A growl slides into my ear on a hot breath as a man yanks me by the hair, dragging me to some hidden corner. Lights blur at the edge of my vision as we walk away from the busy hubbub of London’s Leicester Square. This man wants my panties, and although I have just met him, I know he’s not the type of man you talk back to. 

Three Hours Earlier 

“I won’t be back late. It’s just a dinner,” I said to my husband before I leaned past his skeptical look and kissed him goodbye. 

The air was cool, and the medieval streetlights were whimsical as I walked toward the underground station with the thumping of adventure in my veins.

Down in the belly of the city, where mazelike tunnels twist and cross endlessly, tube passengers entered and exited as I rode the Piccadilly line into the heart of London’s West End. My skirt was tight, and this wasn’t the first tryst my red trench coat had been on. In Chinatown, I waited against the corner of a brick building near the restaurant where my date had a reservation.

I had agreed to meet Master Jean Charles, as I call him, during a trip to London I took last year. Our conversation had started months earlier when he slid into my DMs in full roleplay, riffing off a story I had just written. He was creative, arrogant, and demanding, and it captured my attention right away. What’s a girl to do… trapped in the crosshairs of a man like that? Over the months, our banter had settled into a full on sub/Dom conversation. 

He looked just as he had in our video chats, only this time in full form, walking toward me in a long black wool coat. We both smiled. The popular Malaysian restaurant was humming with energy and chatter when we walked in. 

Master Jean Charles is married, so this rendezvous was intended as nothing more than a moment for conversation, a way to satisfy our mutual curiosity. He asked about my dating life as a married woman in an open relationship, and I asked about his marriage and caged BDSM side. 

After dinner, we left the restaurant for a stroll. He pointed out various historic buildings and places I should visit, entertaining me with history and insider knowledge of the area. Master Jean Charles is an intellectual man with a quick wit and a powerful mind. He was the first to teach me the word sapiosexual and point out that I am indeed one. 

Given the boundaries, I kept my flirtatious energy mostly in check, but the occasional coy smile, jabbing tease, and naughty story did slip out. It’s not easy to deny your own nature, especially in the face of such palpable tension.

“I saw the picture you posted earlier,” Master Jean Charles said in reference to a mostly nude photo I had posted on my website the day before. 

“I thought of bringing you those peachy floral print panties — as a sort of gift.” 

“Thought of?” He stared at me with a disapproving look only a naturally gifted Dom could muster with ease.

“I like those panties.” I protested lightly while poking his abs with a couple of my fingers. 

~

And there on that sidewalk with the thickening attraction, the night changed. The balance shifted from a casual meeting to the role play that had been simmering under the surface all evening. 

“Feel me,” he commanded, pulling me close to his strong chest and directing my hand toward the hard bulge in his pants. My fingers grazed over it briefly before pulling back. 

“There are so many people here.” 

“Nobody is looking. Do it,” he ordered, and so I leaned into him as my hand slid down in front to caress the arousal my many teases had created. His scent claimed my senses, an intoxicating blend of smooth cocoa butter and forbidden spices. The hubbub continued around us as our physical selves made this first connection, this first small release after months of building tensions. 

“You could have the panties I’m wearing, Master Jean Charles,” I whispered into his ear. 

And this brings us to our opening line, me being pushed through the streets of London by a fistful of my hair. 

— 

Once the idea had been spoken and accepted, the game was on. Master Jean Charles reached up with a strong hand and grabbed my hair on the back of my head. Then, he pushed me out of Leicester Square, through a street of stopped traffic, and away from the crowd. All the while, his mouth, warm and hissing notes of dominance, stayed near my ear. 

Adrenaline pumped through my veins, a cocktail of excitement, arousal, and danger. All the well-meaning warnings I’d ever been told were ringing in my head, insisting that at any moment, things could turn from playful to murderous. But confident in my own judgment, I kept the fear in check while I enjoyed the intoxication of the moment. 

As we walked, people thinned and the lights became less blinding. We came to a large building with some construction fencing. Next to one side was a small wooden shed on raised legs. Master Jean Charles pushed me over to stand behind it.  

It was a dim spot, lit only by light coming from other places. The moment we were tucked away, he pushed me against the shed wall by a hand pressed to my throat. His other hand greedily explored the curves of my body, an animal appetite ripped free from restraint. Master Charles is dominant in the fullest sense of the word. 

I gave no resistance, though a sly smile tugged at my lips at the duplicity of the moment. I might have been submitting, but my seduction had fueled the charge, and I felt in control. I was doing exactly what smart, good girls aren’t supposed to do, and it was exactly what I wanted to do. The edge of danger and rebellion added to the intensity of the moment.

In physical form, he was more than an accent and cheeky smile — the strength of his hands, the humid brush of his breath across my skin, the solid weight of him against me — all of it awakened and claimed the submissive part of me he seemed to know so well. 

“Give me your panties,” he commanded after removing his hand from my throat. I made a show of teasing him with my eyes while I slowly slid the soft fabric away from my wet pussy. 

I had imagined that perhaps he would take them, run a finger across the lacey edge — heck, maybe even smell them. Instead, he taught me what submitting to a Dom means.

Once my panties were in his hand, Master Jean Charles pressed me immediately back against the shed. He let out a low growl, brought them up, and stuffed them into my mouth. Then, he put a hand to my throat once again. His grip on me was strong, almost too strong. Adrenaline raced through my veins as the heat of his fingers pressed into the rapid pulsing of my carotid artery. 

I brought my own hand up to place counterpressure on his wrist — an unspoken signal. My message was instantly received, and he lessened the pressure, reminding me that yes, I was safe to enjoy this moment. Enjoy it, I most certainly did. 

His other hand explored me, this time finding its way beneath my shirt to grab my breasts and pinch my nipples. Our breaths expanded and contracted as we shared this strange, unexpected moment of yet restrained passion. 

Master Jean Charles spun me around and pressed my chest to the shed, panties still in my mouth. He reached under my skirt and ran his hand across the curve of my ass. He leaned in, pressing weight on me as his fingers slid between my soaked pussy lips. After months of erotic conversations, intellectual exchanges, erotica, and nudes on my website, he could feel what he had long desired — the warmth and wet of me — the feel of my flesh parting on the sensitive pads of his fingers as he finally entered me. His speed was fast and hard, desirous. 

He pulled his fingers out of me and smeared them across my lips as he removed the panties from my mouth. His hard body was pressing into me from behind, his lips only inches from me. “Who owns you?” The demanding growl entered my ear on a humid breath. 

“You do, Master Jean Charles,” I whispered back to him. 

He turned me around with intensity. Looking directly into my eyes, he forced his fingers deep into my willing mouth. He moved them around to paint me with myself, my own acidic salts teasing my tongue. The act was the punctuation mark to his question. 

“Kneel down and kiss my cock through my pants,” he directed. He watched with predatory eyes as I submitted to his request. My lips felt his arousal through the fabric of his trousers, felt the strength of his desirous cock. There were boundaries we had already blurred, so this night would not end as one might expect. I never learned the taste of his lips or of his cock, but I learned the feel of his hand on my throat, an imprint of power and of surrendering to it that I still crave. 

After I had completed his order, I leaned back and brought my legs into a wide squatting position. My skirt was hiked up, leaving him a full view of the beauty between my thighs. He stood looking down at me, at my long legs, at my pussy, and my face.

“You like this, don’t you?” He stated more than asked in reference to the tease, to the seduction, and to my enjoyment of it. I stood up. 

“You know I do.”

“Good girl,” he said, taking a new grip on my hair. As my head tipped back, my throat was exposed to the cool night sky. Fingers once again gripped around my neck as he drew close to me. 

“I want you to watch me wank,” he said as he pulled his hard cock free from his pants, exposing his well-above-average flesh to my eyes for the first time. 

His hand stayed firmly on my neck while his other stroked the length of his shaft with the same intense fervor with which he had fingered me. 

Light and shadow danced, people chattered as they walked nearby, and after a few moments, his cum shot out. It splattered onto the ground next to the shed, next to what I later discovered was St. James Piccadilly, an Anglican church in the heart of central London. 

Master Jean Charles released my throat, the night air still humming between us. He put his cock back into his pants and straightened his clothes. He walked me back to the Underground as casually as we had eaten dinner, and I rode the train home with the type of smile that can only blossom on the lips of a daring woman.