Laura and I met at a party when I was twenty-two. She was two years younger than me and in the final year of a biology degree at the city’s university, while I was completing a postgraduate qualification in medieval history at the same university. The party had been organised by a mutual friend and there were loads of people there, most of whom I didn’t know.
Our eyes had met across the room, and I was instantly attracted to this young girl. She was tall, slim and blonde, and dressed that night in a truly short, tartan skirt complemented with a white blouse, through which I could make out the outline of a lacy bra. She had exquisite legs, shapely breasts, but not overly large, and a pert bum. Together with the seemingly innocent expression on her face, she ticked every box for me, but I couldn’t help feeling she was out of my league.
Nevertheless, she must have seen something she liked in me because she gave me a cheeky smile as our eyes made contact. I felt myself blushing at this compliment, so much so I could no longer look at her, instead my gaze dropping to the floor.
After a few seconds, I plucked up the courage to look up again and my redness increased as I saw she was making her way across the crowded room to talk to me. It was only weeks later that she explained to me that she had detected my natural submissiveness towards females, and this had been the attraction.
“Hello,” she began, in a seductive voice, “I’m Laura. Who are you?”
“Hello, Laura,” I replied. “I’m Stephen. It’s… it’s lovely to meet you.”
“Hmm… Stephen? Do you mind if I call you Stevie? I prefer that to Stephen. It’s less formal.”
Actually, I did mind. I don’t like being called Stevie, because it sounds immature, but hypocritically I responded, “Not at all, Laura, you can call me Stevie if you want.”
“Yes, I do very much want! So, tell me about yourself, Stevie,” she said. “Do you have a girlfriend for a start?”
I gave a nervous giggle and said I didn’t, to which she instantly replied, “Well, you do now!” I blushed as she gave me a peck on the cheek. “Unless you’re gay, of course?”
“Oh, God, no… no, I’m not gay!” I hastened to reply, my face now resembling a beetroot in colour.
She laughed, adding, “That’s a relief, but I’m still waiting for you to tell me about yourself, Stevie. Don’t be shy.”
Fearing I might bore her, I spent no more than a few minutes giving her a short, potted history of my life. Nonetheless, I found myself babbling nervously and I instantly regretted blurting out that I’d never had a steady girlfriend. This admission elicited a smile from her sweet face. I ended by saying, in a self-deprecating manner, “So that’s it, Laura. A boring existence, I’m afraid. What about you?”
She batted my question away, answering, “There’s nothing much to tell, Stevie. I’m guessing you’re not doing anything next Saturday?”
She’d guessed right. “Er… no, nothing, Laura.”
“Cool, then you can take me out for dinner. I’ll let you choose the restaurant, because it will let me see how good your tastes are. I hope you don’t disappoint me, poppet. You can pick me up at 7 PM.”
“Poppet”?! What sort of soubriquet was that for a grown man? I could have told her that I didn’t like being called “poppet”, but instead I simply smiled at her. She knowingly smiled back and then scribbled down her address and phone number on a scrap of paper and thrust it into my shirt pocket. She gave me another peck on the cheek and, with a sly grin, remarked, “See you Saturday, poppet!” I was left standing there, scarlet-faced. Being called “Stevie” was bad enough, but “poppet” was worse. And if it hadn’t been for the piece of paper she had left me, I might have thought the next day that I had dreamt the entire bizarre encounter.
oooOOooo
I spent a fretful week. The thought of going out with such a beautiful girl turned me on, especially knowing that she was attracted to me for some reason I couldn’t fathom (at least not at that time). On the other hand, in the few minutes we’d spent together she had come across as assertive—demanding, almost—and I was haunted by her words, “I hope you don’t disappoint me”.
I felt there was every chance I would do exactly that, especially as she’d given me no clue as to what culinary experience she most enjoyed. After considerable procrastination, I eventually settled on an Italian restaurant in the town centre and booked a table for Saturday evening at 7:15. She wanted picking up, which meant I had to drive, which also meant I was unable to have a drink to steady my nerves.
I arrived at her flat a couple of minutes after seven and rang the doorbell. She quickly answered it, and was standing there in her coat, ready to go. She was every bit as attractive as when I’d seen her at the party. However, I was knocked slightly off-kilter when she chastised me by saying, “You’re two minutes late, poppet. Didn’t your mother tell you that it’s better to be early than late?”
“Er… sorry, Laura. There was a traffic jam near the university.”
“There are always traffic jams near the uni, pumpkin, always. You need to factor them in, so that you’re not late in future.” She stared at me before adding, in her sultry tone, “But we won’t let your regrettable lateness spoil the evening.” She gave me one of her pecks on the cheek.
We set off for the restaurant and, as we were running a couple of minutes late, I put my foot down. “Are you trying to kill us, poppet?” she asked, unnecessarily clutching the grab handle above the door of the car. “You’re doing thirty-five in a thirty. Slow down, for heaven’s sake!”
“Sorry,” I replied, chastened, easing off on the accelerator.
oooOOooo
The restaurant wasn’t too busy, and we were given a table away from other diners. Once we were seated, a waitress appeared to take our drinks order. “I’ll have a large glass of chianti, please, and a glass of sparkling water for my boyfriend, who’s driving.” As this was our first date, I felt honoured that she had referred to me as her boyfriend, but taken aback that she had presumed to know what I wished to drink. She did, though, allow me to select my own dishes off the menu!
We chatted over dinner and Laura wasted no time quizzing me, first, about my previous girlfriends and then, disconcertingly, about my sexual adventures. Whilst I was not a virgin, nonetheless I did not consider myself to be a seasoned veteran when it came to sleeping with my partners. I could have exaggerated my experiences, but I strongly suspected that she would want to know more and would quickly deduce that I had been deceiving her. Consequently, speaking as quietly as I could, I admitted to her, while blushing, that I was rather a novice in the love-making department. She softly smiled, saying, “You do blush very easily, poppet. I’m not making you nervous, am I?”
Of course she was making me nervous, but I replied, “No! Not at all, Laura, it’s just that I’m… I’m not used to revealing such intimate information, especially on a first date.”
“Hmm… I appreciate your honesty, Stevie. Something I can’t tolerate is men who lie—or try to lie! Inevitably I quickly discover their deceit. So, I expect total honesty from you, pumpkin. I’m sure you understand?”
“Yes, Laura, I do understand… How about you, have you had many boyfriends?”
“Well… let’s just say I’ve had more boyfriends than you’ve had girlfriends, and more sexual experience as well. But I’ve met no one quite like you, Stevie.” She smiled at me in a disquieting way, before adding, “Let’s leave it at that, shall we? Tell me about your childhood.”
I explained that my parents had split up when I was a toddler and I had lived with my mother and my sister, Phoebe, who was three years older than me. There had been no male role model in my upbringing, so my outlook on life had been heavily influenced by my mother and sister.
“Oh, so you learnt a lot about the female perspective on life, then?” she enquired.
“Yes, I suppose so. I was brought up to value women and to respect and look up to them.”
“That’s what I like to hear, Stevie,” she quipped. “That’s encouraging, and well…” She absentmindedly nodded her head, but left the sentence hanging in an unnerving manner, making me wonder where she was coming from.
The rest of the evening was spent conversing about less controversial matters than my upbringing or sexual exploits, although she was always less communicative about herself than she expected me to be about myself and, by the end of the evening, she knew a lot more about me than I did about her. Nonetheless, she seemed to have enjoyed the evening and, when the bill came, I was more than happy to pay it all myself, for which she thanked me.
On the journey back to her flat she informed me that she intended to go on a second date with me and, before getting out of the car, she gave me another peck and said she would be in touch.
oooOOooo
It was a few days later when she texted me to say she’d booked a table at an Indian restaurant for the following Saturday, and I was to pick her up at 7 PM again. There was a warning not to be late this time, which I took to be her attempt at light-hearted humour. I was surprised, though, that she didn’t ask if I was free—she had presumed I was available on Saturday, which, indeed, I was.
Bearing in mind her admonishment not to be late, this time I arrived at her flat five minutes early. She answered the door, but didn’t look best pleased. “Stevie! When I said it’s better to arrive early than late, I thought you would have understood I meant to arrive early but wait in your car until seven. Yes?”
I blushed again, having made another faux pas. “Sorry, Laura, I misunderstood.”
“Well, you’d better come in and wait by the door while I finish getting ready. You’ve probably made us both late now, you silly boy.”
It was another ten minutes before she reappeared. She had something in her hand which she passed to me. “You’ve got pockets, so you can look after these for me, poppet.” I looked at what she had given me—I was stunned to see I was holding a tampon and a couple of pads.
“Stop gawping like a goldfish. Isn’t it obvious I’m on my period?” she asked, in disbelief. “Where do you think I’m going to keep them?” I might have suggested her handbag, except she had chosen not to take one that evening. I had no option but to secrete them in my trouser pockets and hope they didn’t fall out.
I drove us to the restaurant, but we were unfortunate this time not to be assigned a table out of earshot of other diners, which I found worrying. Was she going to bring up the subject of my sex life again?
She immediately took control. “I think it best I order for both of us, poppet. What you chose to eat at the Italian place last week wasn’t the healthiest food. You should look after your body more and I’m happy to help you do that, you lucky boy. So, leave the ordering to me, OK?” The couple on the next table stared at each other, biting their lips, shaking their heads and suppressing smiles.
Of course, I nodded my agreement, so she studied the menu, omitting the starter section and looking for the lowest-calorie items amongst the mains. “We’ll share a rice between us, pumpkin, and forgo the poppadoms and naan bread.” I was left with no choice in the matter, unless I wished to risk her telling me off in public.
However, she chose well, and we both enjoyed the curry. Contrary to my fears, she had been careful in her conversation and hadn’t put me on the spot too much. But, as we sipped coffees afterwards, she leaned towards me and, in a stage whisper, said, “Have you got a tampon and pad I can have, sweetie?” The pair on an adjoining table both instinctively turned in our direction as I, red-faced, pulled the packages from a pocket and passed them to her. “Thank you, poppet,” she said, grinning broadly, before disappearing off to the toilet.
Despite this moment of embarrassment, the date had gone well, and, after dropping her off afterwards, I received the customary kiss on the cheek, and she graciously allowed me to reciprocate, but there was no invitation to enter her flat for more coffee. Things were moving in the right direction, albeit at a glacial pace.
Another three dates followed, all set up by Laura, and we visited pubs and another restaurant. I felt I could say that we were “going steady”. She still seemed very interested in me, and I was still entranced by her beauty. Clearly, she had found something in me that meant she wished to keep going out.
We continued exploring each other’s lives through conversation, although I always revealed more to her than she did to me. And, so far, I had not been invited into her flat after a date, so clearly sex had not been on the agenda. I had twice suggested to her that she should come around to my place for dinner, but she had said that she preferred to eat out. Her tone of voice told me that she was not open to persuasion.
oooOOooo
It had been evident from the start that Laura had an assertive personality. Indeed, most men would describe her as bossy and would find this quirk of her character off-putting. I, though, found it quite enchanting because I’d never before dated a girl who was so outspoken. Being put in my place by her could be embarrassing, yet was also sexually arousing. She was confirming that I had submissive tendencies, something I had speculated on in the past, but never been sure about. It had taken a girl like Laura to make me face reality.
Even so, it wasn’t until about our sixth date that the imbalance in our relationship became starkly evident. We were at the cinema—her choice of film, needless to say—when I foolishly made what I thought was a romantic gesture, placing a hand on her knee.
She was wearing a short skirt over tights and, in the brief instant that my hand was in contact, I felt the heat from her body stimulating my hands. I had barely registered this warmth when she brusquely pushed my hand off. This was accompanied by a sharp dig from her elbow into my side which told me that I had gone too far.
I felt chastened, but she had not finished as, once we were outside the cinema, and in my car, she turned to me and said, “What in heaven’s name do you think you were doing in there, Stevie? Did your mother not tell you that you don’t touch women inappropriately? How dare you put a hand on my knee without my consent. What would your mother say, Stevie?”
I was shocked by how badly my gesture had been misinterpreted, so I was quick to offer an apology. “She would be disappointed in me. I’m really sorry, Laura. I… I just thought it was a romantic thing to do. I didn’t think it would upset you so. It won’t happen again, honest.”
“Well, I think you need to reflect on your behaviour so when you get home you will hand write me a letter of apology. You will give it to me next time we meet. Understood?”
“Yes, Laura,” I replied despondently, though I did take some comfort in her implying that she would be seeing me again, and she hadn’t dumped me. Certainly, in her eyes, I’d overstepped the mark, but whereas a simple warning might have sufficed, I was now required to write a grovelling letter to say sorry.
There was no way of denying that it amounted to a punishment and most men, I’m sure, would have run a mile at being ordered to write such a letter. It was a shaming and humbling punishment, one more suited to a child, perhaps, yet, as I sat down to write, I found myself becoming aroused by how she was treating me. Had she calculated it might have this effect? It took several drafts before I had compiled a letter that I thought might satisfy her. This is what the final version said:
Dear Laura, I wish to extend my sincerest apology for my unbecoming behaviour at the cinema. What I did, in placing a hand, uninvited, on your knee, was wrong. I like to think that I treat all women with the utmost respect, but I failed miserably on this occasion. I conducted myself in a way that I would condemn if I saw any other man do it. I could attempt to excuse myself by saying that I was overcome by my proximity to your beauty, your gentle breathing, and your heavenly perfume, yet you rightly expected that I would show more self-control. What I did was unconscionable, and I am so sorry. I hope, in the fullness of time, you can forgive me for my disgraceful behaviour. Please be assured that this will never happen again.
Yours most sincerely, Stevie.
I handed the letter to her a couple of days later. She read it carefully, and then passed it to me, instructing me to read it aloud. I did so, despite the sense of humiliation I experienced. Then I looked at her with plaintive eyes, seeking her approval and forgiveness.
She stared back at me for a few seconds before commenting, “I really didn’t think you would write this, pumpkin, but you did!” She looked at me quizzically, as if trying to work out how far she could push me. I felt my penis starting to swell, as she held me in a steely gaze. “You are forgiven, poppet. I think you’ve learned your lesson, but don’t expect to get off so easily if there is a repetition.”
She then gave me a coy smile, before asking, “Have you ever been spanked, Stevie?”
Her question took me by surprise. “Er, no, never!”
“What, never?! Didn’t your mother ever spank you?”
“No, no, she didn’t,” I admitted, my cheeks flushed.
”Nor your sister?” she added, shaking her head in apparent disbelief.
”No, no one.”
“Well, that explains a lot,” she concluded, cryptically. “But it’s never too late, and I’m sure more discipline in your life will improve your behaviour no end.”
“Er…, I don’t know—I’m not sure, maybe,” I replied, tying myself in knots. The thought of going over Laura’s knees had caused a full-blown erection, yet what she was suggesting was also very humiliating.
She glanced down at the tent pole protruding from my trousers. “We would have to get rid of that, first,” she said. “It’s disgusting! Push it down, now! You are so close to being spanked, young man!”
Laura was playing with me like an angler reels in a fish that is heavier than the breaking strain of her fishing line. She was probing me, discovering my weaknesses, including those that even I hadn’t been aware of, such as my strong arousal at being threatened with a spanking. At the same time, she seemed aware that she should not push too hard in case the line snapped, and I ran head-over-heels from her life. Yet it was becoming clear that she wanted to dominate me, and I, in turn, wanted to submit to her. We were a match, but would she be too much for me to handle?
