The following is a completely fictitious account of what it might be like if some clueless “dom” made one of their brazen attempts at “dominating” me in public, rather than hidden behind the safety and anonymity of their fetlife cockshot avatar. None of this happened. It was just a fantasy that tickled me on my way home from work one day.
“You will address me as Sir.”
I looked up in the direction of the voice that was addressing me. I was sitting in the lobby area at the dungeon, catching up with a friend when this guy came over, hovering. He’d interrupted my conversation.
“You’re not wearing a collar,” he’d pointed out.
“No, I’m not,” Captain Obvious, I thought silently.
“But aren’t you a sub?”
“I can be,” I responded. I could see where this was going and I vacillated between educating the bastard and destroying him.
“How are people supposed to know you are a sub if you don’t wear a collar?”
“I imagine they could talk to me…maybe ask?” I couldn’t hide the snark if I tried. At that point, I turned back toward my friend and picked up our conversation where we’d left off when the douchebag interrupted again.
That’s when he said it: “You will address me as, Sir.”
“I beg your pardon?” I felt the anger flare up. I sensed my friend’s tension beside me, however, and pushed down the urge to throttle the bastard.
“You are a sub. You will show respect.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” I raised both my eyebrows. Did he really want to carry this further with me? My friend sitting beside me stepped in, “You might want to back away slowly,” he said. He put a protective hand over my thigh.
“Oh, is she yours?”
I interrupted before he could answer. “I don’t belong to anybody, and certainly not to you. Please go away.” I’d lost my patience with this douche and wanted to carry on with my evening free of him.
My volume had raised a little and part of my brain noticed the other voices in the room had stopped competing with my own.
“Don’t tell me what to do, whore. Little slut like you should be taught her place – on your knees. No wonder nobody owns you. You’d be too much work to train.”
At this point, several things happened at once. My friend beside me stood up, as did another that I hadn’t noticed sitting several feet away on the other sofa. Three additional friends put out their cigarettes on the patio and stepped into the room. I remained seated, crossing my legs as I watched the chess pieces move into place.
The douche was completely oblivious.
I took a deep breath. “I did not consent to being dragged into your attempt at a humiliation/degradation scene. I suggest, that unless you’re interested in being on the receiving end of one, you walk away now and don’t ever so much as look in my general direction again.” My eyes conveyed pure venom; my voice laced with ice.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but had by now become increasingly aware of the growing number of people standing ominously around him.
“Walk away,” said my friend beside me.
“Now,” said another one standing behind the douche.
I wanted to smile. I wanted to smile so badly! But I kept my mouth in a stern line. Couldn’t keep the smile out of my eyes, though. One of other onlookers saw it and started giggling.
The giggle set the douche into a rage, his face turning read. “You’ll be sorry, little bitch. I have over 300 friends on fetlife, and I’m going to tell all of them what a disrespectful whore you really are!”
At this point, everyone in the room started laughing, including me.
One of the DMs, who’d witnessed a good portion of the interaction decided to step in and break it up. “Alright, bozo. Time to go,” she said, stepping between us and moving him toward the front entrance.
He blustered and spat, “She was disrespectful!”
“I doubt it, jackass. Let’s go.”
It wasn’t until the laughter had died down and people had moved on with their night that I started to feel the shakes come on. My friend had asked if I was okay right after the douche had been escorted out, and still high off the adrenaline, I had responded that I was.
But he’d gone off to have a scene with someone else and I was curled up in a dark corner in the main room, processing what had happened.
That’s when he came over. My other friend – the quiet one. The one who’d stood up on the other side of the room, but never said a word.
“May I sit?”
I took a breath and tried to push the well of tears back down. “Sure,” I said, smiling. But my eyes are terrible liars. He knew the answer to the next question before he asked it.
“I will be,” I responded. I looked down toward my knees. My legs were tucked up under me, my shoes on the floor beside the sofa.
He reached over and gently touched my face. He took hold of my chin with one finger and drew it up toward him. My eyes met his. The tears weren’t staying back.
His eyes searched my face. Then I watched as his gaze traveled down – down the nape of my neck, over my shoulders and breasts, down to the hands that lay folded over my knees. He picked up one of my hands and brought it up to his lips, planting a light kiss near my wrist.
“How hard to you want it?”
“Pretty hard,” I responded.
“Pretty hard, what?” he asked.
I smiled this time in earnest.
“Pretty hard, Sir.”