25 Mayıs 2024

How She Draped My Net Around Her

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I would like to express my gratitude to HS.

It was a quarter to four, just before I normally leave work on a Friday afternoon, when she came through the door to my office.

“Hi,” she said, as I looked up. “I still haven’t thanked you for helping me move into my new place, and I wondered if you would like to come over for dinner some time.”

Anita only recently started working in our department and had broken up with her boyfriend only a few weeks after that. I guess she had just finished university when she decided to follow her boyfriend from Germany to here, which apparently hadn’t worked out too well, and now she had to move her few belongings to a small apartment near the center of town. She’d also bought a bed and some other furniture from a second hand shop nearby. Because I had a car, I’d offered to help her move her stuff to her new house, which wasn’t a great effort, and we were done moving and setting everything up within a couple of hours.

I told her I would love to have dinner with her and asked when would be suitable. “How about today?” she suggested.

“Sure,” I said, but added that I didn’t happen to have the traditional wine or flowers in my office, commonly brought when visiting someone’s new house. She smiled and told me that I would be welcome without following the customary rules of etiquette and asked me to come at half past five so she would have sufficient time to prepare some food.

And so I stood in front of her door at half past five. There was a flower shop on the way, so I bought a medium sized plant for a housewarming gift, and rang her doorbell right on time.

“Just a minute!” I heard her calling, clearly busy managing her pots and pans, and a bit later she opened the door. “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” she blushed, letting me in.

“It’s OK,” I replied, “The aroma from your kitchen tells me it’s worth it.” She noticed the plant and asked me to place it in the living room — certainly I would remember where it was — and told me to make myself comfortable as she needed a bit more time to finish cooking.

Of course, I asked her if I could help, but she ensured me that the only thing left was just finishing off the details and that she would be better off alone in her small kitchen. Then it dawned upon me that she looked different — at work it was only jeans and sweaters, but now she was wearing a blue skirt, just below the knees, with matching blouse.

“I like the way you’re dressed,” I told her, and she smiled.

“I thought I could put on something comfortable. I prefer to keep my work and private clothes separate,” she told me shyly.

I walked into the living room, found what I thought to be a suitable place for the plant, and looked around. A typical student’s room: some random souvenirs, a guitar, and a number of books on a shelf. When I moved closer to the bookshelf, I noticed her unusual collection. In addition to mainstream books like the Stephen Kings, “The Great Gatsby,” “Animal Farm,” and even “War and Peace” (the last one clearly never opened), there was significant shelf space dedicated to a different type of book. It contained the “Fifty Shades” works of E.L. James, and “Story of O,” and it was clear that this genre was more to her interest. There were also quite a few titles I wasn’t familiar with, like “The Secret Life of a Submissive,” “It’s Not About the Whip,” “Shibari You Can Use,” “Carrie’s Story,” “The Pleasure’s All Mine,” and “Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns.” Based on the condition of the spines, all of these books had been read thoroughly.

I briefly looked at some of the back-covers and moved on through the room, looking for some other surprises, and I wasn’t disappointed. On the dining table, I noticed “The BDSM Coloring Book” — I never even thought about the possibility that those books would exist, and flipping through the pages, I saw some of the drawings had been colored with great care. However, as I didn’t want to embarrass Anita, I moved on and took a seat on the sofa. On the coffee table, I noticed the book “The Diary of a Submissive” lying open, partly covered by an old newspaper, but decided to look through one of scientific journals lying scattered on the sofa.

I just opened the journal when Anita came in, carrying a tureen of soup. I noticed her slyly shoving “The BDSM Coloring Book” under some magazines on a chair. Then she turned to me.

“And, how do you like the place?”

I told her I really liked the furnishing and decorations and helped carrying plates and cutlery from the kitchen, while she poured the wine.

We toasted, and started our dinner. First there was the soup, nicely flavored, baguettes on the side, and we exchanged some small talk. About our colleagues and the project I was working on, how she liked the place, if she didn’t miss the town where she came from, and how she passed her free-time.

She told me that, of course, she missed her family and friends and still wasn’t completely settled özbek escort in yet. She’d bought a guitar from her first salary, thinking that learning to play it would help to pass the time, but that turned out not to be her cup of tea. Instead, she spent her evenings drawing and painting — yes, indeed, some of the pictures on the walls were hers — and reading. On the weekends she liked walking on the beach.

We talked a bit about Orwell, the new book of Harper Lee, and then I asked her what she was reading at the moment.

“Oh,” she blushed, and stuttered, “something like fifty grades of… Fifty Shades of Grey”.

“Ah,” I replied, “did you see the movie?”

She shook her head and, with blushes on her cheeks, she tried to reply with a matter-of-fact kind of voice, which hopelessly failed, that perhaps we could go see it together.

“That it would be fun!” I replied, “Me, being the only man in a cinema crowded with women!” but immediately bit my tongue — I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic.

Fortunately, she didn’t seem to pick up any negative loading, and merrily suggested that we could rent the video as soon as it came out.

The soup was finished, but it took some more time before the main dish would be ready, and she filled the wine glasses again. I thought I would better take it easy on the wine. I didn’t want to spoil the evening with reckless comments, something I’m quite adept at. On the other hand, I knew that lack of decisive acting had always been one of my many weak points, and, given the way things evolved so far, I decided it might be a good occasion to take things a bit further.

So I took, mentally, a deep breath, and asked Anita about the book I saw on the coffee table.

At first, she acted as if she didn’t understand what I was talking about, but I pushed through, and asked more specifically about “The Diary of a Submissive.”

The red color came back on her cheeks, but turning a few grades deeper. I saw her swallowing, but eventually she gave me a very brief summary of its content, avoiding any graphic details. Obviously trying to appear cool and calm, her voice gave away her nerves, being soft and higher.

I decided to leave the subject for now, perhaps to be continued later, and changed the subject to Stephen King, not really my genre, but Anita seemed relieved to change to this topic.

The main course was ready, and Anita left for the kitchen. I watched her going and registered the features of her body with new interest. She wouldn’t be described as stunningly beautiful; her body, although not fat, was a bit pear-shaped, certainly no hour-glass figure, wide hips with round buttocks. Her breasts were modest in size and her shoulder-long hair framed a face which was open and friendly, but not of the type found on the covers of magazines. Nevertheless, the way she moved, her voice, her words and her actions, clearly she had some charm to me.

Did I want to continue the game or should I restore our distance and leave her at the end of the evening as just a friend? Did I interpret the situation correctly, or was my imagination running wild? And, if I did see things right, would I be able to fulfill her expectations, and mine?

I had read and even fantasized about domination and submission, but putting it in action would be another story. Was I ready for starting something, either regular or with extras? I didn’t have much time to think this over, as Anita came in carrying a steaming dish of lasagna. I decided to let things go and see where they would end.

We exchanged some more small talk over the lasagna, which tasted delicious, and despite my good intentions, the first bottle of wine was soon replaced by a second one.

Moving from music, dating and ballroom dancing, the subject of our talk somehow changed to education, and Anita told me that, in general, she didn’t appreciate the system of student participation, and preferred the order and clarity resulting from a stronger hierarchy at school. Probably encouraged by the wine, I told her that it fitted the picture.

She looked at me non understanding, so I summed up: “You’ve told me before that you like your work written out for you — not too much improvisation or self-initiative. You like to be led in a strong, clear and unequivocal way, at least when it concerns ballroom dancing. You like hierarchy and someone ruling over you. And last but not least, you’ve read a great deal about dominance and submission. Clearly you are the submissive type of person.”

This time, her face didn’t turn red but went pale, she cowered a bit, and stared at the ground. Did I overstep my boundaries this time?

Finally she mumbled, “If you say so. You’re probably right.”

That wasn’t very encouraging, but I decided to go for all or nothing. “Is it only from books, or do you also have real-life experience in submission?”

She became even smaller, and, head down, she whispered, barely audible, mecidiyeköy escort “Just books.”

She shriveled, and seeing her, small, pale, head down, shivering, made me feel miserable. How could I have misjudged the situation so badly? I knew there was no way to undo this. It was going to be a long, long and unpleasant evening, and I didn’t want to think about the following days, weeks, the time that would come after today. How could we look each other in the eyes at work, after this conversation? Would she leave? Should I accommodate her by quitting my job?

Then, after a long pause, she continued in a faint whisper, “The conditions were never there.”

My heart started beating again, and I looked at her in a new light. “What’s the situation at this moment?” I asked her, trying to keep my voice under control.

She weakly raised her shoulders.

“Look at me,” I demanded, and she slowly raised her head. I could see fear and confusion, but I continued, more friendly but persistent still: “So, what is the situation now, I asked you.”

I could barely make out her answer, whispering with hoarse voice the one word, “Better.”

“OK, then, eat,” I said, and she put a tiny piece of lasagna in her mouth.

“Drink some wine,” I told her, and she took a sip.

“Just sit up straight and continue your meal,” I added. She moved around a bit on her chair, slightly straightened her back, and started pecking at the lasagna with her fork.

I started to lose my nerves and my patience. I wasn’t in for another round of confusion and fear. “Now tell me what you want — did I go too far? Do you want me to leave?”

She looked up, and shook her head vigorously, but at the same time, tears welled in her eyes, and her shoulders shook frantically.

I stood up and walked behind her. I put my hands on her shoulders and then softly rubbed her upper arms. “Now, you calm down!” I said, putting some force in my voice.

She clearly tried to get control of herself, but kept sobbing and shivering. “Let’s get things clear. First of all, do you want me to leave right now?”

Again, she shook her head, restrained this time.

“I can’t hear you!” I said, and she softly answered, “No, please stay.”

“OK,” I continued, “do you think I’ve been inappropriate?”

She started shaking her head, but then remembered, and said no.

“Should I change the subject?” Now she looked up at me, and again the answer was no.

“Then,” I asked, “why are you crying and sobbing at the moment? Should we take a break?”

Now, forced to speak more than a single syllable, she swallowed, wiped her tears away, took a deep breath and answered, “I’m just feeling confused. I have been thinking about being submissive for years, but now that I’m really talking about it with someone else, it feels so different. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to react. But please! Don’t stop. I want this, but it’s just the confusion. I don’t know… Maybe,… … Is it OK if I smoke?”

“Of course,” I answered, “but do it outside. I don’t like smoking, and especially not in the house”.

“Oh, but if you don’t want…”

“No, no, it’s alright. I guess you could really use a cigarette now. Go ahead.”

She went outside and I stayed behind, assuming she could use some time alone. And so did I. While thinking about Anita’s confession about being submissive, and my possible role in this, my eyes wandered through the room, eventually resting on one specific spot on the wall. Staring at it for some time, it slowly dawned to me that I was looking at a pencil drawing of a long haired girl, sitting cross legged on the ground.

Looking in more detail, her legs were tied in position, the long, dark hair covering the bare breasts, and her arms held at the back. I walked closer to the drawing to have a better look. Actually, it was very well done and made with great detail, and it captured serenity and pride in the expression of the girl. The signature on the bottom-right showed that Anita had drawn it. I moved through the room, looking for similar images, but other decorations consisted of photos of Anita and her friends, Anita sitting on a horse, a drawing of a rose and a drawing of a kitten.

Anita came back in, and we both returned to the dining table. Although not completely at ease, she looked better, quietly waiting for whatever was to come.

“How are you doing now?” I asked, and she replied, “Much better.”

“So, shall we continue eating then?” I asked, and she nodded.

“I didn’t hear you! What did you say?” I asked, and she quickly replied a soft “yes.”

That was sufficient for now, and in silence we continued to eat.

Slowly she began to relax a little bit. I told her once more that the food was really nice, asked about the recipe, and tried some small talk, but Anita’s replies remained short and uncomfortable. Therefore I decided to stop trying to make her at ease, and to get azeri escort to the core.

“I like that drawing!” I said, pointing to the constrained girl.

She looked in the direction and a tiny smile broke through.

“How did you draw it?” I continued, “I mean, did you use a picture, the internet, or did you make it up yourself?”

“It’s from a book.” she replied. “I wish I had the skills to draw it from my mind, but nevertheless, I’m happy with the results.”

“Rightfully so!” I said, “What’s the book about?”

“It’s about Shibari.” she answered, and, when I looked not-understanding, “It’s about rope bondage. Would you like to see the book?”

I shook my head. “Maybe later. I really like the drawing, but you don’t seem comfortable at all about this topic. What do you do when your parents are visiting?”

She looked down again. “The drawing isn’t there when my parents are visiting.”

“And with other people?”

She shook her head again.

“And what about the books? They speak for themselves. Never got any questions about them?”

“Normally they aren’t on display,” she replied.

“But now they are. Did you want me to see them?”

She nodded barely visible. Her face was pale again, but less stressed than before.

“Did you want to shock me, provoke me, invite me? What’s the idea?”

“I wanted to see your reaction, see if we could talk about it.” she answered with a weak voice.

“But why?” I replied. “Do I behave that dominantly at work? Can you see me wielding a whip?”

“No, you’re not,” she replied, “but I like you and… …never mind.”

“Oh, no!” I responded. “Now you’re not getting away so easily. Also because I do like the idea of it.”

Now she slightly lifted her head and glanced at me through her eyelashes.

“I have to admit that I somehow like to picture women being tied up and obedient,” I said. “Moreover…, or perhaps, on the other hand, I do like you, and I think it would be nice getting to know you better. But I am not sure if I can play this game — I don’t like hurting people. I certainly like to be in control, but to inflict pain…”

Now it was me whose face turned red. That, however, did seem to have a positive effect on Anita, who visibly relaxed and finally started talking.

“That’s exactly what I like about you! You’re so nice and friendly, but at the same time you do radiate some kind of authority. Everyone at work will listen to you and follow your advice, even those who normally debate and fight every comment. And, most importantly, I trust you, and that doesn’t come easily. Somehow I feel safe to share my ideas with you. I would never have shown anything like this to anyone else. I don’t know why, but it feels so different with you. And, to be honest,” and now she started to slow down a bit, “I also don’t like to get hurt, but it seems to be part of the game. I’ve never tried it. Perhaps it isn’t as bad as it seems. If you trust the stories, it should be great.”

She was completely transformed. Having said that, she was clearly relieved; her eyes were shining, and the red color on her cheeks was from excitement, not embarrassment.

I quickly thought everything over and then I expressly asked her if she really thought this would be a good idea. I asked her if she had thought about the consequences if things worked out differently than expected, and if, in that case, we would still be able to both work in the same department.

She dismissed all worries by exclaiming that it just felt like the right thing to do.

I tried once more, asking if perhaps we could first try a normal relationship for a couple of weeks, but she waved it all aside by telling me that this type of relationship should come spontaneously or it wouldn’t work.

“And,” she asked me, “would you trust yourself? Would you harm me, apart from the suffering I am asking for?”

That broke down my last resistance, and I grinned as I replied: “OK, if you insist… Take off your blouse then.”

All of a sudden, the anticipation was over. It looked as if this hit her like lightning, and despite my explicit warnings, it seemed like only now she realized the consequences of her bravado.

Slightly bewildered, she looked at me, apparently searching for some way out, but I had made up my mind now and told her: “It’s up to you now. We can stop right here, be good friends and regard this whole conversation as …. an exchange of ideas, or you can take off your blouse and we can see wherever it ends. You can close the curtains first if you want, but then I want your blouse off!”

She visibly crossed a mental boundary, moved to the window to close the curtains, and finally slowly started to unbutton her blouse. After the last button was loosened, she looked at me hopefully.

“Take it off!” I told her. “What are you waiting for!” and slowly the blouse slid from her shoulders, over her arms, and, finally, she was standing with the blouse in her hands.

I nodded, and she hung her blouse over her chair.

Ill at ease, she was standing in the room, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Despite the fact that she was wearing a bra, she protectively covered her breasts with her arms crossed.

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