BDSM Fantasy Dinner

BDSM Story Submitted By Anonymous Guest Author

I am reminded of the gracious and straightforward story of "O" and confident that we are either capable of engaging carefully in the spirit of that game. Dinner at the Grossi (Grill) would be fun.

Let me begin: We arrive at a fashionable hour, you elegant, demure, conservative, neat - skirt tailored subdued, a silk blouse; it is obvious yet only to the discerning eye there is no line nor crease in blouse or skirt; you are dignified, quiet. As for me, the contrast is sharp, yet not ridiculous. I am aging; there is discomfort and unfamiliarity on my part both from the surroundings and with my dinner companion.

We converse quietly – you acknowledge the staff with a confidence borne of ages, I am unsophisticated, questioning, and somewhat crass. We have now exhausted all small talk, you have sipped the Widow Cliquot, and I, with indifference of either bouquet or tradition, am on to my second glass.

The conversation progresses quickly to the matter of this unlikely tryst. I was your late husband's ever-so- humble, faithful retainer', solicitor, financial confidant, accountant, and partner. I have arranged this meeting to discuss the details of the estate, for I am the executor and you are neither trustee nor the sole beneficiary.

It is evident, particularly to the staff of most noted establishment, that you are uncomfortable and somewhat at a disadvantage. I am excited at the thought of your discomfort and the power that is mine, and before this night is out, you will be mine also.

We begin a courteous discussion of the matter over which I have power. You are cold, a shiver, subtle yet perceived, attracts the attention of the waiter; he inquires about Madam, he is concerned for you and repulsed by your choice of companion, yet he does not judge you, he is concerned. I take your hand firmly and move it to my lips; you are startled and attempt to withdraw. I hold fast; I look at you with
malevolence.

"You and I madam will need to reach an agreement on certain matters of 'state,' should you wish to benefit from your husband's death. I am a patient man and the sight of you by candlelight, your breasts just so, are and have been of interest to me for "some time, I lean across the table you hand is held fast, you tremble, I continue in a whisper, "You will excuse yourself, ask the waiter – has expressed concern for your well-being; where the Powder room is. You will then sigh, touch his arm, and thank him softly.

Follow his directions, and when you are there, you will remove the delicate silk panties that you wear and return to this table and hand such to me. I expect you to be discreet in this matter madam, as your future financial security depends on your good behavior."

You feel me relax, and you withdraw your hand sharply. You are breathing rapidly, your head is swimming, you stand, and you are unsteady. The waiter is concerned, is by your side. You look at him and then at me, "I need to use the bathroom" your voice is shaky, uncertain, "Madam I will show you, please this way" - "Yes, no, what…" you are unsure what he has said, and yet you control the panic that is beginning, those small waves that could engulf you, send you into the darkness. You take his arm and follow him to the door, he gives you directions, and you move forward as if in a trance, this is some nightmare, some extraordinary dream sent to punish."

You reach the room and find comfort and safety; your composure is returning your breathing is slowing; you look at yourself in the mirror, that oversized 'reflecting of your hopelessness' mirror. Someone has written on a napkin; you stare, you begin to shake "abandon hope all ye that enter here", a cry, a melancholic whimper fills the void, you realize that it is you, in your despairing, your abandonment, you turn the napkin over as if the offending words will no longer elicit pain nor express power.

You are transfixed, you stare for the offense is not yet total, not yet complete, 'Hope springs eternal in the human heart, but only for the brave' is lightly penned in mascara, smudged words, abandoned words, these offending blasphemous words oh exquisite torture how have I come to this. You hold the napkin loosely in your hand.

The waiter is concerned, enters the room quietly. "Is madam feeling unwell, can I be of assistance", he places a hand on your shoulder. You would throw yourself into his arms; you would be safe and comforted. Yet you are a creature of beauty and grace, of centuries of careful education and attitude. Your composure, your sense of duty, and your sense of integrity would not allow you this moment of weakness of self-pity, an indulgence that bears no proper fruit. In an instance, you are composed, elegant, regal, "I am fine, thank you, it has been an emotional time for me my husband die recently, and I am dining with his partner, nothing more". He saw the propriety of his situation and quickly and graciously retreated, leaving a beautiful and composed woman contemplating her life.

You looked deeply into the mirror, and with an obedient and gracious move, you slip your silk panties, imperceptible that they are, to your knees, and quietly stepped from such. You felt the softness of the material between fingers and moved to caress cheeks for the sensation was exotic, the texture, the smoothness, the featherweight, you understood the faint odor that was of and about a woman; you inhaled slowly so that you may build the arousal and you remember a happier time, a time for play so sweet and seductive play; a time of laughter and sweat, of moist beginnings and prolonged endings; you feel yourself aroused and some of your power, the power that women have over some men, begins to return, and you knew what you must do.

In that instance you accept the training of ages, you finally recognize that your situation and the intense discomfort that you are experiencing was of your own making, you who had been well-schooled in humanist philosophies, the nature of choice, the freedom to think and you determine that the choices, so far entirely predictable, had not and were not appropriate. You remember your father – "Life is just a series of experiences", he had said as he caressed you, "they are neither good nor bad, they are just experiences", and s is you had resolved in that instance to play the part of an obedient and careful woman; you determine that you would enjoy and relish the part that you will assume for it will be your choice and your choice alone.

You returned to the room; the place is enchanting, you remember the beautiful paintings of Florence in the Mural Room, ah such memories. The waiter is concerned, acknowledges your return, the fragrance of fresh bread and olives, the Terrina Di Salmone e Porri so rich almost decadent, t awaits increases your arousal, your sensuality and you begin to relax into the sights, the sounds, the fragrance that is Grossi, the feel of breasts against silk, gentle, stimulating.

You approach the table, and the waiter is concerned, is beside you, he adjusts your chair and replaces your napkin just so and with a professional and ever so deft touch. The back of his hand grazes breasts, and you return a polite yet reproachful glance and then return to the matter in hand.

You smile and reach across the table; imperceptibly, you place a small soft and now moist scintilla on the table in front of me. The waiter is concerned, refreshes your glass, and without a glance, is positioned to remove the delicate package from the table. You move quickly; you hold his wrist fast. It is not his place, is concerned, nor his station in life. He retreats with a gracious nod, and we are left alone. I look at you and at the pax romana, that delicate offering that is center of my plate.

I lift it to my nose as if a napkin, and I too breathe slowly and deeply, slowly and deeply the scent of a woman. I glance at you dismissively and place that small, moistened white flag deliberately in my pocket. I glance yet again, and you acquiesce, the game, the terms, and conditions, the surrender has begun.

The waiter is now subdued, returns quietly, removes our plates, is deft yet now strangely servile, and is conquered. He returns promptly with a T-bone, rare, and very tender for me and the Saltimbocca Al Romana for Madam. We decline the salad and opt for char-grilled vegetables. You submissively request that I select a '98 Freycinet Riesling, and extraordinary wine, delicate, subtle; I consider the suggestion and dismissively request such for Madam. I have a glass of house red, being somewhat uncertain of the shiraz or merlot. You smile, a knowing smile, educated, sophisticated, classic.

We eat in semi-silence, the casual remark, the movement of napkin to lips, the masterful probing of the foot between thighs, you smile, demure and submissive, and the probing continues. With each precise and calculated movement, we begin the leisurely campaign of your capitulation. The meal, the oh so exquisite meal ends, the wine has made you lightheaded, relaxed, and understands the nature, form, and rules of and for the submissive. I reach across the table; I lift your face so that candlelight playfully dances in your eyes, my hand leisurely traces the outline of your face, I sit closer, I request that you do likewise. Slowly I turn my hand over, you feel my nails on your face, on your neck, on your breasts. I seek and find a nipple under delicate silk, it is soft pliable, I take it gently between two fingers, you feel nails against breast, nipple between fingers, I squeeze, carefully at first, then with a sudden firmness that takes you by surprise and you draw breath quickly thus increasing the pressure.

The waiter is now subdued, returns, and I, without changing my composure nor the placement of my hand, order the hot lemon soufflé with espresso ice-cream for Madam and a small eclectic cheese platter to accompany fragrant tea. You do not object, and so we progress.

The pressure is pleasure and pain and pain and pleasure, and you attempt not to breathe further for fear that the movement, any movement, will lead to further capitulation. You are aware of a toe, a sharp nail, you are motionless, you will not acquiesce at this early stage for the rules of permission are strict; complies quickly is abandoned for lack of discipline and s does not consent is broken against the will of her master for her defiance. The qualifications of a master and those who would serve are the same, and they differ, not in kind, but only in the number of their subjects, for they are by standard definition linked.

The waiter was subdued and is now aroused, returns with soufflé, cheese, and tea, Earl Grey, freshly fragrant, cups hot. He is affected by the cause of your pleasure and pain, and his composure diminished. He is no longer deft, nor can he stop his gaze, fingers to breast to face to breast. Your nipple has responded to the pressure, and he is a servant to you and you to me. My mind goes to BDSM fantasies. 

He retreats, unable to speak, and the pressure is increased. You arch your back, and you lean forward instinctively, placing pressure on the breast and toe. And suddenly and as quickly as it had begun, my hand is removed, and I pour tea. With an indifferent and purposeful flick of a toe, that pressure is also removed. You are on the verge, and not so for the rules of permission are strict.

The words of Aristotle become your conscious, your focus: "For some are of the opinion that the rule of a master is a science, and others affirm that the rule of a master over servants is contrary to nature and that the distinction between servant and freeman exists by law only, and not by nature; and being an interference with nature is therefore unjust and yet there are those that willingly place themselves in bondage. Again, my mind cannot restrain from fantasies of BDSM.

A servant, in these circumstances, is a living possession. The master is only the master of the servant; he does not belong to her, whereas the servant is not only the servant of her master, but she wholly belongs to him. Hence we see what is the nature and office of a servant; she who is by nature not her own but another's man, is by nature a servant". Her father has said that "an 'un-owned servant' is, in fact, servant to her desires, or a servant to her nature." You are and had been 'UN-owned,' as you tasted heaven, lemon mingled with coffee, you are absorbed in the fragrance of the tea, and yet you remembered the fragrance of an earlier consent, and you blushed.

We conclude our meal in silence save for the sound of fork and spoon, spoon, and china. Payment is made quickly. You stop; briefly, the waiter is circumspect, you thank him for his kindness, lean forward and softly kiss him on the cheek, and we leave.