My First Submissive – Pt. 1
We’re gonna call her “Linda”. She was in her early 50’s, tall, curvy, and very attractive. I was 23. I had been hitting the gym more consistently so my arms and legs carried some mass that hadn’t been there in my lanky college years. This was fortunate because when you’re 6’6” you need muscle to avoid looking like a human telephone pole.
I had settled into my first big boy job around this time. I had my foot in the door of the publishing industry in a more serious way. I had a title and an office. It meant people actually referred to me by name rather than whatever their coffee order was. I’d become very accustomed to answering to: “Iced Americano, splash of oat milk”, and now I was being introduced with:
“This is Liam. He’s one of our best.”
It felt good. Adult. Powerful. I had kept my nose to the grindstone for countless nights, sacrificed a social life, and sacrificed even more sleep. Now I could see the recognition that I’d paid my dues. In the midst of a competitive corporate jungle surrounded by 401k obsessed gorillas, I was Tarzan.
The only thing missing was a woman that I could celebrate with. Someone there when I wanted to blow off a little steam or indulge in some of my darker impulses. I wanted a submissive. She didn’t need to be in love with me or committed only to me, but I wanted something bigger than a one night stand. Something I could build on.
Dating wasn’t working out very well at this time. I’d tried apps and speed dates and setups with friends, but I always ran into the same roadblock. Every date would go like this:
I order a car to drive my date from her place to the restaurant. I choose a spot based on hints she’s dropped about food she enjoys or her ideal vibe. It might be a crowded, steamy hotpot restaurant with tiny tables and lots of laughter, or a dim Italian place that feels older than time. My choice is always unique and always catered to her.
I wear a suit with no tie to dinner. Put on my best cologne. Brush my teeth twice. (To be honest the “no-tie” part was just to show off my chest tattoos. Cringey. I know.)
At some point in the conversation my date would (without fail) make a comment that my personality didn’t totally match my appearance. That I seemed like a bad-boy. Imposing. Intimidating. And that now they felt I was much more approachable. I would take this as a compliment and ask something like “do you find bad boys attractive?” No one ever said “no”.
This would usually get my hopes up. She liked that I had planned the date and taken charge. We’d go on a few more dates, feel chemistry, and get comfortable. She’d seen my hand tattoos, buzzed hair, large build, and knew I liked to call the shots. All the signs were there that this woman may be into a dominant man. At this point it only felt natural to drop the bomb:
I would tell her that I like to be dominant in the bedroom. That kink is a big part of my life. I would explain that the same way I like to take charge on our dates and create an experience for her is the same energy I bring to sex. I’m a Dom, plain and simple. I would always clearly communicate that I was looking for a longer-term dynamic that involved dominance and submission as a core part of our sex. Ideally something more serious and romantic, but at the very least, intentional.
This would usually create a fork in the road. Things would go one of two ways: Either she isn’t submissive in bed, or she isn’t looking for something serious.
Sometimes we’d still hook up, and sometimes it was really fun, but mostly I just felt disappointed. I wanted a submissive that was… mine. Not just for the night. I didn’t want to slap a pair of fuzzy handcuffs on you and tickle you with a feather and call you a bad girl before I fuck you missionary for 3.7 minutes. No, I wanted to explore and go deeper. Indulge in a dynamic that extended outside of the bedroom. I wanted my girl to be collared.
This is the place of disillusionment that I had reached. I felt a sense of maturity and stability in every other aspect of my life, but this string of lackluster tinder dates couldn’t satisfy. Until one date changed everything. This was the date that led me to Linda. It was also one of the worst dates of my life.
I should clarify, this wasn’t a date with Linda. This was a date that led me to Linda. Big difference. We’ll call the girl that I was actually on the date with “Steph.”
Steph was… not for me. That’s the most polite way I could word it. Between problematic political beliefs, a rude attitude towards our waiter (an unforgivable sin), and the very clear hints that she was very dominant in the bedroom, I knew there wouldn’t be another date.
I was a gentleman. Kept the night as fun as possible. Even if the connection isn’t there I am always grateful that someone took a risk and decided to spend any part of their limited free time with me. So we discussed her job (which she hated), her friends (whom she also hated), and her pets (which she seemed neutral about).
Steph told me that after a big career shift she had just moved back in with her folks to save money. She complained endlessly about her mom’s horribly strict rules. Such barbaric requests as: “please put your dishes in the dishwasher” and “please don’t blast music after midnight”.
To this day I’m unsure how Steph ever survived this kind of cruel and unusual punishment.
The way she described it, Steph was living with an evil mother of Cinderella-level villainy.
The entire night made me feel like I wasn’t on a date with a woman in her early 20’s but instead some sort of half-developed ball of negativity. It was hard to stomach, but I kept it mature.
As our date came to a close I was anxious to get home and forget any of this ever happened. I picked up the check and told Steph I would happily order a car to drop her back at her parent’s place.
“Eh.” She said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“The last one smelled weird.” She said.
I was confused. I mean, sure, this wasn’t some fancy car service, just an Uber Black, but I’d never found them to smell strange.
“Would you like me to look up a taxi service?” I asked.
“Can you just drop me off?” She replied.
“Of course.” I said, masking the disappointment that I would be driving well out of my way. I figured it was the polite thing to do.
After half an hour of Friday night traffic and excruciating small talk we arrived at her parent’s house in the suburbs. It was nice. Two stories, manicured lawn, and those little warm lights that snaked along the walkway.
I escorted Steph to the door for a formal goodbye. It was late. I was tired. I offered Steph a hug which she accepted. It felt like the kind of hug you give your second cousin at a family reunion. I could tell she hated it as much as I did. We both knew this wasn’t a fit, but luckily it was over.
Then, right as I was about to make my escape-
The front door opened.
“Hi! You must be Liam. I’m Linda.”
Steph’s face flooded with embarrassment. This was her mother and she was visibly mortified at the notion that her mom of all people was butting in.
“Hey Linda, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I said.
We shook hands. Linda’s prettiness caught me off guard. She was taller than Steph, bright smile, dark hair. Linda wore a simple dress that hugged her curves. She was in her 50’s and wore her age in the sexiest way.
“Liam was just saying bye.” Steph said.
“Oh it’s still early,” Linda replied. “Come in for a nightcap.”
It wasn’t early, but I wasn’t going to be rude.
I was about three whiskeys in and laughing my ass off at Linda’s stories. She was telling me about the time she got lost in Bali, her poor hair choices in the 80’s, and her brief stint as a cocktail waitress at a Playboy Club. We were in their cozy living room. Linda sat next to me on the couch and Steph was across from us laying in a recliner sideways with her feet dangling over the side. Steph spent the entire time scrolling on her phone and occasionally forcing a fake laugh.
Steph’s mood had shifted from embarrassment to boredom, but I was enthralled.
An hour had passed and it was getting properly late.
Linda poured herself another glass of Pinot and offered me another piece of her homemade cherry tart. I accepted despite not being hungry. It was fucking delicious.
As Linda plated up the dessert Steph stood to her feet.
“It’s late,” Steph said. “I’m gonna go to bed.”
Steph shot me a forced smile that told me she was happy to never see me again, turned on her heels, and headed down the hall.
After hearing the sound of Steph’s door shut, Linda turned to me.
“So. How did it go?” She asked.
I tried to conjure my best poker face.
“It was… nice.” I said.
Linda laughed. Took another sip. She eyed me with this knowing smile that told me I didn’t have to explain any more.
“Steph is… she’s got a lot of growing up to do,” Linda said “She’s a wonderful person you’re just catching her in a weird season.”
“How so?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Steph isn’t taking too well to me being back on the dating scene.”
I nodded in understanding. It made complete sense why Steph had spent so much of the date complaining about Linda.
“I can understand that,” I offered “That has to be strange to adjust to.”
“But it shouldn’t be. Her dad and I haven’t been together for ages. I’ve spent the last few years behaving like a nun to not ruffle her feathers. I’m done dating in secret or dancing around my needs.” She said.
Linda stared at nothing before snapping out of it.
“I’m oversharing.” she said.
“No, you’re not,” I replied “These are the kind of things I enjoy talking about. Real stuff. If I told you the number of dates I had to stomach the same repetitive small talk… it’s unbearable.”
“That’s what I had to do tonight.” She said with a laugh.
Linda motioned to her curve-hugging dress. She’d been on a date.
“I’m seeing guy after guy and it’s the same story every time,” she said. “They don’t want a woman, they want a mom. It doesn’t matter their age or background or job or anything else. They all want me to be their mom. A machine that cooks and fucks.”
She drained her glass.
“The worst part?” She continued. “I actually love to cook and fuck.”
I laughed, snorting a bit of my whiskey. I motioned to her cherry tart.
“If you fuck anything like you cook I think I might need your number.” I said.
As soon as the words left my mouth I felt a knot in my stomach. Steph may have been the worst date of my life, but she was still my date that night and this was her mother.
Silence hung between us.
“I’m sorry, that was-“
“Why don’t I send you the recipe?” She interrupted.
I scanned her face. Her eyes narrow in this coy way that I couldn’t decipher.
“I’d like that.” I said.
She passed me her phone.
“Put in your number I’ll send the link.” Her tone was casual, almost professional.
I typed my phone number into her contacts and passed it back, still trying to figure out if all of this was about a recipe.
A few days passed, then a week, then a month. For the first few days after that night with Linda I would jump at every notification hoping it was her. It might be slightly embarrassing to admit in hindsight, but I wanted her bad.
Linda may have been thirty or so years older than me, but there was something there between us. I suspected she felt it too, but the fact that she never reached out to me dashed my hopes. Linda didn’t have a social media presence at all and I was beginning to think that night in her sitting room sharing stories was an anomaly. A shooting star. Here and then gone.
Steph and I never talked individually again, but I still followed her on Instagram. It had now been months since our date. One day a post came across my feed: Steph showing off a shiny new Diamond engagement ring.
“That was fast.” I thought.
But I was happy for her. Her fiancée was a clean cut white guy with an Eagle Scout look that I instantly knew was her perfect fit. A republican Ken doll.
That night, laying in bed, only a few hours after seeing Steph’s engagement post, I felt my phone buzz.
A text from a number I didn’t recognize…
A recipe for a cherry tart.
My text conversations with Linda were funny. Flirty. Sexy. We didn’t exchange nudes or dirty talk, but there was always an undercurrent of tension. She would make these subtle comments that showed another side of her. Innocuous texts lamenting that men weren’t more decisive. A joke here and there about wanting to be pinned down. A comment about liking to be told what to do. It all sent up my antennas, and made me very horny. Before long I asked her on a date. She said yes.
We met at a hotel bar for a late night cocktail. By this point we had exchanged enough messages to know that we would fuck. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’, it was ‘when’. We had to work out the details, see what our sex would look like, build trust. I could tell that she was submissive, and suspected she knew I was dominant as well. The signs were clear. A couple of hours before our date she sent me selfies in three different dresses and asked me to pick which one she would wear. It was a small gesture, but it told me everything. Without us ever having a discussion about dynamics or kink Linda had indicated that she knew exactly what I wanted from her… the power to lead. To be her Dom.
Our date felt like a sexy interrogation. Both of us feeling each other out and determining exactly how we viewed power in the bedroom. It was like something out of an old detective movie. The bar was dim with jazz playing in the background. The dress I had chosen for her was cherry red. It reminded me of her tart. Our bartender wore a vest and a white shirt. The only thing missing was one of us smoking a cigarette.
I ordered her another martini when I saw her glass reaching its end.
“You like calling the shots, don’t you?” Her tone curious, maybe skeptical.
“I like when people can turn their brains off when they’re with me.” I replied.
“Women, you mean.” She said.
“Not always. When I plan a vacation with friends everyone knows that I have it covered. Flights, reservations, packing lists.” I said.
“So you’re type A?” She joked.
“Not quite,” I said through a laugh “Type A would be telling people when and where they have to be. Scheduling every moment. I’m the kind of person that only likes to cover the things that cause stress and leave the fun to everyone else.”
“So what’s in it for you, mister selfless?”
I thought for a moment. Considered her words. It was hard to describe the satisfaction that I felt in leading. I summarized it the best way I could:
“Power.” I said.
She nodded, plucked the olive from her martini glass and tossed it into her mouth. She chewed slowly. My imagination began to wander as I looked at her red lips.
“Did ordering a drink for me make you feel powerful?” She asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew it was one less thing you had to think about.” I said.
I was being direct and honest. If I were to be overly honest I would have told her that sitting next to her at this bar watching her sip drinks that I had ordered for her had made my cock swell and throb. I kept that thought inside.
“So you like a woman who can’t think for herself?” Linda asked.
“Not at all,” I replied. “I think every woman can think for herself.”
“Well, you don’t want a woman to make decisions.”
“Making decisions and having choices are very different things,” I said. “Why is it bad that I want to take some of the decisions off of a woman’s plate?”
“Because for most of history women have fought to have their ideas and feelings heard.” She replied.
“Of course, but just because you have the ability to do something doesn’t mean you want to do it constantly.”
“Explain.” she said with narrow eyes.
The bartender set down her fresh martini. I kept the feelings of arousal at bay to answer her.
“I’m a Dom-“
“No shit.” Linda said with a chuckle.
“The way that I view it, for a submissive woman, the best thing I can do is learn her inside and out. Learn her preferences and pet peeves and favorite things and what she despises. I become an expert in her. The only expert in her. I want to specialize in my submissive. I want to know her like the back of my hand so that when she is in my presence there is nothing between us except for the moment we are existing in together.” I said.
“That all sounds very altruistic. It leads me back to my previous question: What’s in it for you?” Linda asked.
“It’s not even a bit altruistic. It’s selfish. Greedy, actually. The less energy a submissive woman spends stressing about the bullshit around her the more energy she spends dedicated to what I want her to be dedicating her energy to.”
“And what do you want your submissive dedicated to?” She asked.
The throbbing in my pants had reached a fever pitch. I made the kind of eye contact that is meant to burn a hole in her memory and answered with an assured smile.
“Me.” I said.
Linda didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t blush or shy away. The creases of her lips turned up slightly.
She was satisfied.
The interrogation was over and she had the answers she came to this date to uncover.
“Should we book a room here?” She asked.
“I already did.” I said.
In Part Two I will be describing in very specific detail what happened in the hotel room that night so keep an eye out for that. Love you all 😘
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