Jenny's Journey Ch. 01

I am standing on his doorstep in the rain, my clothes soaked through, my long chestnut hair matted against my face, trying to work up the courage to knock.

I had met James at a bar three nights earlier. I spotted him as soon as I walked in: tall, slim, intense brown eyes, mischievous smile. Wearing a dark suit, for some reason, in this otherwise very casual pub. He was standing alone, sipping his amber-colored drink, but he seemed utterly at home as he scoped out his surroundings. Maybe it was that comfort in his own skin that kept drawing my eye, even as I tried to focus on my friend Clara's voice.

"I mean, I think it's just time to call it a day and quit," Clara was saying. She knocked back the remainder of her whiskey and gestured to the waiter for another. "I've hated it there for a long time, but this was really the last straw—Jenny, are you listening to me?"

I snapped back to attention. "I'm sorry, I just got distracted for a second there..."

"I can see that." Clara smirked, sucking an ice cube out of her empty glass and swirling it around her mouth as her eyes darted between me and him. "He's hot," she assessed, staring openly in his direction in a way that made my cheeks flush scarlet. "And he's on his way over here."

I stared as her wide-eyed, feeling the hot flush creep to my ears and my chest. Clara laughed playfully as she observed my reaction. "Relax, Jen. Take a drink."

Before I could follow her advice, he was there at our table, smiling widely – but somehow not quite warmly – at us both. "I saw you two staring at me and thought I should say hello," he said. From up close, I realized that he was likely older than me – around 40 or so to my 29.

At the same time, Clara and I both responded. "I hardly think we were staring at you," she said, and I couldn't quite tell if her voice is flirtatious or annoyed. Maybe a bit of both. I took another tack. "I'm sorry," I blurted out, feeling silly immediately. What was I apologizing for? I was often on the quieter side, granted, but cocky barflies were hardly my style, and this kind of forwardness had never worked on me in the past. Not that I'd had so much experience. Clara was always the beautiful one, with blond waves and blue eyes and soft golden skin. I am sweet-faced and plain – not unattractive, but not striking either. While we had been approached by men often in this bar during our weekly catch-ups, they tended to gravitate towards her, with me taking up the role of reluctant wing-woman. Clara would dispatch with them quickly, often getting their numbers before they left, and then we would confer about whether she should call them or not. I would write off the slick, over-confident ones immediately, and she would laugh at my predictability. Now, though, she was watching me closely. I was staring intently at the table, so I couldn't see her face, but I knew she was wondering what I saw in tonight's tableside wooer.

"You're forgiven," he said to me, ignoring Clara's remark altogether. I looked up, into his mysterious, dark eyes. "James," he said, holding out his hand.

"Jenny," I replied, taking it. His touch was electric.

"A pleasure." He paused to sip his drink, his eyes still boring into me. He seemed to consider whether to continue, then set down his glass, took out his wallet, and handed me a card. "I'd like to see more of you, Jenny. Tonight, if possible. My address is on here. I think each of us might be what the other needs." As I reached for the card, he grabbed my wrist with more force than I was expecting, enough to make me jump just a little. "Come after 10," he said.

Clara snorted, but neither of us turned to her. I opened my mouth, but I couldn't think of a single thing to say. James released my wrist, smiled and nodded in Clara's direction, and walked away.

"What is up with you?" Clara asked as soon as he was out of earshot. "Are you into him? THAT guy? He has creep written all over him."

I smiled at her weakly. "Yeah, right?" I said, but I surreptitiously slipped his card into my purse when the waiter brought her second whiskey.

I didn't go to James's house that night. But for the next three days I thought about him almost constantly – all day at my cubical, all night as I tossed and turned in bed, replaying the feeling of his fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist. That part in particular I couldn't get out of my head – the way he had controlled me for that split second. The way I had given myself over to it, kept my hand steady so that Clara wouldn't notice. The flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes that told me he knew exactly what I was doing, maybe even better than I did. The growl of his voice when he ordered "Come after 10."

That's how I kept thinking of that last part: as an order. Something that I had disobeyed, and that I was somehow perpetually disobeying with every passing moment. That should have seemed strange, like an impertinent demand made by a stranger and rightfully ignored by me. That's how Clara saw it – she had forgotten about him seconds after he left the table, and was back onto her story about quitting her job as if nothing had happened. But I couldn't conceal from myself, no matter how uncomfortable it made me, that I wanted to obey.

That night, when I'd gotten home, I had dug out his card and Googled him immediately. James Spencer. Defense attorney. The most recent articles were about his work with the Innocence Project, retrying cases for wrongly convicted death row inmates. There were pictures of him standing next to grateful clients, and candid shots of him at charity events. "At least he's not a psychopath," I told myself, though my own argument didn't sound particularly convincing to my ears. And there was something striking about those photos. His smile in them was amiable, personable, and his eyes were intelligent and determined. But the intensity of that night at the bar – that was missing. Or maybe it was hiding.

On the third day after our meeting, I broke. I was sitting at my desk, inputting details about equipment orders, and I suddenly felt like if I didn't call him, I would burn up. Just spontaneously combust in my seat. Or scream. Or both, simultaneously. I grabbed my purse and rushed to the rarely-used supply closet for a bit of privacy. Before I could wonder whether I was making the right decision, I heard his voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Hi....J-james?"

"Yes? Who is this?" Like his photos, his voice was a little softer than I remembered. But my breath still caught in my throat.

"This is Jenny. From the bar?"

"Jenny." I could tell he was pleased, and it thrilled me so much that I actually steadied myself against the racks of printer paper and envelopes. Then, in a tone closer to the one I remembered from the bar: "You didn't follow my instructions on Friday."

"No. I-I'm sorry." Apologizing again.

"You're forgiven." Again, I felt like an electric pulse travels through me. What was happening to me? "You can make it up to me by joining me for dinner tonight. 7:00." He paused for me to answer, but I couldn't. I was afraid of what seemed to be happening to me, and I couldn't bring myself to agree to it, whatever "it" was. And yet, I also couldn't hang up the phone. Seconds passed, but they felt like hours. Finally, he simply said, "Don't be late," and hung up. I was left panting in the utility closet, realizing to my utter humiliation that I could feel a new, unmistakable slickness between my legs as I made my way back to my desk.

I arrived at James's house at 7:00 sharp. It was a small, modern-looking bungalow, but I was too nervous to take in the surroundings. I knocked on the door, and when it swung open, he stood there in jeans and a blue sweater, looking almost impossibly handsome, making me immediately question my simple black dress, which suddenly felt both too formal and too casual. He smiled warmly, and I relaxed a bit as I followed him to the kitchen. Bolognaise bubbled welcomingly on the stove, offsetting the coolness of his otherwise stark white-and-slate kitchen. I accepted the wine he poured for me, and asked whether I could help.

"I think I've got it," he said with another easy smile as I took a too-big gulp of my wine. "Take a load off. Tell me a bit about yourself."

I realized, surreally, that I was on a date. I'm not sure what I expected, but casual small talk about my boring job was not it. Was I relieved? Or disappointed?

By the time we had dug into our food, the basics had been covered: jobs, siblings, hometowns, pleasantries. He was nice. He was handsome. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. It was a good first date, all things told. But I found myself watching him over the rim of my wine glass when he wasn't looking, searching for the intensity I'd seen at the bar.

"Can I ask you a question?" I said after a glass and a half of wine.

He set down his fork and turned to me, giving me his undivided attention. "Shoot."

"Why..." I wasn't sure what I was doing, but I barreled forward. "Why did you talk to me that way at the bar?" And then, more quietly, as if confessing something, "Why did you grab my wrist like that?"

His smile was playful, but his eyes darkened just a bit. He paused, calculating how to respond. "Because you're exactly what I've been looking for, Jenny. I can see what you need. It's written all over you. But I don't think even you know it yet. I wanted to make sure I was right. That's why I grabbed your wrist."

I felt woozy. Like the wine was going to my head. "What do you mean? What did you see?"

He leaned towards me. Our knees almost touched. "You're a submissive. You're the most beautiful submissive I've ever seen. And you are aching for a master."

"What? What does that...?"

"Were you wet when you got home from the bar on Friday night?"

I started. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." His voice was hard. My heart was racing. "Were you wet?"

A pause. "Yes," I said finally.

"And did you masturbate that night?"

"No." My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else.

"What about Saturday and Sunday? When you replayed that moment from the bar, and your pussy ached and your skin flushed and your heart hammered at your chest? Did you masturbate then?"

I forced myself to look at him, my eyes searching his for an answer to a question I didn't even realize I had until now. "No."

"Why not?" he asked, his voice almost taunting. "Are you opposed to pleasure?"

"No."

"Do you often deny yourself orgasms?"

"No."

"Do you usually resist touching yourself when you're aching to cum?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

"I....I..." I faltered. "I don't know."

"You do know." He put his hands on my thighs, his fingertips under my dress, just inches from my hot, dripping pussy. I looked at his hands, but I did nothing to stop them. "Look at me," he demanded, and I forced my eyes back to his. There was a hunger there that I haven't seen before. It scared me. It thrilled me. "I'll tell you why. You didn't touch yourself for three days because you wanted my permission to cum." His fingers inched up, but I kept my legs pressed resolutely together. "You're such a good little sub, that even though you didn't know what you were doing, didn't know what you were even looking for, even though we'd talked for all of 30 seconds, you were waiting for my permission to cum. That's right, isn't it?"

I felt his fingers stop just shy of my pussy lips. His eyes were boring into my soul. "No," I said, shaking my head too vigorously, as if trying to convince myself. "That's not it."

He withdrew his hands immediately, and by body lurched forward ever-so-slightly, chasing after his receding touch. "Alright," he said, sitting back in his chair. "Maybe I'm wrong." He grabbed our plates of half-eaten spaghetti, making me jump a bit, and whisked them off to the kitchen. "And if I'm wrong about that, then I'm very sorry, but I don't see this working." He came back to the table and extended his hand. "It was lovely to get to know you a little."

I got to my feet, not sure what had just happened. I shook his outstretched hand. Just as I was about to move away, he gripped my hand and pulled me roughly towards him, so that our bodies were pressed together. "If I'm not wrong – and I'm sure I'm not – you'll have to come back to be punished," he growled in my ear before letting go of my hand. I staggered backwards, grabbed my purse, and without another word hurried out the door.

That was an hour ago. I've been walking around ever since, trying to head home only to find myself winding my way back here. It had started to rain while I'd been inside his house, and now my carefully styled hair hangs in wet clumps and my black dress clings to my body like a wet rag. I hate to think what my make-up looks like. I keep replaying James's words to me, wondering whether they can be true. But it's all performance. I know they're true. The only thing I don't know is whether I have the guts to follow through on them.

I'm standing now on James's doorstep, my right hand balled into a fist at my side, the cold mist of rain making my skin prickle and my teeth chatter. I take a deep breath and knock.

He opens the door immediately, like he's been waiting there for me to make up my mind. I realize with embarrassment that he probably has been. "Yes?" he says.

"You were right," I breathe, wrapping my arms around myself more to conceal my painfully erect nipples than to shield myself from the cold.

"About what?" he asks, making no move to invite me inside.

"Everything." I'm not trying to be coy – I don't know what he wants. He clarifies immediately.

"I want to hear you say it."

There's no turning back now. "I didn't...touch...myself because I wanted you to tell me that I could. I have felt empty in all of my other relationships, and I've never known why. But you make me feel...incredible. Your voice...." I lose my train of thought, and he prompts me, firmly but gently.

"You realize now that you are a submissive?"

"Yes," I say, a strange sense of relief washing over me. "Yes. I'm a submissive."

"Do you think you know what that means?"

I think about this. "I'm not sure, " I say honestly. "But I want to know."

He nods, and a playful smile creeps onto his face. "Before you left, I told you to come back for your punishment. Is that why you're here?"

"Yes." This word erupts from me like a growl, or a moan, something from deep within me that I've been repressing without knowing it. My entire body tingles with anticipation.

"Good. Come in out of the rain." And then, as if on second thought: "On your hands and knees."

I don't even hesitate. I hear him close the door behind me as I slowly crawl across his cold ceramic tiles, water dripping from my clothes and hair. Then he is standing in front of me again, and I look up at him, feeling the electricity I've felt with him from the beginning amplify as I gaze into his face that is somehow impish, loving, and cruel all at once.

"You need to thank me for taking in a little slut like you out of the rain."

"Thank you," I say, my voice and body trembling.

He kneels in front of me, grabs a handful of wet hair, and pulls my head back, so that our eyes are locked. His grip is firm, but just shy of painful. "Thank you what?" he asks.

This time, I'm sure I know the answer.

"Thank you, Master," I say.