Joanna's is getting good at the pick-up scene in bars, especially after her boyfriend leaves her for being too boring in bed. But the number and predictability of her casual encounters hasn't been exciting her either. When she picks up a man who plays bondage/submissive games with her, she responds to the thrill of letting go and acceding complete control to his whims, and her response sparks a journey of self-discovery and sexual fulfillment.
He drove. She was in the back seat.
The gin had gotten her loopier than she thought, and hornier. The fact she was in the back seat was unexpected and even relaxing. There was still no pressure.
She absently played with herself. Her fingers teased the outside of her panties, reaching up under her skirt. He couldn't see her in the mirror. Probably couldn't even see her if he turned around--it was too dark.
She had the sense this was not a regular pick-up. How interesting that she had walked into the that bar and found, in unison, two guys who seemed to be into heavy questioning. No pick-up lines, no heavy moves. Instead, asking questions like "What do you think? What do you do? What would you feel comfortable doing?" and then dropping her before it got interesting. Either they both seemed so passive, or it was some kind of interview, like they had a certain set of secret standards they were looking for her to meet.
She wasn't planning how long she'd go along, or when she would cut him off--the sorry-but-I-have-to-leave escape hatch--which she always had in place in the back of her mind during such encounters. This one didn't feel that way.
Still, when they pulled up to his house, she checked his address and made a mental note of it. 6339 on Milton.
He went around and let her out.
"Thanks."
They went up the front walk of the apartment building. It was one of four in a small garden layout, an L with two units on the bottom and two on top. They entered through a heavy wooden door with wrought curlicues over a glass inlay.
Inside he poured her a drink. "Scotch?"
"You have vodka?"
He did. She looked around the simple wood-floor flat as he poured it over ice, no water. He handed it to her while he sipped his own, the scotch he'd poured next.
She felt like a high-class hooker being lubricated for a decadent evening of fun. "You're treating me like royalty," she said, looking around the modest but immaculately kept apartment.
"Of course. I want you to be honored, and to understand I respect you."
"Funny. I don't even know your name."
"Does that worry you?"
She smiled, defusing whatever was coiling. "The sense of mystery is sometimes not knowing what's going to happen next, the best part."
"Well, I want you to give me control of what's to come. Are you willing to give me that?"
"Complete control?"
He didn't step forward, still the gentleman. "How worried does that make you?"
"I want you to worry me a little," Joanna said. "But I'm not into pain."
He smiled and shook his head. As if saying, silly notion, don't worry. "What's your name, honey?"
"Joanna."
"That's really your name."
Joanna thought she knew his type--sharp yet with a strength in his arms and torso--and his personality. Quiet, trying hard to impress her with it. You're going to know plenty about me. Why not my name?
Then Joanna told herself, Shut the fuck up, you're overthinking it.
She noticed his hand was shaking. He was nervous, more so than she was. She tried to smile again. His calm armor seemed to be a way to hide his kink. But now he must know it wasn't completely hidden. He was being overly careful again.
But he must also know she had come with him because she understood what lay beneath his calm exterior. She wanted to be there.
Joanna said, "I'll shut the fuck up."
"That's the thing. Don't think, don't plan, don't lay your clothes out. You don't even know if you're going to make it to work on time tomorrow."
Joanna began to undress. She dropped them carelessly, hurriedly. Her car keys, the dress. She kicked off her shoes.
"I just wanted to talk to you about the pain," she said, now down to her bra and panties.
"Pain is relative. Don't you think?" He took off his shirt.
"You tell me," she said, feeling vulnerable.
He nodded, stepped closer and handed her the drink again. He touched her shoulder, her skin. "You...you. You heard sex is power? You heard relationships are always a wrestling match?"
"There's a struggle in most sexual exchanges. Yes."
He nodded. "Rape is not sex, rape is merely a power relationship between two people who don't agree to exchange the power and one has to take. Not very much of a turn-on."
Joanna rocked her finger between them--you-me-you-me. "This is about power?"
"Yes. And what's the one thing you can give me you can't take back?"
Joanna put down her glass on a stone table. Clink. "My sex."
"Yes. Look. This isn't abuse. Here's your safe word. 'I have to be at work tomorrow.' I'm not going to keep you here bleeding. It's not about that at all. Okay?"
"I don't have to be at work tomorrow," she whispered.
He looked at her. A smile slowly appeared on his face.
"Sex is power. Power is control. And control is a turn-on. Now, take off your fucking panties."
