West Bound For Jordon

         Jordan Harley stood staring out into the autumn streets of Georgetown. Evening was falling, the wet pavement awash with the glare of traffic lights as pedestrians made their way along the avenue. Fall in Maryland; she loved it. Jordan sighed and crushed out her cigarette, tossing it lazily into the imported, Austrian crystal ashtray on the end table. She turned and walked across the old, wide-plank hardwood floor of her converted warehouse apartment.        God but she loved this place. It was her sanctuary against the outside world, a refuge between her and all the forces that conspired to make her feel insecure. Jordan had to be in control, needed it like she needed breath, water, food. She paused to run her hand over the exposed brick wall and sighed loving the rough texture against the palm of her hand. It was but one of the many sensations that meant home and security.        The click of her black, patent leather heels resumed as she strutted, Jordan Harley never simply walked, across the floor and into the designer kitchen complete with its high-end, stainless steel appliances and poured-concrete counter-tops. Jordon had designed this kitchen to be an extension of her personality. She loved the steel and stone, it was hard and unforgiving, just like her.        She opened the little, wine refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of absinth, her favorite. She set the specially designed spoon across the top of the fluted glass, added a sugar cube and poured a careful measure, then added water to fill the glass, enjoying the bright green of the mixture. As she closed the door, she caught her reflection in the stainless steel and began to scrutinize.        Jordan was a short woman, barely passing five feet tall. She had a trim, athletic build, nice, full breasts, a tiny waist, perky, little bottom, and dark, green eyes. Her hair was dark brown, long, naturally curly, and all one length. She had never thought of herself as a beautiful woman but had been told over and over that she was. Yes, for a 34-year-old woman, she wasn't bad, no, not bad at all. She looked young, no lines on her face, no gray hairs. She could pull off telling people she was 10 years younger than she really was.        Tipping the glass, she took a sip, enjoying the burn of the wormwood as she moved the liquor around in her mouth. Jordon was a sensualist and enjoyed sensation, taste, touch, oh so many things with equal abandon. Longing for a more comfortable venue, she kicked off her heels and made her way, on stocking feet, over to the black leather sofa pausing to remove her suit jacket and unbutton a few of the buttons on her white, dress blouse. The short, black skirt hitched up a bit, exposing more thigh than she would normally show but what the hell, she was home. She had the remainder of the evening ahead of her and with any luck; she would not be spending it alone.        Almost on cue, the intercom system buzzed to life and the building's doorman called to inform her that she had a guest. Jordon gave him permission to send her visitor up and headed to the kitchen to quickly retrieve her shoes. It wouldn't due to meet company undressed. When the doorbell rang, she was ready and opened the door to greet her companion for the evening.        They were all the same, older men of means, men whom she secretly despised because they would have been chosen over her to do a job just because of what was between their legs. Jordon was competitive and she hated the glass ceiling that existed in business, trapping women, no matter how successful they might be, beneath it. She stood aside to let him in. They'd played many times before and she knew his rhythms, his limits very well. That wasn't to say that she wouldn't try to push them. She lived to push boundaries. It was her specialty.        He took off his jacket and tie and draped them over the back of the chair. The pressed shirt followed. She stood watching impassively as he kicked off his shoes and sat down on the sofa to remove his socks. When he stood and slipped his belt through the loops of his pants, she reached out for it and he handed it over with no fuss. She doubled the belt and cracked it against the palm of her hand, watching him jump and then stiffen at the sound. Yes, get in the character; get in the proper headspace, she thought but remained otherwise silent.        When he had removed his pants, he dropped to his knees and knelt on the floor beside her, his hands behind his back, his head up and eyes down. He knew better than to look at her, knew better than to speak. She waited a moment to ensure that he was calm and ready, then reached down and ran her fingers through his short, thinning, salt, and pepper hair.        "Are you ready, pet?" she asked.        "Yes, Mistress," he answered, his voice deep, steady, his posture relaxed.        "Come, then; to heel!" she commanded as she rose and began her powerful strut, leading him to the playroom, leading him to the place where he would get what he wanted and she would be the one to give it.        He followed behind her, in perfect step as he'd been taught by her to do. She didn't need to leash him. He was flawless in his complete submission. The man relished being able to give up control. He was a brain surgeon by profession, and it was taxing work, having someone's life in your hands. At the clinic, he was God in blue scrubs. She could only imagine the stress he endured day after day. When he went home to his trophy wife in his McMansion, he had also to be the loving and attentive father and husband. He had so many obligations to meet but with Jordan, he could leave them all at the door; shed his skin, so to speak and become something, someone else. Jordan understood that need and she met it.        She took the stage, commanding the center of the room. This room, the playroom, had been designed by her to be a space for dominating and controlling but also a place for her submissives to surrender. She spun on her heels to face him.        "Display for me," she said, her voice low, husky.        He stood up straight, head up, eyes down, hands behind his back, feet wide apart. She walked slowly, oh so slowly around him, her hands on her hips. She knew he wanted to move, wanted to touch her but touching was forbidden unless she gave him leave and she rarely did that. She didn't want contact. She wanted control. He would give it. Not that she minded him too much. He was a handsome devil and she had to give him that. For a man pushing sixty, he was in damn good shape and his powerful body showed it. She would have almost been afraid that he would turn on her if not for his consistently obedient attitude.        "Did you miss me, pet?" she asked.        "Most definitely, Mistress!" he exclaimed, enthusiastically.        "Good, exceptionally good; you should miss me when you are not with me. When you are with me you should be concentrating on my voice, my words, and my actions. I will take you down and lead you to the place you need to go. I will get you there and I will bring you back again. I think that tonight we will begin with discipline and then you will show me just how much you have missed me, pet. Go stand against the wall for me and ready yourself for it."        "Yes, Mistress," he answered, moving quickly to the nearest wall, placing his hands against it and spreading his feet apart, pushing his ass back toward her to give her easy access to him.        "Good, very good," she said, soothingly as she opened a cabinet and looked through it for the implement of choice. She knew he preferred floggers but tonight she needed something else, something with more bite. She chose a cane of sturdy, medium weight and brought it down against her thigh, testing the sting.        He made no attempt to look over his shoulder, but she noticed a slight movement from him. He would hate it, the cane but that was important, sometimes, to get a sub into the right space. His submission had to come, and it had to be willing. No matter how strong she was mentally, she did not have his size, his muscle. He was a man; she was a woman. Even though she wanted very much for things to be different, she could not force his surrender, he would have to give it and it would have to be given freely.        She let her heels sound loudly against the floor as she approached him and reached out to stroke her hand down his back, gently to let him know she was near. "This is for your benefit; pet, to remind you of your place, to ensure that you are in the right headspace to continue. You know you need it, don't you?" she asked.        "Yes, Mistress," he answered automatically. She could tell by the sound of his voice that he was sinking down, going deep and that was good, that was important. She continued to speak to him.        "Remember that; remember that you want it when the pain comes. The pain will ground you, take you there. Close your eyes, pet. Feel it, experience it, and relish it. My voice is your ground. My voice is your anchor. You are bound by it only and your willingness to endure. Nothing holds you but my will. Yes?"        "Yes, Mistress," he breathed.        She stepped back and swung the crop. It made a wide, horizontal mark across his upper thighs, just below his boxer shorts. She never made them strip completely. That wasn't the object of it. She didn't associate s*x with it and rarely allowed her submissives to orgasm. If it happened for them and it sometimes did, it was not the original aim. What she wanted was their submission and that was her satisfaction, to know that she had mastered them.        She took another swing; this one higher and directly across the seat of his boxers. He moved, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Yes, pet, burns, stings, doesn't it? Let me hear your voice. Tell me what you're feeling," she commanded.        "Hurts, good hurt… ahh, like a burn, yes… like a…" he stammered off, obviously in his headspace.        "Are you floating, flying, my pet? Are you there?"        "Yes, Mistress, I'm there, I'm…"        She swung again, making a mark on his left shoulder and then immediately again, adding one to the right side. He gasped for breath, clenching his teeth. "Burns, stings, so good…" he moaned.        "Yes, pet. I know what you need. I understand what you crave. I can give it. I can take you there. I can bring you back again. Let go, let it all go. You are safe here. You are warm and free and flying. Let it all go. Be only my pet and nothing else. You do not belong to yourself. You belong to me. Nothing can touch you here. Nothing can bind you. You are free," she said, her voice low, steady, hypnotic.        He was without words as he stood there, his legs shaking. She made it even more difficult for him to hold that pose when she swung again, striking him across the calves and making his legs buckle for a moment.        "Ahh, Mistress! Please…"        "Do you need to safe-word? You know it if you do," she warned but he recovered, forcing himself to resume the position and breathing through the pain. "Good boy," she assured him and reached up to brush her fingers through his hair.        "So good to me…" he answered back, his voice low, heady. Yes, he was there, he was deep. She knew it.        She was feeling rather good-natured this evening and she didn't want him to go away feeling short-changed. "Would you like to show off for me, pet?" she asked, rubbing the cane over his boxers, giving him light taps as she brought him back down slowly.        "Yes, Mistress, if it would please you, yes," he answered.        "Kneel up and display for me," she ordered, and he dropped to his knees in front of her, waiting for her to give him further commands.        She walked behind him and took his chin in her hand, forcing him to look up. "Do you see yourself in the mirror, pet? Look up and see yourself there," she said, pointing to the floor to ceiling mirror directly across from then. He shifted a bit on his knees and turned to face it as she's asked.        "Yes, Mistress, I see me, and I see you behind me," he replied, contritely as he lowered his eyes once again.        "Touch yourself for me. Take it out and stroke it, make it hard. I want to watch you pleasure yourself."        His eyes widened a bit, but he moved his hands to the front and pushed his boxers down to his knees, freeing his hard c**k. It sprang up and she had to wonder if it wasn't being helped by a healthy dose of Viagra.        "I didn't hear you thank me properly for allowing you to pleasure yourself for me!" she said loudly as she struck him across the shoulders with the cane she still held.        "Ow! Oh, hurts… sorry, Mistress, so sorry," he pleaded and keened to her, attempting to lean back against her but she stepped quickly away.        "Apology accepted, pet, now resume."        She watched, detached as he reached for his swollen c**k, wrapping his hand around it and stroking slowly, keeping his eyes down, his posture perfect for her though she knew it was a struggle for him. His head tilted back, and his eyes closed, his mouth opened slightly and beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead as he worked himself for her, bringing himself closer and closer.        "Yes, pet, so close, so close you can feel it, can't you? Does it ache, does it hurt? Do you want to come for your Mistress?"        "God, yes, Mistress… please… please!"        "Come for me."        He jerked his hand erratically along his shaft, pulling at it with abandon his hips moving forward into his own tightly closed fist as he neared the moment when he would earn his release.        "God, yes, yes, Oh Mistress, Mistress…" he babbled as he shot, covering his hand and spilling onto the floor between his spread knees. He fell forward, catching himself with his hands, bracing himself back up as he came down from it, that explosion of pleasure and erotic bliss.        She watched him, his breathing so hard, and wondered what she would do if he suddenly just keeled over on the floor and had the big one right here in her playroom. She turned quickly away from the mirror to hide the smile playing at the corners of her mouth.        "Well done, pet, well done indeed. Clean up the mess you made on my floor and come out when you are finished."        "Yes, Mistress," he breathed as he tried to right himself.        She walked out, closing the door and leaving him to his chores. Making herself comfortable on the leather sofa, she reached for the glass of absinth and pack of cigarettes. Thoughtful as she lit one and let it dangle from the corner of her lip, she eased back against the leather, smelling it and feeling safe, secure, sated.        To control is blissful, to dominate is divine.        That was her mantra and it was tattooed in Latin across her lower back in cursive script. None of her subs had ever seen it. None of them had ever seen her naked. This sub, David, he was the only one she ever willingly invited to have an orgasm in her presence. She could tolerate him, almost liked him but in the end, he was still a man and that flawed him in her eyes.        "Finished, Mistress," he said, his voice pulling her out of her thoughts and focusing her again.        "Good, pet," she answered. "Now get dressed. When you are done, you can go upstairs and start a bath."        "Yes, Mistress…" he hesitated a moment before going upstairs and starting the hot water in her big, jet tub. When he came back downstairs, he gathered up his clothes and made himself presentable, then stood in front of her in display again, waiting to be acknowledged.        "Well done, pet. You may go now and don't forget your Mistress. When you feel the stress of your life beginning to pull at you again, you know I am only a phone call away," she said as she stood and walked over to the door, opening it for him.        "Yes, Mistress, see you soon," he answered as he stepped past her. At the last moment, he spun around and planted a kiss on her cheek, then dashed out before she could respond with a slap or kick.        "Damn smart ass!" she shouted at the closed door.        Jordon locked the door and armed the security system, then turned out the lights on the lower level, paused to be sure the door to the playroom was locked, then made her way upstairs, her cigarettes and absinthe in tow. Settling down in the hot bath, she turned on the jets and relaxed, letting the tension drain away. She did like David but not in the way he wanted. She knew he would happily leave his wife and spoiled brats to move in with her and be her full-time sub. That wasn't what she wanted, and she knew that deep down, it wasn't what he wanted either. Of all the men she dominated, he was the only one she truly didn't despise but he wasn't what she really wanted.        Jordon wondered what she was looking for. She doubted if she would ever find it. Men, to her, were things to conquer, not things to hold. She wanted them weak and willing not tough and providing. She had never lain beneath a man, the few times in her life when she'd had a live-in one full time; she had always been the one on top. Jordon couldn't imagine how other women would enjoy that feeling of being restrained against the sheets by those strong arms, pinned down beneath a sweating, heaving man while he grunted against you, never a thought for anything but his own pleasure.        Jordon Harley didn't need that. She didn't need a man to hold her. She didn't need a man to provide for her. She sure as hell didn't need a man to love her. She was happy and content with things just as they were. She told herself that over and over as the warm jets eased her tired muscles and the absinth drowned her misgivings.