There I was, standing in line at the familiar Starbucks counter minding my own business, eyes scanning the room as they are want to do, when I spotted them. Rather, I spotted him.
Attractive of course, but it was more his body language and the manner in which he tilted his head that made him so. He was leaning in, talking to her softly, and I knew immediately I was watching a Dominant and submissive. More than that, a fantasy I have held for many years was playing out in front of my very eyes.
Had he read my blog? I longed to walk quietly and swiftly across the bistro and stand nearby, perhaps even introduce myself,
(Such a foolish, bizarre thought, “Hello. My name is Maggie. Are you doing what you are because you read my blog?” Sure – that would work!)
His soft words were few in number, then he leaned back and flashed her his look. You know the one. The toe curling, spine tingling, butterfly creating look.
The barista’s impatient demand for my order broke the moment. Hastily and a little embarrassed, I requested my latte and moved to the pickup counter, placing me closer to them. I risked a covert glance, and noticed the tell-tale blush had crept across her face.
As I watched him stand, reaching out his hand to help her from her chair, I sighed in happiness for them, then reaching for my drink, swallowed the frustration of a 1000 solitary nights.
Here is my post from last year, one of my earliest, and what I watched transpire this morning.
The Art of Romantic Domination.
I almost called this blog just that, because isn’t that the truth? There is the overt – the clear and present power exchange – but there are also the subtleties that permeate the relationship. The unexpected. The tiny surprise that becomes an ongoing titillating, presence.
We have met for a quick coffee in the middle of the day.
We sit chatting and I say something cheeky. A little quip that is close to the invisible line. I see the flicker of something in his eyes. Without knowing why I push the envelope. (I tell myself that, but I do know why. It is simply in my nature to test).
The flicker becomes a knowing look, but he doesn’t respond. No scolding, no threat, no promise of the consequences for my disrespectful sarcasm. His silence is causing a familiar twirl in my stomach, and I watch, mesmerized, as he reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a small notebook and pencil. Staring at me he flips it open, then casts his eyes down to write.
I want to ask, need to ask, but my voice is warning me to sit and be still. I watch the pencil float across the paper. The twirl in my stomach is growing into a dust devil. I can do no more than wait. So I do, sipping my coffee…which suddenly has no flavor.
Finally his hand flips the notebook closed and returns it to its hiding place.
“May I ask?” I squeak.
“Of course you may,” he answers, then stares at me. I have to actually ask..
“What was, I mean, what were you writing?”
My voice sounds feeble.
“That’s my new notebook,” he states quietly. “It will be used to track all your cheeky little remarks, all your naughty behavior, anything I determine worthy.”
The dust devil has been joined by its twin, and together they are making it difficult to breathe.
“Why?” I inquire. “I mean, do you think that’s really necessary?”
“Why? Because I want to. It pleases me for many reasons, none of which you need to know. Necessary? That’s not for you to determine.”
I spend the rest of the day thinking about the notebook. Throughout the week it makes its appearance…frequently. To what end? Mine I’m sure.
It was a simple act, but it was the subtle simplicity itself that provided the intense erotic power.
The crafty cleverness with which it was introduced has caused it to be my constant companion, every waking moment.
That is Art.