Rubber Dress

A real life - and not very erotic - story about a prodomme.

She had thick glasses. And quiet clothes. And the manner you get with two degrees. Strangers passing her on the street would think, 'a librarian with decent legs'. She actually did have decent legs. More than decent. But she was not a librarian.

Come to think of it, she was a Liberian. At least she did have library. She really had a library. As in twenty thousand books. As in bookcases thirty something feet and looming. As in a William Blake calendar.

So I am not sure what it is I miss the most: her whip, her wit or her volumes.

But she also had a telephone. Quite a few of them in fact. She was constantly talking on a goddess-dammed telephone. As she impatiently explained once, a professional dominatrix spends two percent of her time beating up on boys. But she spends a fair amount of time - I should say an unfair amount - answering pages. The Mistress ruled other people's lives and a plastic box with a beep ruled hers.

And laundry. Laundry. Mistresses do laundry. Or to be more exact, their slaves do laundry. Forty-eight dollars in quarters one time. Twelve hundred panties. Extra-extra-extra large panties.

Laundromats are temples of female domination. The are. Really. Really they are. You have all these guys being ignorant guys. Complicated matters like white in hot and colors in cold bewilder the lads. But women charge to the rescue. They tell the poor men what to do. The poor men gratefully obey.

The good parts haunt me.

The good parts haunt me and gives me erections at two and a couple of minutes in the mornings. Her eyes.

I remember how her eyes just gleamed - she wore a halo - and she smiled at me and smiled at me and smiled at me that time - a memorable occasion for a number of reasons - she jabbed a boot heel into my penis.

Yes it hurt.

And I will always remember her incredible voice. She had - has - a beautiful voice. Elegant. Light. Resonant. Real. The faint - very faint - shadow of a brogue.

I will always remember her first words to me. I had seen her ad in what used to be an underground newspaper. I had nervously dialed the number it gave.

I realize now that some absolute bastard must have just called. He swore at her and referred to her as a bitch or a goddammed bitch or tried to get himself a little free phone sex. (All these tend to constant problems when you put your number in a column headed "Personal Services".)

And in a truly great I-won't-take-this-shit-anymore voice, Mistress said, 'Look, if we do anything, it will be about my pleasure. Not about yours. Got it.'

YES!! YES!!

Actually, I didn't say that. I felt it actually.

Her next commands arrived.

'Find a cold and dark room. A room that has privacy. Get paper, pen and a new candle. Light the candle. Put it where you can see it from a spot on the floor. Then undress. Then stretch out in the spot on the floor. You must gaze into the flame. Think about serving me. Why do you want it? What do you offer me? Do not jerk off. After ten minutes compose a hundred word piece about serving me. Mail it... .'

When she posed the inevitable prodomme question, I replied that I wanted her to dominate me. I wanted sessions to begin at times she proscribed. I wanted a session to end when she wanted it to end. And to consist of activities desired by her. Or inactivities desired by her. And I would pay amounts she specified. At times she specified. Did she take checks?

She did not, of course, believe it. (I don't believe it now in fact. But I hoped to make it true.) The first thing she tried was crossdressing. First because of the overhead. The horrific overhead. She is at heart a pessimist.

She ordered me to purchase me-sized pantyhose at a what she referred to as 'a clothing store for fat ladies'. I was to obtain a receipt. With the salesperson's signature. I was to then wear the pantyhose under usual clothes when I went to work.

A few days later I put the receipt - the signed receipt - in the librarian's hands. I thanked her for her domination. I smiled. I observed that pantyhose was warm and nice. She looked at me like I had just stepped out of a UFO.

Then she commanded me to spank her. I don't care to be penny wise and pound foolish.

In female domination, my pennies are my fetishes. The pounds for me are hers. Thus I wanted what she wanted. I also want what she wanted. And also what she wanted. And also what she wanted. But for the record I do have an ass fetish. The woman of my dreams would take a seat on my face. So as I hit the librarian's naked rear, I considered the nature of fate.

And my penis curled up in my pubic hair like an earthworm hiding under a bush.

And suddenly she understood.

Unix boxes had well designed timers. Well designed for slaves that is. You typed in an exact instant. You weren't trapped in a stupid listbox. And when the moment came, you got a popup, a flashing icon and an optional beep. Mistress would say, 'Call me at eight thirty-two.'

At eight thirty-one the popup would pop. A minute later Mistress would say 'Call me at ten after nine .' At nine oh nine... . This would sometimes go on for half the morning. I was an very good alarm clock in her opinion.

My office mate did not give his opinion.

Mistress taught me to simply adore - simply adore - the taste and the smell (and the tasty overtones) of her boots and socks and feet.

By the way, this acquired fetish solved a problem. I wanted her sexually. (Not like Tarzan; more like Jane - or perhaps Boy.) In any case, I wanted her sexually. However, I would not kneel before a woman who sold her sex. I was the Groucho Marx of perverts.

But selling feet is honorable. At least it is to me. And between a woman's toes is intimate terrain. At least is to me. Makes foot worship a useful religion.

Our best day was vacuum cleaner day. (Though I slipped. I called her Mistress in front of a clerk. And didn't sit down sans a reminder for more than the proverbial month.) We also went to a double-feature. There were one scene with all the actors all in drag. Mistress laughed so hard I considered calling am ambulance. At lunch she blessed my food. She blessed my food by spitting on it.

My first erection from eating green beans.

So why on earth did it end? We didn't we get married - or me get collared or whatever the correct term is - and have kids and a mortgage and a dungeon?

I really don't know. I really do not know.

At the time it was almost like an accident, an SM game gone awry or something. Oops... and the best relationship of my life was gone.

But that's too superficial. I could probably have patched matters up. I could certainly have tried. I did not try. Neither did she.

So why?

Maybe its because I'm a lousy slave. I'm old and I'm fat and at the end of the day I'm just another possessive male. I want my Mistress to be my Mistress.

And she was thoroughly caught in the prodomme trap. Brandish the whip or lose the apartment. It wasn't really about her fun. It was about money. I was about money. Maybe that's it.

I'm not sure.

I 'd like to telephone her. (Or leave her a page.) I'd like to take her to dinner. Maybe I could find out what she thinks happened.

I've searched the internet. All I could find was a picture of her in a rubber dress.

I remember cleaning that dress as she held it. She told me how painfully much the dress cost. She told me that if it ripped, the rip would grow and grow and grow. She talked about how her heart was in her mouth when she wore the rubber dress during a session.

* * * * *

(c) Copyright 2002. All rights reserved.