Fiction: The Claiming

The coffee shop smelled rich in fear and anticipation as I sat there, my leg shaking violently and my heart racing a mile a minute. I’d been sitting here for ten minutes and by the point I’m pretty sure you could have hooked me up to a car engine and powered the thing for a roadtrip on the adrenaline in my system alone.

I was more nervous for this than I had been for just about anything in my life.

I was meeting him today. The special man in my life. The one who completed me. The one who made me complete. The one who reached into my very soul and pulled out the black and twisted pieces of it for me to examine at length. He made me whole by allowing me to see my true nature.

We met as all modern kinskters do: online. After all, there aren’t that many bondage clubs out in the middle of Corn Country, USA. Sure, we lived close to the big city lights and dark alleyways, but neither of us were comfortable traveling such distances. Our search for the perfect person to complete ourselves had taken us online.

The world wide web was the perfect setting to meet and connect with people who shared the same interests. You could be as anonymous or as known as you wanted. In the snap of your fingers you could stop talking to someone if they annoyed you or if they freaked you out. I had plenty of those. Weirdos who wanted rape play. Foot fetishists. Submissive men wanting to try on their inner dominant. I’d talked to so many guys over the past year that I could spot them all from a mile a way now. It took a trained, practiced eye to appreciate and understand the good ones.

Sir popped up on my radar in the most inconspicuous way. I had been posting on a message board about random stuff and posted some of my erotic fiction. They were purely works of just that: fiction. Sir sent me an email complimenting me on my writing ability and asking if I had any more samples he might be able to read. I sent him some other things I had in the vault and we traded emails.

As days turned into weeks, I slowly began to look more and more forward to his emails. I hung on his every word and leaned into my screen when I read them. I spent hours corresponding with him, more than I ever intended to.

I was slowly becoming addicted to him.

Two months of emails led to instant messaging. The live one on one time I spent with him was heavenly. He seemed to be able to anticipate my every thought. We spent hours upon hours running through scenarios, fantasies, fetishes, everything. I couldn’t believe that someone other than me shared my desires. Sure, we differed on a few things. He liked the concept of cages and I was iffy about it, though the more he talked about caging up a girl for his use whenever he desired her, the more I found myself considering it myself. It seemed like my desires were slowly giving way to his. I found myself infatuated with him and not just because we were so mentally similar.

Four months of chatting online turned into phone calls. Whispers in the dark of night where I’d touch myself and he’d listen to me, giving me permission to come from my hand as if it was his. I found myself hearing his voice in my head when we weren’t talking. Wondering how Sir would like me to do something, if Sir would like this top on me, if Sir thought I should have that extra sugar cookie.

I couldn’t tell you how many times we had phone sex. Two, three, sometimes five times a night. He turned me on so much that it was nearly impossible to stop it. He would bring me right to the edge and then stop me, tell me to back off. There were many times I cried, begged for him to let me cum. Sometimes he would give in; often times he would not. I would wonder what I had done to upset him that he would not give me my orgasm, but one day the light clicked on in my head. They were not my orgasms. They never had been. They had always belonged to him. Even before I had met him. No man had turned me on like he did and it was likely no man ever would. The thought actually made me cry one night.

Eleven long months. Eleven of the most excruciating and most exhilarating months of my life.

I learned to trust him with my ever secret. I told him my life story and he told me his. Our relationship was not a one way street, you see. It was not just him learning about me. I learned about him as well.

In the twelfth month I knew Sir he finally asked if I wanted to meet. The way he phrased it made it my decision but ultimately it was not a decision at all. I could not have turned him down by now if I had wanted to. I desperately wanted him. The deepest parts of my soul craved him. He was the worst kind of addiction for me – one I feared I would never get over.

We arranged to meet for coffee. It seemed like a neutral enough meeting place. We picked somewhere halfway between our two locations, far enough that neither was in fear of seeing someone we knew and having to explain why we were there.

I couldn’t sleep for two days ahead of time. I spent a week preparing my body. I got waxed from my armpits down. I scented, lotioned, sprayed and perfumed everything. He had told me not to expect anything physical, but that if we both felt comfortable enough (and only if I consented in person to him) would anything else happen. That seemed fair enough to me. Ultimately the choice would be left to me. He said any dominant man who did otherwise was not the kind of dominant I would want. I didn’t disagree with that.

Sir picked out the outfit I would wear to meet him. By now he’d seem every article of clothing I owned, down to the jewelry in my jewelry box and the socks in my sock drawer. He selected a knee length black loose skirt and a white blouse with a green cardigan over it. I would wear no undergarments. He said he wanted to know that if I would allow him, his access to me would be full and complete. I told him he would know it was me for sure by the black fake flower hair clip I would put in my hair.

The day of our meeting dawned and I had never been more nervous. I spent hours getting carefully ready, making sure that not a hair was out of place on my head and not a single thread was loose on my clothing. My fingernails were perfect with a coat of clear nailpolish and my toes were lovely with black. Sir had also selected a pair of mid height strappy heels for me to wear as well. He said he liked the thought of my feet available for the world to see.

The traffic on the way to the coffee house was unbearable but it took my mind off what was coming. Red light after red light. Dammit, Murphy’s Law and I had never been friends and today was no different. I kept looking at the clock hoping that I wouldn’t be late. That was not something I wanted on my first meeting with Sir. Not at all.

My fears were unfounded though because I arrived ten minutes early. I ordered a latte and slipped into a seat at a free table. My fingers traced the rim of my mug as I watched my hands shake. I swear the people at the next table could hear the thud, thud, thud of my heartbeat it was so loud. I glanced at them and I felt as if they could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. It felt like a million degrees in the small, cramped coffee shop. Good god, why didn’t someone turn a fan on or something? Didn’t anybody else feel it? It was stifling.

The seconds clicked off on my watch and I almost missed the soft whisper of my name because I was paying more attention to my frantically beating heart than my surroundings.

I looked up and my world changed.

His hand was extended and I slowly took it, the planet tilting on its axis when he touched me for the first time. Every nerve felt like it had just been created and his eyes were the color of the fall trees when they’ve almost expired for the season. That dark woodsy green/red that sets my soul on fire. The color of deep amber and molten fire.

He sat down across from me and it took my entire will power not to drop to the floor right there and ask him to take me. As if there had ever been any doubt that I wanted to be his in the first place. It was now an overwhelming need. I needed to belong to him and be his in every way. I needed him to mark me and make me his.

Each passing second in his presence only solidified this need.

His smile widened and I felt the blush run across my cheeks. Sir picked up my hand and the pad of his thumb ran across my knuckles.

His breath came out all hoarse with his next words.

“I can’t believe you’re really mine, little one,” he said, looking at me with those eyes filled with fire and cutting through me like hot steel.

“I always was, Sir. You just had to claim me,” I whispered back.

His smile was genuine and his eyes said everything that he couldn’t or wouldn’t.

He’d already claimed me long ago. Now he was doing it for real.

One thought on “Fiction: The Claiming

  1. mjs

    this was beautiful and gorgeously written. It reminded me deeply of and actual related experience with someone years ago (1998/9). We had a long phone correspondence of the same nature you wrote about here. She lived in Alaska and I was in New York. When we finally decided to meet in Portland we agreed to bring blindfolds and have our first meeting blindfolded in the hotel room. I put the blindfold on and knocked on the door. I heard the same voice that I had heard for hundreds of hours on the other side saying that she was putting her blindfold on. She opened the door and no image of her face. Just the pure sensation of touch experienced unblemished by sight with all the compressed heat and emotion of months on the phone …breathlessly expressed.


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