"Wear a jacket with only your bra and panties underneath," read the text message that appeared on my screen. I was in a Zoom work meeting when I had gotten startled by the buzzing of the phone in my lap. As I read the message, a warm flush crossed my face. I guiltily looked at the faces of the other meeting attendees, but they did not react.
The night before, after a few glasses of wine, I had boldly given a man from Tinder my actual phone number. Normally, I would not have done this, but with his insistence, I looked him up on LinkedIn and saw that he was a real person with a somewhat public job. I figured that I wasn't being catfished and he was probably not a sociopath.
We had flirted by text last night, and we had joked about meeting up during the workday. I assumed it was one of those conversations where the person disappeared into thin air the next day. It was the tacit agreement made between the Tinder users. You could share your deepest, darkest feelings with the 1/2 inch headshot, a flickering cursor, and a series of 1s and 0s. The next minute, they could be gone and never to be seen from again. For me, it only became "real" when I was sitting across from the person, observing the way they use their hands when they talk and seeing their chests heaving up and down with each breath.
Looking down at my phone again, I saw that he was still typing. I felt a rush of warmth flood my lap, and my stomach felt like I had just dropped 1,000 feet. The next text was an address and, "Come now."
I wanted to go. I wanted to go right now. But then my brain kicked into gear, and I started thinking about all the true crime podcasts I've been listening to at night. The woman gets into her car after speaking to a man online and is never heard from again.
On the other hand, though, I haven't had sex in months, and I found the way this man firmly gave me directions exciting. I liked that he referred to me as "dear" and didn't use the modifiers like "maybe sometime" or "only if you want" like some of the less-assertive younger men I have chatted with did.
Fuck it. "OK," I texted back. And then, on impulse, concerned that I may have agreed to something I had forgotten last night, I typed, "You will be nice?"
What kind of response was I even hoping for? Thankfully, the response that came, was satisfactory. "Yes, dear, of course."
The meeting wrapped up, and I clicked "Leave" on Zoom. I rushed to my bedroom to change out of my zoom leisurewear and into something more appropriate for the occasion. A black, plunging bra pushing my ample breasts together and matching bikini panties. I looked at myself in the mirror from the front and the side. I liked the symmetry in how my chest and hips flared out from my waist. I was already not following his directions as he asked me to wear just a bra, panties, and a jacket. I'm sure a "good submissive" would have done just that.
I've never felt quite comfortable with the word "submissive" and wasn't prepared to call anyone "Daddy" or "Master". However, my days at work were spent giving directions and making decisions. The idea of handing that over to someone else was not as attractive in work, but in sex, it was exhilarating.
In my car, the fluttering of the butterflies became more and more rapid with every mile I drove. His house was next to a park bordering the lake, the jewel of the urban city landscape. I texted him, "Here," and got out of my car. Smoothing down my dress and running a hand through my hair, I tried to settle my rapidly beating heart as I approached his front door.
