Desmond Blume - The Stranger

THE STRANGER

A DISC Theory Experience

Desmond Blume

Cover: Kirra Cheers

Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

All rights reserved.It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

I couldn’t wait to see her inside. I was parked in the back of the building. My hands were sweaty and I felt a surge of sexual energy rising up inside me. It was fifteen minutes to three o’clock in the afternoon, the time we had planned on. I sat and waited. In my head, my thoughts were running wild. I couldn’t wait to touch her, to feel her, to dominate her, to fuck her.

This was something we had planned. We had met each other online about a month before. In particular, I usually look at two questions from a person’s online profile. The first is a gauge of where the power dynamic would fall; “not as in whips and chains, but in general, do you prefer your partner to be… dominant, submissive, or balanced.” She had answered “dominant”. The other one is purely for my own pleasure, “when having sex, do you like to have your hair pulled?” The options were: “Yes, and hard!”, “Yes, but gently.”, “No way.”, “Not sure.” She had answered, “Yes, and hard!”

The first message I sent her was not indirect.

“So, you like to have your hair pulled?” I said. “I feel like most women on this app won’t admit that, for fear of giving the guy the wrong idea.”

She didn’t respond right away. I got worried I scared her off. When she did reply, it was curt.

“Yes. It drives me crazy,” she said.

“We might have something here,” I said.

“I’m intrigued,” she responded.

Before we even met there were sparks between us. Our first meeting was delayed by a week long trip I took to see my parents. We texted each other throughout the whole week. I started by asking about her history with BDSM and power dynamics.

“So you’re a sub?” I asked. “Tell me about your experiences so far.”

“I don’t know if I’m a sub yet,” she told me through text. “I haven’t had the opportunity to try it a lot. I know I would like to try it. I’ve only been with guys who tried to be dominant but weren’t really natural at it. We used handcuffs but the guys were all so gentle. There was no exchange of power.”

“Interesting,” I said. “So, what did you wish that they would do to you?”

She had to think about this. She didn’t know me and she was unsure about how much she could share with me at that point.

Another minute went by. I looked at my phone. No messages. I looked out the front windshield of the car at the brick wall of her apartment building. I checked Instagram. No likes. I looked inside my bag. Ropes. I got out of my car and walked across the parking lot. I found her car. It was a small, white hatchback, at least ten years old. It was the one she drove us to our first munch in. She wore a fucking hot short tight skirt that day. I had just tied her up and fucked her for an hour before the munch. All the other guys were staring at her during the munch. If they only knew how I had just fucked her brains out.

I walked around her car, stood next to the driver’s side door, and looked around. There was no one in the parking lot. A group of black birds sat in the bare branches of a tree. One or two of them intermittently jumped off a branch, flitted around, and landed again. I reached under the wheel well of her car, feeling the top of the tire. I couldn’t find it at first. Then my fingers touched something metal. There it was. I grabbed the key to her apartment building, put it in my pocket and walked back to my car. Now my thoughts were really running rampant. This was really happening. I checked the time again. Seven minutes to go.

“I don’t know where it comes from,” she told me. “I work really hard. I’m progressive. I don’t believe that women should ever be controlled or degraded by men. By anyone, really. I have all these beliefs about equality, power, and rights in the world. I work my ass off as a designer and I’d like to think I make the world a better place for women.”

“Yes,” I responded. “I can resonate with that. I love what I do in the bedroom, but outside of it, I would never want control over anyone. This is the inner conflict with which we constantly struggle. Sometimes I will go to a meeting and there will be an incredibly sexy woman in a short skirt sitting across from me with her legs crossed, bare enough that I can see really high up on her thigh. I will sit there, completely distracted by fantasies I have about her. I will imagine myself taking her by the back of the hair, pushing her forward onto the table until her skirt is tightly stretched across the curve of her butt, pinning her arms behind her back, and sliding my hand up between her legs. All of a sudden, I will snap out of it. Suddenly I’m back in the meeting. I will instantly feel guilty for the thoughts that just passed through me. I will smile and submit to any request that the lady may have. You’d be surprised at how often this happens.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t,” she responded. “I have these fantasies throughout the day as well. It’s perhaps worse for me.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” she asked me. “Can you imagine what it’s like for the woman in that meeting? To sit there with this handsome man across the table from her? To have this devilish fantasy where the man stands up, walks powerfully over to her, takes her by the back of the hair, pushes her down across the table so that her skirt rides up high across her butt, so that the wet part between her legs is almost exposed? To feel her arms being pinned behind her back and the man’s hand sliding up between her legs? To not want it to happen but to want it more than anything? Can you imagine the conflict inside of her? This feeling of wanting to resist but being so utterly turned on by his control, by his firm movements, by his unwavering and clear decisions? Can you imagine the history of women’s progressive movements weighing upon her shoulders?”

“I can’t,” I told her. “But I love the way you talk about it. I’m fucking hard right now.”

She sent a blushing emoji back to me in response.

Late at night we would text each other. Sometimes I wouldn’t go to bed until three or four in the morning. I would wake up throughout the night and check my phone knowing there were sexy messages waiting for me. I didn’t want to push too hard at first. I could tell by her pictures on her profile that she was sexy. She was a dancer with long legs. There was a picture of her dancing on stage in a black dress. One leg was bare and her torso was bent back, blurred with movement in the picture. I had so many ideas for instructions I could give her. But I decided to wait. I needed to let her drive the desires until we met. Or until I felt like I could give her instructions. I began by getting her to tell me some of her fantasies and desires.