written summer 2004.

I meet my superior

by Vanna Vechian

Yes, very much so... I am in love! Oh, how could I not be! That man! He oozes strength and authority. I almost fear him. But above all, I love him.

To you, as new to this strange universe I inhabit, it must seem unnatural: the age difference between him and me and our decided inequality. His authority over me. Yet through him I am free.

I like strong men and have always done so. I never was one for boys. Here is my luck: I developed early from child to woman and became well shaped, quite the looker. Therefore I had the pick of the boys at highschool. When I was a junior in highschool still, I had my first boyfriend, a senior. He was a football player and strong indeed. But within a few months I found that his strength was brawn only. Behind his big mouth he depended on me more than I could suffer. Well, there is only one way to learn; I am sure you agree. I found another boyfriend before long, a less wholesome all American rebel. He was the James Dean type, moody, enigmatic. This impressed me much at the time. He was very, very sweet with me, meanwhile, especially whenever we were alone. In public he made sure all knew that I was his and he protected me when needed. That suited me fine and I was with him for quite a while. What finally made us break up was that he could not keep this air of self-reliance up. When he went to college, within a few months he had changed his tack and became as conventional as the rest. I subsequently had a few more boyfriends of various descriptions but did not settle with any of them.

The moment came when I went to college myself. My major was fashion. Far away from home, all the way at the other side of the country. I arrived in NYC, the free capital of the world. I was beautiful and quite self-assured and had the time of my life. My world was that of fashion, the world of make-believe, of fine, funny, moody and mysterious exteriors and extraverted but superficial behaviour. I was not nearly interested in 'relationships', but in making good-looking matches, plural. And in sex, which I had plenty of. I was a fashion queen.

Then, at a party, I met Him. He was a business consultant to a modeling firm that a friend of mine worked for and evidently some 15, 20 years my senior. I happened to be alone and near him just when the dancing started and it was I that took the initiative to ask him to dance. Why not? I was self-assured and liked his mature good looks. But it was he that took control and led me dancing, smooth, yet forceful and without hesitation. We talked a little throughout about my studies and ambitions and his area of work and where it had taken him. A fine evening. But nothing had prepared me for the words he spoke to me when we parted. I had been thinking of whether I wanted to have sex with him. My first older man! When I had decided I did, I managed to share a cab with him on the way home. About to arrive at mine, during those final seconds when the cab slowed down in front of my house, just when I took the breath before uttering the invitation to him to come in, it was he instead that spoke.

'No. It is clear what you are thinking. I will not come up with you.

'But this time next week, you will have called me,' and he handed me a business card, 'and you will be mine.

'On my terms. Now leave.

'Goodnight.'

He reached past me to open my door, but did not kiss me. Astonished, I complied and got out of the car, which swiftly zoomed off. I stood there on the curb, stupefied and frozen, holding his card. When at last I got to my senses, I stamped off inside. I was fuming! The arrogant bastard! Who did he think he was! Yes, I would call him and be his, on his terms! In his dreams I would!

During the next few days I often found myself thinking of Him. Yes, in a dismissive way to start with. But the point was that I could not dismiss the thoughts, no matter how much I tried. As the anger wore off, thoughts of him kept on creeping into my consciousness. I would find myself daydreaming about him but was not consciously aware that my mood had changed. Then the revelation came. I suddenly noticed that during the daydreams my hand kept appearing in my crotch as if with a mind of its own. I was interested in Him - no, in love, in lust! - and had to see him again.

I called him the same evening. He was very sweet with me. I had braced myself for more curtness and assertion on his part. But it was clear that he was taking nothing for granted and was very glad that I had called. Hence, I did not refer to his claim on the first night that I would be his within a week. Was I really afraid to do so? And would it have prevented me from taking the course that was to so drastically change my life? Ah, to look back is pointless!

We agreed to meet in a bar downtown.

I am early and sit at the bar with a drink, looking fine in green and being stared at by many of the patrons. I am impatient. Oh, come, my man! It takes close to half an hour before he does turn up, at which time I am so nervous. He strides towards me, stands still for a few seconds and pierces his gaze through my eyes into my soul, utterly disarming me. 'Come,' he says, grabs my wrist with one hand and my coat with the other and guides me out of the bar, oblivious to the heads turning our way.

A taxi is waiting. We enter and it drives off immediately, apparently under existing instructions. He still holds my wrist. 'Kiss me! Oh, kiss me!', I whisper. And he does! He embraces and kisses me with such passion and expertise that I know that I am his for the taking, unconditionally. The kiss and embrace lasts for ten, fifteen minutes and could have gone on forever, but they are cut short by the taxi reaching its destination. He pays the driver and once more grabs me by the wrist and takes me outside. He ushers me past a doorman, briefly exchanging greetings with him, into an apartment building. In the elevator I once again try to kiss him, but this time he will have nothing of it. I am greatly shocked. What am I in for?

'Wait!,' I mutter. He turns to face me.

'That is for me to decide, my dear,' he says. 'We are proceeding on my terms, as you are mine. I told you last week. The matter is simple.

'Here is what you'll do. When we get to my floor, I will release you and step out of the elevator. You are then free to send the lift down again and take yourself out of my grasp forever. You know as well as I what choice you will make.'

I should laugh at him. Then the elevator stops, he releases me and steps out with out looking at me.

He does as he told me. It takes for the elevator doors to close and separate us - almost- until I decide that I will embrace my fate and follow him. I quickly order the doors open again and then freely trail his back by some twenty paces, finally following him into his apartment.

His world! The apartment is furnished simply. The dominating colours are black, white, red and chrome. A few chamber palms in red pots scattered around the hallway and living room present the only exception. Three large size black & white Helmut Newton photographs constitute the only decoration. I am well familiar with his work and have admired the women, the men and the general mood. Without exception they show Newton’s trademark stark-naked women in urban settings, accompanied by men wearing evening clothes and studiously ignoring the women. Then I spot it; one of the men is he. I might just have seen him before we even met!

He surprises me yet again by greeting me with a warm smile. Why this rollercoaster and why do I accept this? A broad welcoming gesture of his left arm invites me to sit down on the settee.

His voice, only now... 'A drink, surely? What can I get us? May I suggest champagne?'

My voice is so small... 'Yes, I'd like that.' The power of speech reduced... He is playing a game. My subconscious realises this but simply plays along.

He goes off, fetches an ice bucket with the bottle and two glasses and sits down beside me. I sit there and watch his actions, as in a film. The Lover uncorking the dripping bottle with a bang! A metaphor for what will happen later, I hope. The stuff films are made of. A man who looks at me sweetly hands me a glass. We toast and drink.

Gradually I unfreeze and reconnect with him as the man of the night we met. Our conversation resumes from where we left off then and I rediscover my original attraction and a hint of my self-assurance. We shall fuck later... In this mood I finish the bottle with him. I am doubly intoxicated and ready to receive ...

He gets up, my heart jumps and I follow suit. He says, in a soft, low but clear voice, 'No, on your knees.'

'But (name)... Kiss me and take me! Simply take me!'

My eyes meet his. I see no smile, no irony. I don't see anger. Above all, I see authority, one that leaves no room for hesitation. An authority that is relaxed and in no need to use force to make me stay and do what he says.

'On your knees,' ... a mere whisper. I find myself sinking to my knees and see him undo his trousers. They fall to his knees, as do his underpants. I have no doubt as to what he wants, but have become a statue, tight with nerves. Vaguely I think to myself that I must be disappointing him. Like a virgin, unsure what to do..

His suddenly booming voice shatters me, 'Now, you slut, take my cock and do the business. You have no choice in the matter and will comply and please me, you hear!'

I shake as I reach out and take his cock, still half-limp and quite small. I fumble in the way of massaging his cock, which grows all the same and becomes a formidable member. I open my mouth and hesitate still... He then grabs the back of my head and thrusts his cock forward into my mouth, all the way to the back, my lips touching his pubic hair. I almost gag and lose it. Then I shock into action and take control, drawing on my significant experience after all. I do the magic with my tongue, my lips, my nimble fingers, sucking, stroking, handling his balls... until with a mighty burst he ejaculates in my mouth. Once again I have to brace myself not to gag.

We are a double statue for a minute, he, with his eyes closed and head thrown back, and I, holding his balls and cock, which slowly grows limp and shrinks.

He moves and pushes me away. I see him turn his back to me and readjust his clothing. Without looking at me he says, 'Now go. A taxi is waiting for you.'

I cast him a look and then get up and go without a word. I am his and will sing to his tune now. I want to stay. I want to be loved, cuddled, kissed, fucked now and to be with him, but accept that he lays down the law, not I.

Do you understand this, my friend? At the end of the day, this is why.

Because I am hooked on him now and feel I'd perish without him. I trust him to love me and cuddle and fuck me, when he sees fit.

I will await his instructions. I am his. For better or worse?