Polarity

Prologue

5:30 p.m., Tuesday, September 4th, 2018.

I’m standing in the atrium of the Richmond International Airport, waiting for Gayle W. Gentry’s flight to arrive, getting sideways glances from men and women passing by. It’s the party dress and high heels—not something you often see in airports these days—the outfit that Mr. Gentry, whom I’ve never actually met in person, has instructed me to wear on the occasion of our first live meeting as Dominant and submissive.

The dress arrived via FedEx on Friday, a black midi with scooped neckline, spaghetti-straps and a flared skirt. It’s sexy, stylish and hip. I can’t help but admire Gayle’s fashion sense; even so, I feel terribly self-conscious. And not just because I feel out of place wearing a flirty party dress at an airport, but because I’m not wearing underwear—per Dom’s orders. So instead of panties, I wear goosebumps, my body trembling with every salacious waft of air that slips under my skirt to caress my inner thighs and private parts, as if Gayle’s fingers were playing across my flesh.

And that’s not the half of it—this morning, just prior to boarding his flight in San Francisco, after several weeks of escalating demands (I feel like the proverbial frog in the pot of water brought to a slow boil), Mr. Gentry has made a shocking new demand—he ordered me to put his initials on the cheeks of my ass (yes, my ass!) with a permanent marker, ‘G’ on the left cheek, ‘W’ on the right.

Inspection upon arrival, he promised.

Jeesus . . . do I ever need a drink. I eye the nearest bar, but it’s crowded with a boisterous group and I’m a conspicuous target, not to mention I’m pretty sure I’d expose my crotch sitting on a barstool. So instead, I stand as inconspicuously as possible (*that’s* not working) next to the ladies’ restroom, wearing a dress that shouts to all the world:

“GAYLE W. GENTRY’S SEX KITTEN!”

Waiting for Gayle . . . waiting, as he has forced me to wait on multiple occasions over the past few weeks, ever since he set his Domly hooks in my willing submissive flesh, seducing me with humor, intelligence and unfailing patience; not to mention, insanely good looks.

5:45 p.m. Fifteen more minutes . . .

* * *

I escape the wait by reliving our exchange on Sunday night, Gayle going over my ‘kink survey’ with a fine-tooth comb, asking why this or that activity appealed, confirming what I was willing to try, with what limitations.

One of my first ‘kinky photo of the day’ submissions to Gayle was of a naked woman tied spread-eagled to a brass bed, about to be ravaged by her lustful Dom. Casting aside inhibitions on the survey, I rated ‘bondage’ at 4 out of 5, meaning that I was ‘interested and willing to try.’

“So you’ve never been tied up, never been chained and cuffed to a bed?” he asked.

“No,” I answered (not entirely truthfully, I had been tied up once, just not to a bed). Regardless, I was glad he was 2500 miles away and couldn’t see me blushing.

“But you’d be interested . . .”

“With the right partner . . . yes,” I said shyly, the ‘yes’ escaping my throat as a squeak.

“Do you know the secret to kinky sex, Sara Jane?”

“No,” I replied, horrified and thrilled to be having this conversation. Finally.

“Preparation,” said Gayle.

Well duh, I thought, but politely replied, “You do know that I’m a doctor, Sir—I know all about safe sex practices.”

“Well, of course that,” said Gayle. “But I mean mental preparation—erasing the fear of damnation.”

“Damnation, Sir?”

“It’s a societal taboo, with the implication that kinky sex is somehow morally wrong and will send you straight to hell. You have to change ‘damnation’ to ‘sweetest taboo.’ You know, like the song.”

Is *that* what she’s singing about? I wondered, thinking Sade left it intentionally vague, so it could be anything from kinky sex to anal sex, maybe both, maybe neither; but still, I wondered why kinky sex so appeals while being such a taboo, not to mention if hell exists, or if it’s all in our heads.

“I’m not afraid of damnation, Gayle.”

“Good. Then let’s imagine . . .”

I’ve gone into a trance, reliving Sunday night . . . lying naked in my bed, earbuds plugged in, speaking to Gayle through the microphone resting on my throat. Hands free communication . . . and hands free for good reason: I was hoping to high heaven he’d finally let me touch myself.

Ever since surrendering my orgasms to Gayle (his first and only non-negotiable condition for a D/s relationship), and with us messaging constantly, flirting over sexy dresses and swapping kinky images, I’ve become hypersexualized. Now that I can’t have it, I want it all the time—and bad.

Damn submission.

“Are you touching yourself, angel?” he inquired.

“Ummm . . . yessir,” I replied, my voice a half-octave higher than normal. It’s my girlish submissive voice, and I can’t seem to help it. When I’m Gayle’s sub, I shed thirty years and I’m nineteen again . . . only this time around, it seems I’m a teenage nymphomaniac.

“Okay, now imagine your wrists and ankles are bound with leather cuffs. You’re chained to that brass bed, utterly helpless. I’m standing by the bed, hungry to take you . . .”

Ooooh, yes . . . I want it this way, want to be helpless and unable to resist, but it scares me. “I’m afraid, Sir,” I say.

“I won’t harm you,” he assures me, and then continues, “I get on the bed, settle in between your legs, begin to caress your inner thighs with the softest of kisses . . . my tongue sweeps across your clit . . .”

“It feels so good,” I say, a finger circling the growing nub of my clitoris, astonished at how quickly I’ve become aroused. Nothing like a little kink survey foreplay to make a girl horny.

“One of my fingers slides inside you, pressing against your G-spot, while my tongue plays across your clit, driving you crazy—”

“Oh, I’m getting close . . .” I interrupt, my middle finger doing pirouettes on said clit.

“Not yet, Sara Jane. You DO NOT have permission.”

“Yessir,” I meekly reply, pausing. “I need it bad, Sir . . . you’ve made me wait for days,” I whine, the bratty sub.

“I know, angel . . . Now you feel my hands grasping your hips . . . you see my rigid cock. You want it so bad, don’t you?”

“Ohhhh . . . yessssss . . . sirrrr . . . I want it bad . . .” I moan. My finger resumes its ballet, putting me a hairbreadth away from an orgasm.

“I want you to beg, angel. Beg me to take you.”

“Sir . . .?” I say, bewildered. I’m tied to a bed, his for the taking, and he wants me to beg, to humiliate myself even further?

“That’s right, Sara Jane . . . show me what a depraved slut you are. Beg me to fuck you. When you feel me thrust inside you, you may cum.”

He knows from the kink survey that dirty talk pushes me over the edge. I beg him to fuck me . . . I am a depraved slut who wants to be taken this way . . . but I'm more than a slut; in my fantasy, I’ve been kidnapped, sold as a slave to this handsome, debonair captor who has seduced me and will fall hopelessly in love with me . . .

Now I feel his gloriously hard manhood thrust inside me, filling me completely. The breath escapes my lungs as I cum with an orgasmic gasp . . . oh, how I cum . . . and oh my god, it’s wonderful.

“Ooooh . . . Sir,” I moan, my body convulsing.

* * *

That was Sunday night. Gayle was 2500 miles away, in San Francisco. Now it’s Tuesday. Gayle is 25 miles away, about to land in Richmond.

Gayle Gentry: the sexiest, most fascinating man I’ve ever known, (and we haven't even met!) Now, we're about to meet in person. Oh, how I long for him to stride across the atrium and into my life as the man he so promises to be, with no fatal flaws, nothing to poison our chemistry or dull the electricity that crackles between us on the phone, zings our emails and messages, ignites my darkest passions and ignites our mutual imaginations.

My mouth is as dry as the Sahara, but my palms are as clammy as a sweating glass. I resist wiping them on my skirt and go in the ladies’ room to calm myself, wash my hands and freshen my makeup. Looking in the mirror, the sexy stranger who looks back exudes the smoky aura of a woman just laid.

And why wouldn’t she? After all, she has just relived having cybersex with the man who promises to be the end—more hopefully, the end of the beginning—of the journey into alternate sexuality that has turned her world upside down and changed her forever.

That woman is me . . . a middle-aged divorcée, jaded by the disappointments of online dating, wary of the real and psychic wounds inflicted by callous men . . . I turn away from the mirror to face my fate with a prayer:

Dear God, please let him be real.