“Hello, Miss Daniels.”
The woman addressing the doorman in an impeccable black velvet dress is Claire Daniels. She is long and lean as a daisy, and beautiful in ways that most men don’t have the vocabulary to describe. Her driver waits beside a slick black Rolls Royce, and she enters the car and heads towards dinner.
She is the most elegant woman in her building, although she is not the richest. She’s what is known as old money, which navigates her away from the flash of the new rich. She carries leather purses meant to last, wears crisp capes from the best designers, and has been applying the same flawless red lipstick for decades.
Her apartment is on the 8th floor of a building in the Tribeca neighborhood, New York City. It is a shrine to art deco and good housekeeping, overseen by its keen mistress. Claire won it in a divorce and wears it like a badge. She throws monthly parties and allows magazines to shoot impossibly beautiful spreads there.
“How long until we reach the restaurant?” she asks the driver.
“Fifteen minutes if there isn’t traffic, and there shouldn’t be,” he replies.
She is meeting her son at The Shirley, which is a steak restaurant that he would especially love to eat at for free, courtesy of his loving mother. Will Daniels, the son in question, is three months fresh from college and has no plans other than to ping pong between his mother and father while waiting for “something to pop up.” He’s a sweet, spoiled thing.
Claire is soon delivered and dashing into the restaurant. Trying to zip the back of her dress up was the culprit, a side-effect of a single life. She had needs, difficult ones, that no man has yet been able to fulfill.
She spies her son in the restaurant; he is tall and lean as she with a crop of wavy dark hair. He’s sitting with someone she’s never seen before, a blonde boy with tight curls and a terrible suit. He blushes when Claire stops at the table.
“Hello, Mother, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve bought a friend. This is Nicolas, my college amigo.”
“Pleasure,” says Claire, extending a gloved hand.
“I’ve heard a lot of about you,” replies Nicolas, still blushing.
“Yes, I’m sure Will has told you I’m good for a free meal.”
“I would never!” Will says in mock horror.
Claire orders a martini and a rare steak, and spends most of the dinner examining the curious creature known as Nicolas. He’s like a turtle peeking from a shell, nervous and charming in his nervousness. He’s intimidated by her, unable to form proper sentences and forgetful. She is flattered by this, and insists he orders as much food and drink as possible.
Will is oblivious to the flirtation, obsessed with himself as always. He drowns in his third beer and rambles to himself about the value of art while Claire and Nicolas enjoy their meal, locking eyes every so often.
“So Nicolas, what sort of hobbies do you enjoy?” she asks, turning to face the little stranger. She glows beneath the dim restaurant lighting, and the effect is vampiric.
“Well, I, paint I guess,” he stammers, “sometimes I row. I was on a rowing team in college.”
She eyes his muscular arms beneath the wrinkles of his cheap suit. Yes please, she thinks. The pleasantries continue. She learns that he is the youngest of five, that his family is from New Hampshire, and that he’s never travelled outside of the United States. He learns nothing about her, and is flattered that she seems interested.
Claire has had affairs with some of Will’s friends before, which the darling egomaniac never learned about. The word “affair” is used, and not relationship, because love and all of its trappings never had anything to do with the master-servant nature of what Claire Daniels did. She liked to see submission, liked to see hearts break, and loved best of all to see a man beg.
She sees in Nicolas the kind of boy who loved Mommy figures; an unguided thing lost in a man’s world. Everything he says sounds like an apology or a question. He’s asking for her approval, anxious to see that she is pleased. And she is pleased.
“I may be able to help with your painting, I know a man who runs the Omni Gallery in SoHo. Jerry is his name,” Claire says, pulling a notepad and pen out of her purse. “Let me give you his number, I’ll tip him off. If he likes your stuff, he might display it. You would only need to show him a few samples.”
“That would be...incredible,” Nicolas says.
“It’s nothing,” Claire says as she scribbles the number, “I love to help aspiring artists. It’s the patron in me. And here’s my number in the mix, if you’re ever in need of some advice.”
This offer is so casual that Will misses its full meaning. It’s just his mother being his mother, generous and over-involved in everyone’s life.
“Will, you should invite Nicolas over sometime to see the place,” Claire says.
“Sure, that would be good, maybe have some drinks,” Will replies dreamily, buzzed on his fourth craft beer.
Claire pays the bill and sends a text message her driver. She is buzzing from the encounter and hungry over the thought of fresh blood. It’s been months since her last toy, a law student from New Jersey. He’d gone off to further his education with his back covered in scars from their many encounters. She didn’t miss him one bit, but she did miss the action.
“Well boys, I’ll be going. Wonderful to meet you, Nicolas,” she says, reaching for his hand. It’s a beautiful, strong thing. She presses it firmly, then glides out of the restaurant in a trail of expensive perfume.
“Your mom is incredible,” Nicolas says in a trance.
“I guess so.”
Nicolas leaves the dinner drunk on expensive cocktails. He rides the subway to his shared apartment miles and miles away from the good part of town. It’s a fourth floor walkup with no elevator in sight, no matter how much he wishes and prays for one. He shares this cracked and aging one-bedroom home with another friend of his from college who sleeps in the living room and plays video games all night.
The apartment smells like pizza, and his dear nocturnal roommate is already unable to see anything except the TV screen. Mark is a trust fund baby with ambition to stay that way for the rest of his adult life.
Nicolas rolls his eyes and heads for the bedroom. It feels as if a filter has been lifted off his eyes, and he sees the apartment as dingy and pathetic. It’s a bachelor crash pad that’s far too embarrassing to invite anyone over to, especially someone like Claire Daniels.
Claire Daniels. Just meeting a woman like that makes Nicolas feel inferior. His room looks like a boy’s room, filled with records and movie posters and bathing suit calendars. The kinds of girls he usually brought home were girlish and inexperienced, drowning themselves in cheap alcohol before fumbling through the motions of sex.
Nicolas undresses, kicking the cheap suit to the side. A woman like Claire could push him the way he wanted to go, so that he could be paying for her dinner instead of the other way around. She’s a tornado, already uprooting the things he thought he liked best.
Naked, he lays back on the bed and replays the dinner. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever been near; a combination of things that push all of his buttons. Smart, confident, well-dressed, and a bit cruel. The strangest part about it is that it felt like flirting. He remembers her number scribbled onto a piece of paper, tucked away in his wallet.
At the thought of calling her, his dick hardens. He imagines the smooth lines of her thin body beneath all of that velvet, and pictures her answering the phone naked. He images the hello over and over again, and begins to stroke his cock. Was it a cliché that he wanted to fuck his friend’s mom? Did it matter?
Claire Daniels. Her name gives him shivers. He pictures her kneeling down before him, taking his cock into her mouth. He imagines her red lipstick wrapped around his dick, sucking hard. No fumbling, no hesitation: she is fearless. The tight bun she wore at the dinner loosens, falling around her bare shoulders.
His hand moves up and down his cock in sync with the image of Miss Daniels. He prefers long, slow pulls. He already feels cum building inside of him, ready to gush into her mouth. With a shudder, he cums into her mouth and she swallows every drop, licking her perfect lips when she’s finished.
In reality, of course, he is still in his room and has just finished all over his bare stomach. He roots around the piles of clothes for something he can use to clean himself off. Ugh. The truth is sad and smells like old socks.
Once clean and dressed, he sifts through some of the old paintings stored under his bed. They all seem so inadequate, not good enough for someone like Claire and certainly not her gallery connection. How did she do this to him? In just one night? He feels like he’s been tumbled through a washing machine, dizzy and confused.
And then, his phone rings. It’s a number his phone doesn’t recognize, but somewhere in the bottom of his belly knows. It’s her.
“Yes, is this Nicolas?” the voice belongs to Claire.
“Yep.” He rolls his eyes. Yep?!
“I know this is sudden, but I asked Will for your number. There’s a party tomorrow night at the gallery I mentioned, the Omni. It would be a wonderful chance for you to meet Jerry and a few other artists.”
“That would be great. But, I just, um,” he stammers.
“What? You have something else scheduled?”
“No, I just don’t know if I have an, um, suit for the occasion.”
Claire laughs on the line for a moment, and the sound gives him goosebumps. “My driver will bring you something tomorrow morning, something of Will’s. Don’t think too much about that, just come and have some drinks.”
“Thanks, I bet it will be great. I wish I could pay you back somehow for this.”
Claire laughs. “Don’t think of it, Nicolas, it’s more for me than it is for you.”
There is a pause in the conversation. He’s drowning in thankfulness, choking in appreciation, and dying from the thought of her body in that dinner dress. The combination has broken his ability to think.
“Be there at the Omni by eight, then,” Claire adds.
“Will you be there?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss your big debut. Well now, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Before he can stammer out another embarrassing “thanks,” she’s already hung up the phone. Nicolas plops down onto his bed, looks up at the cracked ceiling of his terrible apartment, and for the first time in his life, thanks the lord.
The Omni is an enormous, whitewashed space built within an old factory in the Meat Packing district. Claire arrives early, draped in her best fox fur shawl. She feels confident somehow, knowing that Nicolas is about to arrive in a puddle of nerves. His weakness gives her strength.
She enjoys a cocktail and walks around the space like a cat looking for a bird to chase. The art is modern, very modern, and she is already tickled to think that her ingénue may have art displayed here within a few weeks.
Her friend Jerry, the owner, is giving a group of attractive girls, a tour of the space. Claire nods her head his way, and he nods back. There could have been something between them once, but Jerry lived like an animal in the back of the studio and never quite got over his love for inflatable beds. She preferred memory foam.
It’s about five minutes to eight. Nicolas has just entered the gallery, a fresh cocktail and brochure in hand. He looks around for Claire, and she waits as he looks. Like a kid searching for his mother in the supermarket, Claire thinks.
She eases his suspense and walks over. “Hello, Nicolas.”
“Hello, Miss Daniels.”
Will’s suit is too tight on him, and delightfully so. It’s as if Nicolas has made a conscious choice to show off his muscles, and he feels awful about it. It’s much too clean, black, and fashionable for his taste.
“That suit fits you perfectly,” Claire says. Nicolas immediately changes his mind about the suit. “Well, let me grab Jerry for you, he’s not doing anything important.”
Claire slips her arm into Nicolas’, as if they are on a date. He had been wondering all day if she would also invite Will to the gallery, and hoped she wouldn’t. He loved Will, but this was something different.
“Jerry, come and meet this wonderful new painter I’ve stumbled on.”
Claire pretends to pay attention to the small talk between artist and owner, but can’t stop thinking about Nicolas’ head between her thighs. Her drink is powerful enough to make it happen; she knows that he melts under her touch. Of course, there is the awkwardness with him being Will’s dear college friend. But Will has lots of friends, she thinks.
Things are going well for Nicolas. Claire can tell that Jerry is amused by the young man, his eyes have a certain way of lighting up when something catches his attention.
“Bring over your stuff, all of it, everything you can fit into a cab!” Jerry says, spilling his cocktail over the sides of his glass.
“I will, most definitely,” says Nicolas, blushing to the roots.
“Now if you’ll excuse me…” Jerry bows and wanders off the regroup with the girls who have been stomping their feet for the last five minutes, waiting for their tour to continue. Claire is now left alone with her prodigy.
Cocktails continue. Claire parades him around the gallery, introducing him to artists that he’s only heard about online and in art magazines. He is dazed like Alice in Wonderland, ready to do anything she says. The drinks cause in them a pleasant numbness, drawing them closer and closer together. By eleven o’clock, the gallery is crowded and the pair have already found a dark corner to talk in. Or rather, Nicolas talks and Claire listens. She reveals almost nothing about herself or her dubious intentions.
“Are you having fun?” Claire asks in the middle of his story about an uncle’s chicken farm.
“Yes, god, so much,” he answers.
“I want you to know that I have very particular tastes, and I feel you would be a good fit for me. Do you understand what I mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you ever heard of a dom?”
Nicolas searches his drunken brain for something that fits the description. All that he uncovers in his memory is fuzz. He doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Claire, and shakes his head.
“Follow me to the bathroom,” she commands.
They weave through the crowd towards the back of the gallery, where there is a row of individual bathroom stalls. Claire pushes past the line and enters into one with Nicolas, ignoring the protests from the line. The room is dark and atmospheric, a classically fancy, expensive bathroom.
“Get on your knees, Nicolas.”
Nicolas obeys. His cock is hard at the request. If his nerves hadn’t been comforted by liquor, he would have trembled. He looks up at her, memorizing her features in the light: high cheekbones, a turned-up nose, and thick black eyebrows. She looks down at him as if he’s prey.
Claire lifts her dress over her calves, then her knees, then her thighs. She’s not wearing any underwear beneath her gown, and her cunt is covered in dark hair. She spreads her legs and waits.
“Eat my cunt.”
Nicolas kneels upward towards her, reaching his tongue between her folds. He misses and readjusts with his hands touching the soft inner sides of her legs. She is wet, which pleases him, and tastes wonderful. He hated the way ordinary girls quietly accepted oral from him in the past, too shy to even look down at him. Claire doesn’t even blink as he looks up at her to see if he’s doing a good job.
She presses into his face, riding him as she would a dildo. He is her object, her toy. She pushes the bud of her clit into his hot tongue, making him stroke it over and over. He slurps up her juices and tries not to have his nose broken by the labor. He’s never been used like this by a woman, not by anyone.
“You little bastard, you idiot,” she whispers cruelties instead of moans.
Her cunt devours him instead of the other way around. He reaches up two fingers and they slide inside of her automatically, as if sucked up into her pussy by will. He can tell that she is pleased, grinding on his fingers up and down to bring herself to orgasm. Nicolas would have given anything to fuck her, but doesn’t dare, and would never be ballsy enough to ask.
“I’m going to cum on your face like the bitch you are,” she says, rolling her hips over him in waves.
All that he has left to do is hold on. He can feel her pussy tense and release as she orgasms over his fingers and tongue, moaning to a conclusion while frustrated patrons bang on the bathroom door.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Claire says, and he is tickled to have made such a beautiful society woman curse on his behalf. He can feel her juices run down his fingers and into the sleeve of his suit jacket. Poor Will, he thinks.
Claire backs away from him and rolls down her long dress. She fixes her hair and makeup in the mirror and says nothing. No word of thanks, nothing.
“You can get up now,” she commands. With this, she leaves him alone in the bathroom to wash her cunt off his hands and face. He can heard the complaints outside of the bathroom change into an embarrassed chorus of “hello, Miss Daniel.” If they had only known it was her in the bathroom, they never would have knocked.
Claire is happy, and grabs a cocktail. He would make a charming sub. It had been a while since she found such an innocent boy with such a large desire to please her. He naturally couldn’t know about how delighted this made her, it would give him an ego. She detested an ego in her subs.
Nicolas leaves the bathroom a moment later and finds Claire in conversation with a group of older gentlemen. He feels too intimidated to cut into their group, and chooses to eat a few hors d'oeuvres and grab another drink, which he knows will be the nail in the dizzy/drunk coffin later. Claire doesn’t make eye contact with him.
Ten minutes pass, twenty minutes, and then thirty. Nicolas is embarrassed and out of place. He’s seeing double and dreaming of his unwashed bed at home. He leaves the gallery in a haze, calling a taxi and letting the cool air refresh him outside.
Claire sees his exit and smiles. She waits an hour after he leaves the party to pull out her phone and send him a message, just as he is showering before bedtime.
Next Friday, 7:30, my house.
Claire loved playing teacher to new subs. She was talented at it, introducing toys one at a time and ensuring that pleasure was, at least initially, mixed in with the pain. There were preparations to be made and things to buy, which gave her a feeling of purpose.
She took an afternoon to visit La Salle before Friday, which was a high-end sex shop that specialized in BDSM. It was a candy store for bondage, with ropes and whips in rainbow of shades. Dog collars, leashes, harnesses, strap-on gear, and crops hung from the walls like twisted licorice treats. They also offered a selection of attire for the female dom, mostly lingerie made from leather.
La Salle was only open by appointment. Claire loved this policy; there was nothing more uncomfortable than being recognized in a BDSM shop.
“Do you have this ball gag in a smaller size?” Claire asks the clerk, pointing to a classic cherry-red gag.
“Yes ma’am, a half inch smaller in circumference.”
“I’ll take one.”
She buys too much, far too much, for one evening with Nicolas. But she has faith that he will be back again after the first round.
In an entirely different part of the city, Nicolas is also preparing for Claire. Not with whips or gags, but instead a new painting for his portfolio. He is calling it “The Spell,” and attempting an impressionistic take on Claire’s portrait. He’s agonizing over it, redoing the image over and over, trying to keep his mind off Friday. The worst part is that Will keeps calling to hang out; Nicolas doesn’t think he’s strong enough to keep a secret like “I ate your mom’s pussy” from his close friend.
He suspects that Claire is different than most women, but doesn’t know how. Bossier, most definitely. In control of all situations, even sex. And so, he keeps painting, trying to conjure up an image of Friday night. Should he bring condoms? Should he wear a suit? Will’s suit?
Everything about it terrifies him. The only thing that prevents him from fleeing the city and ripping up the painting is this tiny, eensy suspicion that Claire really does like him. She’s pursuing him, after all.
His brush strokes become more sporadic. He is creating Claire in the image of something he can’t quite name, a witch who has cast a spell over him that compels him to say yes, yes yes.
Nicolas is due to arrive any minute. Claire has pulled back the red curtain of a floor-to-ceiling living room window, and is blowing smoke out of the open glass. She rarely smokes. Not even Will knows that she smokes. But it’s a special occasion: the spiderweb has been woven and the fly is all set to tickle the sticky strings.
There is no contract waiting for him, no monologue prepared about the BDSM lifestyle. Claire never uses safewords; if they want to leave, she trusts that they will find a way to tell her so.
She wears a white silk dressing gown over a lattice of leather across her naked flesh. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. She kissed Will on the cheek in this dressing gown, just as he left for another night of expensive debauchery on her dime. Claire has no complaints on this particular evening. Let the club bouncers babysit him.
The doorbell rings, and Claire waits a moment to answer.
Nicolas is terrified, like a kid about to attend his first prom. His palms are slick with sweat, his armpits are even worse. He chose to wear casual attire: a pair of denim jeans and plaid button up. It delights Claire. He looks like a schoolboy.
“Sit down, I’ll pour you a drink.”
Nicolas is overwhelmed by the richness of the house and sinks onto the couch, trying to vanish inside of it. He watches Claire make the drinks from a silver set in the living room bar. Yes, living room bar. The ice clinks around in the glass. His mouth has dropped open, but he doesn’t know it.
“Well, let’s get down to it. You have something I want,” Claire begins. “And I am offering something you may enjoy. Do you want to give it a try?”
“Alright. You can leave any time, and it won’t offend me. There’s no contract, no deal, just follow my directions. Is that understood?”
“Say ‘yes ma’am’ when you address me. Now, finish that drink and follow me into the bedroom once you’ve finished. Come on your hands and knees; I’ll wait for you.”
Claire leaves Nicolas with his mouth open and takes her drink to a room down a short corridor from the living room. She unties the knot of her dressing gown and removes it, then takes a long sip of her drink. There is a box at the end of her bed, an art deco masterpiece inlaid with gold, that she unlocks and opens. Her toys are here, a treasure chest of pain and pleasure. She selects a riding crop. Then, she waits.
Nicolas appears on hands and knees a moment later, too embarrassed to look up at his mistress. She compresses a smile.
“Undress for me, then get back down on all fours.”
He peels away the polite “casual wear” and reveals a strong, pale interior. There is the tiniest patch of brown chest hair on his body, and little else. As he kneels, Claire takes a slow walk around him with the whip. She runs the leather along his back and sides, looking for the smoothest part to hit first.
The blows fall on his crouched body with a loud smack. He buckles with the surprise, falling forward and then correcting himself. Untrained, she thinks. She delivers ten even strikes with the whip and smiles as the red marks on his flesh form.
“You’re pathetic,” she spits. “You can’t even take the tiniest little crop. A bee sting is rougher than this.”
Nicolas’ cock hardens, delighted by the insults his mistress keeps spitting. He feels a hot sting where the crop landed, and something about it terrifies and pleases him at the same time. She could do anything to him; he is less than nothing to her.
Claire reveals a cherry red ball gag from her toy box.
“Tell me you want this,” she says.
“Yes, I do.”
“Call me Mother and say it again.”
“Yes Mother, I want it.”
Claire kneels down and puts the ball into his mouth, tying the leather strap around his head. His eyes water, but he doesn’t dare to look up at her. She loves to see a man in bondage, and returns with a second toy: a pair of handcuffs that are joined in the middle by a solid metal bar. This keeps his hands immobile and on the floor, just where she wants him. He won’t be able to crawl away.
The handcuff bar is placed on and the gag is in place. He looks like a Christmas present.
“I’m going to fuck you, and it may hurt, but you won’t be able to do anything about it. If there was a safeword, I wouldn’t be able to hear it, would I?”
She bends down behind him and licks his exposed ass; he has a tight, virgin hole that tastes a lot like the soap he used to get ready for the night. He shivers, and emits a moan from beneath the ball gag. No one’s ever licked him there before. Claire is of course going to do much more than lick him in a moment, he knows it.
Back in the toy box, she pulls out a single black latex gloves that reaches all the way to her elbow. She pulls it over her left arm, making sure that Nicolas watches her do it. The glove squeaks. He knows where it’s going.
On her knees beside him, the latex glove travels over his body, lingering on the marks that the crop has left behind. She spanks him once for good measure, and he falls forward, almost onto his face because of the hand restraints. Spitting on the fingers of the glove, she teases his asshole by dipping the very tip of a finger inside.
“Mother loves to see an asshole fucked. I’m going to do a wonderful job fucking yours.”
Claire doesn’t give him time to think about it. She inserts her index finger into his ass, lubed up with her own high-class spit. Her finger vanishes inside of him, and he clenches tightly at the new feeling. With her ungloved hand, she reaches around to his cock.
“That’s a good boy.” Kind words are her reward for a stiff cock.
She finger fucks him with one hand and jerks him off with the other, matching the pace of both actions. Slowly, his asshole stretches to accommodate her finger. Just to make sure he’s paying attention, she slips her middle finger into his asshole and devours the sound of his moan.
Nicolas is lost under her hands, and would have cum in the first few strokes if he had not been gagged, restrained, and ass fucked all at once. He is swaying with the rhythm of her motion, feeling a new kind of fullness inside of his body.
“Mmm” he says beneath the gag.
At this angle, she can see his balls lift up as he nears an orgasm. She uses her hand to stroke him more slowly, trying to prolong the feeling as long as possible. With her fingers in his ass, angles towards his cock to achieve pressure in just the right spot.
He cums into her hand in hot, white spurts. She can feel it even in his asshole, which tightens at the push.
“A very good boy.”
She wipes his cum off onto his back and walks in front of him so that he can appreciate the full view. She looks wicked as a demon, and smiles in the same way that a pleased demon would after leading a man into a life of sin.
“I think that’s enough for the first lesson, I’m tired.”
Claire unhooks her dear student and fixes herself another drink while he fumbles with clothes and his composure. He’ll be back.