The Dominant Male

self-respecting, feminine-feeling girl on her way out to face the world, not least an ex-pat Californian like Becky, whether she was trying to tamp down her Betty-Page bangs or apply some lippy. Though there were better-appointed bathrooms on other floors, this one was the only one on Deviant ’s. Which, with its single cubicle, meant that it was shared by both sexes. Not always the cleanest, but close by, at least.
    This afternoon, Becky thought of herself as skiving off, an idiom she’d learned from the Brits. She’d comped a couple of tickets to go and see a date on the reunion tour of US indie band Sidewalk, promised the music desk a brief review, and with that she was away from her desk early. In truth, she was highly unlikely to get to the gig – she could always collate a review from the fan-boy forums on the internet which, together, would give her a complete if over-excited picture later the same night.
    She’d planned to find out what her new beau Jim wanted to do – stay in or go out – and if she was honest with herself she was rather hoping he’d be in the mood to stay in, as she was. He’d dominated her, very fulfillingly, and to her excitement seemed to have grasped that this was not just foreplay, but where she was concerned an end in itself, too. Many men didn’t, nor were they patient enough to dominate her for longer than it took for them to be satisfied. Becky, meanwhile, felt that she could have lived twenty-four-seven as a lifestyle slave – for the right master.
    So highly sexed was she that it was never far from her thoughts, and increasingly they’d been occupied by the idea of being under the tutelage of a man who felt the same way. One who had the inclination, patience and time to keep her in bondage all the hours she wasn’t at work – for which she was, meanwhile, very ambitious – and even dominate her thoughts when they were apart at other times, too. She had no idea how long she would stand such a state in reality, and whether she would soon feel jaded. But meeting Jim had provided her chance to find out.
    Her friends already thought she was living in a false consciousness, or something, and that she really ought to take a look at her attraction to submission and degradation. A poor-taste pastiche of the ills facing women around the world, one friend had called it – it was an argument she’d heard several times over too many bottles of sweet white wine, and one she had always been too befuddled at the end of to deliver a rhetorical coup de grace to.
    But what could she do? She knew those same people wouldn’t object to her doing what made her feel good, living the way that felt right for her. She just can’t have explained herself too well, not that she’d seen so much of her girlfriends lately. Life felt as lukewarm as the wine without a man around who could arouse the delicious awareness of herself as an object for his pleasure, leaving her with a sore ass together with the bites, bruises – and maybe one or two items designed for discreet extended wear – that meant he was never far from her mind. Jim didn’t stop her doing other things – he made her lose interest in them.
    The night before, while rubbing cooling cream into the pert twin globes of her behind after a thorough hand-spanking, Jim had told her what he expected of her today, and she had shivered with anticipation at the prospect. She’d happened to mention earlier that evening that the material the mag covered often made her horny as hell at work, and clearly it had fired Jim’s imagination into coming up with an idea as he fetched hearty slaps with forehand and backhand: she was to have a wank at work today. Not only that, she was to theme it, in a manner of her choice, around work. Moreover, she was to bring him some evidence that she had done it!
    For this reason, and the fact that Becky had been getting increasingly horny thinking about it at her desk, she had headed to the bathroom with alacrity. Next, she undertook the final piece of the plan she thought would have Jim rewarding her handsomely, placing a small camcorder on the top of her bag, its lens pointing upwards well enough, she estimated, to capture her torso and trunk. It might not be the best-shot footage of its kind, but it would do as proof, and might be even hornier and dirtier for its flaws.
    As she bent to close the lid and sit on the pan, the residual stench of pee overpowered her. You filthy slut, Becky , she thought to