Poor Connection

We were in bed enjoying post-coital bourbons when she began to muse on her desire to be dominant. “Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy how submissive I feel with you,” she said, touching my forearm. “But I also wonder what it would be like to be the one in charge. I think I’d like having someone bowing in front of me, kissing my boots as I whipped him.” She rested her glass in her bare sternum. “I know, that sounds incredibly clichéd.”

“Why should that be cliché?” I asked. “That’s a perfectly fine fantasy, and perfectly realizable. But you’ve never done anything like that, have you?”

She took a sip. “No,” she swallowed. “No, the most I’ve done is like this, being submissive. Maybe a little bit of bossing men around in bed, but nothing very extreme.” She took another sip. “I’ve certainly never whipped anyone. I wouldn’t know how.”

“It’s something you can learn,” I said. “I didn’t know anything either until I started learning.”

She turned to me. “You could teach me that, couldn’t you?”

“Well, there are more experienced teachers,” I demurred. “But yes, I know enough to get you started.” I sipped my drink and thought for a moment. “You know what we need? We need a submissive to work on together. A teaching submissive.”

“Really?” she sat up. “Really? Because that would be perfect. Wouldn’t it? We could team up and really work holy hell on someone. I’d learn a lot from that.”

I turned and leaned on an elbow. “Yeah, let’s think that through. I’d really enjoy doing this with you. We’re having a great time together. This would be a fun project for us.”

“Yeah! Let’s do it.” She raised her glass. I clinked mine to hers and leaned to kiss her cheek. I fucked her ass to seal the deal.

That night we drew up a wish list for our submissive. I suggested that we start by looking for someone with whom neither of us had a preexisting history. That way, we could find a recruit who was dedicated to serving us equally, without interfering with our other relationships. She agreed and added that she would prefer a man if possible, as she wasn’t sure she felt ready to dominate a woman. Fine by me, I said—even better if he’s someone we can “force” to be bisexual. Hot! she exclaimed. Hell yeah, I nodded. We decided to see what might come our way online.

She sat on my lap as we composed an ad.

Attractive, creative, educated couple seeks submissive boy for our shared use.

“Nice,” she said, squeezing my cock. I kissed her shoulder blade and continued typing.

You will be expected to serve us together, as a servant to the pleasure we already share. You can expect to be our sexual plaything at our discretion, or you may simply be ignored as we enjoy one another’s company. You will take care of our basic needs, such as refilling our drinks, changing our sheets and generally proving useful. He will use your flesh to teach her to flog, cane and whip, so you must be willing to submit to the lash.

I squeezed her breast. “Anything else?” She leaned forward to type.

Enthusiasm more important than experience.

“Right,” I nodded. “Oh, and one more thing.” I reached for the keyboard.

Some domestic duties required.

“Really?” she asked.

“My bathroom doesn’t scrub itself, you know.” I hit send and patted her hips. “Come on, let’s get back to drinking and screwing. We can check responses tomorrow.”

The next morning, I made coffee as she stayed in bed. Although we awoke to sex, she had decided to forego a shower, preferring to head to her office smelling of us. I stroked semen from her hair as we kissed goodbye at the door.

As expected, there were dozens of responses waiting when I signed on. I poured a second cup of coffee and began to weed through my inbox. By the time I returned for my third cup, my trash was filled with men who expressed a readiness to fuck my “wife,” men who weren’t interested in being submissive but hoped we would forego that requirement after considering photographs of their cocks, and one-line replies asking ‘sup, are you for real, how about tonight. Such is the white noise of trash when a woman is mentioned in the mix.

I was left with a few contenders. I asked a muscular young man to tell us more about his oral fixation. A graduate student alluded to his quest to serve smart people. An artist asked if he could show his devotion by sketching us as he waited in service.

One man wrote simply, “Can we talk on the phone? I have a few specific questions that are better discussed that way.”

He had no way to know of my own peculiar aversion to telephones, which I regard with a wariness reserved for traps waiting to be sprung. Once I’m on a phone call, manners preclude me from rushing it to a conclusion. If we spoke, I would be stuck until this stranger had his say. It was just after nine. I had work waiting. I sent a quick reply.

Thank you for your response. I don’t have time for a phone call this morning. Please tell us more about your interests and experiences. Also, we require a photograph.

He replied quickly.

I can’t send a pic. I must be discreet. I have an important job. Please, a call will just take a moment. I will know quickly if this is a good match.

“Discreet.” I supposed this meant he was married. This wasn’t an issue for me, but I knew it was a deal breaker for my friend. I took another sip of coffee and steeled my dom manner.

We appreciate your need for discretion. You should respect our wishes. I can not waste time on phone calls this morning. I asked simple questions you can answer via email. Now I add another: are you married? That doesn’t work for us.

Again, his reply was instant.

Sir, please. I promise our conversation will be brief.

“Sir.” Another strike—why should he presume to address me as “sir?” I finished my coffee and opened my work. The prospective submissive could wait until I had time for him.

Another email swiftly followed.

Sir, my questions are few. I can only talk for a moment. May I please call you?

Call me? No one calls me. Everyone knows my phone works in one direction only. I drew a breath and exhaled. Maybe I should just get this over with and get on with the day.

I’ll give you five minutes. What’s your number?

He answered in a moment.

Sir, I can’t receive calls. I am at my office. Please give me your number and I will call you.

I didn’t like this at all. But I had taken on the task of recruiting a submissive, and that meant taking the time to vet applicants. I relented, and gave him my number, along with instructions that he was never to call without permission. My cell rang instantly. The caller id read “private caller.” He had blocked his number, which further irritated me. He had insisted on taking information from me, and I had none in return.

“Yes?” I answered. My ear was immediately filled with an electronic squall. His voice hid somewhere in its center.

“Thank you for allowing me to call, sir.” I strained to hear him over the poor connection. His voice was deep and accented. He spoke in a hush.

“This will be short,” I said tersely. “And you’ll have to speak up.”

“Thank you, sir. I promise, I only have a few questions." His voice remained low. "I know specifically what I need to make this work for me. I’m sure it will be better if we are all clear about these things from the beginning. Otherwise, it can’t work. If it doesn’t work for me, I lose interest. That’s no good for me.”

“You’re wasting my time,” I said impatiently, already regretting that I had agreed to this call. “Ask your questions.”

“Thank you, sir. I know what will work for me. I hope you will accept my needs. You are a couple, is that correct?”

“The ad stated that,” I reminded him.

“Uh huh, I see. Is she you wife?”

“No.”

“Uh huh, I see. Is she your mistress?”

“Why are you so concerned about the nature of our relationship?”

“Sir, I need to know that you are a real couple. That’s important to me if I am to stay interested.”

I nestled the phone against my shoulder and returned to my email. “We are a real couple. Any more questions?”

“Yes, sir, thank you.” A spike in the surface noise made me wince. “When you meet with a submissive, are you nude? Or do you wear clothes?”

I opened another email and read it. “We dress as we choose,” I replied absentmindedly.

“So you do wear clothes?”

“Or we are nude. This is our choice.”

“Oh, well, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that only I am nude. I don’t like to see other people’s genitals. It’s . . .” He said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t bother asking him to repeat it.

“Fine then, we can wear clothes.” I sent an email and opened another.

“Thank you, sir. Do you have uniforms, or do you wear street clothes?”

“Uniforms?” My ear was numb. I transferred the phone to another shoulder. “No, we don’t have uniforms.”

“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer uniforms.”

“I suppose this isn’t a good match then,” I said impatiently.

“No, wait, perhaps we can make it work. Do you own black clothes?”

“This is New York. Of course we own black clothes.”

“Do you have them in leather, or rubber?”

“Neither. But we wouldn’t be averse to you providing them as gifts.”

“Oh, you see, that wouldn’t work for me. You would need to have the clothes on when I arrived.” He paused. Something scratched the microphone of his receiver. “Do you have black pants and a shirt? What would she wear?”

“I have those things, yes.” Another email sent. “I know she has a black dress.”

“No, a dress won’t work. I can’t have a dress in the room. She would need to wear slacks, or I would lose interest.”

“Okay.” My voice indicated that I had already lost interest.

“Is that acceptable, sir? That she could wear slacks?”

“I’ll ask her. Are you finished with your questions?”

“No sir, thank you, just a few more, please. Now, my master and mistress would be dressed, and I would be nude. Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them?”

“That would be up to our discretion.”

“But sir, what do you think would happen? Would you ignore my genitals, or touch them, or maybe torture them?”

I had run out of emails to answer. “I suppose we would torture them.”

“Oh sir, that wouldn’t work for me. It’s very important that you both ignore my genitals. My problem is that I’m a premature ejaculator. If you touch me, it’s over for me, and I lose interest.”

“Understood.”

“Of course, you can touch me at the end. That would be acceptable.”

“Understood.” I stood and paced. “Your five minutes are over. Any more questions?”

“Just a few, thank you sir. Now, your wife, or your mistress . . . is she slender or heavy?”

“My partner is slender.”

“Oh, see, that wouldn’t work for me. I prefer a heavy woman, a thick woman.”

I stopped pacing. I could accommodate many requests, but I couldn’t alter my friend’s body to suit him. “Why didn’t you simply say so at the beginning?” I said, clearly irritated. “Why ask me question after question if you have a specific preference? Why not just tell me what you have in mind?”

“Oh sir, but you see, this way I get the truth. You tell me the correct answer rather than what you think I want to hear.”

“I have no reason to lie to you.”

“I have to be careful,” he went on. “I can’t take risks. I’m a rabbi and my wife is unaware of this. I trust you can host?”

“Wait, what?” I pinched my brow. “You’re a rabbi?”

He paused. “This is a problem?” His receiver rustled again. I realized he was using it to scratch his beard.

I shook my head. “We prefer not to have a dress code imposed on us. We do not own uniforms. My partner doesn’t want married men and she’s not your preferred body type. We specifically requested a submissive for sexual use and you can’t provide that.”

“Please, there are compromises, sir . . .”

“I gave you five minutes and I answered your questions. This is clearly not a match. This concludes our telephone call. Do not call this number again. Good bye.” I hung up. My ears still rung from the background buzz of his connection.

I needed to clear my head. I took a short shower, washing away the sweet scent of morning sex and the cloying desperation of a submissive rabbi.

A new email was waiting when I returned to my computer.

It sounds like you don’t want to meet.