A Game of Trust and Triumph

It had been nearly two years since I first started chatting with Ethan. Our conversations were sporadic at first, little sparks of connection flickering across the digital void. Back then, I lived halfway across the world, and meeting in person wasn’t even a possibility. But life has a way of shifting plans — six months ago, I relocated to his city, settling into a new rhythm. Over time, our chats grew deeper, more intentional. We explored our desires, tested boundaries, and discovered just how well we clicked in this dance of dominance and submission. The talks were always easy, playful, and often steamy. We exchanged real details — names, photos, little proofs of authenticity — building trust brick by brick. Eventually, we agreed to meet face-to-face, somewhere public for my peace of mind. Coffee turned into hours of conversation, laughter, and a chemistry that hummed between us. He was earnest, kind, and surprisingly grounded. I liked him. A lot. So, we planned our first real session.

This was my first plunge into dominance in the flesh. I’d dabbled online — enough to know it set my pulse racing — and Ethan, with his years of experience as a submissive, promised to guide me where he could. “Take your time,” he’d said. “I’ve got you.” His reassurance loosened the knot of nerves in my chest.

We skipped the preamble of a public meetup this time, heading straight to a boutique hotel downtown. When I arrived, he was already there, lingering near the entrance, his dark brown hair catching the light. He approached, shy but eager, and I leaned in, brushing a kiss against his cheek. Then, close to his ear, I whispered, “Kneel. Kiss my shoes.”

His body stiffened, eyes darting around the empty lobby. No one was watching. Slowly, he sank to his knees, pressing his lips to the leather of my ankle boots with a reverence that sent a thrill up my spine. As he moved to lift his head, I planted my foot on it, pinning him down. The pressure was firm, deliberate, and I savored the sight of him humbled beneath me. His breath hitched — nervous, maybe, about being seen — but he softened into it, surrendering bit by bit.

“You lift your head when I say so, not before. Got it?” My voice was steady, commanding.

“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured.

I pressed harder, grinding the sole against his scalp. “This is your punishment for hesitating. When I give an order, you obey. No second-guessing. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” His tone was thick with remorse.

“Up now. Let’s go.”

I released him and strode toward the elevator, not looking back. He scrambled to follow, and when I glanced at him, I caught the flush creeping up his neck, the bulge straining against his jeans. His eyes dropped when they met mine, and I smirked, heat pooling low in my belly.

In the room — a sleek space with a plush sofa and a king-sized bed — I didn’t waste time. “Strip. Kneel in the center.”

He moved fast, shedding his clothes and dropping to his knees, gaze fixed on the floor. I paced around him, taking him in. Ethan was striking — broad shoulders from hours at the gym, lean muscle without the bulk, dark hair swept back, and hazel eyes that hinted at a quiet confidence. No one would guess this poised, handsome man craved submission behind closed doors. His arousal was obvious, standing proud, but I wasn’t here for that — not yet.

“Legs apart, hands behind your back, eyes down,” I instructed. “This is how I want you when you’re with me. Clear?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he said, adjusting instantly. His voice trembled slightly, desire lacing every syllable.

“And no touching yourself or cum without my say so. Your pleasure belongs to me now. Understood?”

“Yes, Mistress. At your command.”

I stepped closer, tilting his chin up with my fingers. His skin was warm, and I traced a slow path across his forehead, down his cheekbones, lingering at his lips. A soft moan escaped him. I slipped a finger into his mouth, and he sucked eagerly, eyes fluttering shut. Two fingers, then three, and I worked them in and out, watching him melt. Then, abruptly, I pulled them free — and slapped him hard across the face.

His eyes snapped open, startled. I hit him again, then again, a series of sharp, stinging blows — ten in all, just because I felt like it.

“Problem with me slapping you, pup?” I asked, voice cool.

“No, Mistress. You’re in charge. Do whatever you want with me.”

“Good boy.” I delivered three more slaps, hard enough to rock him sideways. His cheeks blazed red, and I was buzzing with excitement.

I held my hands to his lips. “Kiss them. Thank the hands that discipline you.”

“Thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much. It’s an honor.” He kissed each knuckle with fervor, his breath ragged, a slick puddle forming beneath him.

“Sometimes I’ll slap you to punish you, sometimes just because I feel like it. And you’ll take it because you want to please me, don’t you, pup?”

“Yes, Mistress. Anything you want. I just want to make you happy.” I grinned, ruffling his hair like he was a pet. “Good boy.” He beamed, despite the sting.