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

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

You pass through life alone, and you are content. But you enjoy talking with Ella, and you appreciate how casually she looks and acts feminine, so you take the luxury of occasionally sharing a drink with her after work.

Then she takes your hand, a strange gesture from a co-worker. It is of course harmless, and as a male you have no desire to complain; her hand, as you 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 something else drives her to speak. That stokes your desire to hear more. You like how she reveals her emotions so easily and innocently.

You prod her. "A friend?"

You 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." You 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," you say neutrally. Then you 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 this voyeurism. But their marital problems do not seem to be Ella's concern, and they are not mine.

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

Perhaps she is in search of information instead of the crude visual stimulation you had sought. Fortunately, your crotch has done nothing inappropriate – you are not intrigued by this friend who wishes to expose herself; you have no desire to peek into windows like a beggar being thrown bread crumbs.

You remain silent, to see if she voluntarily continues. There is more here than the casual report about a friend.

She takes a deep breath, as though preparing to recite the pledge of allegiance 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. You have no conflict, so you again prod her gently, "Another friend who . . ?"

She sighs, you think acceding to your 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."

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

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

She puts her elbows on the table between you, puts her chin atop her small fists, and looks up at you with her blue eyes. The front of her blouse now hangs loose, demanding inspection, but you maintain your gaze on her face. "Really," she affirms breathlessly.

Before you can think of a suitable response, she looks down at the table, avoiding your 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." You use this opportunity to stare down her blouse. Her tan bra shows an inch of breast at the top.

Ella continues talking as she still looking down. "I would think that females experience enough of being helpless and controlled." You are wishing that your brain, like your phone, could take pictures. Your memory will have to do, but you have a good memory.

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

Yes, now you recall. You again assert her friend's right to do what she wants, feeling both grateful and clever that you already staked out this favorable position. The issue of female oppression, however, is trickier for you to address. A politically correct response would not be to your advantage here.

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

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

She is talking about herself.

Ella. Your co-worker Ella.

Attractive, vivacious Ella wants control.

You are stunned.

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

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

You feel an overwhelming need to control her.

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

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

You 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 your 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 you, 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. It is very sexy, and you are delighted she is offering you this appetizer. "So . . . so she worked with this guy –" she looks up at you "– and he was nice, and she liked 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. You do not mind that her blouse has slid back; you do have a good memory, and you were excited by her desire to please you. But she again pushes it back. She is trying to please you 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 you both. But you 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 you again. "This is harder than it looks. Everything." She gestures to her shoulder and then to you two. "I feel so incompetent."

"Try first unbuttoning two buttons of your blouse."

She takes a sharp breath, caught between the dazzling inappropriateness of your suggestion and her new pleasure in being commanded by you. "Okay." She unbuttons two buttons of her blouse, locking her gaze on yours. She is neither seductive nor resentful; she is 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. You like that she will look like a slut if you tell her to. You will enjoy owning such a beautiful woman. She is perfection. You reach over and brush her hair. She does not move, she just lets you touch her. "So what did she do?"

"She came out. You 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?" You 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 wants handcuffs to be put on her?" She puts her other hand on the small table. You are both imagining handcuffs.

"Tell me what it means."

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

She is so open to you. Any man would find that attractive, but they would 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."

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

You take her other hand firmly in yous. Now she pulls lightly on both. You are holding firm; you 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 you want to touch her.

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

You tell her, "Such a man would be very lucky." You smile and add, "Though no women has ever wanted you to stop."

"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 you would. You shrug, admitting that you would have that power yet not suggesting you 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.

You do not let go. Your grip is now strong.

She looks up at you, wide-eyed, and says with amazement, "Are you allowed to do that?" Ella has lived in a world of privileges and rights. Your responsibility is to take that world from her.

"You already said yes, Ella." She must feel you two 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. You tell her. "Say it out loud, Ella."

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

You say, "Good girl." She smiles. She is easy to control, and your 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 you 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 your 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." You 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. You want her to trust your judgment over her own, so you do not disagree, even though you are the one keeping her away from her comfort zone.

"Leave your hand on the table." She nods yes. You 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."

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

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

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

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

Your eyes eagerly take in her soft shoulder, her white chest, her unfastened buttons; your heart eagerly bathes in her youth, hope, and nervousness. Did Da Vinci ever paint such a perfect painting? You do not think so. She will give herself to you, and all you have to do in exchange is control her, when in fact that is your most powerful desire. Unexpectedly, you have the woman you want.

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

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

"Say Yes sir, Ella."

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

She comes back to you 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 you. She is yours.