My name is Sam, and I've been submissive since my first sexual inklings. In high school and college, I found myself attracted to women more because of their confidence - even arrogance - than because of anything physical about them. A woman who expected me to do whatever she wanted and had no interest in my opinions (or even feelings) was the only kind of woman who could pique my interest and hold my attention.
I am a reasonably attractive young man, with a reasonably nice physique, but I have only ever wanted to be treated like I was unworthy and used by someone who believes themselves to be unequivocally better than me. Providing a service to them, even (maybe especially) if that service was humiliating and even painful to me, was the only way I'd ever become sexually aroused. And my god did it arouse me.
These women were sometimes a little hard to find, but they were out there. There were women who wanted to take their anger at another man out on me, women who liked to be worshiped to flatter their ego, and women who simply had little empathy or regard for anyone else in the world. I would find them and try everything I could to be everything they wanted. Throughout my twenties, this made me a very happy and satisfied slave to a series of dominant women.
At some point, I may tell the stories from that period in my life, but this story is about how that part of my life ended, and my new life began. I was 31 and living in Brooklyn. I had just moved to the city after a few years abroad, and hadn't found a consistent domme yet. The morning my life changed was a snowy day in January, and it started without any warning that the day would end with me pleading for cock and aching to be fucked by a man.
I woke up with little planned that day, but with a simmering desire in my belly to serve, so I perused a no-strings hookups site to see if there were any promising leads. Among the reams of obvious fakes and scams, there were a smattering of ads that looked like they might be real. My eyes lit up when I saw an ad that looked like it might have been from Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was a woman I'd served a few weeks before. I had thoroughly enjoyed serving her. In fact, serving her had been the best thing I'd done in years, and had occupied my thoughts pretty constantly since late December. I quickly responded with my usual spiel: "Hello Miss, I am a lowly servant with no needs of my own; Doing whatever you want and expecting nothing in return would give my life a little meaning. Please consider letting me serve you." I added "My name is Sam, you may remember me from a few weeks ago."
I sent off the message along with a nude picture of me with "slave" written in lipstick across my chest, and thought back to that earlier day. She had told me her name was Elizabeth, but instructed in her email that I call her Miss. She sent me her address and ordered me to arrive at a specific time.
Her apartment was at the end of a hallway on the twelfth floor of a doorman building on the Upper East Side. The doorman let me up, and I knocked gently on her door. Elizabeth opened the door, told me to undress, and closed the door in my face. I could only take her in for a second before the door closed, but that was long enough. If Daisy Buchanan's voice was full of money, Elizabeth's skin, hair and eyes were full of trust fund checks. She was in her mid-twenties, petite and dressed in a conservative, knee-length skirt and sweater set that was pure junior league. Her light brown hair was parted on the side and swept across her forehead, held back by a beret. The skin covering the fine curves of her nose and cheek were almost translucent, as if, given the right lighting, I could've seen right through it to the generations of moneyed breeding in her history. She was intoxicating, and, I hoped, might be truly condescending and mean.
I stripped, and knocked again, waiting a little anxiously in the hall, watching the other doors for a sign that someone might be coming out. After a few minutes, she returned, took my clothes from me, let me in, and told me to kneel in the middle of her living room with my hands clasped behind my back. Her voice wasn't severe, but she had the commanding air of someone who could not imagine a world where she was not listened to and obeyed.
When I walked in, I saw a man in his thirties, larger than me and a bit burly, sitting on her couch. She told me he was Allen, and he was a neighbor. She preferred to have a man over whenever she used a new servant for the first time. A young woman could never be too careful, she said. That made sense, and was something I'd come across before. I wondered what was in it for Allen. Was he, in his own way, serving Elizabeth? What was he hoping for in return?
Whatever Allen's motivations, it felt a little exhilarating to find myself nude in front of a stranger with little warning, and I said as much in acknowledgement of the fact that I was growing hard. Elizabeth sighed, then stepped in close to me and smacked my face, hard. "Today you are serving me and only me. If I wanted you to get excited by Allen, I would tell you. If I wanted to know what made you excited, I'd ask. It is very unlikely that I will ever ask." Sufficiently chastened, I said, "yes miss." My erection betrayed my increased excitement at her rebuke.
She set me to cleaning her two bedroom apartment and doing her dishes in the nude. Whenever I had to pass through the room she was in, I was instructed to crawl on hands and knees and look down and away from her. While I cleaned, she and Allen sat on the couch, ignoring me and chatting. From the little I could glean of their conversation, Allen was single and lived in the next apartment over. They seemed as if they'd known each other for years, but I got the sense that Allen was not from the same place and status as Elizabeth. He must have had money to live in this building, but not the same kind of generational money that I guessed Elizabeth had.
After about two hours, when I'd finished the chores she'd given me, I asked if there was anything else she'd like me to do. She asked Allen to leave, and then, once he'd gone, told me to lie on my back on the carpet and close my eyes. I obeyed and heard her stand over my head and hike up her skirt. She knelt down and straddled my head, letting the skirt drop around me. She ground her bare sex down on my mouth and chin. The unmistakable taste and texture of a man's cum hit me immediately. She was oozing warm, runny semen onto my tongue. I opened my eyes, but with the skirt around my head, couldn't see much. The only thing I could see, through a fold in the skirt, was a tennis bracelet glinting around her slim wrist, which was planted on the floor near my shoulder. Had this load come from Allen? I guessed that was what he got out of the arrangement.
She rode my face for nearly 30 minutes, grunting steadily and panting each time she built towards orgasm. After the first time she came, she slid forward so that my lips and tongue were on her little rosebud of an asshole for a minute or two, before moving me back to her clit. As she came a second time, she pushed down harder on my face, clenching her body, groaning and shuddering as her ground her full weight through her pudendum and into my nose and mouth. She shuddered, and screamed twice, then slid quickly off my face, kneeling behind my head. While my eyes adjusted to the light, she slapped me twice across the face, then paused, then slapped me again. For a moment, her composure seemed shaken, and her slaps seemed petulant and angry. It was fleeting; she took a deep breathe, and the cold, waspy facade returned.
She stood and said that I had done an adequate job. As reward, I would be allowed to drink her piss from a bowl. She went to the kitchen, then to the bathroom, and then called to me from the other room, telling me to drink the bowl dry.
The humiliation of drinking piss, especially piss that is growing cold in a bowl on the floor, is one of the most satisfying feelings I know. Elizabeth leaned against the door jamb and watched, expressionless, as I got on my hands and knees and lapped up her piss. When I was nearly finished, she reached her foot out and pushed my face and shoulders into the bowl, spilling it. She smiled and laughed lightly. "Clean this up and then get out," she said, still laughing.
I had loved everything about this session, from the thrill of being naked in her semi-public hall to the feeling of stale cum coating my throat to the casual disdain she'd had for me the entire time. The effortless way in which she expressed her superiority was as attractive as anything I'd ever seen. This might have been more than just the entitlement of the well-bred, though there was definitely that too. She might really have had no capacity for empathy whatsoever, at least not towards someone like me.
