Hécuba

Evie smiled warmly, tilting her head slightly, and in a relaxed manner, I felt her fingers toy with my hair on my bare back. I, just as my Miss had asked—who was surely watching us closely from the bar counter—let her do as she pleased without resistance. Her breasts flattened against mine, rubbing against them to the rhythm of the song, and the absence of my bra made me fear my nipples would harden and she would notice. With a polite smile that hid my nervousness, I let her be the one to guide me in this dance so full of sensual notes, while remembering how I had arrived at this exact moment.

* * *

"My sweet girl, tonight I'm taking you to your first lesbian bar, and I'm going to ask you to dance with a stranger I will choose for you," my Miss told me, leaning over me as she applied my mascara. "And I want you to be pleasant and sweet to her at all times. I'll be watching you."

My heart sank, and my gaze became invisibly trembling. She, knowing me perfectly, noticed everything.

"She will be an attractive woman, probably my age, about ten years older than you. Or maybe not, we'll see," she continued, taking me by the chin to turn it slightly and observe for a brief moment that my makeup was in order before picking up the same lipstick she had used and painting my lips. "If she buys you a drink, accept it with a smile; if she asks to dance with you again, you will nod, let her take your hand, and lead you to the dance floor."

Her hands slid up the short skirt of the very tight magenta and turquoise dress she had bought me that same afternoon until they reached my panties. Leaning toward me, she pulled them down to my ankles, and I, very diligently, lifted one heel after the other so she could remove them. Folding them carefully, she tucked them into her purse, turned me around gently by the shoulders, and the two of us stood looking at each other in the bathroom mirror's reflection, me in front of her.

"You look gorgeous," she said with genuine admiration, grooming my hair a bit more, though it was unnecessary. Yes, I liked how I looked right then, but I was dressed much more daringly and suggestively than I usually did, and that made me quite a bit nervous... "You have to understand that there will be moments like this when I ask you to blindly trust me. I know that for now you are only bisexual with me, but I want that stranger to like you. Don't worry, I'm not going to share you with her, although if you wanted to kiss her, I wouldn't object. I want to enjoy the fact that you are my very own little girl. I want you to get used to other women flirting with you. I want to show you off and show that you are mine."

Her hands, rising from my waist, reached the contour of my breasts, and her fingers paused over my little nipples, tracing circles around them.

"I am your Mistress and you are my girl. I have responsibilities, whether you like it or not. Among these responsibilities is guiding you so that you grow as much as possible, and this means growing in every sense."

She rested her chin on my shoulder, and her fingers closed around my small breasts firmly yet gently, making me catch the air in my lungs until a slow, agonizing sigh escaped from my lips.

"This evening will be uncomfortable for you. I want it to be. In a way, that's the whole point of this. Personal and sexual growth lies outside your comfort zone. You might feel afraid, but always keep in mind that you are completely safe when I ask you to do these things. I take care of you. I protect you."

One of her hands disappeared under my skirt, and I instinctively parted my legs just before her fingers caressed me along the entire length of my labia. In the mirror, I saw her lips curve into that smile that I love so much being the sole cause of.

"Now relax and enjoy. I'm going to edge you; I want your body to be receptive when we get to the lesbian bar."

* * *

Evie is affable and attentive to me, and she has that natural elegance of a tightrope walker, perfectly balancing on that thin line between seduction and overstepping bounds. The swaying of her hips against mine is subtle and pleasant, her hands resting right where my back ends and my ass begins, and with each slow dance step, I feel the nudge of her thigh between my legs, pressing lightly against my sex. I smile at her politely and hold my ground with the poise of the polite, obedient girl I have always been, and inadvertently find myself searching for my Miss at the far end of the bar. Evie, brushing my hair aside, rests her cheek against my bare shoulder, her warm breath caressing the skin of my neck.

"You are an absolute sweetie... It's obvious I like you a lot, isn't it?" she whispers into my ear.

And I am completely unable to answer her. Although nervous, I can't deny that I like that she likes me, that I have enjoyed the treatment and attention she has given me from the very first moment, but that's all... So I cast my gaze down and smile at her gratefully without saying a single word.

It is then that the song that kept our bodies bound together gradually dissolves into a new, slightly more upbeat one, and Evie finally steps back a little from me.

"Thank you so much for everything," I say, finally daring to speak, doing so exclusively to say goodbye to her. I give her hand an affectionate squeeze and, without another word, quickly locate my Miss sitting on a stool at the bar. I don't really know how I feel—starstruck, almost dazed—I only dream of going back to her side, back to her shelter, to that zone of comfort and security she provides.

My Miss smiles at me with pride the moment she sees me arrive and, with a few light taps on the empty stool next to her, invites me to sit down. But no, I don't want that.

Without a second thought, I wrap my hand behind the nape of her neck and bring my lips to hers, kissing them slowly, as if they might melt and disappear if I showed too much passion. I kiss her, and she kisses me back. And only when our tongues meet am I aware that I have kissed her exclusively to mark my territory. To tell all the women in that bar that I am hers and exclusively hers. And by the time our mouths part, I find my Miss's eyes looking at me with pride, and that just melts my heart... She smiles at me, hugs me tightly, touches my face, takes my hand, and gives me a resounding kiss on the lips.

After the worst relationship I’ve ever had, I withdrew into myself, and a long time passed before I was able to have sexual relations again. I didn’t stop kissing, but I definitely put the brakes on all those guys who thought my kisses would lead to something in the bedroom. That’s why I don’t have a clear idea of when and how it happened. As a result of that bad experience, I even shied away from ropes and became completely vanilla, both in thought and action. I no longer fantasized about being submissive, and I even stopped touching myself in private moments. I became proactively chaste, as if in doing so I could force myself to forget what had happened to me.

But life went on, and eventually I wound up in bed with a man. It had been a long time since the last time, and although coming back to it should have been magical, it really wasn’t. It was a mediocre lay, much better for him than for me. Needless to say, I didn’t come, but I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time either. Then others came along, and the result was the same, even though I was slowly regaining the joy and excitement for sex. Some of them, with whom I had more than one encounter, started asking me if I had come after we shared a bed, and I, naive and honest as I was, answered no... Some of my lovers became passive-aggressive with me because of that—I imagine because their ego depended on the pleasure they were capable of giving me—and from that moment on, I started faking orgasms to spare myself that uncomfortable question.

I enjoyed sex just the same (my nature is submissive, and I’ve always cared more about my partner’s pleasure than my own), but it’s true that I didn’t know what was happening to me. And that was when I searched the internet and realized I was suffering from anorgasmia, which even extended to squirts, which I wasn’t having either.

I overthought it terribly, to the point of making love to myself not to enjoy it, but to achieve that result. And mind you, back then I had already internalized stoicism in my life; I knew that the outcome didn't depend on me, only my actions and my thoughts. But nothing...

Little by little, I came to accept that it didn't depend on me. I kept enjoying the warmth of my lovers' bodies, satisfying them, faking that I was reaching climax through their caresses and attention. And by simply not dwelling on it, I at least learned to feel good about myself.

Then I crossed paths again with the man who is now my current owner. We knew each other from college and had ended up hooking up one night at a party. Basically, we both knew we liked each other. We caught up, enjoyed each other's company, and started hanging out. By that time, I had normalized my anorgasmia so much that I was no longer vanilla and was back to fantasizing about the ropes I’ve always loved so much. We kissed again, grew fond of each other, and it was right there—before calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend—that we spoke frankly about what we expected from our relationship. I was honest with him and told him that if we were going to be a couple, I needed ropes to be involved. He admitted he was indeed attracted to it, and so our journey began.

My owner gradually realized that I wasn’t having orgasms (I didn't fake it with him). He asked me about it with curiosity rather than obsession, and I answered him honestly. He automatically brushed it off as no big deal and told me they would come back at some point (you have no idea what a weight was lifted off my shoulders when he took it that way). And so it went; a few years together had to pass before I could recover that lost part of myself. And now, remembering that beautiful moment, my eyes fill with tears again as I write...

That didn’t mean everything went back to normal right away, or that I was having orgasms as frequently as before. When we had sex, sometimes I had them, sometimes I didn’t, but that was the least of it. I was healing. Until, as time went on, I became myself again—that cheerful woman who usually squirts before having an orgasm, who very rarely squirts twice, and who only once in her life has had two orgasms in a single session.