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I hear it in her voice. That same tone she always has when she’s about five minutes away from thrusting anything and everything into me. I shiver. Can she feel it in my hand? That’s the same voice she had when she first seduced me. (Or did she seduce me? I thought it was fairly equal at the time. Now? I have no idea.) Same voice from the day of our presentations, when she led me to an empty room and gave me the time of my life.

Same voice she left me with a week and a half ago, when she promised to completely dismantle my Domme brain and rebuild it into a sub’s.

I shiver again, harder.

“You all right?”

Ira is a good Domme in that she always checks in with the current mental state of her partner. Even when we’re not being kinky, she’s always asking if I’m doing okay. I should appreciate it. Except when she does it, I’m always reminded of the fact that I might not be okay. Then I get trapped in this spiral of wondering if I’m doing the right thing.

Don’t make me think too hard, Ira.

“I’m fine.” I try to say it with an even voice, but sometimes it’s hard. Around her, anyway. I have to take my hand back, pick up my fork, and spearing chicken and lettuce. Something to do. That isn’t her. “Just picking apart your motives in my brain.”

She gives me a look. You know the kind. Judgmental. Uncertain. Insecure. “Motives?”

“Please. I’m not dumb.” Basil mashes between my teeth. Now that I have food in my system, I’m able to think clearly. My senses return, and nothing Ira Mathison does can shake me off my foundation. “You’re looking at me like I’m a piece of meat. I get it, honey, you wanna fuck me. That’s fine. That can be quite…” I look right at her crotch. She is not accompanied today. “Mutual.”

This time, she’s the one not answering.

“You’re not only looking at me as a potential date. You’re not even looking at me as a potential partner of any kind. All you see is a project.”

Ira clears her throat, her food still untouched, but her wine almost gone. “What am I supposed to think? You didn’t ask me for a relationship. You didn’t ask me for a casual thing. You asked me to…” She leans forward, voice low and commanding. Nope. Not getting through to me. “You asked me to bring out your inner submissive. That’s not the things I mentioned.”

“It sure isn’t.” Hey, this chicken’s pretty good, especially with the Italian dressing. I’m glad she gave me some, but she better eat hers before it gets cold. Salmonella wouldn’t look good on her.

“What do you want from me? That’s what I want to know.” Finally, Ira starts eating. With purpose, I might add. “You keep coming to me, asking me to do things so far out of your comfort zone that you end up screaming and crying. Asking me to go farther with you? You’re asking a lot of me. Excuse me, Katie, but I need to see you in different ways. It’s how something like this can work.”

“Something like this?”

“Business and pleasure,” she hisses. “Mingling.”

She’s right. I’m asking her to see so many sides of myself – the business side, the Domme side, the sub side – that she has to separate it all before she can put me back together again. It can’t be easy on her, mentally. Physically, she probably spends her whole time thinking about fucking me.

…I’m right, aren’t I?

“So what do you want, Katie?” She always calls me that when we’re in private like this. I haven’t decided if I like it or not. When we’re screwing, I love it. So intimate and exclusive. When we’re in a non-sexual situation? It kinda grates on me. Kathleen has a much more sophisticated ring to it, especially coming out of her mouth.

“I want a lot of things, Ira.” There are no cute nicknames for her. Her name is already as short as it can get. “Right now, I want you to back off a bit.”

She sits back in her seat, both physically and emotionally detaching herself from me. Finally, I can breathe.

After two more bites of food, I say, “All right. Date. Vanilla date. No funny kink stuff.”

“Well, now I’m not sure I want to…”

While she’s looking at me, I pull open my blouse. Easy to do with light clasps sewn in. Once I’ve got her staring at my breasts and bra, I say, “Pretty sure you want to.”

Her eyes furrow but look! She’s not glancing away from these tits! “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out…”

I close my blouse and put it back together. “I surprise you. Yes, yes, you’re not used to that from the women you’re dating.”

“Now, don’t be that way.”

I’ve irritated her. Good. The last thing I want is for her to get complacent around me. Nevertheless, next thing I know, she’s slapped a notebook on the table and flipped it open.

“What’s that?”

Ira slides the notebook across the table. I pick it up, holding it at the appropriate distance before my eyes focus on her tight, clean cursive handwriting. I’m struck by how feminine her penmanship is. Elegant, refined, legible, but very straight and narrow. Not a single stroke from the pen is wasted. Well, shit. Here I am, turned on by Ira Mathison’s handwriting.