13 Şubat 2021

Fantasy Dom Ch. 03: The Manhattan Challenge


She sat in a spot to which I was unaccustomed – as a patron at her own bar. I stood behind the counter, her usual post, studying her with nervous anticipation as she assessed with a critical eye what I considered my masterful concoction – two icy cold Manhattans – up.

The color of the libations was perfect, a burnt orange amber. The glasses, traditional, conically shaped cocktail glassware with long stems, were filled to within a half-inch of the rim. The exterior of the glasses exuded an icy sweat. An Italian maraschino cherry nestled itself at the bottom of each cocktail along with an orange peel, both completely submerged. I was genuinely nervous about the unfolding experiment and much anticipated challenge.

I’d proffered the challenge a couple months previously (I couldn’t recall exactly when) via e-mail. I’d been diligent in keeping in touch with her, Theresa, my cherished Fantasy Dom. The evolution of our relationship inspired my fawning communications. With each message I’d send her way, I’d recall the first time we’d really crossed from the realm of fantasy into the territory of Femdom/slave. She manipulated me into a date with a hair brush on my bottom. I remembered with even more excitement our next liaison, during which I’d knelt before her, blindfolded and wrist-bound, my face buried obediently between her thighs, worshiping her in oral servitude. I relived those exotic episodes in my mind as I sent her tributes, poems and silly cartoons that I hoped expressed my admiration – my infatuation – my devotion to my Fantasy Dom, and occasional Real Dom.

It was in that context that I’d extended to her a playful challenge, one that occurred to me as I sought to perfect the mixing of a perfect Manhattan cocktail. My Fantasy Dom and I both fancied ourselves capable bartenders and we both enjoyed treating the other to the most delightful alcoholic concoctions. After creating a particularly delicious cocktail for myself one evening, I wrote to her:

“I’ve been practicing and, masterful bartender that you are, I think I can create a Manhattan that will rival yours. I’ll bet you that when you partake of it, you’ll admit it; that mine is superior. In fact, it will put yours to shame. I will bury you!”

Those were strong words, a brave and boastful claim I sent her way. But I was slightly inebriated, feeling playful and confident. And maybe just a bit cocky. I hoped not too cocky.

The challenge languished for some time, lingering unacknowledged, in digital limbo. Then one day I received a phone call from my friend Thomas, her husband, asking if I’d be available and interested in filling in for him in a golf tournament at their country club. Turns out Thomas had some unexpected business in the city and was unavailable for his golf commitment. Fees were already paid, and the group just needed a replacement to round out the foursome.

It was not that unusual a request. I’d played golf with the mister many times on their course (their lovely home stood adjacent to one of the holes) and I’d even played before with a couple of the guys in the group. Thomas also conveyed an invitation from the Missus, Theresa, my Fantasy Dom, that she and I have dinner at the club after the tournament. That really caught my attention. The thought of my Fantasy Dom’s company in any situation was arousing. Dinner sounded splendid. Lustful scenes of additional extra curricular activity raced through my thoughts. It never occurred to me that the opportunity might be associated with the Manhattan challenge.

I promptly checked with my wife, Marcy. While she was most always generous with my requests to go golfing, she seemed almost overly eager for me to accept this invitation. “Absolutely,” she said, “Go early, stay late and have a blast. I know you’ll have a great time!” she encouraged.

I got back with Thomas and accepted the invitation. And then, to my delight, I subsequently received a confidential e-mail from my Fantasy Dom. It read:

Minion – When you visit for the golf tournament, bring your best bartending skills as well as your preferred ingredients for a Manhattan cocktail. I intend to pass judgment on your boasting. For superlative performance there’ll be a reward. There’ll be punishment for hubris. You’re forewarned.

Wow! She appeared all in on this, more than I could have dreamed. Her warning made me a tad nervous, but I was very much looking forward to the golf. And I was intoxicated by the Manhattan challenge.

I much anticipated the date and was thoroughly juiced when it finally arrived. I drove the forty miles to the country club and met my playing partners on the driving range. We teed off on the 15th hole in a shotgun start. I savored the grandeur of the pine forest, scrub oak and red rock formations. I joined in the camaraderie, joking and cheering within the group. I felt good about a few of my shots that were timely contributions to the contest. And, of course, I cursed the slippery greens.

Afterward casino şirketleri a round of beers and a brief congratulatory ceremony (my team was nowhere near placing in the top three), I drove to my Fantasy Dom’s home, a short distance away, nestled next to one of the golf course’s fairways. I knocked on the side door (privileged entrance) and she answered. She didn’t hesitate to place her arms around my neck and give me a slightly wet and not-so-innocent kiss on the lips. It lingered. It was delicious. It was stirring. I wanted it to last longer but she broke it off and suggested I shower and prepare for dinner.

I cleaned up quickly and then, as I was killing some time before our departure, I seized the initiative and took four long-stemmed cocktail glasses from the bar shelf and placed them gently into their freezer in the adjacent room. I figured I’d need them later. Just as I finished the task she entered the room and approached. She looked like she had taken a little extra care with some makeup and a flattering outfit. I complimented her but stopped short of revealing to her that I was captivated by her allure. I was putty in her hands and was pretty sure she knew it.

“Let’s go,” she announced. “And game’s on,” she remarked with her own cool poker face. “Manhattans when we return, after dinner. You and me. At the bar,” she declared with a taunting edge to her voice. It was vaguely reminiscent of a desperado throwing down the gauntlet to the town sheriff in an old Western. “You and me…on main street…at sundown.”

When we reached the car, she stood at the passenger door, obviously expecting that I’d open and close it for her. I obliged eagerly. There was no mention of the Manhattan challenge on the short drive to the club. She was flirty, poking my shoulder and then squeezing my bicep affectionately while we conversed. I marveled at her devilish feminine intuition, knowing so well how to be coy and seductive. Of course, the kinky nature of the situation occurred to me as well. She was a married woman. I was a married man. She just happened to be a married woman who possessed a tincture (or two) of tantalizing naughtiness, who had begun to explore some Femdom games with me. And I just happened to be a married man with an uncontrollable fetish to be subbed by a dominant female, especially by the one in my present company.

Upon being seated at the restaurant, she took charge immediately. She ordered for me without asking my preferences. (“The gentleman will have the salmon,” I recall she said.) It was a fine dinner, with solicitous service, fine presentation and satisfying food. During the meal she continued some light flirtations…a private wink, a secret pursing of lips, a brushing of knees under the table and the bestowment of one particular furtive touch on my upper thigh. She knew me well and was keenly aware that I found quite stirring her clandestine coquetry. And it was not so unusual. Hell, she’d teased me and touched me many times even while in her husband’s presence, a practice I found most daring. And thrilling.

After dinner we hopped into my vehicle. Again, she waited at the door for a respectful attendant and I obliged. On the brief return drive home she continued to tease me gently, with soft, innocent touches that accompanied her animated conversation.

When we arrived home, she spoke of the challenge as I waited for her to exit the vehicle. “Better get downstairs and set up the bar. You’ll have to back up your bragging. The perfect Manhattan,” she exclaimed with an almost sarcastic edge. She paused. “If I recall, you wanted to bet me that I’d prefer yours to my own. Something about burying me. We’ll find out.”

I had brought my own ingredients – some Maker’s Mark bourbon, Dolin Rouge sweet vermouth, some Italian maraschino cherries, a clementine orange, Peychaud’s Aromatic Cocktail Bitters and some handcrafted simple syrup. I brought them in from the car and set them up at the bar. I glanced in the freezer to reassure myself that the cocktail glasses were chilled and ready to go. I organized my tools. Stainless steel shaker. Swizzle spoon stirrer. Shot glass. Sharp knife. Wet bar towel. I was ready as I could be.

I stood behind the bar and waited. A good five minutes I waited, with inexplicably nervous anticipation. She finally showed up, sauntering in with a swagger of confidence, self-assurance and that take-charge aura I found so irresistible. I acknowledged to myself that she knew how to play me like a virtuoso violinist masters her fiddle.

She snuggled into a barstool across from me, as a patron at her own bar. I so wanted to impress her. I so wanted her to acknowledge that I’d risen to the challenge and created a Manhattan that rivalled her own. And I fantasized about a possible reward. What, oh what might it be?

I decided to make two drinks at once. I knew she’d be watching carefully. Right off, I realized that a professional bartender would pour and not measure. I wasn’t casino firmaları that confident. So, I measured (hoping she wouldn’t be overly critical of his amateurism) four shots of bourbon, just under two shots of sweet vermouth and six healthy dashes of bitters into the shaker. I added just a tiny splash of simple syrup, just enough to register on the taste buds and a quick squeeze of fresh orange. I added ice to the concoction. Lots of ice. And I began to agitate it with the swizzle spoon. I stirred and stirred, for a good 45 seconds and then let the shaker rest. I retrieved two of the frozen cocktail glasses and placed them carefully on the bar. Their exposure to the air turned them attractively frosty. I held a strainer tightly atop the shaker and poured two Manhattans, hoping she’d think they were as exquisite as I did. After pouring, I delicately placed an Italian maraschino cherry and peel of orange into each drink.

I stood behind the counter, studying her with uneasy expectancy as she assessed with a critical eye what I considered my masterful concoctions. There they were. Two icy cold Manhattans – up. The color was perfect, a burnt orange amber. The cocktail glasses were filled to within a half-inch of the rim and exuded an icy sweat. An Italian maraschino cherry and orange peel nestled in the bottom of each cocktail, completely submerged. Here it was. The moment of truth. The Manhattan experiment was at hand.

“Dirty ice,” she ordered, before even touching the glass.

It took me a second to realize that she wanted access to the ice cubes in which I’d been stirring the booze. She pointed to the shaker with her index finger and repeated, “Dirty ice…three cubes.”

I carefully probed the shaker with my swizzle spoon and began transferring three half-melted cubes of ice, coated with the bourbon, vermouth, bitters and light sugary residue. I placed them oh so carefully into her cocktail. There was no splash. It was the gentlest addition to a cocktail imaginable. I hoped I’d earn points for some professionalism.

She scrutinized me as carefully as she studied the drink. She was intentional, I perceived, in making me more nervous. She lifted the chalice by the glass stem, held it to the light, squinted through the amber liquid and then took a long sip. She pursed her lips and engaged her full palate with exaggerated savoring. She appeared as serious as a vintner at a high stakes wine tasting.

She showed no immediate reaction. It was as though she had drunk or tasted nothing. A real poker face. She stared at me. Then she stared at the cocktail. She took another long sip. Then she kept nipping at it but said not a word. I, bamboozled by her austere persona as I was, remained respectfully silent. I matched her sip for sip, long draw for long draw. She exuded serious deliberation and created a palpable silence. She’d drunk half of her libation within a few minutes and then passed verdict.

“You deserve a reward for a great Manhattan. It is elegant. Delicious. Just the right combination of complementary flavors. It’s truly a masterpiece. My compliments.” She quaffed another mouthful, greedily this time, leaving but about a third of the cocktail in the glass. “A reward, indeed, as promised.”

“But…” she continued in a disapproving tone. “You deserve a punishment for the maraschino cherry. I’ve told you in the past that I don’t like maraschino cherries.” Indeed, she had. On more than one past occasion. But I figured it was simply a required garnish in a Manhattan up. Oops!

She sipped again, leaving about a quarter of the libation in the glass.

“And,” she continued, “You deserve a punishment for soliciting a bet from me. If I recall, you bet that I’d defer to your superior libation. I don’t bet. You know I don’t bet. Don’t ever try to get me to bet again! You deserve another punishment for that!” Again, I silently acknowledged her criticism. We’d visited Las Vegas as couples and she was completely uninterested in gambling – wouldn’t stick a single quarter in a slot. Moreover, she’d expressed her distaste for gambling. I realized that my choice of words (“I’ll bet you…”) was unfortunate.

She drained the rest of her Manhattan.

“AND,” she emphasized, her tone growing ever more stern, “You deserve a punishment for arrogance. You told me that you’d outdo me in a Manhattan mixing contest. In kind of a snotty way, I might add. As though bartending is a zero-sum game of one-upmanship. ‘I’ll bury you’ I think you said. Really? A challenge like that from a minion? You should know better,” she scolded. “Shame on you!”

She let a long moment lapse and conjured up a stern glare directly into my eyes before she continued. I was unsure if she was feigning a steely comportment or if it was genuine. I really didn’t know. She looked so serious. Her tone grew even more assertive.

“Do the math,” she instructed. “One positive plus three negatives. That equals…what?”

“Two negatives,” I answered güvenilir casino honestly.

“Correct,” she responded. “Or, three punishments minus one reward equals two punishments…no rewards.” She paused but a moment before ordering, “Make us another round.”

Though my interest was thoroughly piqued by her assertive behavior, I put it aside as best I could and went about my business, trying to match the diligence I’d displayed in preparing the first go-round. Having kept up with her drinking pace, I was feeling delightfully giddy and assumed she was too. As I concentrated on my preparations, she seemed to be lost in thought, contemplating something.

“You okay?” I asked, stirring the new batch with loving attention.

“I sure am,” she answered, pulling herself back into the present. “I’m just making up my mind.” She paused again. “I’m deciding how to dispense justice,” she explained, much as a real judge might issue a sentence to a convicted defendant in a courtroom.

Taken aback and with my temperature rising, I fetched the two fresh, frozen glasses. I poured the libation. I did not add a maraschino cherry. I did drop three cubes of “dirty ice” into her cocktail. She took a long draw.

“Mmmm,” she purred in appreciation. “And I’m wondering,” she continued, savoring the Manhattan’s residue on her lips with a diabolically salacious slow lick. “Should there be two separate punishments? Or should they be integrated into one?”

I took a generous slug to of my cocktail to mask my autonomic response of a flushing face. I was too tongue-tied to respond; a tad too tipsy to think of something witty. I felt utterly at her mercy. I thought to myself, “I bet she’s got me right where she wants me.”

Her slightly cocked head, mischievous grin, squinted eye and raised brow suggested as much. Her next command confirmed his internal wager. “Get out from behind that bar. Come here,” she ordered, beckoning me also with her index finger.

“Get naked. Now!” she demanded.

To say I was taken aback by her directive understates the rush I felt throughout my body. I spoke not a word but hesitated a second too long.

“I said, get over here and take off your fucking clothes, slave!”

That got my attention. I complied with alacrity.

“Take off your glasses too,” she said, as I stripped off my underwear self-consciously. And, as I set my glasses aside, I thought to myself that she well knew that the world gets awfully fuzzy for me without my spectacles.

“Learning position,” she said. I wasn’t sure what that meant. She recognized my ignorance and so described it for me, with a hint of exasperation. “Stand tall.” She awaited my compliance. “Shoulders back.” Again, she waited. “Chin down. Look straight ahead.” It was like a checklist. “Feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind your back.”

I had assumed the learning position. And with that, she slapped me on the side of my face.

“I’ve decided. Two separate punishments. A little chastising first.” And she slapped me again, probably not as hard as she could but firmly enough to get my attention. A half a dozen times she smacked the palm of her hand against my cheek. Then she pointed to the ottoman a few steps away.

“Take the belt out of your pants and give it to me. And bend over that ottoman.” I did as she instructed, pretty sure of what was about to happen. I lay across the ottoman as she doubled the belt on itself. Whack! She unleashed it on my bare bottom. It definitely smarted. Whack! She did it again. I lost track of how many times the belt snapped my bum. Perhaps a dozen. And then there was a particularly wicked flurry of wallops with special emphasis, as if to show me how merciful she’d been with the previous blows.

“That’s punishment number one,” she explained. “Now back in the learning position.” I tried to recall all of her instructions. I stood in my previous spot, shoulders back. I stared straight ahead. Feet apart, hands clasped behind my back.

She scooted the ottoman in front of me and sat. Her head was just above waist high, directly in front of my abdomen. She reached for and sipped at her cocktail, set it down and then reached her hand in between my legs. She encircled my testicles with her fingers and rubbed gently.

“Do you know what blue balls are?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied honestly.

“Tell me,” she encouraged.

“Well…” I thought carefully, “It’s when a guy gets super excited and is thinking he’s going to cum but then, for whatever reason, he doesn’t. And then his balls ache from the…” I searched again for the right words, “…from being taken to the edge of ejaculating and then…denied.”

“Very good! You know exactly what blue balls are. And that’s going to be your second punishment tonight. I’m going to tease you. I’m going to tease the hell out of you. But I’m not going to let you cum. Have you ever had blue balls?”

“Yeah. But it’s been a while. High school I suppose. Making out with Sarah Bevins for a really long time. We both had roaming hands. But that’s as far as we got. I remember going home and feeling this ache in my balls. But, like I said, it’s been a long time.”

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