The Broker: A Breaking-in Story, part 4

mollyinthemirror.jpgNow you might like to know that typically in BDSM scenes I much more often bottom than top, but there is nothing that brings out the top in me more than a cocky young man who is beautiful and knows it. That is exactly what I saw in Jay on the train this morning, and from that first moment I knew that I would take him. Now I have him here and I am aching, myself, with the impatient desire to rain down all my dominant energy on him at once. But of course that will not do. No. Measured restraint is the order of the morning.

I am not the type of top who likes to physically struggle with my victim until he is ready to submit. I like to play with his mind so that he begins to ask for the things that he would not otherwise have admitted to wanting.

I issue my first real commend to Jay. “Undress me. Slowly.”

He stands before me and looks into my eyes and then he leans to kiss me, and while this does not quite follow my instruction, I allow it because his lips are so soft and warm and his kiss is so firm, and because it is only a small kiss. But it reminds me that he is a man who knows what he wants and who is used to getting it. I will need to be careful with him.

His hands pull my shirt from my jeans and glide up my sides. Had I been planning this meeting I would have worn something with buttons and zippers, and I am impressed as he carefully, gracefully, pulls my turtleneck over my head exposing the black leather corset. I love this corset, and the matte leather shows that it has been well worn but well cared for. Jay steps back a moment to look, and I imagine what he sees: long dark auburn hair spilling over pale shoulders, small, pert breasts pushed up by framing of the corset, which disappears into the waistline of my jeans. It is to the button of those jeans that his hands now return.

I try to size him up a bit. He is being very methodical, and not at all hesitant. If he is waging some internal struggle between his desire to pull me in to him and take control on the one hand, and his desire to find out exactly what I can give him if he cooperates, he is not showing it yet. His fingers slide along the inside of the waistband of my jeans until the reach the button which he grasps and opens without breaking eye contact. For a brief moment I am the one who struggles. I struggle with a sudden urge to give myself over to the force of his masterful, self-composed strength. But that moment slips past without being noticed. I allow myself a small smirk as I feel the button pop free of the hole and I watch as his eyes drop and he lowers himself to his knees and slides my jeans off my hips.

He pulls the wide legs over my knee-high leather boots as gracefully as he removed my turtleneck, and I step easily out of them. I can see has some skill at undressing women. His face is just inches from my exposed cunt, framed by corset and garters and stockings, and now, for the first time, he begins to give in to his own lust. He lets himself lean forward and takes a deep breath and comes dangerously close to brushing his lips against my body when I grab his hair and pull his head back so that he is suddenly looking up at me.


Fingers still grasping his hair, which is almost too short and gelled to get a good grip on, I lower myself to his level, sitting on my heels. “No, Jay. I told you only to undress me. It is very important that you follow instructions exactly.” I am talking to him almost as if he is a child, a soft-yet-scolding tone. “If you don’t, we will have to stop. Do you understand?”

His eyes drop a moment. Now he is struggling. He seems to be embarrassed at being told no, and feeling the first strains of real discomfort with not being in charge. A blush creeps up his neck and darkens his face and it takes him a moment to answer.

But answer he does, and when he looks up and meets my eyes again it is with a clear strong voice that he says, “Yes, Molly. I understand.”

“All right then,” I say quietly as I stand. A tug on his hair signals him to stand as well. I begin to unbutton his dress shirt. “David, please hand me those cuffs there, will you?” I point to a set of leather cuffs draped over the bench. He does this with a look of solemnity that would have made me laugh if it weren’t so sweet. He is clearly taking his friend’s experience very seriously.

“Jay,” I begin as I continue slowly unbuttoning his shirt, “I’m going to cuff you to that bar there so I can start warming you up. You’ve never been restrained before have you Jay?” I say these words in the tone one might use to speak to a patient in a doctor’s office, soothing, encouraging, informing. But I also want to hear him explicitly offer his consent before proceeding, partly because I can tell this will difficult for him to do. “Jay, I will only move forward if you tell me you want me to. Do you want me to cuff you to that bar there?”

He knows his friend is listening, watching, just off to the side, and so looking straight at me, as if with blinders, he swallows and says in a still-firm voice, “Yes, Molly, please.” And while he doesn’t say the words, I’m willing to accept this as a beginning. I slide his shirt from his shoulders, take a moment to admire the taut muscles under the t-shirt that I will leave him in, for now, and bind his wrists in front of him. I lead him a few steps away and clip the swivel ring on the chain that links them to a ring on a bar about a foot above his head.

He can turn and he can flex, but he cannot move from the spot. I step back to admire his lean body, his arrogantly attractive face, and to make some choices. This gives him the opportunity to take a long look at me, as well. There is an electricity in the air between us, and it fairly crackles when I make my decision, reach into my bag, and pull out my butterfly knife: beautiful black handles inlaid with silver infinity symbols. I flick the catch and with three swift movements I open it. I lay the knife across my open hands and step forward so he can look at it closely. There is fear in his eyes, uncertainty really, but also a certain kind of admiration, and wry humor in his voice as he reads out loud the words engraved on the blade:

“Pity the timid”

~ by Molly Montrevoir on April 18, 2007.

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