Once upon a time, there lived a man named James. To all external appearances, James was ordinary enough: he enjoyed biking, watching hockey, playing checkers, training dogs, and so forth. He even enjoyed his job, designing motor engines. But James harbored one secret wish: to submit, from the bottom of his soul, to a dominant woman, one who would take from him what she wanted and desired.
The women James met were pleasant enough, but one by one he watched them, watched them closely for the slightest hint of sadism, but in the end they all failed him, each and every one. He despaired of ever meeting his one true love.
But then along came a homunculus, who is loosed every little millennium, for a spot of fun. He took pity on James, and offered him the following gambit. He set before James a single sheet of vellum, and a magic pen. Whenever James was ready, he might start writing, and neither cease nor unwrite a single letter, till he had done, and what he had written might come to pass. Then the imp vanished, as suddenly as he had arrived.
For weeks, James anguished over what he would write. A single page! Which one among you could contain every single aspect, every single view of your desiderata in four hundred words? James's nights were filled with dreams of ever more exotic torments and tortures, games that She (Whoever She Might Become) would play coquettishly on him.
Was it the Night of the Eternal Cocktease? That fantasy had never failed to arouse him in ten years, but in the mere span of a week, it lost its fire. Then came the Wheel of Fortune (or was it Torture?), and then the Candlestick Balancing Trick, and then, in quick order, the Sacre du Printemps, the Seductive Executioner, and the Submissive Rotisserie a l'Orange. But none of these succeeded in capturing his fancy for more than a few days at best, especially after an experiment with a pitchfork ended quite tragically in an outpatient trip to the veterinarian.
Meanwhile, the vellum browned and the pen--made of a strange, corky substance--became brittle. Finally, James, desperate and at his wit's end, dashed off a bitter little epistle, describing his futile efforts at describing his dream dominatrix--it was impossible, even in theory, he finally decided--and cursing the little demon into the bargain. Damn him! Only for him had his torture taken on some of the supernatural--and now he had nothing to show for it.
Doesn't this suggest there might be something the slightest bit wrong with asking for a domme to order?
Copyright (c) 1997 {hamlet}Ophelia