After being hurried along by the staff at this very high-end restaurant, we finally finished our dinner. I excused myself to the bathroom, sensing that my makeup, perfume, and hair could use some retouching. When I returned, he had taken care of everything. There were moments when I wondered if I was imagining it all—he seemed too perfect. His voice, resonant and deeply exquisite, lacked a British accent yet somehow was more charming for it. His words were measured with such care. As much as I tried to remain composed, I found myself losing control somewhere between the martini and the first glass of wine. He reminded me of Tarquin from that fantasy book I'd read; his eyes, literally yellow, seemed to harbor the sun within them, vivid and alive.
I hadn’t planned on spending the evening with this man. When I was a young girl, I had a Ken doll that looked just like him—he was my favorite. Supposedly from Hawaii, with tanned skin, a toned physique, and those yellow eyes. The alcohol must have influenced me because I was tempted to tell him, but the thought seemed ridiculous. We had met because he sought submission, and I'd discovered I had a weakness for boy-band-member-looking subs. I never expected our conversation to flow so easily, nor for his kisses between courses to feel so perfectly timed. By the time we rode the elevator back to the first floor, I no longer recognized myself. I had chosen a detached persona for this date, yet slowly and with ease, he had drawn the real me into the conversation. How? I must have been drunk…
We had agreed not to go to each other's apartments—it was, after all, our first meeting. I had a rule, and he had his boundaries. Fair. We were supposed to part ways, but I didn’t want to. Not tonight. I wanted this little Ken doll wrapped around my finger, and from the way he kissed me—not once, but twice—I knew he wanted the same. “We could get a hotel room,” I suggested, and any sense of decorum vanished. My desire to be alone with my prey was strong enough to override reason, my own boundaries, and rules. Within minutes, he had found a nearby place—after all, we were in a nice area of the city—and soon we were riding in an Uber in silence. The check-in process was smooth, and we rode the elevator with a woman also dressed in a business suit. We looked pristine, and oddly enough, that added to my excitement.
The moment I opened the door to the room, I felt my sense of control return. Contrary to my expectations, he didn’t hesitate. This young, confident man behaved like every fantasy I had ever conjured in my mind—but he waited for my lead, which turned me on even more.
I scanned the room for something to use. Something I’ve learned on this journey as Master Liz is that anything can become a toy for pleasure in the hands of a skilled Master. Inside the closet hung a white robe, and its belt was perfect for what I'd been wanting to do ever since I saw his perfect, masculine hands: bind them behind his back. I placed my phone on the dresser and put on a playlist I love for dominating men I actually like. I'd only used it once before, so there was a thrill in knowing I’d hear those tunes again. As the music began, I pressed my body against his—slowly but firmly. He didn’t resist. Who was seducing whom here? I’d seen his pictures, chatted with him, but nothing could have prepared me for how irresistible he would be in person. It had been years since someone made me feel this way, and the high was beginning to interfere with my ability to stay in control. I must not let it.
I took my time unbuttoning his expensive white shirt, his jacket already discarded on a chair from when we’d walked in. I massaged his shoulders—slowly, tenderly—and then secured his hands behind his back with the robe's belt, its material rougher than I expected. My lips returned to his neck, teasing him as his soft whimpers filled the room. I could feel my desire building, and this man hadn't even touched me yet… I regained my composure by asking him to get on his knees. He looked endearingly vulnerable, his sunlit eyes pleading with me.
I pressed the toe of my red-bottomed stiletto against his chest, sitting at the edge of the bed. He looked flawless—his chiseled jaw tightening, his breaths growing heavier, almost trembling, yet undeniably sensual. I needed something to torment him, to make him beg, but I also had to be careful not to scare him away. I’d finally found someone I enjoyed, and I couldn’t let my intensity drive him off like it had others before. It had happened before—I showed too much, too soon, and they decided submission wasn't for them. I had learned to be more measured now, more deliberate.
I switched tactics, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. I leaned in, kissing him, almost kissing him, biting at his lips. Seconds stretched into minutes as the tension built, electric and unbroken. He tasted of fermented grapes, and his warmth seemed to radiate from the sunlit depths of his eyes. I felt like Icarus, drawn too close, my wings at risk of melting with each tempting advance, but I couldn’t help myself.
I pushed him back with my left foot, still in my heels, sending him onto his back. His eyes remained locked on mine—an unbroken connection of longing and vulnerability. "What can we use for your punishment?" I asked, my gaze falling to his fine leather belt. In one swift movement, I climbed over him, my knees on either side of his waist, pressing myself against the evident arousal that strained against his tailored trousers. He looked up at me, caught between anticipation and desire.
A smirk tugged at my lips, and I roughly pulled the belt free from his pants in a single, deft motion. It made a satisfying sound as it slipped away, the leather hissing through the belt loops, leaving a slight tremor of excitement in its wake.
I placed the belt skillfully around his neck, leaving a finger between the belt and his throat as I pulled him up to stand. Slowly, I knelt down, undoing his tailored trousers and letting them fall around his ankles. He was doing so well—no hesitation, no complaints—but I could feel the erratic pounding of his heart. I paused for a moment, resting my ear against his chiseled chest, reveling in the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was for me—speaking only to me—and for a few beautiful seconds, I was completely lost in that sound.
Then, I leaned him over the bed, positioning him face down. I whipped him with the belt three times. He took it like a champion. "That was for talking back to me," I said, my voice low and commanding. "I want to hear 'Yes, ma’am' only." I looped the belt back around his neck, pulling him up so our lips hovered close, not quite meeting. "You speak only when spoken to, do you understand?" I demanded. His eyes met mine, and he nodded—silent, obedient—and I felt my arousal grow between my own legs.
I pushed him onto the floor, pressing the point of my heels against his bare back, over and over again, all the while telling him how perfect he looked and how much I wanted to mark him. "Please, ma'am, mark me," he whispered. That plea was all it took. I could smell my own arousal, and for a moment, I almost wanted to punish myself for this indulgence. Ridiculous. I walked to the bathroom, removing my underwear—perhaps that way I could maintain my composure, ignore the way my body was begging for what it rarely does.
I returned wearing only my vintage stockings with the black line down the back, a fitted black dress, and now absolutely no underwear. I belted him another ten times, slapping and biting him, riding a high that was as tall as the Empire State a few blocks away. I needed to calm myself, or I was going to lose control entirely. I reached for my red YSL lipstick and painted my lips as he watched, so willing, so beautifully submissive.
With my lips painted, I began placing kisses all over his body, marking him with my perfectly shaped prints. He looked exquisite, his skin adorned with my crimson kisses. When he finally lay back on the bed, I climbed atop him. I could feel my mouth watering, saliva accumulating with my anticipation. Excessive, even. I let it drop onto his face, expecting him to flinch, to find it humiliating or distasteful—that small, satisfying discomfort I sought in my dominance. But to my delight, he opened his mouth and swallowed every drop. Every single one. I couldn’t resist. I leaned down and kissed him deeply, a French kiss that felt as though I wanted to consume him entirely. He reciprocated—oh, did he reciprocate. I held his nose in those final seconds, depriving him of air, yet he made no sound, no complaint.
I was disarmed. I could hardly believe it.
I began to draft a plan in my head—a way to ensure I stayed in control. I would take my pleasure from him, have him satisfy me with his fingers, and leave him with the evidence—those beautiful stains on his fitted Calvin Klein boxers—as proof of how incredible this had been for both of us.
I got him up to his feet and started undoing the binding around his wrists. The color of his skin already showed it was time to release him, a beautiful flush left behind by the restraint. Once his hands were free, I informed him that he would please me with his fingers, and he nodded. Obediently.
I lifted my dress just enough and lay back, pulling him on top of me. We kissed again, and now that his hands were free, the energy between us shifted. I tasted him deeply, savoring the scent that filled the room—a blend of him, of me, of us—but it was my essence that seemed to dominate, betraying just how intensely my body had been feeling this. His hand slipped between my legs, and I prepared myself for a casual orgasm, the kind that might later carry me to sleep once I was in my own bed.
But when he entered me with his fingers, something felt different. There was skill in his touch—a masculine confidence. This wasn't some inexperienced young man fumbling his way through. His movements were deliberate, like he had known my body for years. He was truly pleasing me, and I found myself slowly surrendering to the sensation. My eyes closed, and for what seemed like minutes, or perhaps mere seconds, I lost myself—my own moans bringing me back to the moment.
We kissed and embraced, and he maintained a steady rhythm—one I had only experienced once before, something almost magical. He kept it perfectly, until my release came—spilling over his hands, soaking into the bed beneath me. And in that moment, I was completely disarmed.
As I tried to comprehend what had just happened, a genuine laugh escaped me. I couldn’t believe it—this man had done what I never expected. And there he was, making his way between my legs, ready to taste me.
I was always self-conscious about this part, especially tonight, given that I hadn’t planned for anything like this. I was entirely natural, unprepared. Surely, someone like him wouldn’t want to—"I want to," he said firmly when I tried to protest. And I let him.
It was even better than what he had done with his fingers. Within minutes, I found myself stopping him, needing to kiss him, my desire overtaking my control. "Do you have a condom?" I asked. He shook his head, and I laughed again. "I could Uber some?" he offered, a playful grin on his face. More laughter spilled from me. "Do they even do that?" I asked, and he nodded, and we both laughed together, the absurdity of it lightening the intensity of the moment. I said yes.
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