Dejected, he removed his glasses and polished them on his table cloth. He wasn't lazy. He wanted to work. He had worked hard all his life. But how could anyone decide what job to apply for when the only job you ever wanted didn't exist? He might as well pick a career out of a hat. Besides, he wasn't qualified to do anything except to interpret and compose church liturgy.
Over the Christmas holidays, Arden Senior sent him to Mrs. Sims, the Church's volunteer career counselor. She tried valiantly to help Arden figure out what jobs he might have an aptitude for. After two long and dreary hours, during which time Mrs. Sims was unable to ascertain a single marketable skill in her subject, she suddenly brightened up.
"I know!" Her pen hovered expectantly in mid-air above the final category on her sheet. "Maybe you are a people person! Would you call yourself a people person, Arden?"
"What's a people person?" Arden pushed his glasses up on his nose. He didn't like the sound of it.
"A people person," she chirped enthusiastically, "is a person who likes people, dear. A person who loves talking to people and helping them with their problems. There are so many wonderful careers for people who love people!" She pressed her hand to her bosom, sighing happily, obviously gratified to be one of those lucky individuals.
Arden sat up stiffly in his chair. "Do I look like a people person to you?" he said, folding his arms tightly across his chest.
"No, I guess not." Mrs. Sims put her pen down. "Arden, dear," she said, "You just don't seem to be suited to do anything practical."
He felt so relieved, he wanted to laugh. Being interrogated by this chatterbox was humiliating. He didn't want to join the world of alarm clocks and rush-hour traffic and suits and ties. But a moment later, he was beset by panic. Even a career counselor couldn't think of a career for him! He was a man at the edge of an abyss. His degree was useless. He had no practical skills. He wasn't suited for an office job. He had no trade. Where would he begin? Where he would live?
Since his meeting with Mrs. Sims, he had simply avoided thinking about what he would do with his life. He buried himself in books and worked part-time for the school library. But graduation was now over, and soon his lease would be up. The only job offer he had was one his father had arranged--a position in the publicity department of the church over which he presided, back in Tennessee. As editor of their weekly newsletter, Arden would publish cake recipes and hunting tips and write articles about fish fries and charity drives for the 400-member congregation. If he was lucky, his father would occasionally let him write a sermon.
Arden stared out the window of his apartment. A mosquito squatted on the ledge, unable to gather up its forces to fly away. It batted its wings, rose a few inches, then drifted down again, its long, grotesque legs dangling. It was a male mosquito, creepy but harmless. Only the female mosquito can pierce flesh and suck blood. Arden delicately nudged the insect with the tip of his pen towards the edge of the sill where it remained, wings fluttering faintly.
It was early morning, but the city was already oppressed by the August heat. Lazily, he reached over his shoulder and turned on the cold water in his old claw-footed tub. An icy bath would take the edge off the summer heat and calm his nerves.
When it was full, Arden posed his glasses on the table, stripped off his pajamas, and hopped into the bath with a splash. He hated being naked, even when he was alone. As a boy, he was in a boating accident. A thin ribbon of scar tissue striped his right thigh. To him, it was ugly. The scar marked him, like Oedipus.
Arden flexed his knees and plunged his head backwards under the water, squeezing his eyes and mouth shut. Underwater, there was nothing to worry about. He couldn't hear the raucous streets; the burning August sun didn't hurt his eyes. He was at the bottom of a calm, dark sea. It was isolated and safe here, as in a monastery.
Arden held his breath until his lungs were ready to burst, then surged into the air, shaking his dark hair wildly like a wet dog. The painful chill of the water and the sensory deprivation had cleared his mind in a flash. For the first time that day, he relaxed.
Energized, he decided to review his situation one more time. Although the reviews never led anywhere, it comforted him to go through the litany of facts. Sooner or later, he would have to stumble on the fact that should logically follow the last one on his list right now.
Fact One: graduate school is over. That means
Fact Two: there's no more student loans, and no more student housing. Which means, if
Fact Three: I want to stay in the city, then
Fact Four: employment is the only option. Unless
Fact Five: I go home to Tennessee and work for my father, which could prove to be a fatal mistake because
Fact Six: I will lose my mind. Meanwhile,
Fact Seven: I can't find a job. Because
Fact Eight: there are no jobs for liturgists. Which means,
Fact Nine: I have to take up some other occupation, such as
He had no more facts. All he had was the terrible certainty of his lease expiring in three weeks, when an incoming student was due to move in.
Arden pulled several bath towels off the rods on the wall and methodically draped them around himself until he was covered neck to ankle. He went to the window again. The mosquito had vanished. Had it flow--or fallen? Cars crawled down the street, pedestrians crept along the sidewalks, everyone going somewhere. Everyone had a destination, a purpose, a plan. Everyone but him.
He picked up the paper and walked slowly to the bedroom. He had a twinge of satisfaction in imagining the disappointment on the face of the incoming student when he saw the apartment. Barely 300 square feet, it contained a combination living room/kitchen, with a bathtub crammed between table and sink; a windowless bedroom, just big enough for a single bed, a nightstand, and a small dresser; and a water closet so small he couldn't shut the door when he sat down.
Yet, he was more comfortable here than in his parents' house, a ramshackle, 15-room white elephant that his father lucked into. An only child, Arden woke up every night, from childhood through adolescence, to listen nervously to mysterious squeaks and clicks which echoed from distant vacant rooms. He was sure the empty rooms, once inhabited by Catholics, were now inhabited by devils and ghosts. "Not much difference, I reckon," his father had grunted when Arden confessed his boyish fears.
The apartment the Seminary had assigned him suited him much better. It was cozy and safe. More than that, it was private. Although his parents' house was vast, his mother never failed to find him wherever he went to hide. She also had a strict house-rule: no locks on bedroom doors.
"Locks keep secrets! I know you aren't keeping any secrets from me, are you, son?" his mother sniffed suspiciously when he begged once for a lock on his door. Arden numbly shook his head no and immediately gave up. To explain why he so desperately wanted a lock would be to admit what he wanted to do behind a locked door, and no boy could say that to his mother. By comparison, the student apartment was a sanctuary.
Arden sighed and fell onto his bed, and opened the paper to the job ads, pretending to read them. After a few minutes, he threw that section to the floor and settled down to his favorite Sunday pursuit: perusing the personal ads. He justified it as a kind of scientific investigation into how women's minds worked. His secret thrill, though, was to fantasize that he could have any one of them. He would never, of course, actually meet a woman through personal ads, much less have sex with her, but fantasizing about her seemed harmless.
Who would know that he had masturbated over "Too hot to handle? Fiery redhead, 34-25-34, long legs, seeks burning love under the stars?" Or that the wording of "bi-curious blonde w/powerful personality ISO adventurous man" inspired in him a lust so strong he clipped the ad and kept it in a drawer of his nightstand, reading it again and again late at night.
Arden turned to the "women seeking men" ads. Halfway down the first column was one which began promisingly.
"Petite, pretty, frisky, girlish 60...."
Arden snickered uneasily. It was amazing how people in the city described themselves. Back home in Tennessee, "frisky" and "sixty" were words never pronounced in the same sentence.
He read another one.
"Let me be your Venus."
This looked good. Arden wiped his glasses and started over.
"Make me your Venus and you will be my Achilles. Heels need not apply."
Arden guffawed. He could easily imagine the sharp-tongued, sophisticated city girl who'd placed that ad. She'd be one of those brash, sexy types he watched from a distance on campus, the kind who wore short skirts and always had a witty comeback.
He began to circle the ad, then paused. He was fascinated by smart women, but they intimidated him. If a woman was too smart she would see him for the loser that he was.
He moved on to the other ads, nodding at some, shaking his head at others, unable to find one that excited him. A long ad on the far-right column of the opposite page caught his eye, but he dutifully continued reading ads in order.
Even among the personals, he was not having any luck this week. The widows and divorcees, the ones seeking husbands, the fat girls, the aerobics freaks, none of them fueled his desire. Finally, it was time to tackle the long ad. As he read it, his lips tightened into an anxious frown.
"Are you the right man for this job? Wealthy woman, accustomed to having her way, seeks compliant, single man for household position. Room and board in lieu of salary. You will be trained to serve. You will be taught to perform key domestic services at a professional level. My particular needs are for a librarian to maintain and update a private document collection. Good handwriting a plus, as is good education. You must consent to obey orders without question. You must be willing to sign a six-month contract and a privacy agreement. Position may become permanent after six-month probation. If interested, do not send resume now. Send only self-addressed, stamped envelope for job application. I will be in touch."
Arden's cock stirred and he shifted uneasily on the bed. He read the ad a second time. This didn't belong in the personal ads. It belonged in the "domestic help wanted" section. Actually, it didn't belong in a newspaper at all. This woman wasn't looking for an employee, she was looking for a slave.
Arden read the ad again, grabbing a red pen from his nightstand and underlining the most troubling phrases.
What did she mean by "you will be trained to serve?" She was looking for a servant, that was clear, but that was a strange way to phrase it. "Trained to serve." Something about the phrase angered him, even as his cock throbbed. Arden pushed his cock down painfully between his legs, clamping his thighs over it in an attempt to force the erection back. It was all he could do to keep himself from rubbing himself.
He locked his knees together with grim resolve, and drew a thick red line under "You must consent to obey orders without question." The phrase agitated him so much, he threw the paper to the floor.
What was she driving at? Maybe she was some rich old kook who thought she could get away with any kind of eccentricity. That's probably what she meant by "accustomed to having her way." She grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth. She was a demanding shrew who liked to order servants around and treat them like slaves. He could envision her: a tall, humorless, blue-haired matriarch who wore starched dresses and issued commands through parchment lips.
But what if she was young? If she was young she would be quite different. She would be one of those sleek, slender brunettes, educated at an elite private school. Instead of dresses, she would wear trousers. And her lips...her lips would be soft and pink, so sweet and round that no matter how cruel her commands, you couldn't help but obey them because they came from those adorable lips.
A red flush spread from Arden's cheeks to his chest as he realized what he was doing. He was fantasizing. About this ad! THIS ad. He threw the paper to the floor. He was suddenly conscious of an agonizing cramp between his legs. With his now massive prick caged between his thighs, the groin muscles ached from the strain of keeping it pointed down. With a groan, Arden gently spread his ankles. His blood-engorged cock burst through the towel's edges like a bright red missile, then bobbed helplessly, anchored at the root. Arden stared at the distended member, breathing heavily, not sure what to do with it.
Why was this happening to him? He had read thousands of personal ads since moving to the city: this was the first to have such an effect on him. Even "bi-curious blonde" hadn't ignited such an anguish of desire.
It couldn't be mere coincidence. There was something mystical about finding that ad today. Miracles worked that way, stepping in just when nothing but divine intervention could alter your fate. Still, if this was a miracle, it was one which required strong medicine to interpret.
Arden lifted the paper from the floor, hands so weak he had to place it on his knees to keep the pages steady. He could barely bring himself to look at the text before him. He knew he had to look at it again, but he didn't want to see it. He had to read it. Of course he did. He had to face it. It was just an ad, after all. He had to think about it.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for the brandy sitting on his dresser-top. He didn't bother taking a glass. He swigged straight from the bottle, his cock still bobbing in mid-air, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when that little click in his head went off and his mind began to relax. He knew why the ad was having this effect on him. He knew exactly why. He had heard the words before. He had heard the words and he had seen the women who'd said them, too.
Since moving to the city, he had visited adult bookstores on two separate occasions. After wandering around for half an hour, too embarrassed to look at anything, he ended his first trip by buying a handful of magazines by the cash register, without looking at their titles. It wasn't until he got back to his apartment and tore open the paper bag that he realized he had spent one week's food money on magazines whose photos were so crude and fuzzy, he could barely make out what anyone was doing.
The next time he went, he was resolved. He intended to get his money's worth by doing what he'd seen all the other customers do: read as many magazines as possible for free, and leave with only one carefully-selected publication.
Arden walked from table to table, and display to display, carefully inspecting covers. Though he blushed the first few times, he picked magazines up and turned pages. He was intrigued by the piles of magazines devoted to female breasts. He had never quite realized that breasts alone could fill thousands of pages. He kept walking down the aisle, perusing lesbian magazines, and ones devoted to interracial sex, and even peeking nervously at some of the gay ones. Just out of curiosity.
At last, he came to the back of the store and there, in a huge display case, were the most outrageous and shocking pictures he had even seen. His scalp crawled as he furtively glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one was.
Hands trembling, Arden began examining the magazines. They contained unbelievable stories about slave farms where men were treated like cattle, their penises milked by malicious farm-girls; and discipline schools, where grown men were paddled and caned by stern women: the chagrined men were bent over desks like schoolboys, pants sagging around their ankles, their bruised asses facing the camera. Arden's heart skipped a beat.
Blushing furiously, he hid his face in the magazines. He read about wicked nurses who tormented male patients with soapy enemas and angry wives who punished unfaithful husbands by forcing them to wear petticoats. He was so engrossed, he didn't realize how excited he was until he looked down and saw that the head of his cock was bulging dangerously against his fly.
He finally understood why everyone else in the store wore trench-coats. Holding the magazine over his groin, Arden raced to a peep booth, locking the door behind him with a loud sigh of relief. He dug into his pocket for a handkerchief and threw the magazine open, gazing hungrily at a picture of a woman in stilettoes. Sneering viciously, she flailed the back of a naked man who groveled like a worm at her feet, sucking greedily on her shoes. Arden unzipped his pants and was within seconds of relief when there was loud banging on the door.
"Hey! You! Get outta there! You can't take magazines in the booth! Come on!"
With his dick in one hand and his magazine in the other, Arden stood frozen in panic. The knocking started again.
"You! Do I have to call the cops on you?" The door knob rattled violently.
With a loud groan of disappointment, Arden struggled to get his penis back in his fly and zipped his pants with difficulty. He emerged, squinting at the bright lights. A short bald man with a huge paunch stood outside, a disgusted look on his face.
"You fucking cheapskate," the man said, pointing to the door. "Get outta here before I call the cops."
Speechless with shame, Arden ran out of the store, hunched over, hands clasped over his hard-on.
That was his last visit to an adult bookstore. Obviously, he'd been punished for yielding to depravity. Still, the images of those diabolical females, holding whips and wearing stilettoes, haunted him. They visited him in bed, they stood over him when he studied, they talked to him when he cooked and sat beside him when he ate.
Sometimes they tied him to crosses and whipped him until he bled. Sometimes they locked heavy devices around his balls, weights so heavy that he felt his genitals would be torn off. They pierced his nipples and made him lick their feet. They forced him into a life of bondage and servility and laughed to see him degraded. And throughout these fantasies, they said things like, "you will be trained to serve My whim!" and "you will obey Me unquestioningly!"
He had convinced himself that the women in the magazines, the ones who inhabited his fantasies, were only sordid fabrications of men's imaginations. It had never occurred to him that such women--women who were equally perverse, who took pleasure from sexually tormenting men--really existed.
Arden put the brandy back on the dresser and read the ad again. Was it mere coincidence that at this turning point in his life, when he had nowhere to go, when he was seeking a direction, and in dire need of a job, a position for which he was surely suited should suddenly be advertised--and by a woman who spoke the language of his dreams? Was it a sign? If it was a sign, who had sent it? God? Or the Devil?
A delicious agony coursed through him, making him feel weak. Arden stared down at his erection. The long pink shaft and plump glans were strained to bursting. His scrotum was distended, the skin stretched tight over the rigid, cum-filled spheres.
The sight of his genitals swelling uncontrollably, lewdly jutting from his body, the head gleaming obscenely purple, was too much for him. He clapped his palm over his bloated prick and moaned in pleasure. Gripping it in his fist, he tightened his fingers under the head, and massaged it back and forth, panting with pleasure as each stroke brought him closer to heaven.
He could see her now. She was neither very old nor very young. She was at that beguiling period in a woman's life when she is old enough to sexually control men, and young enough to enchant them. An age when youthful beauty is intensified by the self-confidence of maturity.
She was immaculately dressed and groomed. Her eyes were filled with cruelty. She was attended by groveling slaves, quivering, degraded slaves, who hurried to obey her every whim.
Arden stroked himself faster, his temperature rising, sweat cascading down his face.
Where was he? He was somewhere in the background, watching Her. He was chained to Her wall, his legs and arms splayed, his ankles and wrists aching from the iron fetters She had locked on them, his cock arching towards Her uncontrollably. She whipped him with a flail. Thin red welts rose on his back and ass like lipstick kisses while he writhed pitifully, begging for more.
Arden groaned loudly, pumping his cock even harder. He was almost there. He thrust his hips to meet his fist again and again and again.
He was on all fours, crouching by her feet, his naked ass high in the air, her high-heeled foot stepping on his neck, forcing his head to the ground, his cock and balls swinging shamefully between his thighs. They were shaved. She had shaved his balls clean and smooth. His naked shaved pink balls, smooth as a baby's, hung heavily between his thighs while She poked and prodded them with long, steel pins.
She placed a collar around his neck and locked it on, saying, "You are MY permanent property now, slave."
She ran her long sharp fingernails over his nipples, clawing at them. "You will be trained to serve," she whispered.
She slapped the head of his cock with her whip. "You will obey Me unquestioningly!"
Arden frantically rubbed his dick. He had never been this hard in his entire life. His dick was so hot, it felt like a fire-iron, scorching his palm. Lava bloated his balls: it was his cum, aching to escape. He began rubbing himself with both hands: his prick was so big and fat now, even two hands couldn't hold it. He pumped wildly, excited by his body's indecency.
Where was he? Where WAS he!?
He was in a cage in her dungeon, behind thick iron bars, stark naked except for blinders and a bit in his mouth. A plug was pushed deep into his ass: at its end was a long tail that trailed between his legs, all the way down to his shins. His cock swayed heavily, out of control. Outside the cage, She taunted and commanded him, while he whinnied and pranced, hands raised in the air, unable to resist Her power.
A shockwave of electric delight paralyzed him and he wailed as cum gushed out of the smooth cleft in his cock. Arcs of hot semen exploded out of him, splashing onto his belly while he thrashed on the bed, blinded by ecstasy.
At last, he loosened his grip, but still continued stroking himself, gently coaxing the last drops of cum out. Then, his balls tingling with spent pleasure, his dick exhausted and softening in his fist, he collapsed onto his back in a daze. A creamy pool spread across his belly and his fist was sticky from the last glistening spurts. But now his mind was clear and strong.
Staring at the ceiling, he began another review of the facts, then discarded them and began thinking in different directions.
Who was he? No one. What had he done with his life so far? Whatever his parents had expected him to do. What had he achieved on his own? Nothing he was proud of. He had played it safe. No one had ever accused him of being rash or of taking any foolish risks. Maybe that was the problem.
Unthinkingly, he rolled over to the nightstand and shakily removed a stationery box from the drawer. He copied the address from the ad onto one envelope, then wrote his address on another. He stamped them both, folded the one addressed to himself inside the outer envelope and sealed it. Then, still refusing to analyze what he was doing, he leaped to his feet, tightened his towels, darted out the front door and sprinted to the mail chute in the building hall.
Then and only then, after the envelope slid irretrievably down the long metal shaft, did Arden realize what he had done.
Dominant Ideas
Different
Loving
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