"I was so upset by the Mason account fiasco, I forgot to put gas in my car. I ran out and had to walk two miles to a gas station!"

I watch Ella put her hand over her mouth, unsuccessfully trying not to laugh at my misfortune. But stifling her laugh only transforms it into a giggle; when I quickly follow my story with a laugh, to signal that I too found humor in my failure, she cheerfully laughs along with me.

I pass through life alone, and I am content. But I enjoy talking with Ella, and I appreciate how effortlessly she looks and acts feminine. So I take the luxury of occasionally sharing a drink with her after work.

Then she takes my hand, a strange gesture from a co-worker. It is of course harmless, and as a male I have no desire to complain; her hand, as I would have expected, is soft and warm and gentle. But her gesture cannot be without meaning – it is too out-of-place and too intentional.

She begins, "I had a friend . . ." Then she slows to a stop. Her stopping seems unwilling; something worries her about continuing, yet some opposing force drives her to speak. That stokes my desire to hear more. I like how she reveals her emotions so innocently.

I prod her. "A friend?"

I see her swallowing, even though her mouth was empty, revealing her nervousness. "She . .  well . . ." And then words come quickly tumbling out of her mouth. "She liked men peeking in her window." I startle at Ella's change in topic, especially to this topic. She seems both relieved to have finished her revelation and yet dissatisfied – perhaps there is more she wants to say.

"That's interesting," I say neutrally. Then I add, not knowing what dangers or opportunities might lie ahead, "The important thing is that she was happy. She was not hurting anyone." Wives might not appreciate their husbands participating in her exhibitionism. But their marital issues do not seem to be Ella's concern, and they are not mine.

Ella glances quickly at my crotch. I do not show that I have noticed. It is an unusual gesture from a woman, even though I, as a man, have studied her breasts and her ass, admired her face and legs.

Perhaps she is in search of information, not the crude visual stimulation I had sought. Fortunately, my crotch gives nothing away -- I am not intrigued by this friend who wishes to expose herself; I have no desire to peek into windows like a beggar being thrown bread crumbs.

I use silence so that she will say more. There is more here than the casual report about a friend.

She takes a deep breath, as though preparing to recite a poem or jump off a high dive. "I have another friend . . . "

Again she stops. She shakes her head no, her ash-blond hair swishing from side to side. The forces conflicting within her are powerful. I have no conflict, so I again prod her gently, "Another friend who . . . ?"

She sighs, I think acceding to my desire to know more, then says, not in a rush but instead as though every word was important, "She liked it when men put her in handcuffs."

I am again surprised, though for a different reason. I do not know what to say to this. I strive for a neutral, "Really?" hoping she cannot detect the interest in my voice.

She again glances at my crotch, my cock making no attempt to hide its feelings about a woman wanting to be handcuffed.

She puts her elbows on the table between us, puts her chin atop her fists, and looks up at me with her blue eyes. Her blouse now hangs open, tempting my eyes, but I maintain my gaze on her face. "Really," she affirms breathlessly.

Before I can think of a suitable response, she looks down at the table, avoiding my gaze, and continues, in a neutral tone of voice, "The technical term is bondage, but it goes with a desire to be helpless and controlled."

I use this opportunity to stare down her blouse. Her tan bra shows a half-inch of breast at the top. I am wishing that my brain, like my phone, could take pictures. My memory will have to do, but I have a good memory.

Ella continues talking as she still looks down. "You would think that females experience enough of being helpless and controlled."

When she looks up at me again, her eyes wide, I shift my gaze back to her face; she has stopped talking and is now waiting for my response. I again fumble for a response -- I attended to what she said, but I was also distracted, so I must attempt to recall her last words. With a female's best instincts to help, she solves my problem by saying, "I guess she wanted to feel even more helpless. To be even more controlled."

I again assert her friend's right to do what she wants, feeling both grateful and clever that I have already staked out this favorable position. The issue of female oppression, however, is trickier to address. I cannot see how a politically-correct response would be to my advantage here.

As I try to think of some way to safely encourage Ella's unexpected openness, I become entangled in my own desires. Finally I say, "Everyone is different, Ella."

She does not seem convinced, and of course the situation is more complicated than my simple assessment. Ella continues, "Of course there's more than just handcuffs. I get wet to think about being blindfolded."

She's talking about herself.

Ella. Attractive, vivacious Ella wants control.

I am stunned.

I am awakened from my immobility by her again glancing at my crotch. My cock has become painfully hard, hiding nothing of my strong desire. I resent her learning my inner feelings without my permission, even as I had just appreciated my ability to learn hers. But she is female and I am male.

Then she does not frown or seem upset, revealing her acceptance. So we have just traded confessions. My cock has thoughtlessly succeeded where I might have failed, and the missing piece of the picture – the piece that connects the other pieces into a whole – is now in place.

I feel an overwhelming need to control her.

I will have my way. I turn my hand around and grasp her wrist. My movement is neither unexpectedly sudden nor teasingly slow; my movement is designed to look normal, as if I normally would hold her wrist immobile. She squeaks, appealing to every aspect of my being, and she makes no attempt to resist my hold. I command, "Tell me more."

"Yes, Marcus." She looks down. She tugs a little on my hand; I do not let go. She was not trying to free her wrist, she just wanted to feel my firm hold on her wrist; she wanted to experience her loss of control. "Well, she couldn't tell people, of course."

I say firmly, "She could have."

"But she was afraid to. What would people think of her?" She sounds frightened.

"They should think she merely had her own individual desires. It does not mean anything."

She looks up at me, and there is a sheen of tears across her eyes. "Thanks," she says softly. "That means a lot to me."

"So what did she do? Tell me."

She nods yes and looks back down at my hand holding her wrist, perhaps taking comfort and direction from that. "Well, nothing. She had her fantasies, but those weren't the same as really doing it. So she wasn't happy with her fantasy life, but guys were never that exciting for her. Does that make any sense? I know it doesn't."

"It does. But she should not have deprived herself like that."

"Really?" She looks to me, now for assurance and support.

"Yes, really."

With her free hand, she slides the collar of her blouse down to her shoulder, revealing more of her chest and a thin, tan bra strap against her white skin. It is very sexy, and I am delighted she is offering me this appetizer. "So . . . so she worked with this guy –" she looks up at me "– and he was nice, and she liked how smart he was and how he could take charge of a situation." As she talked, her blouse slid back into its usual place.

She looks at her shoulder and frowns. I do not mind that her blouse has slid back; I do have a good memory, and I was excited by her desire to please me. But she again pushes it back. She is trying to please me in a sexual way. "It was erotic when he took charge like that. So I – she decided to come out to him. She was going to get drunk . . . " she takes a sip of wine with her free hand, "but he wasn't drinking much. So she just . . . "

She stops her story; what "she" did is obvious to us both. But I will not let her retreat to her comfort zone. "Tell me."

"She just . . . " She looks at her shoulder. Her blouse has ridden back into place. She looks up at me again. "This is harder than it looks. Everything." She gestures to her shoulder and then to us. "I feel so incompetent."

"Try first unbuttoning two buttons of your blouse."

She takes a sharp breath, caught between the dazzling inappropriateness of my suggestion and her new pleasure in being commanded. "Okay." She unbuttons two buttons of her blouse, locking her gaze on mine. She is neither slow nor fast, neither seductive nor resentful; she is just ostentatiously obedient. Then she pushes her blouse down her shoulder, where it stays put.

"I probably look like a slut."

"You look beautiful." And like a slut. But now she is my slut. I like that she will look like a slut if I tell her to. I also will enjoy owning such a beautiful woman. She is perfection. I reach over and brush her hair. She does not move, she just lets me touch her. "So what did she do?"

"She came out. I mean, of course she didn't shout I want to be controlled. She just, you know, talked about handcuffs and looked at his reaction."

"What was his reaction?" I know his reaction.

She says softly, "He wants to control me."

"Any man would." Few would have the courage.

She smiles plaintively. "Do you know what it means when a female lets handcuffs to be put on her?" She puts her other hand on the small table between us. We are both imagining handcuffs.

"Tell me what it means."

"It means she says yes. She's agreeing to . . . whatever." Handcuffs can have many meanings, and there can be many different agreements. But she is now explaining her agreement, the fantasy that did not fully satisfy her when it was only imagined.

She is so open to me. Any man would find that attractive, but they would merely find her easier to please, as if they were the servants. Her transparency also makes her easier to control. When did modern man forget that?

She adds, "Whatever he wants."

I see her wince. To feel my control, logic dictates that she be forced to do something she does not want to do. So fear battles her desire. I must guide her very carefully; her desire to be controlled must always win this battle.

I take her other hand firmly in mine. Now she pulls lightly on both. I am holding firm; I have metaphorically become handcuffs, though literal handcuffs lie in her future. "So he could touch her wherever he wanted."

There is a way a woman like Ella needs to be touched. It is exactly how I want to touch her.

"And she couldn't stop him." She is now writing and signing her agreement with me.

"Such a man would be very lucky. Though no women has ever wanted me to stop."

She smiles to herself, I think now accepting the fantasy I tell. "He could use her for whatever he wanted."

That would depend on the strength of her need to be controlled and how well she had been trained. But for her own happiness, Ella must believe that I would. I shrug, admitting that I would have that power yet not suggesting I would misuse it.

She looks at her shoulder and tries to push her blouse completely off her shoulder using her chin. That does not work. Now she does pull hard on her hand, so that she may use her hand.

I do not let go. My grip is now strong. My control is more than a metaphor.

She looks up at me, wide-eyed, and says with amazement, "Are you allowed to do that?" Ella has lived in a world of privileges and rights. My responsibility is to take that world from her – Ella cannot happily live there.

"You already said yes, Ella." She must feel we are taking this journey together, even as she loses control of the pace and route.

She looks down at her hands. She squirms a little in her seat. I tell her. "Say it out loud, Ella."

She looks at me. She takes a deep breath, which pushes her breasts forward, though she does not seem to realize she has done that and I of course have. She releases half of her breath, and says softly, "Yes."

"Good girl." She smiles. She is easy to control, and my shaping of her will proceed smoothly.

"I think that, I don't know, that people should be free. To be themselves and be happy. And we don't try to do that, I guess, because we're afraid or something, and we keep trying to fit into the mold we're supposed to fit into. Maybe that's good to make everything work, but it's hard on us. I mean, that's how I sometimes feel."

"Do you talk a lot when you are nervous?"

She gives me a small, nervous smile and says anxiously, "I guess? I've never been this nervous before." She looks at her shoulder, then down at her two unbuttoned buttons, then at her wrists firmly in my grasp. Her world has already changed, and she has much to be nervous about. "Am I not supposed to be this nervous? I don't know if I can stop."

"Ella, you should always just be yourself. You are lovely. Never forget that." I have slid into the language of domination and control, and she has accepted that as normal.

"This is really hard on me." She thinks that is her inadequacy. I want her to trust my judgment over her own, so I do not disagree, even though I am the one keeping her away from her comfort zone. I do not want resistance, now or ever; I can be patient.

"Leave your hand on the table." She nods yes. I let go of her left wrist and reach towards her blouse.

Her face again looks frightened. "You can't unbutton another button in here! It'll look too . . . you know."

I say coldly. "Do not tell me what to do."

Her head jolts back, then she looks down and nods. "Okay." Accepting my rules. I must control her – I have never wanted something this much in my life. I touch her collarbone. I am touching where I want. The fantasy of touching has now become real, though this is just a beginning. She does not move, she just lets me touch her, beautifully playing her proper role. Then I pull my hand away.

She knows there will be more touches. Her desires is so strong and my control is skilled – she will be never be able to stop me.

I pull my hand away. Her hand is still lying motionless on the table, exactly where I left it, showing that my words control her as easily as my hand. Her obedience to me must become a habit, even as it remains a desire. I take back her hand so it is again firmly in my grasp, helping her feel secure in my control.

I revel in her soft shoulder, her white chest, buttons unbuttoned by my command. My heart eagerly bathes in her youth, hope, and nervousness. Did anyone ever paint such a perfect painting? I do not think so. She will give herself to me, and all I have to do in exchange is control her, when in fact that is my most powerful desire. Unexpectedly, I have the woman I want.

"Ella, go into the restroom and take off your panties and pantyhose."

She smiles encouragingly at me. "Okay." I will surely earn her love and devotion. But my true goal is her complete comfort and happiness leading a life of obeying me.

I instruct, "Say Yes sir, Ella."

"Yes, sir," she says sincerely, without any worry about the appropriateness of treating me as her superior. I let go of her wrists, showing that she has my permission to leave. She stands, then walks back to the restroom. I watch her walk, her body and movements capturing my attention, and I freely taking my crude visual pleasure, as I should.

She comes back to me a few minutes later, her legs bare and no panty line. Men look at her, because she is attractive, she has her blouse partially open, and she is radiating energy and happiness. But from the moment she returned to this room, her eyes and huge smile were only for me. She is mine.