite and written a longer message. He could have been quick to respond, just asking the question. But three little words set my heart racing and I knew today was going to be perfect.
“Hiking boots,” I typed. This place was out in the country, but I didn’t know how far out. I didn’t know if the path from the station to his hotel would be level streets, cobbles, or rutted tracks; I didn’t even know if he might want to take me away from the crowds of the town centre and out into the rural wilderness for a few minutes, and I needed my ankle support.
“Khaki shorts,” I added, glancing down at my legs. They were bare from the knees down, and I hoped he wouldn’t find the style unattractive. I’d been tempted to wear a miniskirt, show off a little more, but I didn’t want to seem like a slut. He could make me expose myself if he wanted to, that was his right, but I wasn’t going to dress up and try to be sexy unless I knew it would appeal to him.
“White ankle socks. Red and black check shirt, lumberjack style.” And on impulse, while this had been a command, I decided that I would do what he had asked completely. There were two more things I hadn’t mentioned; one practical and comfortable, the other intended as a surprise for him to find later if things went well. “My most comfortable sports bra. And red silk hipster panties.”
I blushed as soon as I hit send. I hadn’t even met him, and I was already wet. If he wanted sex, I knew there was no chance I would have any second thoughts. I was completely helpless. This wasn’t whips-and-chains dominance, this was the kind of slavery where I couldn’t even bring myself to think of disobeying. A desire to obey bigger than I was. Another deep breath, and my phone chirped a response.
“Might need a signal to help me find you. You should take your shirt off.”
I blushed crimson at that. Only had one button of the shirt fastened anyway, it was a hot day, and that bra covered enough to not violate any public indecency laws. But there seemed to be something intrinsically scandalous about taking my clothes off in a public space.
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” I answered quickly. “Getting me to strip before we even met, that’s faster than the uber-dom guy in Imogen’s Innocence.”
“Take your shirt off. Now.”
I whimpered when I read the message. If I were reading this story I would have said it was unrealistic. There was no way you could get someone to submit so quickly. I loved stories that built on the arousal with every line, but it normally took three or four pages of evocative prose, assisted by the first caress of my wandering thumb, to get me as horny as he’d managed in five words. The shirt was off before I even hesitated. Disobeying was impossible. He was powerful; he owned me, and I would do whatever he said.
“Millie?” I heard the voice behind my shoulder; a faint Irish accent I hadn’t anticipated, and I spun around to see my master.
