How the serving boy gave me his virginity
He had shown up to transport me from the airport disheveled. I didn’t expect the wrinkled pink shirt, not with the way he could barely raise his eyes to mine. You would think he would be standing at attention in formal attire- that was my rapidly disappearing delusion. So now everything was in question. His hair, black and glossy in the photos, was lank. But it turned out to be merely an unforeseen trifle. It could have been worse. As it was, he simply was a too-smart, but socially awkward, sweet natured, high caste young man who no longer lived at home with his family. I shouldn’t have been so surprised at what seemed to be the contradictions. Some one else must have seen to his physical needs in the past and he had not quite made the transition yet. But then, if so, how was he to take care of my requirements?
My requirements are not that hard to meet, and I am fairly indulgent at helping a prospective servant rise to the task- IF I like him. A presentable man must have these qualities: He can think (and mostly spell correctly) and he has more than a passing awareness of world and India’s history. He cares enough about women that he knows something of the difficulties that they can face in a “man’s world”. I don’t need a man to espouse the superiority of women- such extremes only make a mockery of the slow trajectory towards some real-world equality. For me, the Fem-domme role is not just playacting toward orgasm, but more like mixing pleasure with business- and changing “business as usual” to something that suits me better. So by the time I get through the initial screening I’ve decided that a man is not going to end up being another of the world’s surplus of narcissistic boy-men, and what’s more, that he’s literate and respectful, good mannered and clean. At that point I’m fairly relaxed about meeting him. Other requirements emerge in order to engage further and more intimately. Is he capable of sustained periods of stillness and silence with head bowed and yet alert? Does he respond to instruction and command? Is his hand still with the tray, eyes lowered to his task? My very favorite servants are immediately responsive and, with training, eventually able to anticipate the next requirements of their job.
Well… maybe my requirements are hard to meet, but in any case, we had discussed them, had written them down, signed things, and committed to certain conditions. I had not thought I would have to say iron your clothes.
When we were alone in the back of the taxi I took hold of his collar briefly, gave it a tug. I murmured, “I expect clean and ironed clothing, hair cared for, posture erect.” He reddened. “Yes, ma’am.” And that was that, he was ship-shape from then on.
He had initially offered his services as a non-sexual servant. I wasn’t sure whether that was his preference, or if it was for the purposes of reassuring me, and I didn’t care to be reassured. However, his consent was preferred and not merely mandatory. “I know myself. I might decide make you my sex toy. How would you feel about that?” a long silence was followed by a brief nod. I wasn’t quite convinced, and I was curious. “Are you a virgin?” Another brief nod. Hmm. “Would it be bad if I used you as my sex toy?” his head shook, distinctly different from the nod. Good enough for now. I figured we’d come back to that discussion later, if it could be called a discussion.
The fact that it wasn’t much of a discussion was actually fine with me. This was a free adult man, capable of getting up (from his kneeing position) and leaving my presence at any time. The fact that I was looking for verbal consent to seduce him was not even so much about ethics as it was about teasing myself, playing with the scenario, thinking out loud. If he didn’t like it, he could say so or he could go- but what did I want? I had to think about it…
It took me several days. I wasn’t sure. Was it worth it to have sex with him? Would it transform him into a swaggering jerk? Would it physically work out? Was I even feeling sexy toward him? Sort of… He was good looking, and he was smart. He was too young for me (not really a problem- he was several years more than legal). His shirts were now ironed and his hair gleaming- reassuring after my initial consternation. He was a good dishwasher, and an ashtray, and a sweet and considerate guide around the city. He could make a perfect cup of tea, carry on his end of conversation about music, was quite entertaining and he loved dogs. However, the things he most excelled at were the long massages. Oh, the hours we spent, he working up a sweat, while I turned into putty and groaned beneath his hands… In this, he truly exceeded expectations.
I think it took me the better part of two weeks to decide how it was to be done. I like a certain way of going about things. One can’t just bumble. Here was a man, agreeing to act as my servant with no request or requirement of sexual favor. And here was I, training him for my future use and for the use of others. I was benefitting from his service, giving him training, enjoying things just the way they were. So why fuck it up?
Because. I decided I wanted him. Because he was there, because he was lovely to behold. And for really no good reason, except for my own pleasure, desire and curiosity. Even so, pleasure and desire weren’t consuming or controlling me. Simply, the possibility was there and I had decided to take it. Like tasting something that looks and smells good when you are not hungry.
I went through the things I had brought with me, tokens that could mean different things: a ring, a shell a marble, an ancient coin, charms cast of gold, stones of varying hues and cuts. I had brought several silk and cotton scarves, easy to tie into blindfolds or to bind limbs when needed. In the market, I had found rose water and almond oil. I thought a great deal about what I would say, how it might unfold. Thought about his responses, his downcast eyes, the way he can’t speak when he was nervous. I lay around in bed, stopped short on the street, held my fork halfway to my mouth thinking about how I would undress him, how he would avert his gaze as I came near.
I had already kissed his lips, maybe it was on the second day- and he had held perfectly still. He neither joined nor leaned in towards me, nor pulled away. At first I found it odd, so used to men being barely able to restrain themselves even when I commanded them to. I found it pleasant, this neutral posture of his, my new servant. It lent an air that I was doing something not quite legal, not quite proper, on the verge of taking advantage… I found it arousing, and it allowed me to smell him. To smell his neck and hair and his armpit, his chest and the side of his face. I was able to follow my own subtle whims without having to stave off his urgent needs. Whatever his needs were, whatever his desires, they were eclipsed from me like a dark moon. I smelt him and buried my face in his hair, listened as he almost held his breath.
And so my sensory memory of the kiss that was not rejected, yet also not returned, mixed with his smell, on February breeze through the Delhi night. The mixture set up a flicker in me, a long wick sizzling slowly toward gunpowder. That slow burn was foreplay, and it occurred where all really good foreplay takes place- in my brain. Think what you will of the clitoris, man, but if your image reflects inside the living skull of a woman- that is where your stimulation reaches her and makes her melt in desire.
Once the wick of all the imagining and remembering burned down and came close to my core, I began to set things into motion. I instructed him to come an hour before evening meal, freshly bathed, with his hair just damp. A folded white cotton robe lay on my bed atop the coverlet. I motioned to it and guided him into the side room to change. “Go in the other room and remove all your clothing, fold it and put on this robe.” I touched his lips with my hand to signal that I did not want talking. “I will explain everything and I ask you questions and I will give you a chance to ask me questions. Do you understand?” The quick nod. “Do you agree?” Another quick nod, and he was biting his lip… he was biting his lip where I would soon be biting it.
He entered the bedroom and stood to the side of the bed, unmoving. His eyes were trained on the floor and one foot squirmed in the nap of the carpet while most of his weight rested on the other. This gave his upright posture a slight wavery aspect, as a distant landscape seen through heat. I put one hand on his arm as if to steady him.
“Kneel.” He knelt. I smoothed my own robe over my lap as I sat on the edge of the bed in front of him. “Look at me.” His eyes flickered up and then immediately away again. “Look. At. Me.” But I could see it was hard for him and it wasn’t really what I needed either. “Okay, Look at this instead.” I took his hands and shaped them into a cup between us. His gaze didn’t waver. Now I began to explain.
“I’m going to show you some objects. They will stand for, or symbolize, different things that we can do, you will do, or that I will do to you. I will explain each one. I’m going to take them out of the box one at a time and tell you what they are. Over here is a little bowl. If you like what the object stands for, put it in the bowl. If you are not ready, put it back in the box. If you forget what something stands for, show it to me and I will tell you again. Do you understand? Do you agree?” He nodded assent, but no trace of pleasure or foreboding crossed his face. The only changes, if any, were that his eyes were perhaps a millimeter wider, and his breath a millisecond slower. Or perhaps I imagined it.
Under other circumstances, I might have preferred to see a flush, or a flicker to match my own, but this was another person and situation entirely. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t lust, and it wasn’t the hopeful union of future family. It was an agreed upon exchange of power, and that for me was its own aphrodisiac.
I took out a green marble, “This means you can massage my back.” I put it into his hand. He put it into the bowl and looked up at me.
“No. Wait. I want you to think about it. Each one. I want you to take a little time to think about each one before you put it in the box or bowl. Why don’t you put them on the bed while you think about them?”
“This ribbon means I can kiss you, and you can kiss me back.” He bit his lip. And put it on the bed. A polished red stone, “this means we will use our tongues”
The shell meant I would bite him, lightly at first- but he could not bite me.
A coin meant I would take off his robe
A gold charm of a teapot meant I would touch his penis
Other objects, one by one, from the box meant…
… I would sprinkle rosewater on his body
… I would take off my robe
… He would touch my breasts
… He would kiss my breasts
… I would put a blindfold on him
… I would tie his hands together
… We would lay naked on the bed
The last object, a little bell, meant we would have intercourse. I rang it and laughed. He swallowed, and held the bell in his hands for a moment before placing it on the bed with the other items.
“Now I will give you some time to think about each thing. You can put any, none or all into the bowl or the box. Do you have any questions? Now is the time to ask.” He shook his head.
I stood and moved to the side and away from him. He was left, kneeling in front of the objects, which were laid out in a row on the gold coverlet. The little brown box was on his left and the turquoise ceramic bowl lay empty toward his right. I turned away to prepare the scarves, the rosewater, the condoms… just in case.
The sound I heard next was a sharp clink followed by the sound of the marble, rolling in an ellipse around the bowl. It was the token for a massage. I keep my back turned toward him and smiled to myself, smoothing a silk scarf through my fingers.
Another clink. I fought curiosity and did not turn to look.
And then another another another another…
in rapid succession, objects promising amorous acts clinked into the bowl.
And finally, the high tinkle of the little bell rang out followed by the rustle of his robe. I turned around in time to see him stand and drop it into the bowl on top of the other things. He raised his eyes to mine briefly, and dropped them once again to the floor.
He failed at suppressing a small smile.
And I smiled too, and bit my lip, unable to speak.
[This is where the telling of this story ends]
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