Yogi Caught

“Cute cat.”

I swivel in my desk chair and smile at the new summer intern, Sandra something. She’s pretty for a college kid, wavy auburn hair, freckled face. Were she not 20 years younger and barely an adult, I would have taken in her full lips, ample breasts, slender waist and nice ass. I keep my eyes on hers as she slides into the visitor chair.

“You’re staying late? I didn’t think interns got overtime.”

She smiles and crosses one leg over the other, showing a bit of thigh, suddenly looking much more sophisticated than the twenty something girl she is. She smiles and glances at the picture of my cat on my shelf over my monitor. “What’s her name?”

I follow her eyes to Yogi’s picture and when I look back at her she’s looking at me in a way that stories something that’s been sleeping for far too long. As well as stirring something in my pants. It’s a predator’s look, sharp eyes boring into mine, daring me to look away. Seeing me and showing interest interest.

I clear my throat, uncomfortable and turned on and hating myself for feeling the first twines of submission, of yield to a dominant. Jesus Christ, she’s just a kid. I feel myself getting red and avert my eyes, trying to stay focused on the mundane and not what’s unfolding after hours here at my desk. “Um, her is a he. His name is Yogi.” I glance up at her for just a moment and have to look away. She’s Just too intense.

“Sandra, I have to get going, it’s late — “

“I know who you are.”

“What?”

She gets out of the visitor’s chair and comes around my desk to lean against the side, so close to me that her thigh brushes my leg. She looks down at me and seems to wait for me to continue. Demanding me to speak. The silence stretches out and I try to lean back, give us a little space, but she moves with me until I’m leaning all the way back in my chair and she’s got her hand my thigh and is leaning in close.

“Toran. Forty three. Male. Switch Leaning Towards Sub. Location Antarctica. Member since 2014.”

I go cold and my heart misses a beat. But I don’t say anything, can’t say anything. She’s described my profile on Fet. My alter personality, the me that never connected with my wife and can’t be outed unless I want to lose everything.

“How…” I leave the word hanging, aware it’s an admission that I shouldn’t have made.

“Yogi. You used that picture as your profile picture. Probably sure that it’s safer than using your face or, God forbid, a dick pic. Because no one would ever know that Yogi is your cat, the real you or at least the vanilla you. Unless they saw his picture at work.” She reaches out and puts a hand on my chest. It’s warm and soft and possessive. I’m silent, curning inside. Like the Seinfeld episode, the two worlds can’t collide. I’m not one of those ‘liberated’ guys who have permission from their wives to go play out their dark fans with others to satisfy what’s missing at home. I’m expected to be normal, do normal things, want normal things, fuck like a normal man, have a normal life and provide for a normal family. Except I’m not normal, at least Toran isn’t normal. That’s why Toran is kept locked up in a cage deep inside me, only to be let free on Fet. Normal me has no place for Toran here at work. Normal me doesn’t even have a place with a young woman co-worker half my age.

I’m sure she reads all this on my face because she leans even closer, close enough for me to smell her lavender perfume and mint on her breath. Close enough to kiss those full, red lips. Her eyes bore into mine and she whispers, “I own you.”

And then she’s slipped from the desk and into my lap and her lips find mine. Her mouth attacks mine, her tongue diving in and claiming me. One hand wraps around the back of my neck and the other reaching down and grabs my dick and balls through my pants, squeezing to the point of pain. I feel her full breasts against my chest and she rubs against me never breaking the kiss. The beginnings of a protest is lost in the feeling of being touched sexually for the first time in many years. The early part of my marriage had a few steamy moments but after my wife tried to be my Mistress and found it lacking for her and then realized that’s what I had to have, sex became a dream routine that eventually stopped altogether. I’m not prepared for the onslaught from this pretty young woman.

She gives my dick and balls one last painful squeeze, eliciting a moan from deep in my throat that gets swallowed by her mouth on mine, and she pulls away, regarding me intently. Both hands find my cheeses and she holds my head firmly, gazing into my eyes. “I’ve read your stories on Fet. I know who you are, your darkest fansies, your secrets, your longings.” She kisses me again, more than a quick peck as her lips linger on mine for a moment. Then she pulls away and slaps me hard and I can tell by the sudden feral look in her eyes that she liked doing it. “I knowWhat you want. And it turns me on.”

She slaps my other cheese, hard. “You want a Mistress. Need a Mistress.” A cares my sing cheeses, afinger traces my lips, the nail digging in enough to make me wince. “I want a slave. Not a boy who thinks it’s all about him. I want a man. I want a man who understands what it means to surrender to me. A man who knows this isn’t just a little game to play and get laid. I want a man to beg me, to grovel at my feet, to take the pain I give him, to crawl into my cage and know that I own him, that he’s mine. Forever.”

She kisses me again, slow and tender, a hand rubbing my chest, flicking a nipple through my shirt. The moment stretches and I’m able to start thinking again, start processing her words, painfully aware that I’ve never been more aroused in my life. She diseases enough to whisper in my ear, her breath warm and sensitive. “I’ve sent an address to your Fet account. Friday night at 8. Be there or HR gets an anonymous complaint ofsexual impropriety on your part and your wife gets copies of everything you’ve uploaded to Fet.”

She climbs off me and straightens her blouse and starts to leave. Giving me a sideway glance she stops, voice soft in the quiet, deserted office. “Fet says you fantasize about being forced to submit. Consider yourself forced.” And with that she’s gone.

I sit, stunned. The entire encounter Takes maybe ten minutes. The line between my life before and the unknown life ahead of me is ten minutes. It’s many moments before I can even move or stop staring at the empty space she’s just occupied. Numbly, I pull out my phone and log into Fet. There’s an unread IM. My breath catches when I see it’s from an account named Toran’s_Goddess. I open the message. “You know you want this. I want this. Do as I say, surrender to me, and everything will be fine. We’ll both enjoy it. I don’t bite that hard. Yet. Respond with a ‘Yes Mistress, understanding’ and I won’t have to do nasty things to your vanilla life. With love, your Goddess.” Followed by an address just outside of town.

I toss the phone onto my desk where it lands on the now insignificant work I’d thought was important enough to keep me late. What the living fuck? I can’t do this. Yes, this is my wildest fantasy. Yes, she’s hot as fuck and if I let my beast out of its cage it will immediately and without thought or hesitation submit to this young, beautiful woman. Goddess, I correct myself. It’s insane. There’s no way I can do this.

I realize I’m struggling my hard dick through my pants and stop, disgusted. Looking around the normal vanilla office, the normal vanilla life I’ve built for myself, the pains I’ve taken to keep the beast caged deep inside, I have a thought that almost stops my breath. This is the real cage. This normal life. These office walls are the bars, my wife who doesn’t see me for who I really am is my vanilla Mistress, my future as a normal man is my sentence. This is my cage.

I pick upthe phone and log back into Fet. I find the message and reply. “Yes Mistress, understanding.”

In the days that follow, Toran’s_Goddess sends me only one more IM, a request to make dinner reservations for 8:30 at St. James Envoy, the most luxurious restaurant in town. I’m confused. She wants me to take her to dinner? I’ve never been to St. James, although I’ve written about it in my stories on Fet. Research from the internet and talking with co-workers who have sprung for the high-priced dinner there gives me enough material to write my fansies about winning and dining Mistresses and slaves as a prelude to the dark and depraved, if I’m being honest, sessions that follow. Every good dark BDSM story starts with an appetizer at St. James. The irony of her demand isn’t lost on me.

I make the reservations and craft a story about an office party that my boss has planned and knowing my wife hates company functions I’m guaranteed a night alone and without questions. In the meantime,I think. Back and forth between whether I should do this or not, and whether I should like this or not. The beast is straining at the bars of his cage, excited for the dark potential of finally getting to experience for real what I’ve fed him all these years in tales and stories. I can’t say that I’m not excited, in a nervous way. It’s like dreaming for years about sky diving, imagining the leap, the free fall, the full understanding that once started, there is no reprieve until the end. But a part of me dreads the finality of taking that first step into free fall. Will my parachute open and save me from a horrible crash? Do I even have a parachute?

She says she’s read all my stories, that she knows me. But the “me” she knows is a scary man who craves what can hurt him both mentally and physically. She’s led off with the opening of many of my stories. Will she do to me what I’ve written about countless times as I furiously type away, describing the horrors that make my dick hardand my heart year for pain and dominance that is surely on the side of warped and depraved?

She says it turns her on. That should be enough to call her bluff and cancel and take my chances. And yet, it pulls me in, my beast whispering that the ultimate kink firmly planted and growing out of control in my mind is to suffer for someone else’s pleasure. My pain and cries and surrender isn’t for me. It’s for her. And she says she wants exactly that.

I pull onto the short gravel driveway at the address a few minutes before 8 on Friday night. My heart is pounding in my chest and the suit I’m wearing casts a somber look, almost as if I’m attending a funeral. Maybe I am. I recognize the small house as one of the blocks of houses built for families of the military when a World War II Army reserves base was stationed here. Many of the houses have been levelled, leaving empty lots of unkept weeds and overgrown bushes. Those that remain can be rented for, well, an intern’s salary. Herhouse is mostly dark with only the single naked bulb glowing from a fixture about the door. I get out and inhale the country air, all to aware how remote the location is. A few houses on the road are lit up but the majority of lots are vacant and I see that hers sits between two such overgrown lots. Giving the two of us some privacy.

Before I can mount the ribety wooden porch stairs, her door opens and she’s bathed in the light from inside. Wearing a black silky over-the-shoulder wrap and 4-inch heeled booties, the corset underneath is both provocative and sexy. I hope she satisfies the dress code at St. James. She stars down at me, face illuminated by that one stark lightbulb and I realize I’ve stopped dead in my tracks.

“Oh good lord, get your ass up here and greet me properly.” I remind myself this is only a young girl, playing a dominant woman, but when she barks, “Now!”, I move. Before I can climb the last step, she’s pointing at the ground in front of her. “You will enter my presence on your knees. Always.”

I slowly slip to my knees, absently hoping the fine slacks I’m wearing aren’t ruined by the old wooden porch. She puts her hand on the top of my head and pushes my face to her leather booties. “Kiss your Goddess’s feet.” When I hesitate, she pushes my head so my nose is touching the shiny leather of one boot. I tenatively kiss the leather, realizing my dick is straining in my pants. I hear her voice over my head, “We’ll work on that. Now the other one.” When I finish my first task in the presence of my “Goddess”, she taps my shoulder and beckons me to rise.

She’s almost my height in her heels and her eyes look straight into mine as she regards me cool. “I didn’t think you would show. But you did. It’s one thing to spin tales of dark fantasy and another to follow through.”

“I — “, I begin but she puts a finger to my lips and shakes her head. “Speech is a privilege. Unless permission is granted, you will remain silent and attentive to my needs. Understood?”

When I don’t respond, she puts a finger under my chin and nods my head for me. “Very good. Unless you are gagged, this rule will always apply in my presence. When you are gagged, you are free to make as much noise as you wish.”

And then she turns, beckoning me into the small house with a finger. I follow, mesmerized by the plunging backline of her wrap and the laces of her stunning corset. The place is small, barely a living room and hallway leading to a tiny kitchen and two doors that I assume are bedrooms. It’s not run-down but I can see the tell-tale signs that the furniture is from Goodwill and the decorations are not new, likely what she’s accumulated in her childhood and four years of college.

She takes a seat on one end of a comfortable but Worn sofa and pats the cushion next to her. So here I am, a married man, on a Friday night, in a young woman’s house on the outskirts of town, unsure whether to call her Mistress or Goddess, and wondering just what the fuck I’m doing. She puts her arm on the sofa behind me and turn so she can see me better and regards me for a moment in silence. She does a lot of that — staring at me like a hawk waiting to for the perfect moment to pounce.

“You know the threats I made about HR and your wife?” My stomach knots up. Of course I know about the threats. There’s a good chance I wouldn’t be here right now without those threats. “They expire right now. They were only to get you to this moment. I’m not even sure I would have followed through with them in the first place.”

I turn my head and it’s my turn to stare. She’s kidding, right?

She leans forward and runs a finger through my hair and her face is once again close enough for me to kiss her and even after all that’s happened to get me here, to this moment as she puts it, I want to kiss her very badly. When she speaks, the spell is broken and the window of opportunity to kiss her is gone.

“You’re freeto leave right now, if you like. Call it a night. Tell your wife whatever excuse you made up for being here didn’t pan out.” She continues to run her fingers through my hair, her hazel eyes never leaving mine and a part of my mind knows that she’s weaving a spell around me and my beast, a spell that neither of us is able to fight.

“But — ” and her other hand slides down to the bulge Between my legs, and when she starts caresing my hard dick through my pants I can’t help but moan. “But, you could take me to dinner, at the fanciest place in town. We could enjoy a wonderful meal, maybe a glass of champion, and then we can come back here and do some of the things you’ve written about. Uncage your beast.” She leans closer and I can feel her breath on my lips. “I told you Already it turns me on. Tying you,” she whispers. “Hurting you. Owning you.”

She lifts a leg and straddles me, and I can feel the heat between her legs and realize she’s not wearing panties. She wraps her arms around the back of my neck and kisses me, tongue again pumping in like the first time, probing, claiming, ownership. When she pulls away and stars intently into my face, I’m lost.

This is literally porn off the internet. Middle aged guy gets seduced by young hot thing who fulfills his every fantasy. She’s over the top. I find myself starting to laugh and confusion clouds her face. “Are you real,” I ask and she stars at me, face changing.

She slaps me unexpectedly, hard. My head whips to the side and before I can turn to look at her, she’s slapped the other side. Then she’s off me and staring me down, glaring daggers. Then her face changes again, as if she’s just been asked a question she has no clue how to answer. A mixture of confusion and uncertainty. “Out,” it’s a murmur, almost an Afterthought and she points to the door.

“Um, hey, I’m sorry — ” I start to get up and she turns her back on me and heads for the small hallway in her little run down rented house.

“Just leave.”

She disappears and I hear a door slam and then silence. I stand in her living room for a few moments and head for the door. It’s 8:30 and I should call St. James to free up our table. I pull out my phone and make the call. When I’m sent to the reservation desk, I pause. Something I can’t put my finger on is nagging at me. Something that needs more time to process. I speak into the phone, giving the girl my name. “Can you move my reservation back an hour?”

I gently knock on the door I assume she slammed. There’s a moment’s hesitation and I hear stirring from behind the door. “I told you to leave. Why are you still here?” The door flies open and gone is the sexy wrap and corset and high heeled booties I’ve only moments before kissed. She’s wearing a t-shirt and pajama shorts and looks like she was getting ready for bed. She drives her hand into my chest, pushing me back against the hallway wall, shorter without the heels but making up for it with a fury I’veNot seen in her before. “Why the fuck are you still here?”

I stop her fist before she can actually punch me and hold her while she glares up at me. “Why did you send me away? What the fuck is going on?”

She yanks the hand I’m holding, breaking free. Giving me one last look she marches down the hall to the front door, opens it and stands, pointing out. “I read all your fucking stories, lapped them up like a stupid little puppy. Masturbated to me imagining I was the Mistress doing those nasty sexy things to you. Your stupid stories did something to me, made me see that I’m not just some dumb girl spreading her legs for whoever is going to give her a stupid mundane life, with kids. With fucking kids! I feel it. I feel the power you wrote about giving up. About surrendering. I want to feel your Surrender, I want to accept it like the gift that it is. I want to be your Mistress, your Goddess. That’s me, that’s who I am. At least that’s who I thought I was.” She stars at me, challenging me. “Turns out I am just a dumb girl, trying too hard to be what you wrote so I could feel that thing that I think is deep inside me. And tonight I whom myself out. So just leave.”

The thing I was trying to process, the jumble that kept me from doing exactly what she’s expecting of me now suddenly untangles and I get it. When I met my wife and made “the Confession” about my darkest fansies, she agreed to try it, to try to see if it was something she liked. And for that, I love her, very much. We played a little, she tied me up, I tied her up, back and forth. At some point she realized that she didn’t like dominating me and preferred I top her. So we played that way for a while. I’m a switch, I enjoy dominating almost as much as I enjoy submitting. But it wasn’t meant to be. During a particularly sexy scene where I had my wife spread eagle on the bed and I was inside her, relishing the way her body was stretched and helpless, the ropes on her wrists, the fantasy of arape in my mind, I looked down into her face and saw something in her eyes that only a couple who know each other as well as we did could see. She wasn’t into it. Even though her mouth didn’t say it her eyes did. When will you be done?