FinDomme Fantasy

We meet, as we have done before, at a cafe in the late morning. I am dressed, as ever, all in black with glistening patent boots and red, red lips. I'm sipping a coffee and reading a book, and pay you absolutely no attention when you sit down across from me at the small table. You are middle-aged, overweight, excited and painfully aware that if it weren't for your perversion you would never be able to spend this kind of time with a beautiful young woman. Already other patrons are wondering why I would be sharing a table with a creepy old man.

I get up. You keep your head bowed until I stand in front of you and address you. I ask softly if you are ready, looking down at you as if from a great height. When you nod I turn and walk out of the cafe into the bright, fresh sunshine. You follow behind me. You are allowed to look, to admire, but not to speak to me. I peruse a number of shops and boutiques. Some are pretty little boutiques specialising in small luxuries. Others are more specialised. When it comes to clothing I favour the subtly alternative, and you look out of place and ridiculous following me into a shop filled with latex skirts and spiked heels. When I nonchalantly enter a lingerie shop and browse the red satin bodices and gauzy stockings you're so awkward and embarrassed that you turn sweaty and pink and look just like a piglet.

When I've chosen items at each store I take them to the counter and turn to look at you. That is your cue to finally come forward; the only time when you are allowed to stand near me. You pay for it all; clothes, shoes, perfume, whatever I desire. None of it is for you or your pleasure, only mine. You know how this must look to passers-by and retail staff and while I appear utterly relaxed and even a little impatient you are filled with a mixture of shame and excitement as you hand over your credit card again and again.

At last I tire and make for home. You follow a few feet behind, as you have all day. We reach my flat; it is spacious and comfortable, filled with books and art. I am exhausted and relax on the sofa, kicking off my heels. You offer to pour me a glass of wine and I choose a rich red. With my permission you rub my feet. You would lick and worship them if you could, but I don't allow that. At my command you strip naked. You are ugly, and your pathetic little prick is obscenely erect though you try to hide it in shame. It will have no release. You know what to do next. You fetch cloths and cleaning products and set to your task of cleaning and tidying the flat. I pay no attention to you; I'm enjoying my wine and perhaps a little television. You are nowhere near finished when I decide that I am sick of the sight of you and tell you that your time with me is up. You dress hurriedly. I see you to the door where I give you the only sign of affection you receive all day - a gentle stroke of the cheek which shows that I am pleased. You take my soft, warm hand and kiss my palm. You then put into my open palm a thick wad of notes. It is much more than you can afford to give, and I take it without another word and close the door.