I love Saturday mornings.
Then again, by the time I woke up it was 1pm, so really I guess I should say that I love Saturday afternoons.
I stretched, scratching my head and belly before rolling off the edge of the bed. I’d slept long enough to absorb all the alcohol I’d consumed last night, but the ground was a little wobbly as a started across my bedroom for the bathroom.
The obstacle course that was my floor defeated me today. I tripped over my boots from last night, two empty water bottles, and my cat.
Sasha wrapped herself around my ankle, cementing me in place. Scratching the outside of my right thigh I leaned against the wall and yawned, too lazy to reach down and move the cat.
When she final wandered away I blinked to clear my bleary eyes, but one of them didn’t clear.
I blinked my left eye again, but the lid didn’t go all the way up. Panicked, I darted for the bathroom, grabbing the door jam to spin myself inside and slamming my hand on the light switch.
Awful florescent lighting blinked awake.
One of Satan’s banshees, complete with medusa-afro hair, streaks of black down her face, and one half closed eye, stared back at me.
My hair was so bad that it distracted me for a moment from the eye-problem. Grabbing the snarled mess in one hand I pulled it into a ponytail and then twisted it up, securing it to the back of my head with a big clip. Now the fuzzy ends stuck up behind my head, making me look like a goth pineapple.
I leaned forward on the sink, which was cold against my bare thighs, and poked at my left eyelid.
It appeared that the inch long blue glitter fake eyelash I’d been wearing last night had slipped down while I slept and re-pasted itself in place, half on my upper lid, half on my lower, effectively glued my eye closed. I grabbed the blue eyelash and ripped it off.
Several minutes later the white light of pain retreated. Making a mental note to never do that again I picked myself up off the floor, where the pain of yanking that thing off my eye had dropped me.
I slowly and gently washed my face, removing the streaked makeup. Too tired to shower, and re-thinking the idea that I’d gotten enough sleep, I settled for braiding my hair rather than jumping in the shower right now and possibly drowning myself. The resulting braid looked like a snarled knotted tree branch, but at least I wasn’t in danger of turned any hot Greek warriors into stone.
Thoroughly exhausted I staggered back to my bed, burrowing beneath the covers. I extracted my laptop form beneath a pile of pillows. Since there we no boys in my bed, it seemed completely reasonable to keep electronics there.
I popped open my baby, settling myself comfortably, and clicked to my favorite personals site.
Attractive older man seeking pretty young woman, (no older than 24 please) for a long term relationship. Must be able to cook as well as take care of a home. I want someone who knows how to take care of herself, and looks good, also. If interested email me at…
Um, no. Creepy old guys. I’m sure there are a million hot women under 23 in LA who want nothing more than to come cook and clean for some nasty old man. Nice try buddy.
Seeking asian Geisha looking girl.
Riiight. Next please.
I am new to the area and basically, I am pretty busy and don’t want to put the effort into going out to find a girl, but I need a good time right now…so, e-mail me if you are interested.
How romantic and attractive… except not at all. Nice try ass-hat.
Disgusted I checked my email, bored and lazy enough to actually read some of the spam email. Wow, I was a long lost millionaire with a rich relative in
Africa, awesome. Soon I’d run out of email, so clicked back to the personals site.
Against my will, and entirely out of my control, the mouse moved to a little button that said “Dark Side Personals.” The background changed from plain white to dark blue and black.
My shoulders twitched with the need to turn around and be sure no one could see what I was looking at.
Heart pounding I clicked into “Men looking for Women” and selected the first ad.
I am an experienced, creative, firm and caring DOM
Humiliation and submission a must…I find it a very intimate part of a DOM/sub session.
If you want to learn more email me the following:
A: Describe yourself age, height, weight etc.
B: Send a picture of what I want to see. Face, tits, and ass. You may wear underwear.
C: Begin right now and address me as “Sir”
– I do NOT need a more experienced submissive who gives me a “laundry list” of what they want “done to them”!
– If you want to know details but are not willing to experience a session or training go buy a book!
– You must be completely drug and disease free and reasonably free from financial, family and romantic entanglements. (As in I don’t need that kind of drama) And… So I know you read the whole post put “I am a submissive slut for your pleasure” in the subject line!
I quickly backed out. Whoever this guy was, he was clearly insane. The disclaimers were longer than the actual ad. “You many wear underwear.” What a jerk! How could this guy assume that all he had to do was declare, in a simple text personal ad, that he was a Dom, and that was enough that a girl would send him naked pics.
Like a moth to a flame, stupid and doomed, I clicked into the next one.
I am a 40 year old dominant, good-looking, bright, tall bearded guy that is seeking a submissive woman who will respond to my demands and do as she is told. I am very giving, strong, caring and loving. If you are unfamiliar with D/s, I would certainly enjoy teaching you how to submit to me and teach you as much as you would care to learn about Domination and Submission. Domination requires my learning intimately both your mind and your body and how to manipulate them both. It takes time and effort on the part of both the Dom and the sub and I will expect you to take your training very seriously. Naturally, I will respect all of your hard limits.
You know how much this appeals to you. Don’t be afraid to reply.
This sounded… good. As I read a cool shiver, moved down my back, raising the fine hairs all over my body and making me hyperaware of each inch of skin. I read through add one more time, identifying the parts that made me hot “…learning intimately both your mind and body…”
The idea of a lover who knew what he was doing, who would read my body’s signals, understand the pleas in each gasp and moan, was incredibly arousing. I suffered from a long string of relationships with vanilla sex with boys who made me feel bad about wanting an orgasm.
I wanted to lie back, no, be tied down, while a man who knew exactly what to do had his way with me.
Sure there were some parts of the email that I didn’t really love, for one the guy was nearly 20 years older than me, the other being the “do what she is told” section. I didn’t want to be a doormat, and wanted to be able to express myself.
These concerns were soon overwhelmed by the lovely idea of a strong older man’s hands on me, touching me, holding me, controlling me and bringing me to one mind numbing orgasm after another.
Holding my breath, I clicked “Reply.”