1st Meeting with Mistress Pandora

***I am over 18, as is everyone in this story. I'm actually 23***

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I felt it before I ever met Christina. The overwhelming desire to serve, to drop to my knees and submit to someone's will. The impulse to sacrifice or delay my own needs to satisfy another's. It was a powerful urge, and when I saw her across the bar it was immediate and it was viceral.

It had been a fleeting feeling before. I am brought back to the moment I first realized I was different, watching my high school girlfriend dancing with other men. I couldn't put my finger on it then, but had she caught on to what I was doing and saw fit to punish me, that punishment would have been as arousing as the initial situation. Of course, she didn't. I felt it in flashes, waves. Standing behind my college girlfriend one Saturday night as her tongue intermingled with another man's, his hands roaming her back freely and separating me from her. I liked that he didn't ask. Didn't inquire whether the guy standing behind her was her boyfriend. He saw me and read that I wasn't a threat, and he struck up a conversation with her even while I continued dancing with her. I had a front row seat. In that moment, had he grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to the floor to orally service him, I would have allowed it. But unfortunately, he didn't.

I felt it even in moments I wasn't supposed to, when a girl I liked disclosed some private sexual information about a man she wanted to fuck. She couldn't have known how I felt about her, so there was nothing malicious about the revelation, but regardless I went home hoping to vanquish that dirty feeling from my body, expunging it like a parasite and shutting it from my thoughts. But there they were. My old friend, Submission.

Don't get me wrong - sometimes we actually were best friends. In the privacy of my room, late at nights, we would hang out and watch videos together; they always had the best recommendations. Facesitting, foot and ass worship, cumswapping, pegging, cuckolding. Submission showed me all the things I really liked, and they understood that those things were fluid. Sometimes I wanted to see a video with a big black cock, sometimes a thick white ass, sometimes a group of people, sometimes one. There was freedom in the privacy, and we became close.

Submission and I got closer still when my college girlfriend decided to try locking me up one time. Chastity hadn't been my idea, but she had a twisted mind and wanted to see what it would do to me. As soon as she locked that cage and we realized it was about two sizes too small, I immediately regretted it. Submission had made that decision for me - such a people pleaser - and they apologized to me as they realized how uncomfortable it was. "It's not all my decision," they reckoned in my head, "you can override me and just tell her to let her out!" And they were right. She would have let me out if I had asked. But Submission and I were far closer than I even realized, and as my girlfriend started sucking my caged cock, I realized there was no argument to be made. I felt the entire wetness of her mouth through the metal bars as my dick comically expanded somehow beyond the restraints. I was bursting at the seams and entirely helpless as her expert mouth both eased my pain and caused more - this was torture. But when she released me and I realized how desperate I was to cum, Submission and I were on the same page. I dropped to my knees and ravenously ate her out, cumming the moment her foot grazed my rock hard dick. Even though we agreed not to use the cage anymore, I felt that moment and knew it was a turning point for me and Submission.

I tried to bury Submission when my relationship ended. If I was entirely honest with myself, I probably read the signs long before my girlfriend confessed to having gone behind my back to start exclusively dating her best friend. But a part of me, Submission no doubt, allowed me to overlook it and see what might happen. Weekend trips to Caroline's house? Candy and flowers on Valentine's Day? That was no ordinary friendship. And I blamed Submission for blinding me to it, ignoring it, and for somehow being turned on even in my heartbreak.

I tried to abandon Submission, to regain some control. Maybe if I agreed to only date vanilla people I could control it. I would be the arbiter of my sexual exploits. I called on Submission when needed, when appropriate, and sent them away when their time was up. It was transactional, they punched in and punched out. My encounters were just juicy enough to keep me going, but nowhere near the exploits from previous relationships. There was no longer any room for cohabitation.

That is, until this past Friday. I laid eyes on this woman, this beautiful woman with dulcet curves and an inviting smile. Submission was there before I said anything. They pushed me toward the field like a rookie at the season's first "Batter up!" They didn't even give me time to think of what to say, I was overcome with a need to worship this woman. She was tall, thick, a shock of grayish blond hair to the right and soft green eyes. We needed this.

She smiled and returned the compliment, and welcomed me into her circle. Christina. We talked and danced and enjoyed each other's company before she suddenly grabbed me by the neck. I needed that, and she knew it. She read me just like the guy who boldly approached my college girlfriend at the club. With Christina's hand on my neck, I wanted to do something absurd. I wanted to get naked and have her compare my dick and body to past lovers. Any woman of her stature and poise has had incredible sex, and I could tell. She commanded the room, briefly making out with the friend I had gone out with, who I had all but forgotten about while in her presence, and I was terribly aroused. Dirty thoughts bounced around my mind and she engaged them, doing things I've never dreamed of doing publically. She grabbed my dick, my ass, bent me over, spanked me. Pulled me around by my hair, kissed my neck. She made me her toy in front of an entire bar of people that had just seen me pretend to be anything other than submissive.

But I was somehow empowered in my role, even as her husband arrived and learned of my status, sizing me up. They were swingers, she told me. She put her number in my phone and reintroduced herself as Mistress Pandora. I wanted to drink her in fully, explore her body and let her explore mine, give her everything I had and everything I didn't. I was so taken with her confidence, her voice, the look on her face right before saying or doing something naughty. I felt her presence even as I left, electrified from the night and in disbelief that I had somehow gotten involved with this woman who was the closest to divine I'd ever met. We made plans to meet up again on Monday.

I tossed and turned in my bed for the next two nights, commissioned not to touch myself, which only made Submission and I closer. We laid in bed together like two old lovers reunited after a prolonged estrangement. Submission caressed me and kept me erect as I fought the urges to touch myself, as I obsessed over every pixel of the seductive photo she sent me. They followed me for long stretches of time, hours even, while I worked and while I slept. They were with me as I met her again that Monday and discussed our sexual history candidly at the dinner table of a fancy lounge. She talked openly, captivatingly, of her experiences, showing me videos of lovers and would-be lovers. I felt Submission even then, at the table, my arousal escalating as the night advanced to my apartment.

My simple bachelor pad where I spent so few hours was not worthy of this goddess, how could I be so foolish to let her in? Submission clouded my judgement with false promises of sensuality and release. Instead she commanded the room as she had at the bar, and toyed with me, undressing me slowly and directing me to touch myself. Submission pressed me to beg her for more, a touch, a caress, a grab. This was the woman who had grabbed my neck at the bar, the woman who made me send her a picture of my hard cock at Waffle House. The woman who made it so maddeningly impossible to focus at work earlier that day. How could she come all this way only to watch me stroke my cock?

She asked me what I wanted and I pleaded to allow me to touch her, but I was rejected. The only requests she granted were to take her shoes off, one at a time, slowly, and to sit while I stroked myself. She moved to the floor and displayed her body wantonly, but without showing much skin. I admired the soles of her shoeless feet while she sat back on her heels and gyrated her thick ass as if atop an imaginary cock. A part of me wanted to disobey, to fall to my knees and bypass her orders not to touch her, but Submission steadied me like a friend backing you down from a fight at a nightclub. "Be still," they said, and I sat motionless, save for my hand with was now pumping my cock with intention.

Mistress Pandora told me she wanted me to cum, to make a big mess, while she writhed on my bedroom floor. She fed me things to imagine, things to look forward to, inching me toward my climax. I was reaching the point of no return, but I was still desperate for her touch. I continued begging her, hoping she would alter her stance, but she was resolute in her response: no. Unable to contain myself any longer, and acquiescing to her will, I told her I was going to cum. And finally, in a passionate embrace with Submission, my longtime enemy, my eternal friend, we reconciled our differences at the command of Mistress Pandora. I erupted onto my hand and lap while she congratulated me on being such a good boy.

As I walked her to the door, still naked, still exposed, I realized with a chill down my spine that Submission and I were never at odds. In the presence of Mistress Pandora, we are one.