I had just returned from a fantastic weekend domming two of the most incredible women I know—Ginger, a freckled firecracker, and "Black and Silky," as I affectionately call them. I must admit, I was exhausted; my arms were sore from all the fun with whips and floggers. It was also a reminder that I need to make more of an effort to hang out with people my own age—a twenty-year difference does make a difference for a “MILF” like me.
As I opened my inbox—the "sexy" one, because the vanilla one always gets checked last—I was met with the usual barrage of messages, including a ton of invitations from potential subs. (Gotta love NYC.) I knew I needed to get back into the scene, but I was still a little sore—emotionally and otherwise—from being taken for a ride not too long ago. Lesson learned: people who don’t know what they want should steer clear of those who do. So, instead of diving back into dates, I opted for some socialization. It seemed fate was having a blast with me at the moment. Come along for the ride.
A good friend of mine was hosting a fundraiser she had begged me to attend. I threw on my best outfit, let my hair down (a rarity), and resolved to charm the rich and pretentious without wanting to put them all on a leash. The venue was a stunning gallery, and I couldn’t stop taking it all in when I arrived. My friend found me at the open bar, greeting me with her all-Italian-American flair. “Baby, you made it!” she exclaimed, two kisses on the cheek and a perfect smile. I resisted the urge to act juvenile and hug her tight.
I adore this girl because she’s free—everything money and plastic surgery can buy, yet it never feels overdone. She shines, she’s confident, and she’s ten years older than me. I aspire to have that kind of effortless grace one day.
“So, Doctor Master Liz!” she teased, and I chuckled. “You have to introduce me to the girl who gave you that title!” I knew she’d love B., the girl who crowned me with that name. I love B., too—what’s not to love about a sub who always knows exactly what to say and do?
“I know there’s a reason you dragged me here tonight,” I said. “I already donated to this cause, and I can’t convince my husband to give more.” She shook her head.
“Darling, no. I want to introduce you to someone.”
I nearly spat out my champagne. “No, no, no,” I protested, but she just smiled, her green eyes gleaming as she pulled me by the cape of my Valentino dress. “I told you I need a breather from men, from everyone, and—”
I was cut off by the chiseled face of a man she introduced as “Fernando.” One blue eye, one green. My friend and I exchanged a look—she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Fer, this is Doctor Master Liz.” I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment, hoping the ground would swallow me. I took another sip of champagne, even though I’d seen what champagne had made me do last week. Why did she have to mention the "Master" part to a donor?
“Asante, Doctor,” he said, kissing my hand. And just like that, I was hooked. By the time I turned around, my friend had vanished, leaving me and Fernando alone on the balcony, overlooking the incredible Manhattan skyline. He was tall, with a sharp jawline and those mesmerizing eyes.
“Did you know that heterochromia is rare in humans?” I blurted out. He looked puzzled, then laughed.
“You truly are something,” he said, his accent catching my attention. It sounded familiar, like home.
“Eres español?” I asked, and his eyes lit up. “Tú también?” We clicked instantly. He brought me more champagne during the course of our conversation, and eventually, he asked me to dance.
“Is that Gucci?” he inquired.
I shook my head. “The new YSL.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing against my neck as he inhaled deeply. “It smells like my mother,” he said, and I blushed, unsure what he meant by that.
“How old are you?” I realized I hadn’t asked. He was tall, mature, and eloquent, so I was taken aback when he said, “Twenty-five.” Oh God… again.
We walked back to the balcony. “I thought you liked that,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“How much did she tell you?” I asked, suddenly curious.
He smiled, revealing perfect teeth, and I knew exactly who he reminded me of—Maxi Iglesias with heterochromia.
“She told me you could be my mommy if I ask nicely.” I set my champagne glass down on the edge of the balcony, then pushed him against the wall, pressing my body against his.
“What else?” I asked, enjoying his slight nervousness.
“She said you’d punish me if I’m not a good boy.” I felt a need to sober up as I leaned closer, my lips brushing his neck. “Is that Dior?”
“Yes,” he answered, voice barely a whisper.
I tugged at his bow tie. “Yes, what?”
He swallowed, the motion masculine, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his jaw clenched. “Yes, Mommy.”
I smiled. “That’s my boy.” He reached for my neck, and I let him. His kisses were perfect, and when our mouths met, it was clear we wanted to devour each other. It was a long, heated moment until he finally pulled away to breathe.
“I’m staying at the Carlyle,” he said, and I rolled my eyes. “Of course you are.” I looked out over the city, feeling the cool breeze on my skin.
“Would you tuck me in and read me a story?”
I laughed. “How old is your actual mother?”
“Forty-eight.”
I let out a laugh. “I knew you were younger,” he said, “not by much.”
For someone staying alone, he had a ridiculously large room. I didn’t ask why. “Have you played with anyone before, Fernando?” I inquired as he poured us more champagne from a chilled bottle.
“No, but I know how it works,” he said, a hint of defiance in his voice.
“Do you now?” I smirked. “Take off all your clothes, leave only your boxers, and order room service to bring more champagne and strawberries. You’ll receive room service in your boxers.”
He blushed but began undressing. His chest was defined but not overly so, with a light dusting of hair, typical of Spaniards. His black boxers fit him like a glove. He made the call, and I sat by the window, sipping my champagne, watching the Manhattan skyline. When room service arrived, the attendant didn’t bat an eye but exchanged a knowing smile with me. I raised my glass in acknowledgment.
“Well done,” I said once the door closed.
I took a moment to admire the suite, complete with a grand piano. “Do you play?” I asked.
He nodded, and I ordered him to play for me. As his fingers glided over the keys, I stood behind him, trailing my nails down his back, feeling the tension build. “Would you like me to stop?”
He shook his head. “Use your words, Fernando,” I commanded.
“No, ma’am, please don’t stop,” he replied.
I kissed his neck, inhaling his scent—stronger now, intoxicating. I focused on the piece he was playing, Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu. “You’re really good. Did Mommy pay for your lessons?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his voice strained, “my mother paid for the lessons.”
Typical, I thought, with a smile.
“Any limits I should be aware of?” I murmured, my hands sliding over the firm bulge straining against his boxers.
“No, ma’am,” he breathed, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty. I felt a moment of hesitation—limits are always there, even unspoken—but the air between us was taut, electric. I chose not to break it.
“Get on your knees,” I commanded, voice low and firm. “Lift my skirt, take my panties off.”
He obeyed, his hands reverent as they slipped beneath the fabric, grazing my thighs. I could see the flicker of awe in his eyes when he saw the black lace of my Agent Provocateur set, complete with garters that hugged my legs perfectly. Slowly, he peeled the delicate fabric away, and I took the tiny lace piece from his hand, sliding it into his mouth. It fit snugly, the lace pressing against his lips, and the glint in his eyes told me he was enjoying this far more than he let on.
“Show me how you please yourself,” I instructed, my voice like silk. I settled back into the plush chair by the window, letting my champagne glass dangle from one hand. I draped one leg over the arm of the chair, then the other, the skirt of my dress falling just enough to keep me hidden from his view, but not from his imagination.
I watched him, every subtle shift of his posture, every flicker of his eyes as they roved over me, his thoughts evident in the way he swallowed, the lace tightening between his lips. I could feel his gaze burning, and it made the moment even sweeter, the unspoken anticipation between us growing thicker with every second.
He reached down, hands trembling slightly as he began to touch himself, his eyes never leaving me. I took a slow sip of my champagne, tilting my head to watch him, savoring the sight of him trying to maintain control. “Eyes on me,” I whispered, as I slid my hand along the inside of my thigh, a deliberate tease. His breath hitched, and I saw his eyes widen, desperate to see more.
I let out a quiet, knowing laugh, shifting just enough to give him the barest glimpse, letting his imagination do the rest. “Good boy,” I said, my voice a gentle purr. “Now, come closer... but don’t you dare touch.”
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