Friday Night
The Domme carefully lifted up her long skirt with one hand, while she held onto her driver’s arm with the other. They made their way slowly down the long staircase to the driveway, where the car waited.
The driver held the umbrella over her freshly coifed head, noticing how the beams from the streetlamps highlighted the strands of gold in the coiled waves, artfully arranged. He helped her into the passenger seat, scooping up the skirt, out of the way of the door.
As he leaned in, to assist with her seatbelt, he was careful to avoid brushing his arm against the beaded bodice of her top. The last time he accidentally touched her, she’d reprimanded him so severely, he’d been devastated.
They drove in silence through the rainy streets, the ribbons of highways, glistening in the cold night. He glanced her way, though he could not see her eyes. She’d covered them with her dark glasses.
She loved wearing sunglasses at night, one of her peculiar eccentricities.
“Why shouldn’t I?” she said one evening as she sat at her dressing table putting the final touches on her make up. “I can’t see worth shit at night, anyway.”
He was glad she suffered from night blindness, or she might have dispensed with his driving all together. She often threatened to drive herself, but they both knew it was impossible.
The driver kept a close eye on the speedometer. She didn’t like it when he drove too fast.
“I’m keeping to a strict 65,” he said to her.
She didn’t reply.
“You know I like to drive you as though you were a precious egg in a basket.”
Even though, he couldn’t see her eyes, he knew she’s shot him a disgusted look, so he decided to keep quiet for the remainder of the journey.
As he concentrated on the traffic, she fiddled with the vehicle’s sound system, attempting to adjust it, he wanted to push her hand away and set it correctly, but he resisted the impulse.
As they pulled up to the dungeon, he spotted a parking place directly in front of the place. She already had her hand on the car door handle. Before he could turn off the engine, she’s flung it open and dashed up to the dungeon door, pulled it wide and hurried inside.
He heard the metal dungeon door slamming shut as he reached into the back seat for her black leather toy bag and the long, leather case she used for her exquisite collection of equestrian crops and dressage whips.
She was like that: eager, enthusiastic. Determined to get places quickly. She rarely allowed him to open the car door for her.
He preferred the summer evenings when she wore her extreme, high-heeled patent leather oxfords. “My Minnie Mouse domme shoes,” she called them.
With those shoes on, she could barely walk. He had to half-carry her in. He felt useful and important, when she leaned on him.
He carried her bags into the dungeon foyer, where’d she already paid her fee and was chatting with the owner. He handed them to her and wished her a pleasant evening. “I’ll be here waiting for you. Let me know if you need anything.” She nodded and disappeared into the dungeon proper, where he was never allowed to enter.
Femdom night. No male doms allowed. The male dom owner of the dungeon liked to have company in the foyer, so the driver had someone to talk with as he waited for the domme. The hours passed.
He wondered who would carry her bags back to him. Would it be the tall, thin bald man? Maybe the young guy with that engaging smile? He never knew who she planned to meet at the dungeon.
Did she know them, were they strangers to her? What did she do with them?
He knew she liked to fist. The idea of it made his toes curl. Fisting. It digusted him.
He tried to hang about when phone calls came for “the mistress”, but he never heard a word. She would point at him and the door. He knew better than to stand about, he quickly exited the room.
Once he caught a glimpse of a naked ass with a butt plug sticking out of it on her computer screen, an attachment to an email.
“Who is that? Is that you?” he asked.
She went through the roof.
“Of course that is not me. Are you crazy? Why would I have a butt plug up my ass?"
"That’s one of my butt boys,” she said as she shoo’d him away.
Once he’d gone through her photo files, when she was out for the afternoon. He discovered, inside her collection of cartoon-like pictures of Second life, a folder of real life naked butts and penises encased in rope harnesses.
Some of the males had written her first name across their bellies.
“Who are these men?” he asked himself.
The hours passed as he sat in the cold outdoor foyer with the owner of the dungeon, waiting.
Finally the domme appeared. He took her leather cases from her, escorted her to the car and drove her safely home.
They had a cup of tea together. He asked if he might kiss her goodnight. She permitted him to kiss her hand. He went to bed.
In the dark bedroom, he heard the dog growl softly in her sleep as she lay at the foot of the bed on her pillow.
He felt lucky that the domme did not make him sleep there. Occasionally, she suggested that he might be better off there; but, he pleaded to be allowed stay on his side of the bed, to comfort her, when she had bad dreams or to rub her feet, when they were cold.
She sighed and agreed that he could stay.
That was all he was allowed. A fleeting kiss, a cup of tea, the company of the dog.
It was what he deserved. He accepted it.
He loved her.
He loved his wife—the Domme.
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