Johnny

I'm a sub through and through. I can't help myself. A hard look, a firm tone, the right movement of a man's hand: my eyes lower, I blush, and I feel the warm wet sensation of excitement on my thighs. It's nearly antithetical to my projected disposition; few would classify me as a sub. I've been told I'm aggressive, confident, and occasionally cocky. I've even been told I can be intimidating to both sexes, which I don't believe is attributed to a harsh personality. To the contrary: I'm overly friendly and honest. I have the uncanny ability to make best friends with strangers in less than thirty seconds. Countless times at the laundry mat, a bar, or the grocery store check out line, I elicit (unintentionally and sometimes uninvitingly) the entire life story of the person next to me.

Perhaps my openness and friendliness are my downfall, my give away, my Achilles' heel. The right man… the sort of man I fantasize about… sees right through me for what I am: a slut for domination, a slave to a whip, a helpless casualty of too many wrong (or right) situations. This is a story of one such situation that when given more than five minutes to let my mind wander, I come back to him, and how he knew, how he touched me, how he excited me and frightened me, made me question how open I actually am…and whether or not I should try to hide away the slut that appears when a man's eyes turn stone.

My friend Jenna parties every night as if it were her last. Any night I'm out with her, it's unforgettable excitement, pushing limits, dancing on strangers' tables and laps, straddling the bartenders as they pour shots to keep the action going, champagne and whip cream sprayed everywhere, men practically sawing their arms off to take her or one of the rest of us home. Jenna's by far the ring leader, which is great by me: it's easy to pass guys I don't want along to her and let her shoot them down. The guys I do want are easy to pick up once sucked into her frenzy of fun. Easy, casual, direct. No frills, bells, or whistles, just a few hours of physical romping and then a frantic attempt to remember their name in the morning. Call me callous, but none of them ever mean anything more than the means to an orgasmic end.

So it came as a complete shock to me one night as I was in a bar and I met…him. Johnny was a bartender at this place, however he wasn't scheduled to work that night. He actually came to see Jenna. Jenna is always the life of the party, and when he found out she would be there with her friends, he came in special just for us, to make sure we had a good time. There was something about him that made me immediately uncomfortable in that oh-so-blissful way. It wasn't just the way his bulging thigh muscles shaped his jeans perfectly. It wasn't just the way his t-shirt stretched over his broad chest when picked Jenna up with one arm, threw her over his shoulder, and carried her off to do body shots from her. It wasn't even Johnny's smoldering brown eyes and square jaw line. It was the aura about him. Something that I felt, or saw, whenever I was around him that rocked me. I felt…submissive. For some reason, even if I could swallow the lump in my throat I couldn't bring myself to talk to the man (although the other ladies clamoring around him testified his approachability). I couldn't talk to him. He didn't tell me I could.

Silly, right? I didn't even know this man. How could he have control over me?

The night went on as usual, and as the shots went down, the rowdier we became. We danced constantly in our private section of the bar. We felt on top of the world, grinding against one another, giving the random patrons lap dances, clothes coming off, belts being welted at one another, "girls being girls." Johnny was ever present in our mix, seductively letting a girl ride his leg while he cupped ass against is washboard abs, flipping girls on the dance floor face down towards his cock, and…oh…the look on his face.

What was it about him? He looked at every girl as if he would devour her, as if his whole being had craved nothing on earth except her…whoever "her" happened to be at any given moment. Whoever I was dancing with, my eyes kept darting to Johnny and to the girl slammed against his rock hard body. Why couldn't I be her? I kept asking myself this, and why can't I be more like her. He seems to want her because she's strong, daring…not a slump like me. The guys I were dancing with, sure, they were nice, but my all possessing thoughts were of Johnny. I simultaneously needed to touch him and feared for my life to do so. I couldn't meet his eye, but I couldn't take my eyes off of him. Every nerve ending burned with passion and shame. He, on the other hand, failed to notice I existed. This somehow excited me more.

The hours went by, where Johnny had pulled half a dozen women onto his lap to passionately kiss him, each one he knew he could have. Then slowly the patrons started leaving as did some members of our group. The numbers dwindled, the party and electric atmosphere had settled, and the wild tousle of bodies began finding solace on barstools and tables. This is where I earn money: talking. While no one has ever blatantly told me I'm ugly, it's obvious that I'm a far cry from beauty queen. My slim figure, generous breasts, and unabashed dancing nearly make up for what I lack in face and hair, but I usually offset any physical disappointment once we sit down to talk.

In this instance, I finally drew Johnny's attention. Although I was surrounded by men and a few of my friends, actively engaged in a heated discussion, Johnny seemed to notice me for the first time. My radar picked up on his gaze immediately although I pretended not to notice. I tried to continue my conversation, but aware of his attention, my throat tightened and my pulse thudded in my ears almost to the point I couldn't hear my own thoughts. I started shaking slightly, wanting to watch him but not wanting him to see the insanity of my desire. My breath came in staggered spurts as I felt him coming closer. Johnny being Johnny, the room seemed to part for him when he made his way over to me.

The arrogant son of a bitch pushed a seat in between me and the man closest to me, and I fought a smile when the man's face twisted in irritation. Around us, some people continued to drunkenly dance, and some who were seated dissipated. For all intents and purposes, Johnny and I were alone.

Suddenly I was an awkward 13-year-old again, trying to hide my braces while a high school soccer player was talking to me. Johnny asked me the basics: come here often? How do you know Jenna? What do you do? How old are you? Eventually our conversation deepened, as I've said, talking is where I make my money. Stumbling over awkward phrases, I somehow managed to operate on auto-pilot and hold a decent conversation; fortune alone allowed him to be impressed. I could tell by the way his face lit up when I surprised him by knowing something, or was well versed on a subject he thought only he knew. My heart kept beating harder and faster with those looks of approval. My heart nearly stopped, though, when after I answered a question the seductive phrase "good girl" shrewdly rolled off his tongue.

I warily flinched…a look of surprise, of questioning, of fear. Did he know? A small smirk on his face seemed to give me an answer, but in situations like this, you can never be ENTIRELY sure. But then, "Kaitlyn…" he drew out slow, deliberate, "open your mouth."

I about freaked out. Was he serious? Open my mouth? My friends were around, dancing, or sitting close by. We were in public. What was he going to do? Kiss me? That wouldn't be so bad…but the man just ordered me to open my mouth! Was he going to…inspect me? What would I do, just sit there with my mouth open for him?

I didn't have to give him a questioning look for more than a split second before a saw the look in his eyes. He was serious, playful but hard, in complete control. He wasn't asking me; he told me. My heart stopped. My eyes welled. The room spun. What the hell was I doing? Was I really going to reveal the depths of my desire to this complete stranger? I cracked my mouth open, and kept my eyes down. He didn't move.

"Wider."

My breath quickened and I began to tremble; people noticed when I sat in front of Johnny, a coveted man, my eyes down and mouth wide open. I couldn't see them, but I felt eyes upon us as he waited patiently for the desired opening.

Once satisfied, he still didn't speak. He just slid his fingers into my mouth and all along my teeth, as masters I've fantasized about would do to their slaves. I knew that he knew. He stopped at the points of my canines. Although extremely subtle, they point downwards like fangs. He plucked them with his fingernails and asked me, "Were you a vampire in another life?"

Although I heard the joke in his voice, I lost the ability to do anything else but take him seriously. "No…" I whispered, trailing off. …Should I address him in some more formal way? Some of my friends stopped whatever they were doing to watch; they didn't know what was going on…they didn't know…but I did.

The magical moment was shaken back to reality when my drunken friend Shawn unexpectedly slammed himself down into the chair next to me; I jumped in surprise while Johnny still half-held me by the chin. "Hey guys, you did you see me dancin'?" Shawn interrupted, gesturing limply. "I was I up there I was dancin' pretty good."

"I bet your not as good a dancer as Kait is." With that, he reached over and scooped me onto his lap with greater ease than I thought humanly possible. I was in shock how fast that happened: one minute I was squiming uncomfortable in my cold hard chair, the next minute I was squirming against his warm, hard thighs. Heavens did his thighs feel good. I didn't have enough time to really register the strength of his arms.

Then I felt something else: his hand subtly slipping under my ass, his fingers curling to poke at my cunt, unseen to everyone. His middle finger wormed his way just to the right spot, curling, teasing, soaking me right through. It felt too good for me to do anything but wiggle, fighting to maintain my composure in public. Shawn was too drunk to notice.

"Yeah, I've danced with Katie before…she's as good as dancer as me, but I'm pretty good. I think that girl over there wants me…she gave me her number…" Shawn still slurred, directing his attention across the bar.

"Are you, Kait?" Johnny softly growled against my ear. "You a good dancer?" He pressed my stomach in towards him with one hand, and with his other curled his finger with more vigor, more pressure. He was practically finger-fucking me through my jeans.

"I…I dance pretty well," I hushedly gasped, mouth open turning back to him for a kiss. Oh heavens how I wanted him, desperately trying to inhale his very breath just to have more of him inside of me. His faint masculine scent was intoxicating, driving me further into frenzy. He didn't kiss me, but gave me a hard look of dominant desire before raking his teeth across my cheek.

"I'm going to make you fucking dance." My heart sank into my stomach. What did he mean by that? I was about to find out.

Johnny stood in a manner that allowed my body to slide down his before my feet touched the floor. "Pretty little thing, come with me for a bit." Not a question, a command. Directing me towards the "forbidden" staircase, he held onto my hand so that it was behind his back as he walked in front of me.

Alone with him? Upstairs? I knew too well what usually happened up there. But with him, something would be different. It wouldn't be a typical seduction scene. He would possess me, own me, make me beg for his cock, let me suck it only if I was good. How did I know? He gave away too many clues. Analogy: imagine a full concert hall listening to a symphony orchestra. Everyone hears the same music, but a fellow musician in the audience notices and appreciates the subtle movements that make a piece special. The casual listener (vanilla) hears everything blended together, justifiably enjoys the pretty sound, and may even be emotionally moved at its beauty. But a fellow musician knows what to listen for: the key, motif, chord succession, meter changes, dissonance and resolution. I think BDSM is like that; participants can pick up on subtle things the rest of a crowded room will turn a deaf ear to. Watching Johnny was like this for me. Everyone else witnessed a hot man and justifiably wanted him. But watching him move, the distinctions in his voice, the way he held me, all spoke to me in a way only a trained "ear" knew to listen for. The question was: should I play along?

The bar noise faded as we climbed the stairs, his muscular stride taking two steps at a time, the fragile heels of my stiletto boots straining to keep up with him. I had never been to this part of the bar before.

Johnny pushed the heavy antique door open and had me slide around his torso to squeeze inside. Sliding past him, tried to press a kiss into his hard chest through his cotton t-shirt. I got a firm pop on the ass which made me jump into the poorly-lit room. My eyes strained to see the Spartan furnishings: two small couches, a chair, a small table, and an ottoman. And mirrors…everywhere mirrors. No matter where I looked, I saw our reflections. As my eyes adjusted, my mind conjured images of being put squarely over the ottoman in front of him, our mingled bodies reflecting from every angle, and a trickle of sexual arousal agreed with my fantasy.

The sound of Johnny's stride brought my senses back to reality, and he let his body sink with familiarity into the couch; he left me standing. His chin slightly down, he looked up at me deviously. A slow smile widen across his succulent lips. I again cursed myself for being so easy to read, such a give away. I couldn't seem to cool the blush on my face or slow my breath as I simply watched him…waiting. He knew…I knew. His eyes raked my body possessively, and all I managed to do was stand dumbly in the center of the room.

"Do you think your friends will miss you?" he asked in his cocky tone I couldn't help but smile at. Then I thought about it: I drove here Jenna tonight! I'm her ride home! She would definitely begin to wonder where I was if I stayed gone much longer. I couldn't offer him this, though. My throat was too tight, my mouth dry, my cheeks burning. All I could do was smile meekly and nod my head. His eyes glinted momentarily as they took in my response. His power was feeding off my submission; the more I gave, the more he took, and the more he took, the more I wanted to give.

"Really now?" he responded, then crooked his finger, beckoning me to come closer to him. I awkwardly stumbled forward…obeying even his finger. Once in front of him, he purposefully grabbed my wrists, gently pulling downward. He wanted me to kneel! Shyly, looking at him in a plea for compassion that wouldn't come, I went to my knees between his thighs. My breasts were shocked as they absorbed the heat from this hands; he wasted no time exploring what was going to be all his.

"You drove Jenna, didn't you?" he asked, hardness taking over his eyes, playfulness quickly yielding to dominance.

"Yes…" …do I say it? What does he want me to call him?

A twitch of a smile caught the corner of his mouth, but he kept his composure. Damn him! He knew! He kept a steady massaging motion on my breasts. "Well now…we wouldn't want to leave Jenna all alone by herself, now would we? What kind of friend would you be?"

"I…I don't know…" I fought a losing battle for concentration as the heat of his hands mercilessly sank into my nipples through my thin cotton t-shirt.

His devilish eyes danced as he asked, "What DO you know, Kaitlyn?"

My mind reeled, losing a battle for rational thought: what I know? Know about what? I could tell by the look on his face the question had sexual intentions, so I began to formulate a calculated answer. I didn't get three words into my response before he took hold of both my nipples and clamped down hard. I frantically struggled in pain, wide eyes looking at him in shock, but he was washed in calm: "Let us start with some ground rules. One, when I ask you something, give me a direct response and none of your smart-ass bullshit. In addition," he twisted causing more pain, "keep your fucking eyes on the ground when you address me."

Tears stung my eyes, but I was terribly aroused. "Yes…yes Master!" I squeaked out in time for his grip to loosen.

" 'Sir' works just fine."

"Yes Sir," I choked. I nearly cried. I was finished. I had handed over complete control to this beautiful stranger, and I did it with respect. Part of me was entirely ashamed of myself, but part of me was too sexually excited to care. The slut in me had taken over, and the only response I could produce was labored breathing, my face on fire in shame. I knew he had me…and damn him, he knew it too.

He smoothly stood, and walked around the back of me like a lion circling its prey. My head lowered and I was paralyzed as he crouched behind me, the back of his cool hand quenching the burning on my face, gently stroking my cheek before sliding his down to my chest, over my t-shirt which was all to eager to display my hardened nipples. He rolled one of the nubs in his hand and my reflexes betrayed me. My arms refused to play their instinctive role to defend my vulnerability, perhaps testifying to my true instincts. He pressed himself closer to me as he murmured in my ear:

"Good girl…you're going to be a good girl, aren't you? Sure you are. You're the type of girl I like. You want me to control you, don't you little one?"

One tear fell as I nodded, still looking at the floor, chest heaving.

He slid his hands over my stomach, roughly raking my skin over top of my clothing, exploring my entire body as he spoke. "That's good…because I'm going to control you. I'm going to own your skin. You're going to do what I want, how I want it," gripped my cunt and pulled me against him to hiss, "And you're going to love every minute of it, aren't you slut?"

All I could do was cry a small moan and dumbly nod; he chuckled low in his throat. As if testing my submissive resolve, he started toying with me. He'd gather my hands behind my back and raise them up to bend me over. When I resisted even slightly, his force grew stronger, and he didn't have to say anything for me to understand he would have me move my body in any way he wanted. He had me stand with my legs wide apart, keeping absolutely still as he grabbed and squeezed folds of flesh, bending me over, forcing me to my knees, or remaining rigidly straight as his hands explored me.

Then forcing me to walk backwards, he kept my wrists in his grip as he walked back to sit on the couch. Spreading his knees wide, he had me stand between his outstretched thighs. My cunt was crying for his touch so badly that even the heat through the denim fabric felt exquisite. "Kaitlyn," he languidly drew, "you have ten minutes to bring four things back to me: a bottle of Jameson, a bucket of ice, three glasses… and Jenna."

I sobered like a splash of cold water hit me. "…Jenna?"

He gripped my wrists very hard and twisted, and I fell on my knees between his legs trying to ease the terrible pain it caused. He let me writhe a bit as he spat, "I didn't require a response. Don't you say a fucking thing unless I tell you that you can. Are you clear on that?" Only when I yelped "yes" did he release his grip.

Part of me wanted to fight him. Part of me wanted to bite him, tell him off, explain to him that he can't just expect to get whatever he wants, and that neither I nor Jenna would be willing participants in his degrading game. But as I sat there, panties soaked through, looking up unintentionally to the man who made them so wet, I relented to the part of me screaming to do exactly what he just told me to. His half-glare/half-smile infuriated me…and thrilled me.