You are sitting at a bar in a black leather dress and thigh-high boots. Every fifteen minutes or so, a train passes by and shakes the dust from the tops of shelves and broken fans. You feel the vibration humming in the bottom of your feet, and watch the liquid in your martini ripple around in the glass.
It’s 10:16 pm.
The Whip is the kind of cheap bar that subs love to wander into “accidentally." It’s been a slow night so far, just a few undecided new boys with too many questions and no gumption. But you don’t have any competition in the bar at present, and it’s still early. You feel like a spider with a fresh web, taut and ready for a fly.
Dave, the bartender, passes you another drink. He’s a man of few words, but so are you. You’ve both spent years in this grunting limbo, giving him the nod when you need to tab out in the same way that he gives you the nod when you walk through the door. He’s handsome, 40ish, but not your type. You prefer something a little sweeter and riper. Also, with a bit less nose hair.
You adjust smeared lipstick in the bar mirror and fix a few loose strands. Some Doms are tidy and tight as a school marm, but you’re the kind of bathroom fuck that thrives in darkness. Dark eyes, dark lipstick, dark everything. You want your clients to fear you, not feel formal around you. You look down on the prim Mary Poppins, who walk around the city with their clean whips and butt plugs.
A Dom isn’t a legal contract or a set of rules at a public pool. She is there to make you feel unsafe, terrified. To give you a sense that there is something more out there than punching a time clock and using hand sanitizer. She exists to beat new life into you, to show you that you’re alive. She smacks you on the ass, congratulations, it’s a boy!
Your handbag is filled will tools alongside things like eyeliner and minty gum. Handcuffs, blindfolds, dildos, anal beads, and whips are enough to satisfy a quick beating in an alley, somewhere beneath the rumbling train. The men you squash, always come back, crawling, trying to remember if they had met you at The Whip or some other bar downtown.
It’s 10:38 pm.
You are on your third drink and feeling wonderful. You know there is something in the air, something that tells you a client will be here soon. Even if no one worthwhile comes through the door, you would feel fine drinking near Dave all night with your legs crossed over the barstool. You’re a nocturnal thing; the night charges you up like a battery.
The bar starts to fill, and Dave turns up the music. Rockabilly stuff. He owns a motorcycle and feels the need to remind everyone about it whether he’s on the bike or off. A group of boys walks in through the door, handsome one and all. You feel something twitch towards them, and it’s a dowsing rod in your stomach. They’re in their early 20s, about five of them, and look ready to wrestle something. Bad boys. Boastful, loud, and dirty. Greasy hair, Roman noses, shredded denim, and baggy plaid. They head over to the pool table like a group of roosters.
The biggest of them catches your eye, and you catch his. He looks at you for a moment, but his gaze shifts to the boots. There is a look of “ah ha!” in his expression as if he knows what those boots mean. He’s not afraid of you, and from this distance it even looks like he is smirking. You know you’ve found your target and that the night is already decided.
The boys start to play pool, badly. They don’t care about the game at all and are more interested in pacing around the table insulting each other, showing off in the bright table lights. Everything else in the bar is bathed in darkness, making them the stars of the show. They grow louder, shouting insults at each other across the game’s action.
Your boy is beautiful. He has a mole on his left cheek and an old-fashioned men’s haircut. His eyes are green, and his chest is enormous, with brown hairs sticking out above a v-neck shirt. You’d like to wrap him up like a burrito and him whole. He keeps looking over at you to double check that you’re impressed. You are patient and ignore him, turning towards Dave and your fourth drink.
This game goes on for about twenty minutes before he walks over to the bar. You know the kind of bait he’ll put on his hook, and he knows that you’re not going to accept it.
“What’s your name?” he asks. You roll your eyes.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he says again.
“Do you know why I’m here?” you say.
He hesitates and looks over towards his friends, who grow louder by the millisecond. Their laughter seems grating compared to your quiet threat.
“I might,” he says.
You can tell he’s dabbled before. He’s interested but sounds afraid. He’s not sure how to begin and doesn’t realize that you have to grovel before a Dom considers your bait. Maybe he had a friend who tried a few things on him before, or maybe he has just read an article about the whole sub-culture.
“Sit down. I want to finish my drink, but I don’t want you to talk to me,” you command.
This is your invitation, and he will either be a Good Boy and obey or be a Bad Boy and make things worse for himself later.
“I...uh, let me bring some beers over to my friends.”
The transaction with the bartender after this embarrasses both of you, and you turn away from him to face a jukebox that only plays Billy Joel when not paid to play something else. It’s a nice day for a white wedding. The boy brings glasses of flat, piss yellow beer over to his friends. They lean in to ask about the woman at the bar, and he answers them; you see the whole exchange.
It’s 11:36 pm.
He finishes his beer, and you tire of waiting, you are bored watching his terrible game of pool from the corner of your eye. You know that he’s uncertain and that he isn’t sure whether or not to leave the cozy nest of his best buddies, or follow you out into the darkness. You don’t like to make a move at this stage, but there are two options: either you act, or you can watch him try to sink the final 8-ball for another half hour.
You get up from your barstool, grab your purse of tools, and walk towards the back door of The Whip, which leads to a smoking patio along with a little-known entrance to the alley beside the bar. You don’t make eye contact with him as you pass by, but you know he is putting down his stick and following you to the back.
It’s a warm night and feels like a precursor to a storm. The train passes by on the tracks, which muffles the sound of your target opening the door behind you. You lock eyes.
“You’re a Dom.” he hesitates.
You lead him past stacked chairs and trash cans to the alley. A grim yellow light flickers in the dark space and the effect is unromantic and terrifying. It seems like a place where rats would honeymoon, a tiny corner away from all of the other crawling rats in the city. Your boy looks terrified, but you know that he wants this.
“I’m going to hurt you,” you say. It’s a question of consent. He nods, but it is a small, hesitant little thing. “Lick my boot,” you say.
He pauses, so you slap him across the face. The pain brightens his expression like a Christmas surprise; he’s listening now.
You slap him again before he has time to recover, and he gets down on his knees to lick. While his tongue touches the leather, you pull the back of his shirt up and use your witch nails to tear the fabric of the cheap shirt. The shredding sound echoes in the alley.
“Stay down there, on the ground.”
His skin is a clean canvas, tidy except for the black curls gathered around his lower back. It’s strong and broad and delicious. You pull out your best tool: a 12-plait whip with three tails and hide tips. You’ve named it “Gregory.” Moving the torn shirt aside, you raise your arm and strike a test blow to see how much he can handle.
Not very much, it seems. He screeches obnoxiously and wiggles to the side, to avoid the next blow.
“Obedient boys stay still and take it. Good boys are quiet.” You strike him again, moving him closer towards the wall as he tries to get away. The whip leaves a spray of red spots across his back where the hide tips land. Because you hate to chase boys around, you quickly strike him three more times before he can stand up. His back is crisscrossed with rosy whip kisses now, and you already feel wet and eager between your legs. Even though he has made a show of fussing and running, you can see an erection through his tight jeans. He doesn’t know what he loves yet.
He does so with a great deal of drama, overacting to let you know that his back hurts. You grab him by the shoulders and turn him towards the concrete wall, pressing his nose against it. With one arm holding the back of his neck, you reach around his waist and unbutton and unzip his jeans. Then, you yank them down, so his lovely fat ass is exposed to the night time.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
You push against his back so that he can feel the fabric rub against his marks. “I’m going to fuck you,” you reply. “Until I feel satisfied.”
You run your hand over his ass and travel downwards. He clenches, but you find the asshole. A tricky little thing, small and tight as a virgin. It’s possible that he had never gone this far before, and had never experimented with something as large as the object with which you’re about to plug him. You lean over and spit in your hand, then test him with your index finger. He makes a sound like he’s about to cough, but valiantly stifles it.
Tight, sweet asshole. You love to see a man wriggle with discomfort about the whole thing. They worry about their masculinity, overthink every bit of it. The best ones are the boys who think their ass is a forbidden, terrifying thing. You love to persuade them. It’s like teaching your native tongue.
You reach into your purse and remove a slick red dildo that is covered in ridges. You spit over the entire thing until it shines, and then reach down between his ass cheeks. In it goes.
“Ooof!” he shouts, and you roll your eyes.
You start out slow, watching the red dildo enter him one little bit at a time. But because he is very bad and because you want to teach him a lesson about ignoring a dom’s command, you start to move the toy quicker and quicker. You become cruel as you fuck him, ignoring his whimpers and pressing your left-hand tighter against the back of his neck.
The view is so appetizing that you feel an urge to masturbate. Bad boys never get to finish, but good Doms always do. You loosen your grip on his neck to see if he will move, but he doesn’t budge. You pretend not to see that he’s pressing his hard dick against the wall as a sly way to get off. Your free hand creeps up into your dress and quickly tears a piece of fishnet stockings right above your swollen pussy lips.
One hand wields the dildo, the other works to press hard on your clit. You love that happy sensation between your legs because no one can hit your spot like you can. Both you and the boy are moaning together now, and it’s a sick synchronization. You know it won’t be long until he’s pushed over the edge and cums inside of his jeans.
You hear a voice from the end of the alley. It’s not the first time you’ve heard that before in this exact spot. Bad Boy’s friends have finally located him and are standing in the shadow watching you fuck him. They are lined up like a boy band, jaws open, unmoved, and taking in the whole thing.
They can’t possibly be surprised. It would be like embarking on a whale sighting cruise and being horrified at the sight of a fin. You are tickled that they seem so surprised, and fuck their friend with even more vigor. Look at him. See how badly I’ve humiliated him, reduced your friend. I could do the same to any of you fuckers. I want you to watch me cum.
“Stay where you are,” you whisper to the boy. “I want them to see this.”
The boy tries to protest, but you fuck him harder. You are wetter than you can take, tight and ready to snap with an orgasm. Being watched is the cherry on top of this wonderful alley fuck. You can hear his friends whispering to each other, unsure if they should stop the whole thing or join in.
The red dildo pushes inside and sucks outside of his tight, fresh little asshole. For a short second, there is no alleyway, no train, no friends: just you and your Bad Boy. You feel your cum rolling forward like an enormous wave and then erupt onto your aching hand that has been working hard to spin around the clit. You don’t allow the voyeurs or the boy the pleasure of a sound.
Bad boys aren’t allowed happiness. If you don’t follow the rules, you don’t get to play. You are benched, used, and left unsatisfied.
Before you allow him the privilege to cum in his pants, the dildo is yanked out. He shudders all over, shame-faced and unfinished in front of his friends. You throw the toy back into your purse and walk away from him, headed out towards the street opposite of the group. The click of your heels echoes from every little corner in the alley. The boys are riotous, calling for you, begging to be kissed by your red toy. You turn the corner and leave them unhappy in the darkness, their only company a screeching train.
Bad boys don’t get to finish.