1 - Slave to Women
I've always wanted women to control me, to rule me, to capture me, to take and use my body, and have me serve them for the rest of my life. Doesn't matter how or why or when, just as long as it happened.
The funny thing was that I had been on this Earth for twenty-fours years, and it hadn't happened yet. No women had put a leash on me and dragged me back to their apartment, handcuffed me to their bed, ridden me until they had experienced multiple orgasms, before setting me free and having me vacuum and do the dishes.
To me, that sounded like the perfect deal that they were stupid not to take. To them, I was just the quiet guy who never made a move on them at parties, but just sat there and made snide comments whenever I was bold enough to actually find myself in a conversation with any of them.
I didn't get the chance to tell them how much I loved, adored, and worshiped them. Women were the only lights in my world of gray.
At work, at my gray, dull, boring work in some gray, dull, boring office in the middle of an industrial area that was gray, dull, and boring to the extreme, my one consolation was having coffee and chatting with my sweet, kind, intelligent, and, I have to admit, beautiful and alluring co-workers.
After work, my female friends would chat about how wrong it was that a nice, smart, handsome guy like me was single and how they would find me a great girlfriend soon. "Why not any of you," I would think to myself. "I would love to be taken by any of you. Please?"
Back home in my apartment, I would long for female company. So I would, I'm ashamed to say, seek out Internet videos depicting women who were cruel and strict with tied-up men. Afterwards, though, I would always feel empty and lonely. It was not what I really wanted, or needed.
I needed a woman of flesh and blood.
I got her a day in late November.
First though, she got me, not the other way around. Which is how I once believed I wanted it. As it turned out, actually being captured by a woman is something completely different from just pretending. For one thing, you cannot snap your fingers and just end the scene. You cannot utter a safe-word, start cuddling and talk about how that stuff freaked you out and that you had something a bit different in mind.
Second, even now I am unsure if she was a real woman or something more than mere flesh. Something divine. Something holy.
I met her on the bus home after working late on one of those days when the rain is so cold it's ever on the verge of turning into sleet, when it covers the parts of the world that still retain some color by a veil of gray.
The bus was one of those old, rumbling, rocking types that spend about one hour pulverizing your spine before depositing you by a stop where a car, for those that could afford one, would have taken you in ten minutes. It was full of what I could only assume were other, sad, lonely, tired people who hated being cold and wet and were intent only on getting home and not have something exciting happen to them. As far as I knew, they got that wish fulfilled.
At first the bus was packed, and the man who squeezed me up against the window on the right side was big enough that he might have occupied both seats and still have bulk to spare. After fifteen minutes, the old man right in front of me left, heaving a sigh of relief. So did I, because his hat had been wet and sloped back towards me.
After twenty minutes, someone asked the old lady who now had two seats to herself if they could sit down. The old lady might have slid in and ended up in front me me, but she didn't. She stepped out into the aisle and let the other person in before she sat down again.
And so, I was doomed.