Jennifer Takes A Dare

"Truth or dare?" said Leanne.

Jennifer thought about it. Or tried to – after three glasses of wine she was more than a little buzzed.

"Truth," she said at last.

"Ok," said Leanne eagerly. "Have you ever let a guy tie you up?"

Jennifer's eyes widened.

"No!" she exclaimed, her face reddening. It might have been the wine, but she didn't really think so. "I'm not into that stuff."

"I'm not surprised," said Francesca. "You've always been such a little prude, Jen."

Jen stuck her tongue out at Francesca, who responded by sticking out her own, and wiggling the tip suggestively. This made Jennifer blush even more.

"What's wrong, Jen?" said Francesca, sliding closer to her on the sofa where they were both seated. Leanne sat across from them on a metal folding chair, watching with amusement. They were at Leanne's apartment near the University of Michigan campus, where they were all seniors. "I know you want me to eat that hot little pussy of yours. Mmmmm, yummy!" She made lip-smacking noises.

"Cut it out!" said Jennifer, elbowing Fran in the side. Her arm met the soft firmness of one of Leanne's breasts.

"Ooohhh, you felt me up, you dirty girl!" Fran exclaimed, her dark Italian eyes gleaming with mischief. "You like these titties! Come on, admit it, you want these big double D's." She cupped a boob in each hand and lifted them toward Jennifer's face. Leanne was laughing like a loon, tears running down her face.

"It was an accident," Jennifer protested. "Can we please play?"

"We can play any old time you want, Jenny baby," teased Fran, licking her lips sensuously.

Finally Jennifer smiled. "Ok, ok, fine. I've had a lesbian crush on you since ninth grade. You finally figured it out, Frannie."

That broke all of them up, and it was several minutes before Jennifer had regained her composure enough to ask the next question.

"Truth or dare," she said, turning to Fran.

Without hesitating, Fran answered "Dare."

Jennifer tapped her nails against her wineglass thoughtfully. "Okay, here's one. Kiss Leanne on the lips."

Fran rolled her eyes. "Puh-leeez!" she said with exaggerated indignation. "Is that all?" Looking across the table at Leanne, who was smiling at her naughtily, she said, "Pucker up, baby."

Leanne did, and the two of them leaned across the table and locked lips for ten full seconds, by Jennifer's watch.

"Mmmmm, niiiiiiice..." cooed Leanne playfully, batting her lashes at Fran.

"You know it," Fran said. "Best you ever had." She looked at Jennifer. "Satisfied?"

Jennifer said, "Yeah, all right, I guess it'll do."

Then it was Fran's turn to ask Leanne, "Truth, or dare?"

"Truth," said Leanne, taking a sip of her wine.

"Hmmmmm..." Fran looked at Leanne as if sizing her up. "Have you ever given a rimjob?" She grinned wickedly.

"Ewwwww!" said Leanne. The wine seemed to have made her revert to middle school slang.

"Come on!" said Fran.

"Oh, what the hell," said Leanne. "Yeah, once. Senior year."

Fran's eyes went wide and she giggled. "You bad, bad girl! Who?"

Leanne shook her head vehemently. "Uh-uh. Nope. I answered the question. That's it."

"Oh, fine, then," said Fran. "Jen's turn."

"You take my turn, Fran, I have to pee." She got up hurriedly and went off to the bathroom.

"My, what a small bladder you have!" Fran called after her. Leanne flipped her a middle finger without looking back. Fran and Jennifer both laughed.

"Okay," said Fran, turning to face Jennifer squarely. "Truth, or dare?"

Against her better judgment (the wine talking, she supposed), Jennifer said, "Truth."

"Oooh, goody," said Fran eagerly. "I already know what I want to ask you. What is the kinkiest sex fantasy you've ever had?"

Oh, fuck, thought Jennifer. Not that. She should have known Fran would come up with something like that.

There was no way in hell Jennifer was going to reveal that particular secret. She herself didn't like to think about it, but the alcohol combined with Fran's question made it spring up in her mind like an evil little jack-in-the-box. She thrust it back into her subconscious, but not before the old, familiar images showed themselves on her mental movie screen: her high school science teacher, Mr. Spellman, and his office, and his desk, and her bent over that desk with the side of her face pressed against the wood and her bare ass receiving a hard spanking by Mr. Spellman himself.

Tom Spellman had been the crush object of several girls, Jennifer knew, with his runner's physique and thick black hair streaked with gray. Hers had begun on the first day of her biology class with him her senior year. The spanking fantasy had begun a little later, when he had kept her after class to talk to her about her grade, which had been slipping thanks to the distracting sight of Mr. Spellman's gray-streaked black hair, which Jennifer discovered she liked. A lot. It didn't hurt that he had the tightest butt she'd ever seen on anyone over thirty. But his hair...it had been hard for her not to think about running her fingers through it, stroking it, twisting her fingers in it.

Her guilty fantasy had just popped into her mind as he talked to her that day, right then and there, fully formed, almost making her gasp aloud with its clarity and erotic force. It had returned frequently in the following months, but she had managed to refrain from masturbating to it, which would somehow legitimize it, she felt, and she didn't want that. Crushing on a teacher was one thing; fantasizing about getting spanked by him was another thing altogether.

Now, with an effort, Jennifer cleared the images from her mind and said, "Dare."

Fran raised her eyebrows suggestively. "She chooses dare! You must have some bad thoughts in that head of yours, Jen."

"Just give me the dare," said Jennifer, more curtly than she had intended. She was trying not to blush again.

"Okay, okay." Fran picked up her purse from the floor and rummaged around in it. She produced a small piece of paper and held it out to Jennifer. She saw that it was a bar napkin. There was a phone number written on it.

Jennifer took it and stared at Fran. "What the hell is this?"

"That, girl, is a phone number I picked up last weekend at that club downtown. You know, Flash? Anyway, I got talking to this hot guy there and after a while, he slipped me this. Turned out not to be my type."

Jennifer turned the napkin over in her hands. "What, and you think he's mine?" she said with disbelief.

"It's not what you think, hon. He's a professional dominant. He's looking for a new submissive."

At that moment Leanne returned and sat down.

"So? Was it truth or dare?"

"Dare," said Fran. "Jen has to call a professional male dom and tell him she'll be his sub."

Jennifer didn't know how to react. A big part of her (the prudish part, she supposed) was shocked at the idea. But some other part, some deeper part, was excited at the thought. She stared down at the phone number, and images of spankings drifted through her mind. Hell, she thought, it's just a phone call. It's not like I would really do anything.

----------

A week later, Jennifer found herself sitting at a corner table, alone, at one of the best restaurants in Ann Arbor. It was Saturday night, and the place was crowded. She sipped a glass of Chardonnay (which was damned good) and watched people coming and going through the ornate cut-glass front entrance. She was watching for...well, she didn't know his name. She had been told to address him as Sir when they met, and nothing else.

Jennifer had turned heads when she had entered the restaurant twenty minutes earlier. On his orders, she had dressed much more provocatively than she was accustomed to, and it had embarrassed her a little to have so many eyes fixed on her, which she supposed was the point. She wore a sheer, extremely tight black dress that ended just a few inches below her ass, black fishnet stockings, and shiny black stiletto heels. She had dolled up her face with black mascara, deep red lip gloss, and very light rouge that accentuated her cheekbones. Her hair was styled in waves that tumbled down her back and framed her face. Underneath it all she wore a tiny G-string that was currently rubbing against her pussy in a not entirely unpleasant way, and a sheer push-up bra that exposed her cleavage above the top of the minidress. On the whole, Jennifer reflected as she sat, butterflies fluttering in her stomach and her heart racing, she felt like a high-class hooker. Which she was sure was also the point.

It had been his voice that did it. After screwing up her nerve at Leanne's place to make the call, it had rung on the other end of the line at least fifteen times before being answered.

"Yes," a man's voice had said, and not as a question. The voice was deep, sonorous, calm, assured. Jennifer's breath had caught in her throat at that one word. Small electric tingles had raced through her, radiating from her pussy.

She had tried to speak, but found her mouth had gone dry. Everything around her – Leanne and Francesca, the sofa, the apartment – had faded into the background in seconds. She had held her cell phone pressed to her ear, wanting to speak, but utterly unable to do so.

"You may speak," the man on the other end of the line had said. "What is your name?"

"Jennifer," she had managed to whisper, becoming aware that her pussy was damp now. Leanne and Frannie had watched with amusement, but Jennifer had only heard that voice, that beautiful deep voice that seemed to penetrate her body like a seismic vibration.

"Jennifer," the voice had repeated. "Do you want to meet me, Jennifer?"

Without pausing to think, she had whispered, "Yes."

"Louder."

Some part of her mind had protested that she was being ordered around by a complete stranger, but that part was distant and faint.

"Yes," she had repeated, not whispering this time.

There had been a long silence, and then the voice had said, "Yes, you may meet me, Jennifer." This had been followed rapidly with a date, time, and location, along with a description of how she was to be dressed for the occasion. The voice had made her repeat all of the instructions, then the call had been abruptly disconnected, leaving Jennifer holding her cell phone in a daze, looking at Leanne and Frannie as if surprised they were there.

"Well?" Fran had asked impatiently.

Jennifer had hardly believed her own words. "I'm going to meet him."

Now, sitting and waiting, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, she realized that underneath the case of nerves that had hit her when she'd walked into the restaurant, she was excited. She had never been adventurous, hadn't slept with many guys (certainly not as many as Frannie and Leanne), wasn't a partier, and she kept telling herself that her excitement came from the adventure of it, from the newness of the experience. And no doubt that was part of it. But she couldn't deny the warm glow in her crotch, and the stiffness of her nipples under the minidress and bra, and the half-formed images that kept floating through her mind like lazy clouds: spankings administered by a big, strong hand; crawling naked on all fours around a man's feet, his hard dick bobbing over her head; commands given to her in that deep, sonorous voice she had heard on the phone, commands she was powerless to resist.

Jennifer squirmed in her seat. She felt glaringly out of place, dressed like a whore in such a high-end public place, and she felt like everyone was watching her out of the corners of their eyes, marking her as a hooker waiting for a "client." She checked her watch, and noticed that he was fifteen minutes late. It occurred to her that this, also, was probably intentional.

After another glass of wine she had become uncomfortable enough, in spite of the alcohol, that she decided it was time to leave. Disappointment and relief washed through her in equal measures as she collected her purse and began to get up.

That was when she saw him.

She happened to glance across the restaurant to the main doors, and a man was standing there, watching her. He was tall, over six feet, with heavy facial features that were at once rough and handsome. His hair was very dark, and well-groomed. He wore a well-tailored suit. Her overall impression at her first sight of him was one of calm authority – he radiated it even from across the crowded room as he stood regarding her with deep-set eyes, leaning casually with one elbow on the maître-d's stand.

Jennifer's breath stopped and her eyes widened. Slowly, without even fully being aware of it, she sat slowly back down, never taking her eyes off his. Her breath began to come a little faster. She had no idea how long he had been there, watching her; she hadn't seen him come in, although she'd thought she had been keeping a close eye on the door. She waited, unable to move, waiting for him to give some sort of cue about what would happen next.

She didn't have to wait long. Less than a minute after noticing him, Jennifer saw him raise one hand and beckon for her to come to him. She stood, and slowly made her way between the tables and around the waiters with trays piled with food. Her tight dress and high heels made it impossible to move quickly even if she'd wanted to, which she didn't. He didn't move as she approached, keeping the same relaxed pose against the maître-d stand, and as she got closer she began to notice fine lines around his eyes, nose, and mouth. She thought he might be around fifty, maybe older, maybe a little younger. It was hard to tell. There was a small, enigmatic smile on his lips. He was clean-shaven, but Jennifer saw a fine black stubble on his cheeks, chin, and upper lip. There were flecks of gray in the stubble, and she noticed also that there were small dashes of the same gray through his hair.

Finally, she reached him, and stood in front of him, her eyes fixed on his face. She felt very small, not only because of the difference in their heights (she saw now that he was at least six inches taller than her), but because of his...presence. That was the best word for it, she thought vaguely as her mind whirled with conflicting feelings of apprehension and excitement. He had presence. He would dominate any room he entered, and would lead any conversation in which he participated. She knew that for a certainty, even though he had yet to say a word. And the effect of being so close to him now was undeniable – Jennifer's pussy was damp and she had to fight the urge to kneel before him, unzip his expensive suit trousers, slip her hand in, and...

"Hello, Jennifer."

His voice snapped her out of her fantasy like a whiplash. In person, his voice was so much more penetrating than it had been on the phone, and it held her attention completely.

"H-hello," she said softly. She felt awkward and stupid, not knowing what else to say.

"Relax. I'm glad you are here."

His words almost felt like physical objects sliding warmly into her, the deep resonance of his voice producing a sympathetic vibration in her head, in her chest, and between her legs. At once, she felt less nervous...and much more aroused. In fact, some part of her thought, I'm fucking horny as hell.

She screwed up her courage and asked, "What's your name?"

He answered her with his own question. "Jennifer, do you want to be my submissive?"

The bluntness of it made her blush. It didn't help that the area where they stood was crowded with well-dressed patrons and restaurant staff. He hadn't spoken loudly, but it still embarrassed her that somebody might have heard him.

"I...I don't know. I think I want to try it." He nodded, as if expecting this answer. "Yes. I will give you five hours to decide whether to make your submission a long-term affair. Your trial period begins now." He looked at his watch; it was dull silver in color, and looked expensive. "It's now seven PM. At midnight tonight, I will expect you to have made your decision. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Good. Now repeat the words 'I am a dirty cocksucking slut' as loudly as you can."

Jennifer blinked.

"What?" she said through suddenly numb lips, feeling sure she hadn't heard him correctly. But a small voice inside her said otherwise. That voice knew exactly what he had said, and why he had said it.

"You heard me." His face darkened with displeasure, and Jennifer realized her hands were shaking. "You will be punished later, in private, for questioning my command. The next words you speak will be 'I am a dirty cocksucking slut,' spoken loudly."

Oh my God, what the hell am I getting into, she thought, but she couldn't deny that hearing this man say the word "punishment" excited her. Thoughts of her little spanking fantasy surfaced briefly.

As loudly as her dry throat would allow, she said "I'm a dirty cocksucking slut!"

There was a sudden silence in the restaurant, and every face turned to stare at her. Forks stopped halfway to mouths, conversations were cut off as if with a knife, waiters froze with trays of wine glasses held aloft. She could see shocked looks everywhere; one elderly couple just coming in through the front doors stopped in their tracks, and Jennifer saw identical expressions of horror on their staring faces.

In another moment, the maître-d, a small bald man with gold-rimmed glasses wearing a tuxedo, bustled over to them with an expression like he'd just bit into a lemon.

"Ma'am," he said archly, looking at Jennifer's reddening face over his glasses. "That language is entirely inappropriate for this establishment. I must insist that you leave immediately." To Jennifer's horror, there were claps of approval from several patrons.

She felt so humiliated she could scarcely breathe. She looked at the man she had come here to meet, and saw that the enigmatic smile hadn't left his lips. He was regarding her with a measuring, disinterested gaze, as if sizing up her reaction to what was happening. Of their own accord, tears spilled onto Jennifer's burning cheeks. She stared at the floor, and somehow forced her legs to move. Unsteadily, suddenly feeling lightheaded, she managed to make her way out through the main door, past the elderly couple (who backed away from her as if she had some contagious disease) and into the night.

But as she went, she realized that underneath her embarrassment, she was hornier than ever.

-------

The man whose name Jennifer still did not know followed her out. He took one of her wrists in his, not gently, and directed her toward a BMW parked near the entrance.

"You will spend tonight with me, Jennifer," he said as they walked. Jennifer tried to focus on his words but the combination of her shame at being kicked out of the restaurant and the feel of his strong hand on her wrist made it difficult. Her throbbing pussy didn't help matters, either.

"Don't worry. I won't require you to come to my home. Not until you have decided you can trust me. We will spend tonight at a hotel."

The hotel turned out to be the Ann Arbor Towers, one of the best in the city. Jennifer wasn't surprised. They checked in under the names "Mr. and Mrs. John Smith," and were given a key card to a penthouse on the top floor.

During the elevator ride up to their suite, he said, "You asked earlier about my name. You haven't earned the privilege of knowing my name, or calling me by it. You will address me as sir. Nothing else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Jennifer, the second word sounding strange in her ears. Her heart was racing as she stood in the oak-paneled elevator car, wondering what the night would bring.

"Good."

The rest of the ride was silent, and at last they arrived at their floor. The hallway was sumptuously appointed in dark carpeting, wood panels, and hidden lighting. Their penthouse was at the far end of the hall. They walked to the door, and he opened it with the key card. He entered first, then beckoned for Jennifer to follow.