Looking back on it, I think one of the things that made me fall so deeply for him was the fact that I was never supposed to meet him in the first place.

I know that he'd call this fate. He's always thought of the world in that fashion--always so hopeful and (as much as I hate the term) spiritual.

Then again, he'd never had as rotten luck as I'd done.

This "rotten luck" was exactly why I wasn't supposed to meet him.

A run-down video store clerk, cynical to the world, somewhat shy, usually pessimistic, and overall socially inept. At 22, he'd only been in one relationship (which, for the record, had a devastating end, beginning, and middle). Only experience with the whole BDSM culture the fact that he jerked off to the idea of it almost daily.

All in all, I was not the best candidate to be where I was that night--at The Wasteland.

I'd always known it was there, the BDSM club. Big town like mine was bound to have one, after all, and I would drive by it sometimes, dreaming that I was in there. A few times I'd even walked up to the building, only to hesitate for one mere moment before passing right on by. But, as you all know, there's a huge difference between watching some cut-rate porno and actually being chained up to a post. I could think about it for years, construct the most elaborate of fantasies and four AM in my nice, empty bed, but that's as far as I'd ever go. And, to tell the truth, I don't know what changed that. Maybe I just had some self-esteem in me that day, or something. Maybe after a day full of whiny kids blaming me for our store's asinine card-for-rated-R-movies policy, I just didn't give a shit about anything. After all, there's only so far down you can go in the world. Whatever it was, though, one day I just walked up to that door and actually opened it.

However, just because I had the courage to enter the building didn't mean much. The self-confidence only lasted long enough for me to get past ID check and hanging my coat up. After those two simple, mundane actions, my nerve was almost totally gone. The only reason I didn't leave was because it seemed more embarrassing to turn and leave than to stay, hidden in the backmost of corners until everyone mercifully disappeared, or aliens beamed me away. I was perfectly content to make a lasting relationship with the bench I sat on, cloaked in the poorly lit sides of the club. This was a good place to be, I assured myself. This bench was built specially for all of the socially inept losers to wait for the ground to open up and have a nice meal of lameness personified. We could all just sit until then, watching the beautiful people dance, writhe and look for new flesh. It's a whole different world in the middle of a dance floor.

The music there was loud, almost unbearably so. It had a beat and that was about all. That was enough, though, for a sex club--it doesn't matter how crappy the music you're listening to is, because lord knows you can't bump and grind to "Oh Fortuna." Anyway, I could almost ignore it. Even if the aural stimulation in that club was painful, the visual was more than enough to make up for it.

I was embarrassed to be there, yes. But being a fly on the wall has never hurt anyone, and these were the best of people to ogle. So I ogled away. Men in tight leather pants, glitter, and not much else. Women with full, firm chests barely poured into brilliantly shining PVC. Doms with their high boots and ornate costumes, a rainbow in shades of black, red, dark blue. Their subs rubbed against those vinyl-encased thighs, dressed often in little else than a collar and the thin pink marks from whiplashes. For my part, I sat shy in those shadows with my jeans and the most risqué shirt I owned--a skin-tight green velvet button-down affair. My boots, unlike those of the doms out there, were dull and scuffed with the trials of everyday wear. And, to me, all those faces out there looked so exotic, most of them touched with kohl and iridescent face powder, somehow resisting smudging despite how much they must be sweating in so much body heat. I was just as I always was. Plain. I'd forgotten to shave.

It suddenly occurred to me that I looked as much (if not more) like a dom than I did a sub. Out among that undulating crowd, the doms were the most clothed. Even when a dom was wearing a black miniskirt and a leather bra, her submissive companion was bound to be wearing nothing at all. And I got even more nervous with that realization. Here I was, off on the sidelines wearing boots and pants and a long-sleeved shirt, looking like the world's most incompetent top. On the other hand, maybe it was a bit of a comfort, after all. As far as I knew, then, bottoms never hunted out someone to whip him or her. And so it went for the greater part of two hours. I sat on the bench and no one approached me, leaving me with the constantly changing dance floor to watch and my nerves to tend.

Somehow, though, things never go quite the way you plan.

I'm not going to tell you some long flowered story about how I saw him across the dance floor, and our eyes met and lightning struck. I mean, I didn't even notice him until he was something like five feet from me. He'd tell me later that he only saw me by chance--one of his friends was dragging him to the bar, and I happened to be on the way. He said he liked how aloof I looked. I asked him if it disappointed him that it was really a look of a guy too wimpy to get up and leave and not the look of a finicky sub. Let's be fair, I would have gone with any of the guys out there, and half the women.

He wasn't. I still wonder how nervousness looked like aloofness.

At any rate, when I noticed him that night, he was, as I had said, really close to me already. I think I probably jumped a bit when I saw him. The music had been loud enough to cloak any sound he made, and I'd been watching a couple playing off to the side, the sub a shivering bundle as his dom poured liquor on his chest and licked it back up. My reaction to that whole scene was probably pretty obvious, so after my initial surprise at seeing him, I was just embarrassed.

"Hello," he said, grinning. He was very attractive, and wasn't helping my arousal. I twisted a bit in my seat, sitting so it was a bit less noticeable, but from his grin I could tell that the move had just given me away.

All I could do was blush as I answered his greeting.

"I've never seen you here before," he continued. I think he was just trying to calm me down, now that I look back on it. "Are you new in town, or just new to this particular subculture?" He smiled again. I noticed for the first time, then, the little creases that crinkled up by his dark brown eyes when he did--those adorable crows' feet, at 23.

Don't think, though, that just because he had them he was some overage pot-bellied has-been of some sort. If anything, they just helped make him more down-to-earth, because, my god, he was gorgeous. Even sitting, I knew he was a fair amount shorter than I. His chin-length black hair, which hung in slight waves, made him look a bit younger. In fact, between the crows' feet and the gentling effect of the hair, he looked ageless.

Either the words or the crow's feet served his intentions, though. I wasn't nearly so nervous.

"I'm just new to this bar," I answered truthfully.

"Too shy to come in sooner?" he asked. I wasn't sure if he was teasing or if he was serious. I decided to take him up on the latter.

"Just hadn't got around to it," I said lamely. I might not have a good excuse, but lord knows I wasn't about to just go out and admit to this guy that I was a total dolt.

"Ah," he replied noncommittally. Looking around, he appeared to be considering something. Finally, he looked back down on me and grinned again. "Well, you're here now, obviously. Want to get something to drink?"

And with just that, the first step was made. After the little song and dance of first meeting someone, everything seems to get a great deal easier. He playfully reached his hand down to lift me from the bench, and we walked to the bar like a pair of old drinking buddies, even though we both just ordered coffee. I took mine black, he, with ungodly amounts of creamer. I remember we had to sit pretty close together to hear each other, and his thigh was a warm heat against mine.

"So," he started, stirring his coffee lazily, the spirals of creamer blending into the dark liquid until it was a soft tan, "I'm right in assuming you're submissive, right? I mean," he blushed in a way that endeared him even more to me, "Not to just jump into these things, and not like I'll stop talking to you if you aren't. I was just wondering. It's usually a good idea to get these things out of the way, you know." He seemed honestly embarrassed by asking me such a question, either because he was ashamed he had to, or because he thought it might offend me.

At any rate, he didn't need to worry about the latter. In fact, now that I look back on it, that question did quite a bit to help break the ice. I had just grinned and shook my head, answering exactly as I've said to you, now--that he needn't be concerned about it, I was sure it was important to know these things, and that yes, I was as he thought. I also admitted that I knew I didn't look much like one, but I didn't exactly have the money to go out and buy a half-inch square of vinyl that cost 65 dollars.. It was a half-truth. While I didn't have the money, I also didn't have the guts to come in here wearing less than I was. He seemed pretty amused by my answer, and we talked for a bit about his view on how anything--even sadomasochism--can be commercialized to a terrifying degree these days.

The conversation lulled for a bit, and I sipped my coffee, looking around the room. I could see that he was watching me out of the corner of my eye, and I was a bit unnerved (but, at the same time, complimented) by his gaze. He didn't seem too intent on restarting the conversation, but I was getting nervous.

"Umm..." I said, and already felt lame for starting out that way. "So what made you think I was submissive in the first place?" I asked, finally. It seemed like a pretty logical thing to ask.

He laughed a bit. "Well, the way you were watching the couples out there. It was pretty easy to tell you wanted someone to drizzle wine on you."

I sputtered on the coffee that was in my mouth, and some of it got up my nose. He laughed again, and took his napkin to wipe up what was on the table, and then moved to clean my hands with it. He looked a bit proud, though, even if he was showing some concern.

"What?" I asked, not really minding at all, "You like making poor defenseless guys like me shoot coffee out their noses? What sort of evil sadist are you, anyway?"

"A successful one, apparently!"

"Oh, you won't get me again, you fiend!"

"You have to drink your coffee sometime. And I'll be watching you..." he trailed off, trying to give a bit of a Hannibal Lecter impression but seeming to be more on the adorable stalker level of Sam I Am.

"And what, pray tell, is the name of this scoundrel I need to be looking out for?" I asked. I'd heard that people often gave out aliases at these joints, but, even then, I was hoping he'd tell me his real name. I liked him. Quite a bit.

And he seemed to be able to tell that I did, as well. I didn't think about it, then, but I was actually paying him a fairly good compliment by asking his name. I mean, think about it--I was one step from asking his phone number with that move. All the same, he sort of shook his head in response. "Oh, you'd never believe me if I told you."

"Your name? Why wouldn't I? Don't think I've heard enough unusual names in my life?"

"No, I'm serious. My mother was not kind."

I smiled at him, sipping my coffee cautiously before I answered. "Try me."

Giving a long-suffering sigh, as if what would follow was a constant bane of his existence, he finally relented. "Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam Rosenwald."

I had to believe him. No one would willingly make up a name like that. And, for the record, I did a very noble job of not laughing at him.

"Fitzwilliam?" I asked after a bit.

"Yes. Well, my mother--bless her soul and all that, of course--she was quite a bit more fond of Pride and Prejudice than she was of the concept of me making it through elementary school without constant wedgies."

I laughed then, I couldn't help it, but he accepted it without any ruffled feathers.

"What do your friends call you, then? William? Bill?" I thought for a moment, "Fitz?"

"Actually," he said before pausing to smile that charming grin at the waitress refilling our mugs, "They call me all of that. Most of the professors just call me Rosenwald, too." He stirred more creamer in. The steam from the cup rose in swirls before him.

"What should I call you, though, Mr. Rosenwald?" I asked, quietly. I remember how badly I wanted him in that moment, still. Mentioning the professors was just one more good mark on this guy's side--he was getting a college education, along with being attractive, amusing, dominant, and, unlike his namesake, all in all very good-natured and not proud.

He cocked his head to the side as if to search my face for something and I was, again, a bit unnerved by him. Breaking the gaze, he drank some coffee, smiled, and shrugged. His humor won over any serious remark he could make. I would discover in the time to come that it almost always did. "I didn't think you'd call me anything else than 'sir.' Seriously, though, you can call me whatever you want to. Name like I've got, I'll take what I can get."

"Okay, Mr. Darcy."

He shook his head. "No, you may not call me Mr. Darcy and I'll let you know now that you're going to get whipped for that later for sure. I can't believe you've read the book, either."

I shrugged. "Well, I did go to high school."

Thinking about his name a minute, I knew one thing--he was a bit too exotic, too great for a common name like "Bill." I mean, there were two Bills working at the video store alone. So it was decided. "Fitz, then. It's a really good name, actually."

"Thanks. I still think that Fitzwilliam Rosenwald is at least ten letters more than anyone needs, though. What's your name, by the way?"

To be honest, I was a bit ashamed of my own name after the whole conversation on his. My name was really without much of a story or anything great to it. Honestly, it was too short to make one nickname from it, much less the three or four you could milk from Fitz'. "My name's Sean Thompson. Sort of boring after yours, I know," I said, sheepishly.

"No, no, Sean's a good name. At the very least, you probably didn't have to suffer through incompetent substitutes. And besides, I like it--it suits you."

"I'm plain?" I protested half-heartedly. I knew what he meant. After all, it's hard to compliment a name. You didn't choose it in the first place.

"Not at all! On the contrary, Mr. Thompson, you're the most attractive man in this building. And," he added, teasing as he saw my blush, "You probably have the best prospects of any of them."

"'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.' Have you a good fortune, Mr. Rosenwald?"

"Well, had I one, you wouldn't make a very good wife. You remember Pride and Prejudice a bit too well, for one. And you talk entirely too much." He put his hand over mine, then, rubbing the knuckles with his thumb. I really can't say I minded him ending our conversation, as fun as it was to argue with him like that. His brown eyes lit up playfully when we did, but then, as he truly began to come on to me, they still were smoldering.

"Look," he said, softly, now bringing his other hand to hold my hand in both of his, "I don't know how you feel on it, but if you're in this place I think you're pretty cool with it. I mean, you wouldn't mind." Shaking his head a moment, he thought for a minute before starting over. "I want you more than anything, Sean. I've been a dom and frequenting here for two years, and any of the subs here can give you, you know," he paused, "recommendations... if you need them. I know what a serious matter it is, and all. But there's rooms above this floor for rent, and I'd really like it," he looked back into my eyes, "I'd really be honored if you'd come up with me."

I had probably stopped breathing right then. As I've said, I wasn't supposed to meet him. Sure, in my wild fantasies alone in my apartment, this happened all the time. But the real world was not, contrary to whatever was going on at that moment, a lonely gay bachelor's dreams. It'd be an interesting place if it was, but it's just not. And here was this wildly attractive longhaired creature--with a good sense of humor and an awkward name--propositioning me for kinky sex. Blushing, I stammered out the only reply that I could think made sense.

"Why... Yes, Fitz. Why wouldn't I?"

Hindsight is 20/20. I know, now, that was probably a pretty moronic move. I was just jumping right in, not testing the waters, and not even following up on any recommendations, as he said. That's another reason I love him so much--if I had ended up with anyone else, it might not have ended up so pleasantly. Now, The Wasteland is, contrary to its name, a safe, clean place. The owner--whom I now know, but didn't take the time to meet then, which was also probably unwise--is an overwhelmingly maternal forty-something tattooed woman who takes special interest in kicking out anyone that she even has the slightest bad feeling over. But I didn't tell anyone where I was going, and I didn't know anyone there. Fitz would scold me nonstop over this when we became a couple, but that impulsive move did at least get us together. Never let it be said that I can't rationalize anything.

So let's just leave it at this: kids, don't jump into BDSM relationships like I did. You have a good chance of ending up with a moron.

Fitz looked sort of ambivalent at that moment, too. He settled, though, on a grin, and kissed my cheek before standing and offering his arm to me. I didn't hesitate in taking it. As absurd of an action as it was, it seemed to fit in that moment and having help standing in that wild crowd didn't hurt. Tossing enough money for the coffees and to cover tip on the counter, Fitz led me away from the throngs of people and towards a door on the east wall of the building, flanked by the bar on one side and speakers accompanied by a lackluster DJ on the other. The room beyond it was quiet, as if soundproofed.

A man was sitting at a counter, there, flipping through a magazine lazily, although it appeared as if he should be doing some of the paperwork that was piled by him. I'd find out later that he is one of the matron's three subs, and the laziest of the lot of them. Fitz, unlike me, knew him pretty well, and nodded to him as the man tried to hide the magazine beneath the paperwork.

"I see you're working hard, Jonathan. Don't worry, I'll tell your master that you work at least half of the day."

Shrugging abashedly, he began looking over some bank statements. "Well, it's not a busy day. Any rate, you don't have any clout right now. I'm the employee, I can kick you out," he said, not sounding as if he meant it at all.

"Hey, the customer's always right. So, any rooms free?"

"Right down to business, eh? Who is this fine creature, anyway? I've never seen him around here." He turned and spoke to me. "New in town?"

I shook my head. "No, just new to here. I'm Sean," I offered, extending my hand to him. He looked mildly bewildered that I acted so much like I was at some kind of business meeting or something, but took it in stride, shaking my hand as if he shook the hand of every sexual deviant that crossed through those doors. As for my part, I'd just done it out of habit. If you get raised to be unnervingly polite, you generally end up that way. And, usually, it shows the most in any situation you feel even the slightest bit out of place in. This back room more than qualified for that.

Jonathan looked me up and down again, and I felt suddenly like bolting out of the room. It's difficult to be under such scrutiny--or so I thought then, at least. Eventually you get off on it, if you're the right type. Then he told me that if I had any sense in me, I'd fall in love with Fitz after that night.

I'm content, now, to purely dismiss what he had said as a joke, and the end result of that night as coincidence.

Naturally, Fitz tried to convince Jonathan for a week that he was clairvoyant. Such men should not be pursuing law degrees.

After confirming that there was, indeed, a room free, Fitz bowed to me as flamboyantly as he could manage. I laughed and Jonathan gave a sigh, obviously used to the eccentricities of this man. We took our leave of him, though, letting him go back to his magazine as we scaled the stairs.

I didn't really know what was up there other than what Fitz had said about there being rooms. What sort of rooms--or what went on in them--was a mystery to me, and I grew more nervous as I thought about it. You see I like to think that I'm a very rational person. And it's true that usually I think things over. However, half the time I'll think them over when I'm already past the point of no return. This was such a time. It's easy to say yes when a handsome man propositions you for sex. It's not so easy to walk down a corridor of steel doors, not knowing what was going on behind them for their obvious soundproofing.

Knowing I was nervous, Fitz put his arm around my shoulder and held me closer as we walked. He didn't say anything, though, until he opened a door near the end of the hall.

"See," he said playfully as he held the door open for me, "No blood-stained wallpaper. You can't even see the whips and chains." And it was true--the room was rather normal, more like a standard hotel room than anything else. The bed was bigger than most, and upon closer inspection there were mild hints of what the room's intent was, like eyelets for chains on the bed frame and the walls. A large mirror also adorned one wall, which was at least half as seedy as the effect it would have if it were actually over the bed. I walked in and looked about for a minute, then turned back to Fitz.

"It's alright," I confirmed. He grinned again, and closed the door.

"Alright, hmm?"

"Yea. Look, Fitz... You know I've never done anything like this, right?" It was inane chatter now that I look back on it. Of course he could tell I was, before that night, about as vanilla as someone with bondage fantasies gets. At the very least, my sheer anxiety gave it away. He didn't seem to mind the question, though, and he took my hands again. On that first night, he'd already figured out how much I liked such a simple gesture.

"Sean, dear. I'm not going to take you so far tonight. We hardly even know each other; you're new... I just can't go about whipping you in good conscience." He smiled and led me to sit on the bed. Standing before me, he seemed to be truly in his element. For the first time that night, he seemed very much the top he is. He began running his hand through my hair with his left hand, and spoke lowly. "All we're going to do is some standard simple things, really. We'd best have a safeword all the same. Have anything in mind?"

Surprisingly, that was one thing that I could manage--giving a safeword. "Glacier." He laughed a bit at that. I defended my choice. After all, it wasn't the first thing I'd say in the heat of passion, was it?

"Now," he sounded more serious than before, "We'll start. Only call me 'sir,' but you can say anything else you need to. Just don't get too chatty, and be the polite boy I know you are." He kissed my cheeks, an act that seemed at once affectionate and demeaning. I knew I was blushing, and I looked up into those blue eyes and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good." He continued to stand over me, his hands constantly petting and touching my face and hair, as if he was a blind man learning a new visage. I'd become instantly hard at this action in sex to come, although he'd always have to be standing over me to do it. It's a submitting action; there is an undeniable vulnerability in someone rubbing his thumbs over your eyelids.

Suddenly, he pulled me up by the shoulders. I stood up beside him, and felt nervous for having to look down on him now, despite the fact I'd been doing so the entire night before this. "Sir?"

He smacked me gently on the bottom, barely enough to sting. "Lesson one: don't question your master."

I remember trying hard not to laugh at that. The way he'd worded the command made it sound absurd. However, as far as bedroom demeanor went, he was serious. I didn't know how to respond though, to be honest, so I did the best that I could. Bowing slightly, I thanked him. It's surprisingly simple to fall into a submissive mentality, particularly when you desire being treated that way so much.

Smiling up at me, he genuinely looked pleased at my response. With that action, I felt for the first time, a sudden rush of happiness, a sudden want to just go down on my knees and lick his feet (which I would have, were I not under orders to stand still). I'd read about it online, sure, this deep desire in many bottoms to please their top as much as possible without killing him. However, nothing comes close to the real experience.

When he sat down in the room's one chair--huge and an excruciating shade of mauve, but it looked comfortable--I was still on a kick from making him happy, and wanted more. I no longer felt as nervous, so, even though he was now really making me look down on him (he ought to have known better than to mess with dominant and submissive positioning on a guy's first date. Millennia of evolution teaching which stances belong to the alphas of the world, and he expects me to be fine on night one if he just throws it to the wind), I was comfortable with it.

Naturally, that couldn't last too long.

Fitz can only go about ten minutes without throwing someone off, and he had time to make up for. After all, he had to be so very well behaved during coffee. The next thunderbolt came in one word.

"Strip."

"Wh--" I barely stopped myself. May as well start out on the right foot by remembering my first lesson for more than a few minutes. Still, I imagine I blushed pretty badly. And I wasn't stripping, which, if this scenario played out today, he'd correctly say was indirectly questioning his order.

Instead he chose just to be patient. Grinning, Fitz leaned back in his chair and leered at me. Not the most comforting thing, but he did look for all the world like he was getting ready for the best strip show of his life. At least that was flattering, if nothing else.

"Come on, now, Sean. Don't be so shy. And anyway, didn't you figure you'd be getting undressed at some point in time up here?"

"Well, yes, but I didn't quite expect," I gestured aimlessly with my hand, "well, a striptease." That was true. I had no misgivings about getting naked as so much as I didn't think I could do it with some guy watching me like he'd gone twenty years without sex.

"Why ever not?" he asked, a healthy smirk quickly appearing. "Darling," he continued before I could protest (and using the endearment that would become his favorite for the first time), "I like you a lot--you know that, otherwise I wouldn't have asked you up here--and it's not like it's not anything I haven't seen before. Anyway, at least for this night, your body is as good as mine," his voice took on a sultry undertone, "so it's not as if I'm seeing anything else than my own property." The last word had practically been a whisper, and he accompanied it with a firm stroke down my thigh.

Again, he had known exactly how to play me. I was instantly, painfully hard, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of the clothes. My hands went to work on the iridescent buttons of the shirt, and I can remember still how easily they popped out of the velvet buttonholes. He was staring at me, watching every move. He hadn't moved at all from his sultan-esque position on the chair. I felt power, then, as I shrugged the fabric back off my shoulders, letting it pool on the floor.

I thought about prolonging it just then, about whether or not I should do a whole stereotypical floorshow thing--you know, with the moaning and pinching of nipples and running hands through hair spiel--but I was sure my attempt would be more comical than sexy. So I just bent over and made a hilarious attempt to remove my boots, instead. Nearly falling over, I caught myself against the armrest of the chair. Fitz liked that, and gripped my thighs rather forcefully, guiding me to sit on said armrest. I put my feet against the other armrest and bent across my legs and him to untie the boots. The arrangement made getting them off take twice as long as it should have, though, because Fitz liked distracting me by whatever means he could manage. This usually meant biting my shoulders or rubbing my thigh; whichever was most likely to make me drop the laces. Eventually, though, I was able to throw them both to the floor. The thump the boots made hitting the carpet was surprisingly satisfying. The socks, for their part, did the best job at being anticlimactic they could.

Standing up in front of him again, I allowed myself to tease a bit, despite my earlier misgivings. I ran my hands up and down my thighs before stopping on the button of the fly. Fitz was riveted. Unfortunately, I didn't know what else to do, so I just undid the fly of my old jeans, and pushed them down to the floor. Stepping out of the denim cautiously, I was now completely nude. Never underestimate the willingness of a lazy man to go commando. I was also erect. And, on top of that, I was suddenly more ashamed of my body than ever. I gave up fighting against the instinct to cover myself with my hands, but I imagine I was still blushing despite that. I should have known Fitz wouldn't accept that.

I had to back away a few steps as he stood up suddenly. Actually, it was probably more akin to stumbling back a few steps, but that's just details. He took my hands in his own and, without saying anything, walked me to that mirror and stood me in front of it.

"Lesson two, Sean," he said gently as he held my arms to my sides, looking at the reflection of my body in the mirror, "Is not to be ashamed of your body. Now, just look at yourself."

And so I did. I had to admit, even then, that there was something undeniably erotic about being nude with a completely clothed man behind me for contrast. It didn't matter how many times I'd seen myself in the nude before. Everything was different with him behind me. Heck, even I had to admit I was attractive.

It suddenly registered that he had been talking to me all along. "You are beautiful, just look... Such soft brown hair, such inquisitive blue eyes. And look at your arms, your hands--they're thin and bony, sure, but nice. Trash romance authors would say you play the piano. Do you? Tall, too, aren't you? But not horribly so. I mean, I don't feel like I'm getting a crick in my neck when I talk to you. You're just tall enough to be distinguished. And it's mostly leg, too, I see. That's sexy in its own right, you know that? Such firm legs, too, but its not like you exercise excessively, either. That's just from living, isn't it? God, you are sexy, and you don't even try, do you? You don't even think you are good looking. I bet you think that nose is huge, but it's nothing less than elegant. And I think," he paused here, moving his right hand from its grip on mine to rest it above my erection, just on the flat of my lower belly, "That a lot of women will be happy to know that what they say about big feet is true.." And then he just grinned. He was teasing, but I could tell he meant every compliment. I could tell that I was swiftly becoming an exhibitionist, that I would soon master this subtle power of my body, only accented by a collar bearing his mark.

I was panting, and I threw my head back to rest it on his shoulder. "Oh, sir. Sir..."

He just kissed my cheek, and let go of my left arm. I left both arms at my side, still wanting to obey his every order, and still thinking about the way I must have looked through his eyes.

The next thing I knew, he was resting his hands on my thighs and rubbing them, commanding I jerk myself off. I shivered in his touch. But I knew I wanted to do it. I'd have done it in front of the whole fucking club for him, probably.

"Come on, beat yourself off. I want to see what you like, Sean." I knew he just really wanted to see me, but I wasn't about to call him on it.

It's quite easy to start masturbating for someone if you've already stripped for him. I mean you're already naked and aroused, why not go the whole way? So I did, taking my erection gently in my right hand and beginning the rhythm I'd known since puberty. He was still obviously watching over my shoulder, encouraging me in his light, smooth voice.

I noticed then, for the first time, that he had a slight lilt to his voice. I don't know why it took so long for me to recognize that, considering that he'd been talking the whole night. I think it's just brought out more by passion. He was obviously passionate, that's for sure--he was holding me close to himself and supporting my weight, so I could feel the straining of his erection against his pants.

I'm well acquainted with my own touch, yes. So I knew exactly what to do to with myself to get rather quickly to the edge. Fitz' presence--and seeing my action in the mirror--weren't exactly dampening my arousal, either, so I was leaning fully onto him in no time. I turned my head in to the crook of his neck, my breath coming even quicker.

"Stop."

I probably cried out at that command. I can't remember anything else than how cruel it was.

"I said stop, Sean." His voice was more firm this time, and he took my hand in his, pressing his thumb firmly against a pressure point in my wrist. I gasped in pain, but I got the message. Anyway, the punishment was much lighter than anything I'd get now, were I to blatantly ignore a command. Still panting, I kissed his cheek repetitively in apology. "Sir, sir..." my words were broken up by heavy breath, "I'm sorry, sir."

Fitz smiled softly, petting my thigh. "Alright. All I wanted you to do was to watch yourself as you come." Taking my erection into his own hand, he licked my ear, whispering "Whatever you do, keep your eyes open. If you close them, I swear to God that I won't let you come at all."

Even then, I took him seriously. He never did seem one to break a promise--especially one with a sexual overtone. So all I could do then was to lean back into his smaller form and watch us in the mirror. And it was one of the most erotic scenes I'd ever seen in my life. Myself, naked and red with exertion, and him fully clothed and looking at me in the mirror with those intense brown eyes. They seemed even darker, practically all-pupil, in the mirror's reflection.

It became increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open as it wore on. I got closer and closer to reaching completion, and as I did I wanted more and more just to close my eyes. But the threat still stood. It seemed like I couldn't separate closing my eyes from having an orgasm, though, every action I did to keep my mind on keeping my damn eyes open just seemed like a way to counteract the feelings he was inflicting on me.

But when I did come, it was blissfully sudden, and it shocked me. I have to admit that I really don't know if I managed to keep my eyes open or not, but I imagine I must have, because when I became aware of my surroundings again, I saw in the mirror that Fitz was smiling. I certainly can't remember what I saw in that mirror as he finished jerking me off, though, which I had figured was the purpose of that whole debacle.

I was still leaning on him heavily and panting when he finally decided to talk again.

"Good boy," he said simply. He brought his hand (with no small amount of eroticism, it was the same one that he'd been handling me with) up to smooth my hair back, and he kissed my cheek.

"Now, stand up and turn to face me."

I did, standing upright on my own and without weighing him down. I felt a little guilty, and wondered how uncomfortable it was for him to support a fully-grown man. However, even if it'd been absolutely miserable, he didn't say a word. Rather, he just grinned, and told me to get down on my knees.

As I looked up to him, I was filled with appreciation for his body again. I mean, when I first saw him he was cute and all, but there's something different you see in someone when you first physically have to look up to them. His features seemed sharper from below--a trick of the light coming from the ceiling. I was also extremely close to his groin, which always helps when you're naked and attracted to someone. His vinyl pants provided a subtle scent that came to me along with the smell of his sweat. I remember dearly wanting to rub my face against that sleek black fabric, but knowing that I couldn't without his go-ahead.

"Okay. You may undress me."

That wording sounded a little odd at the time, and it probably sounds downright insane to just about anyone not inclined to our particular subculture. But honestly, it was (and still is) a pleasure to undress Fitz.

Starting by unlacing his high boots (which were less scuffed than mine, and more obviously for show, but still weren't as ludicrously expensive as those of many out on the dance floor), I found myself even closer to him. In fact, he allowed me to lean a bit against his legs as he gripped my shoulders, under the guise of helping him stay upright as I pulled the boots and socks off. When I was done, he pulled me up, effectively ordering me to take off his shirt before the pants. Damn "saving the best for last" rule. That's not to say he doesn't have a nice chest, though. Oh, no. He'd been wearing this odd black shirt that laced up the front and showed off a rather sizeable portion of his chest all night, just to be a tease, so I knew he had a nice chest. Which was exactly why taking off the pants would be so nice--he hadn't been flaunting his legs all evening, after all.

The shirt came off blissfully fast, though. It just took one yank to the laces tying it shut and it was already beginning to fall off his rather broad shoulders. As I pushed it down the rest of the way, I glided my hands over his soft skin, just to feel--something I'd definitely get in trouble for if it weren't under the guise of helping the whole "getting naked" process. Also on my side was the fact that the sleeves were flared at the ends, so once I smoothed away the fabric from his shoulders, it just fell to the floor. Hell, the whole ordeal made me wonder how he ever kept the damn shirt on, anyway. When I was done, I waited for the permission to take off that accursed vinyl.

Fitz, of course, deemed it necessary to make me suffer. Holding me tight, he began to lick the soft skin behind my ear, which would have been absolutely fine if it weren't for the fact that he was also grinding his hips against mine to make damn sure I felt that plastic. Now, you can say what you want to about how good vinyl looks, about how it can accentuate this or compliment that. But ever since Fitz decided to go and rub it all over me, I have sworn never to allow anyone to say anything about that stuff feeling good. Sweet Jesus, it was like he was trying to jerk me off with Saran-Wrap. I couldn't even duck my head to bite his shoulder or something, to get my mind off it, because he was still going at it to my neck. I was shivering and whimpering in frustration before he'd been playing with me long.

Finally, with a muttered word about the sheer friskiness of newcomers, Fitz let go of me, and pushed me back into a kneeling position. He'd barely spoken the words "Go ahead" before my hands were at the fly of those pants, desperately trying to get the fucking things off of him. I remember distinctly that I didn't look at him once as I shoved the pants to the floor, keeping my eyes intently on the black material as if I was trying to set fire to it with some newfound Superman-esque powers. When they were finally off and thrown across the room (and I mean thrown)--that was when I leaned back a bit and looked at his fully nude form.

Now, you'll probably all just laugh if I go into how he's the best-looking guy alive. I mean, you would be justified in saying that I'm more than a little biased. But, as they say in grade school, "it's a free country." I am therefore more than entitled to call Fitz the best thing since Roman baths. Although I knew he was cute from the minute I looked up at him on that dance floor, there's a huge difference between the nude and the clothed form. He was no longer "cute," he was certifiably devastating. He's darker than me all over, a slight olive complexion instead of my dreadful paleness, and even though he's shorter, I think he's better proportioned--not seventy percent legs and all gangly like me. At that moment, he was looking absolutely divine, too, his dominating presence heavy in the room. I remember just kneeling there, waiting for his next move and absolutely basking in said presence.

And, for a moment, he just stood there in that stately fashion, smirking down at me like he just wanted me to get used to the image. Which was really rather pointless, after all. No one ever gets "used" to a body like his. Then, with all the gentleness and command of a kid with a puppy fresh from the pound, Fitz led me with a hand on the back of my neck to lean against the bed. It took a bit because I had to move awkwardly on just my knees, and I kept either nearly toppling over or nearly ripping my shins off on the carpet. But when we got to the bed, he sat at the edge and let me rest my head on his thigh, and spoke softly to me.

"Lesson two was to not be ashamed of your own body, and really, I suppose that'll take some time, but you're doing well so far. You seem pretty adept at the next lesson though, already. And that's for you, as my sub, to absolutely worship my body."

Again, I am full aware that this sounds as cheesy as a hat at a Packers' game. However, I think that most folks admire his or her lover's body in the first place. When you add the element of BDSM into it, there's going to be some layer of worship on top of that. It rather comes with the territory of the words "master" and "slave," with "domination," with "submission." So when he said that, it wasn't so much cockiness (while I obviously think he'd be justified in acting that way, he actually doesn't) as it was the simple truth. And I acknowledged it as such, my nodding a subtle rub against his thigh.

Patting my hair back, he simply smiled, on to my tricks already. He really didn't care, though. After all, it wasn't the most extreme of scenes going on. After all, I was so "charmingly green," as he'd admit later.

"Come up here, Sean," he commanded, scooting back on the bed and sprawling on it. I scrambled on the bed, not caring if I had any vestige of grace or not, and sat on my haunches near the edge. Balancing on his elbows to look at me, Fitz laughed. "Hey, I won't ravage you too hard. Get over here."

I approached him and curled up right by him, still looking down at his prone form. Breathlessly, I asked him what I should do.

His fingers brushed my own, and he grinned mischievously. "Why don't you just learn what I like, hmm? I'm feeling a bit lazy and hedonistic today. We poor tops just have to do everything, and we never get any rest..." He sighed melodramatically. Figures that I'd find a drama queen dom.

I shook my head at him and sighed, throwing my hand back to rest on my forehead in a mock-swoon. "Oh! The tragedy!"

Growling, Fitz sat up a bit to smack my rear. The sound startled me, loud like a gunshot, but it was actually relatively painless. I smiled, blushing, and he kissed me after telling me not to be so snippety. Slowly, though, he lay back down, pulling me with him so as not to break the kiss. Did I mention he's quite the kisser? At any rate, when we broke the contact, we both made these truly shit-faced smiles at each other. Just to be saccharine, Fitz kissed my cheek once before he contradicted himself with the gently-whispered, "Tragic or not, I still want you to suck me."

He had to get up again to reach for the bedside table where he retrieved an unlubricated condom, and handed it to me before closing the drawer. I could see ample amounts of safe-sex supplies in there--a sudden yet comforting reminder of the nature of the club we were above.

I tore open the little foil package and straddled Fitz' thighs, half to get at a better angle and half just to tease. Carefully, I held his warm cock in one hand as I rolled the sharp-smelling latex down his length with the other. He shivered and said that as long as he had sex with me, I would be the one applying the safeguards. I laughed and nipped his chest before backing up a bit so my face was level with his penis.

It'd been a long time since I last went down on someone. My last boyfriend was a nightmare I had left three years ago, and I didn't like to think an awful lot about how we had sex. I still feel like a moron for ever dating the loser. So I was a bit nervous about sucking Fitz. Looking back on it, though, I think the slight butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling I had was more due to the fact that this guy was a recognized top, so I had high competition in the giving-head department. How's a video store clerk with an abysmal love life supposed to impress someone like Fitz? At the time, I didn't dwell on it too much, though. I just felt that heart-clenching nervous feeling as I tentatively licked along the length of his erection.

The latex was an almost stinging taste in my mouth, like sucking on rubber gloves. As I took him deeper into my mouth, my mouth watered with the harsh taste of rubber and the discomfort of having my jaw stretched so. I swallowed once and gagged a bit, but when I swallowed once more, I felt much more comfortable with the rediscovered feeling of performing oral sex.

It took me until then, too, to realize I hadn't much to worry about after all. Apparently even my struggles to accommodate Fitz' length had been getting him off, and he was being fairly vocal about it. Along with that, his fingers were almost excruciatingly tight on my hair and his thighs were straining and firm under my hands. I chuckled softly in the back of my throat, mostly to excite him even more.

I have always been oddly fond of the whole act of fellatio. I've known a good amount of guys (and ladies, for that matter) who can't stand going down on a man, who think it's uncomfortable or degrading or just too much of a hassle and not enough fun on their own side. And I guess, really, that it's a matter of personal opinion. But I don't know how anyone can be so self-centered that they would want to deprive this from his (yea, or her) boyfriend. Feeling Fitz curl like a pill bug around me that first night made me vow never to take this away from him. As for the charge of it being "degrading," it's not as if he's totally in control. After all, who's the one with teeth over a very delicate organ?

His sighs were coming closer together, and suddenly he grabbed roughly onto my shoulders and pulled me off of him. I was surprised. I had honestly expected to make him come that way. That, I learned later, would never happen. Fitz has the annoying habit of never letting himself orgasm from oral sex alone, which is a kink I've never been able to understand. I'm sure you figure that in the world of sado-masochistic love there's more kinks than there are people, so everyone should understand every single one, but it just doesn't pan out that way. After all, how do you get off on not coming into your lover's mouth? But, being a sub (and not having any real protest against the habit) I've never bothered to get him to stop. Anyway, right then I had no objection as he forcibly pushed me to my back and grabbed a tiny tube of lubricant that came from the same drawer as the condom.

He didn't say anything or ask if it was all right--after all, if it wasn't, I just had to say the safeword--and the impersonal feeling turned me on. The lube was squeezed out on his fingers, and I jerked as the cold sensation of it pressed into me. With the first finger he began talking once more, a low murmur in my ear mostly consisting of in-depth descriptions about how hard I was about to be fucked, and a multitude of variations of the word "slut." It struck me as humorous at first, but, as I'd find out soon enough, I'm a definite sucker for dirty talk. His careful stretching betrayed his gentleness, though, even with all the whispers, and I began to hump his hand in desperation. Some tops just don't know when to stop foreplay and get down to business. Finally, he slicked the remainder of the lubricant on the condom he still wore. His body became a firm weight over me, and, taking my hand, he told me to guide his cock in. It was an odd request, but I shivered with the eroticism of holding the base of his throbbing erection tightly and forcing this union. God, he felt big. Thrusting in, he held my legs apart with still-slick hands and moaned lowly. For my part, I still couldn't do much else than writhe. It'd been a hell of a long time since I'd last been fucked, and, up until that moment, never had I been so absolutely turned on by it. I felt full, and pinned, and dominated, and owned, and all those other terrific sensations that come from being well and truly fucked.

Fitz froze for a moment, pressed as close against me as he could manage, to allow both of us a moment to adjust to this feeling. And the sort of feeling it was just happened to be the best goddamned thing in the whole fucking universe. I mean, I have been fucked before. We've established that much before. But there's getting laid and then there's being dicked so hard you can't even remember your local NBC affiliate's call number. And, as he really began laying into me, I was assured--this was definitely the latter.

Biting lightly across my collarbone, his thrusts came in an erratic and unpredictable pattern. Fitz is amazing at making sure his submissives aren't ever a step ahead. I, for my part, did a nice job of not even trying to do so. Laying back and crying out loudly is work enough, in my opinion. In fact, in Fitz' opinion, that was more than enough work--letting go of my thighs, he pressed one hand over my mouth firmly. Like anything else in that club, this was something else that I'd fantasized about but never had the opportunity (or guts) to try. I squirmed against him, and he kissed my cheek softly, he paused a moment to whisper that if I did need my safeword, to just lift his hand off my mouth. I nodded impatiently and bucked against him.

There's such thing as too much consideration.

Don't tell him I told you that.

Anyway, he did get the hint swift enough, so I guess I've no reason to complain. As he continued his randomized thrusting, I experienced panting through my nose for the first time. When you're having sex, you have a natural instinct to breathe through your mouth. More air that way, and it's more convenient to get ready to yell clichéd things when you orgasm. But as it stood, the best I could do in that department was to slobber all over Fitz' hand. And, as he reached between us to grab my dick in his hand with the firm touch only tops dare deliver, I screamed against that wet palm in a silent and intense orgasm. Fitz laughed in sheer pleasure and lifted his hand from my mouth only to slap both hands down on the mattress like it was one of those palm-scanners you see in all those futuristic movies about the FBI. He took up a rhythm then, a wild and carefree one, until he yelled once and came into the condom, another fleet of sperm doomed never to find any sort of biological destination.

We both lay there, sweaty and too lazy to move, for a moment. Looking at Fitz, then, I fell for his absolutely adorable (I know I sound like those girls who come into the video store just to systematically rent every movie Richard Gere or Harrison Ford or whoever is in, just because he's in five minutes of it, but there's no other way to describe Fitz) face once more. He was flushed pink with exertion and just smiling at me in the most playful way. So I did the natural thing. I kissed him. Fitz languidly kissed back, easily infected with the romantic spirit. Even Paul Newman fans with ten-day late fees have a point, after all--everyone becomes a groupie to someone.

Especially when they're this adorable.

Rolling over, Fitz removed the condom, found the garbage can after a momentary struggle, and tossed it. When he rolled back over, he said, "That was great."

"What? That you finally found the garbage can?" I kidded, sitting up and trying to garner enough energy to go wash up. Fitz laughed and flopped back on the mattress. "Yea, now I get to win the International Treasure Hunt Competition.' Trash can' was the last item on our lists, right after 'used condom.' Seriously, though, Sean, that was really hot. I don't know how you could be too shy to come here before, but I guess I'm lucky no other guys already enlisted you to a private harem."

I blushed, and laughed. "Oh, and you didn't do all the work, Mister The-Whole-Staff-Knows-Me."

"Hey, if I'm such a terrific and wondrous dom, then I know when a sub is a great lay. And you are, most assuredly, the sexiest thing on two legs."

"But you've had a really good pirate, eh?"

He laughed again, and seemed so amazingly happy right then that he may as well just been crowned God's second kid.

"Jeez, Sean. I'm torn between giving you my number and giving you the insane asylum's. And no! Don't even start, they're not the same."

I snickered, and finally stood up. "Well, just give me yours, then. I already have to deal with one madman," I said, kissing his cheek before going to the bathroom.

From the main room, he continued to speak as I dampened a washcloth and began cleaning off my stomach. "So would you like to see each other, then? I'd be keen on getting more where that came from."

I actually had to stop a moment. I mean, my last relationship had been like rubbing an angry cat over a chalkboard. And I was just so freaking amazed that I could walk in this joint an awkward social outcast, and then walk out an awkward social outcast with a law-school boyfriend.

"Sean?"

I could hear the worry in his voice. The whole "am I a loser for suggesting a relationship when he thought it was casual sex?" complex, probably. Even tops hate rejection, folks.

Straightening up, I looked at myself again in the mirror, ran a hand through my hair, and decided that I'd been a loser myself long enough. I walked back, and stood in the doorway, heels on tile, toes on carpet.

"Yea, Fitz. I'd love that."

And he smiled brilliantly once more.

And that, my friends, is as good a place to stop as any. After all, despite what Stanley Kubric and Francis Ford Coppolla have to say, we all essentially love a happy ending.