It really is a small world.

I hate to do poorly at anything, even when lack of knowledge or experience is the real culprit. Once in a while, I get lucky; as in the book Replay or the movie Groundhog Day, I get a second chance, the opportunity to correct an earlier fumble.

U.S. 17 is a hypotenuse that bypasses the DC metro-area gridlock to the west, so it carries a lot of traffic between Interstates 95 and 81. The stretch between Warrenton and I-66 is lightly traveled after nine at night, and I was nearing the end of a long day-trip, fewer than 25 miles to go in a round-trip of around 380. Flicking my high beams onto a long, empty tangent, I saw a car’s emergency flashers off in the distance, their tempo slow and their intensity dim. Some instinct told me that this time, unlike my normal practice, I should stop and offer help.

I pulled up behind the stopped car, dimmed my headlights, and grabbed a flashlight off the back seat before walking ahead. When I was just behind the driver’s door, I switched on the torch, aimed not through the car window but up at myself. The reflected light revealed an attractive blonde, hunched forward with her right temple resting on the steering wheel. Her eyes were closed and there were tear-tracks on her cheek. I raised my free hand to rap on the glass, then froze in stunned recognition.

I know this woman! my brain screamed, and suddenly I was a dozen years removed from real-time, my mind’s eye filled with a stored memory-clip of a younger version of this woman walking toward me. She wore a bustier-top dress, the black fabric an erotic contrast against her golden skin, and her hips swayed seductively, moving the knee-length skirt and drawing my gaze down shapely calves to tiny feet shod in backless sandals with four-inch stiletto heels. Other remembrances began flooding my consciousness, and I suppressed them vehemently. After only a couple of seconds, I continued the arrested movement and tapped my fingertips against the car window.

Her eyes popped open, and they moved wildly as she snapped to awareness with a startled, furtive expression that changed quickly from outright fear to wary caution. I kept the torch focused on myself and said, as gently as I could, “Are you all right? Can I be of some assistance?”

Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles whitening from the pressure, and then she relaxed slightly, shrugged her shoulders, and cranked the window down a couple of inches. “I’m at the end of my rope,” she whispered. “I have to be in Winchester to start a new job in the morning. I don’t have any money, the car up and died on me, I just don’t know what to do …”

“It’s all right,” I told her. “Bring what you’ll need for tonight and tomorrow, and we’ll worry about the rest later. How long since you’ve eaten anything?”

She started crying again, sobbing softly, and her shoulders shook. Then she seemed to take hold of herself; she reached for a tissue and dried her eyes, smearing dark circles of makeup under them. When she spoke again, her voice was firmer; only a slight quaver betrayed her exhausted and depressed state. “I had something sometime yesterday, not very much. I was saving what money I had for gas.”

“We’ll fix that problem first,” I said. “Now come out of there and let’s get moving; it isn’t getting any earlier, and you need food and rest.” I reached for the door handle; she rolled up the window and unintentionally flashed me a glimpse of sleek thighs as she slid out from behind the wheel. I locked the doors and she led me to the back of her car, opened the trunk, and pointed to a suitcase. I heaved it out, closed the lid, and gestured for her to precede me to my car. She started walking, unsteady on her feet, then stopped abruptly and turned to face me.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It’s a long story, and explanations can wait,” I replied enigmatically. “Now let’s go.” I moved forward, taking her arm, and she let me guide her to the passenger-side door of my car. After getting her seated, I threw her suitcase onto the back seat and started driving up the road. She sat huddled against the door, head bowed, and I made no attempt to engage her in conversation. Thirty-five minutes later I parked in front of a motel that had a 24-hour restaurant. One good thing about a Jewish upbringing is that I know how to safely break a fast.

“Bring her a slice of melon right away,” I instructed the waitress who seated us. “I know it’s off the menu at this time of day, but then get her a couple of scrambled eggs, some toast, and a large orange juice. Just coffee for me.” She looked for a moment as though she wanted to argue, then shrugged and headed for the kitchen. My guest made a brief pretense at civilized table manners when the melon arrived, but she was ravenously hungry, and before long she was literally attacking her food. Aside from telling her to slow down and not overload her too-long-dormant digestive system, I sat back and silently sipped coffee while she devoured her meal.

When she’d finished, I took out my cigarettes and offered her one. She started to reach, hesitated, then shrugged and took it. As I lit hers and then my own, I watched her looking at me with intense curiosity, doubtless wondering whether I really knew that she smoked. She exhaled heavily, then said, softly and tentatively, “Thank you, ah …”

“Jason,” I supplied, my face composed, unsmiling. I searched her eyes for any hint of recognition and found none.

“Thank you, Jason.” A pause, then, “My name is Donna.”

“I know.” I glanced pointedly at her ring-less left hand. Her eyes followed my look downward, then rose to meet mine in a level gaze. “What last name are you using now?” In other words, do you want to tell me what happened between you and Jeff?

She tensed, then relaxed. “For the moment, it’s still Mason.” Whatever it was, I thought, it must have been recent, and she’s not ready to talk about it yet, at least not with me. I remained silent, neither asking further questions nor volunteering information, and she didn’t initiate any conversation. Five minutes later, we stubbed out our cigarettes and left the restaurant. I got her suitcase and checked her into the motel with my credit card, then escorted her up to the room. I opened the door, and after she entered I set the bag down inside and waited on the threshold. After several steps, she turned back, clearly surprised that I hadn’t followed her into the room.

There was an overstuffed chair in the far corner of the room, and another memory flashed by, still vivid despite its age. She was standing in a hotel room in another state, her back to me, leaning forward, her hands resting on the arms of a similar chair, her skirt flipped up onto her back. My hands moved to squeeze, and swat, and then caress the firm rounded globes of her behind, tautened by her bent-over position and framed by a black thong, and her flesh was warm and yielding to my touch.

I savored the recollection for a few seconds, then let it fade away and restored my composure. I held my hand out toward her and said, “Give me your car keys.”

She fumbled in her purse, then walked back toward the doorway and held them out. I let her drop them into my palm, then took out my wallet. “Here’s some money,” I said, retrieving my emergency 100-dollar bill from its secret place and handing her the cash and the half-full pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket. “You can stay here as long as necessary, and charge meals to the room as well. Take cabs tomorrow, and I’ll get your car fixed in the morning. Meet me in the lobby for dinner at seven, and I’ll answer your question then. For now, get some sleep; you look like you’re about to fall over from stress and exhaustion.”

Her lovely features were contorted in confusion when I swung the door closed before she could respond.

*

Over dinner the next evening, after we’d started to unwind with a glass of wine, Donna thanked me for dealing with her car, told me about her first day at work, and then broached the subject of how she happened to be where I’d found her.

“I knew Jeff had started fooling around on the side, in addition to the games we played together,” she said, “but then the bastard took on a full-time mistress, a 24-year-old, and I couldn’t handle that. I confronted him, saying he had to choose, and he chose her. He had the photos of me he’d taken over the years …” A flush rose from her neck to her cheeks and she averted her gaze, then hurried on, “… perhaps you’ve seen some of them, and he told me if I left the state by the end of last month he’d divorce me quietly and destroy the negatives.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if I can trust him to do that, but I didn’t think I had much choice. When I agreed, he took my checkbook and credit cards right away. I gave notice at work, networked with friends and read some out-of-town want-ads, and found this job. When I got my final paycheck, I cashed it, loaded the car, and left.”

I nodded, hoping my face mirrored my sympathy, and then it became true-confession time. “You said you knew my name,” she continued, “but I don’t remember meeting you.”

You did a lot more than just meet me, I thought, and my memory replayed the sight and sensation of her bending over from her kneeling position beside my chair to capture my stiff cock between her full, sensuous lips. But my guilt overrode the pleasant recollection, and I struggled to keep my voice steady as I responded honestly to her implicit question.

“There’s no reason you should, except maybe in a negative way,” I told her. “Twelve years ago, I corresponded with Jeff, and then my girlfriend at the time and I met and played with the two of you. It was our first time with another couple; I misread a lot of signals and generally botched the whole scene …” Donna had been watching me intently during this recital, and my words trailed off when a spark of recognition in her eyes was followed by a slight negative head-shake.

“I remember you now,” she said gently, “and you were really sweet.” I winced at her choice of predicate adjective, and she reacted immediately. “I don’t mean that in a derogatory way,” she said carefully. “You were nervous, and you were kinder and more considerate than I was used to, but everybody has to have a starting point.”

“It was more than just consideration,” I said quietly. In my mind’s eye, that younger Donna was at the head end of one of the two queen-size beds in the hotel room, an exquisite vision of natural-blonde femininity. She reclined into stacked-up pillows, keeping her legs spread to avoid squeezing the spring-closed plastic clips that Jeff had placed on her labia a few minutes earlier. She was complaining about the discomfort they were causing, and I, too naïve to know this was all part of the head-game, leaned forward and removed them. At the time, I thought her thanks were sincere; only later did I realize that the look in her downcast eyes had been disappointment.

It was harder, this time, to recover my equilibrium. Even after all the years, and all my growth, the flashback to failure still hurt. I shook my head once, both to clear it of retrospective self-criticism and to emphasize my disagreement with her well-intentioned rationalization. “It was inexperience and a conditioned reflex rather than a reasoned decision. It was the difference between an intellectual appreciation of consent and the emotional acceptance of myself as a dominant.”

She reached and gently stroked my cheek. “You don’t have to be cruel to be a strong dominant; some of the best are also some of the most caring people I’ve known. You must have learned that by now.”

“Yes, of course,” I replied. “But when I figured out what had happened, I felt an abject sense of failure. I was so intimidated by your submission …” I saw my ex-girlfriend under Jeff, the two of them naked and fucking hard on the same bed Donna’d rested on an hour earlier, and then I saw my pathetic failure to perform with Donna on the other bed. “… and you were, as you are still, incredibly attractive, and I couldn’t …”

“I remember,” she said softly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. As I said, everyone has to start somewhere. A lot of time has passed since then, and it’s past time for you to forgive yourself.” She paused, then continued, “That’s why you’re doing all this, isn’t it? You feel guilty, like you somehow let me down years ago, and you’re trying to make it up to me.”

“That’s part of it,” I admitted. “But it’s also that I let myself down. I wasn’t nearly as ready to take control in a scene, not to mention a relationship, as I had deluded myself into believing I was, and the reality was hard to accept. But once I faced that reality, I also had to accept that my girlfriend, now my ex-wife, really wasn’t submissive and was just role-playing. I had no idea who was in the car when I stopped to offer help, but the flashbacks started as soon as I recognized you.”

“You’ve certainly changed a great deal since the first time we met,” she replied. “I knew in the first 30 seconds after you tapped on the window that you were taking charge of me and my situation. Needless to say, I’m very grateful for your help, and you can claim your reward any time you choose.”

I wasn’t the least surprised by her offer, but I’d already had a long talk with myself and had decided not to claim a reward, as she put it, that was offered out of a sense of obligation or gratitude.

“I appreciate both the compliment and the offer,” I said, “but a reward isn’t necessary. Despite what I said earlier about guilt, I’m helping you because I choose to. The way I see it, I actually owe you a reward, because it was meeting you, however embarrassing it was for me at the time, that started me down the path toward developing a truly dominant mind-set.”

“In that case,” she said with a smile, “I think you should reward me by rewarding yourself. It’s been a long time since I’ve played, and I think I’d enjoy experiencing the new you.”

“Take a few days to get yourself settled,” I said, “and then we’ll see about those rewards.”

*

A week later, Donna had found a furnished apartment, checked out of the motel, and settled into her new work situation. I’d given her one of my business cards, and she’d checked in with me by phone every day to tell me how things were going. Now her voice turned sultry.

“I’m ready for our mutual rewards, Jason,” she whispered. “You’ve been wonderful to me and a perfect gentleman, but I’m really ready, if you know what I mean.”

I’d been expecting something like this, but I wanted to be certain that Donna knew where she was heading.

“Are you sure about this?” I temporized. “I know what you mean, but I can introduce you to several competent, caring potential partners.”

“Jason, it’s you I want. But if you don’t want me …” Her voice trailed off, sounding sad.

“That’s not it at all,” I said quickly. “But do you understand that when I transition from nice guy to dominant it won’t be just for a one-night scene, it’ll be a permanent shift in our relationship, wherever that relationship goes?”

“Yes, Jason, I understand completely.”

“All right, I’ll be at your place at seven,” I told her.

*

Donna was holding a glass of white wine when she opened the apartment door in response to my firm knock. She was wearing a black leather mini-skirt that covered her to about mid-thigh, a matching halter top, sheer black hose, and black patent pumps with very high heels. Time had not been unkind to her body. Her shape was the same as the mental image I’d seen for all those years: shapely legs, a flat belly, a narrow waist, a tight butt, and large breasts that looked to be as firm as I remembered. She was a mother of two in her early 50s, but she looked like a 30-year-old hard-body ready for action.

“Like what you see, handsome?” she asked glibly.

“Yes, I do indeed,” I replied.

“If you see something you want, don’t ask, just help yourself.” She stood in a feet-apart, chest-out pose that was part seductive and part challenging, so I set the tone for the evening right away. I took the wine glass from her hand, sipped, and said, “Get yourself some wine.” She turned and started to walk across the room, and, as soon as she’d turned her back to me, I said, “Crawl.”

Her reaction was immediate. She looked back at me over her left shoulder, licked her lips, gave me a tremulous half-smile, then faced away from me again and sank slowly to her knees. Then she put her hands on the floor below her shoulders, deliberately moved first one knee and then the other outward so they were spread as wide apart as the tight skirt would allow, and wiggled her behind at me in an exaggerated motion as she made her way on hands and knees toward the back of the apartment.

I sat in an easy chair in one corner of the living room and watched her crawl back from the kitchen. While she was out of the room, I’d put a plump pillow down next to my right foot and lit a cigarette. She reentered the living room on her hands and knees, holding the stem of a half-full wine glass in her right hand with the base resting on the hardwood floor, and she advanced the glass each time she moved that hand forward. When she was within a couple of feet of my chair, I silently pointed downward; she straddled the pillow and then knelt on it obediently.

I put my cigarette to her lips and she took a deep drag. When she exhaled, she seemed calmer. Unbidden, she knee-walked the pillow between my legs until her face was a few inches from my crotch. Not for the first time since I’d arrived, I felt the familiar twitch of a growing erection.

She looked up at me and said, “Remember when you held my hands while I sucked you?”

Another flashback from that hotel scene years ago flowed through my mind. Donna was kneeling beside my chair, looking up at me with expectant eyes that had not yet been disappointed. Her fingers were resting on the chair’s arm; I took both her hands in one of mine and told her to take my cock out of my pants. She leaned forward eagerly, used her lips and tongue to get to and draw down the zipper of my fly, freed my already-stiff cock to poke through the opening, and began a very talented, and very arousing, oral worship.

My eyes closed when that memory experience started, and when it ended I opened them and smiled at her. “Yes, I certainly do,” I replied.

“I liked being held with your cock in my mouth. It turned me on, and I was hoping for a lot more.” Despite my efforts to hide it, a pained expression must have crossed my face, because she hurriedly added, “It’s been a long wait, Jason, but I already know you won’t disappoint me this time.”

She took a deep breath, held it for a couple of seconds, and slid her hand across the front of my pants. Then she slowly unzipped my fly, reached in, and wrapped her fingers around my cock. It jumped in her hand, and she smiled and slowly exhaled. I raised my hips and she pulled my pants down, then her smile broadened just before she bent and took the head between her lips.

After a couple of minutes, she pulled her mouth back and rubbed my cock against her cheek. “What’s your pleasure?” she murmured.

“Finish me,” I said hoarsely.

“Please fuck my face,” she whispered.

I stood and took her head in both hands. Her blue eyes shone up at me as I enjoyed the feel of her hot mouth returning to surround my cock. This time it was different; Donna sucked me with one hand around my cock and the other between her spread legs. She played with her pussy, her hand moving faster and faster on her body as she worked her other hand and her mouth on my cock. I put my hands on the back of her head, partly to steady her, partly to steady myself, but mostly to give her the psychological feeling of being controlled.

Soon her upper body was twisting and writhing, expressing her rising passion, and tiny beads of sweat formed on her furrowed brow and between her breasts. I was moving my hips back and forth and pressing her head forward and backward in the same rhythm, gently but firmly fucking her face as she’d requested. I gave her no verbal warning, but I’m sure she knew I was close; she was breathing hard through her mouth around my swollen cock and her fingers were a blur of motion as she rubbed and squeezed her swollen clitoris.

When I came, I pumped her mouth full, and that triggered her orgasm. She swallowed convulsively several times; her chest was heaving and her breath was ragged from the combination of her exertion and her coming. When I lowered myself and slumped back in the chair, she stayed between my legs, licking and sucking me gently as my cock softened.

Then she lay back, the pillow in the small of her back and her head and spike heels resting on the floor. She hiked her skirt up around her waist, revealing that lacy elastic rather than garters supported her thigh-hi stockings. She spread her legs wide and her pussy was bright pink, swollen and shiny with her juices. Things hadn’t changed there, either; she wore no panties, and there wasn’t a hair in sight. Her eyes were shiny too, with a mix of pleasure and unsated desire, and she smiled as she reached behind her and unfastened her halter, revealing her beautiful breasts, the nipples set high and fully erect.

I sat on the end of one of the beds and watched as Jeff, Donna’s husband, put a breast press on her after having cuffed her wrists together behind her back. She stood proudly, almost defiantly, naked except for her high-heeled sandals, her legs spread and her golden hair tousled, as Jeff slowly closed the press on her. She winced each time he twisted the wing nuts that forced the wooden bars together, compressing her breasts at their base and making them swell like ripe grapefruit, but I could see her nipples grow harder and fatter and longer each time he tightened the press further.

Her face was radiant as she raised her arms and folded her hands behind her head. I moved to lie beside her, letting my lips and hands feel her skin, my nose capture her scent, and my eyes caress her body. I spent a lot of time working on her breasts, eliciting moans that increased in volume and intensity as I continued. I teased, then nibbled, then pinched her nipples; they had lost none of their sensitivity, and the harder I pinched, the more she squirmed and arched her body off the floor.

Eventually, I put one hand between the back of her head and her folded hands to hold them down in place. “Keep your legs spread,” I told her, and then I trailed my other hand across the hardness of her belly to lightly stroke her bare pubes. I could see her clit standing out of its sheath, and when I ran a finger lightly across it her whole body shook and shivered. When the shaking subsided, I repeated the touch, and soon she was straining her neck to look at me, attempting to pull her hands free, thrashing her body around, and making continuous sounds of sexual need.

Once, she disobeyed me. Her desire got the best of her, and she closed her legs and tried to rub them together to get some friction on her pussy. I immediately stopped what I was doing and moved away from her body, and she gasped and moaned in frustration.

“Spread your legs again and lie still,” I commanded. “I was about to let you come,” I continued in a more conversational tone, “but now you’ll have to wait.”

“Oh, please, I’m so sorry, I’ll be good, I promise, I won’t do it again, please don’t make me wait,” she wailed.

“Of course you will,” I said. “But you’ll still wait.”

“Yes, Jason,” she said resignedly. She spread her legs as wide as she could, then returned her hands to their position behind her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing subsided to a slow, regular pace, but her nipples were stiff and her juices were oozing from her pussy, making a small puddle on the floor between her thighs.

I let her simmer there for five or six minutes, then sat down cross-legged next to her upper body. She opened her eyes and watched as I reached into my pants pocket and withdrew two heavy metal clothes-pins. I started to move my hand toward her breast and her body stiffened in anticipation.

“Look at me,” I ordered. She turned her head and our eyes locked in contact. I continued to move my hand without looking at it, finding her erect nipple by touch, and I held one of the clothes-pins vertical and let it close. She inhaled sharply but made no protest, even when I let go of the clothes-pin and it fell to the side of her breast, pulling and twisting the nipple abruptly.

I put the other pin on her, then ran my fingers up her slit. She was, if anything, wetter than before, and I crawled between her legs and onto her. I’m not often able to go a second round so quickly, but this time neither my mind nor my body failed me, and I slid my cock into her in a single smooth motion. Her body shook and she came immediately, and her face was joy as tears pulsed from the corners of her eyes.

“Thank you,” she sighed, and a tear of mine fell on her cheek.

* *

Copyright © 2004 by Left Side Signals