The Shape of Surrender Ch. 01

The Shape of Surrender (Ch. 01)

soppingwetpanties

This is Scott's unrequited fantasy of female domination. The women of the world salute you.

Thank you to Bob and Frank for their input.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.

Chapter One

Meeting Vivian

Being newly single at age forty-seven was an eye opening experience.

I was married twenty-five years ago, fresh out of Kenyon College, a small liberal arts college in central Ohio, to Rose Mercer, a classmate in Kenyon's well regarded English department. We were both aspiring writers, though as you know, writing is one of the surest paths to starvation.

Rose was a sharp, introspective, and quietly ambitious writer who I met at one of Kenyon's famed writing workshops. She had an expressive, intelligent face that hinted at her dry sense of humor and an inner life she rarely shared, even after years of marriage to her. She was attractive, though not overly so, with dark auburn shoulder length hair usually tucked behind her ears, slate gray eyes and a slim build and smallish size breasts. She usually wore soft sweaters, vintage blouses and long skirts. Think effortless literary elegance.

I was never a ladies man, far from it, my shyness the result of three domineering sisters and an overly protective mother. Rose was one of the first people to see past my shyness and to appreciate a fellow introvert - my willingness to listen and not talk to fill in the silence, my curiosity about everything and my quiet wit.

Sex? Unfortunately sex was an afterthought in our relationship - - a relationship built on a shared appreciation of the English language, mutual solitude, and a deep respect for each other's intellect. Rose was an adequate lover, so sex was never a priority in our lives, though that was not of my choosing. We ended up having only one child, a daughter, who was named Clara after Rose's grandmother.

Clara was of course the apple of my eye, with her mother's auburn hair and lean build and my green eyes and contemplative brow. She had a constellation of freckles across her nose, the origins of which were from some previous generation. She was always found with a canvas tote bag filled with books. She decided to follow in her parent's footsteps, attending Kenyon College (of course in the English department), and was in her junior year when Rose and I decided to finally call it quits.

Rose found her niche when we moved to Northampton, Massachusetts, so I could begin my career as an English professor at Smith College. My half-hearted attempts to write the Great American Novel led me to academia, where I could make a decent living for our family while Rose established her career as a short story writer. Rose ultimately authored a short story collection called "The Shape of Quiet," critically acclaimed in the literary press and winning the Pushcart Prize, one of the highest honors in the world of independent literature.

Now that we're divorced I can voice my true sentiments. Though I was outwardly supportive of Rose's career, there was an underlying sentiment of jealousy, as my job as an Assistant Professor, and ultimately tenured Professor, provided the financial means for Rose to launch her long and successful career. She received the accolades I dreamt of.

Professional jealousy was merely the corrosive element that exposed a more fundamental weakness in our marriage - sex. Though it was an afterthought to Rose's day, it became a central focus of my life. Try surrounding yourself with attractive students at an all-women's college and tell me that you wouldn't think about sex every minute of every day. To go home every night to a cold bed and a colder wife, who was living the life you wished for yourself, finally became unbearable.

Sex was never a priority for Rose so my renewed vigor was met with stony silence. My submissive fantasies, though many, were merely vehicles for my once a day masturbation sessions after I came home from work. Ultimately our virtually sexless marriage, and our drifting apart after so many years, was the death knell for our platonic union.

Rose did one nice thing for me, and that was to give me the house in the divorce. It was fair, since my earnings early in the marriage financed the down payment and the mortgage. Though Rose's career was successful, it wasn't financially remunerative. She moved into an apartment not far from Smith College and informed me, none to my surprise, that her roommate, and lover, was a woman.

My relationship with Clara was strong, and survived the divorce, and maybe more than survived since Rose seemed much more involved in her lesbian relationship than with her daughter. My sexual awakening happened in a most unexpected manner during Clara's summer break between her junior and senior year when she spent the summer living with me and working as an intern (unpaid of course) for a small publishing house in Northampton.

With newfound freedom, not dissimilar to a deer raised in captivity and then released into the wild, I blundered my way through a series of blind dates, dating websites, and finally, when I mustered the courage, to fetish sites that focused on female domination. It was there that I met online, and then in person, Vivian Stroud, a woman in her early forties who was dominant, articulate and unapologetically in control. For me, dating Vivian was intoxicating, unfamiliar and disorienting. I'd never been involved with a woman who centered her life on structure and control. With Rose, we lived parallel lives. With Vivian, my life centered on hers.

Vivian was an experienced Domme and had her own ideas (and not necessarily mine) about the role of a submissive. I certainly got that impression from the outset. Part of our text messaging went like this:

Me: I'm new to this.

Vivian: I'm not.

Me: I'm recently divorced.

Vivian: You don't say.

Me: I didn't know if you cared if I was married.

Vivian: I don't care. If I cared I would have asked you.

Me: So do you want to meet?

Vivian: I've made reservations at Le Cygne Noir. Tomorrow. 7 p.m. Bring a bottle of wine.

As I said, Vivian had her own ideas about how this was going to go. She didn't even ask me if I had plans. As it turns out I didn't. She asked me to bring a bottle of wine. I knew a bit about wine but not enough to impress someone at Le Cygne Noir (which means The Black Swan - a fitting name for the restaurant we were to meet for the first time).

Me: What kind of wine?

Vivian: That's for you to figure out.

Great. Something I'd have to figure out soon. We only exchanged texts, not pictures. Her listing in the fetish website didn't contain any pictures, just a brief description of what she enjoyed (spanking, anal play, orgasm denial, cum eating). That was enough to spark my interest. But I didn't know what she looked like.

Me: Can you send me a picture of yourself?

Vivan: No.

OK, so what next? I decided she would just get irritated if I asked more questions.

Me: Thank you Mistress Vivian.

I stared at my screen for a minute but there was nothing but my message to her.

It was late afternoon, just enough time to hit my local wine shop to figure out what to bring. But what would we order for our meal? I thought she'd appreciate the initiative of me calling the restaurant.

Female voice with a French accent: Hello, this is Le Cygne Noir, may I help you?

Me: I'm confirming a reservation for Stroud at 7 p.m. tomorrow.

Female voice: (tapping noises) Ah, yes. That's Vivian Stroud, party of two."

Me: Thank you. Oh, do you know Vivian?

Female voice: (laughing) You're joking, are you not?

Me: No, I'm not.

Female voice: Please forgive me. I thought you were joking. Vivian owns the restaurant.

Me (my voice quivering): Thank you.

My only thought was "oh shit." I now knew I was over my head - way over my head. I just wanted to have an experience with a Domme to see if all of my masturbation fantasies were grounded in fact. I didn't want to humiliate myself in the most exclusive restaurant in Northampton with the owner (and I found out later) and founder. The restaurant received one Michelin star and was expecting a second.

Female voice: Anything else sir?

Me: What does Vivian usually order?

Female voice: Madame usually orders the foie gras torchon, the duck à l'Orange and the tarte tatin with crème fraiche for dessert. Is that helpful?

Me: Very. Thank you.

Female voice: Thank you sir. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.

Me: Thank you. What is your name, if I may ask? I'd like to thank you personally when I get there.

Female voice: Ask for Chantal.

Me: Thank you Chantal.

I had to run, not walk, to the wine shop.

* * *

"I'd say a Pomerol... or a Châteauneuf-du-Pape," the wine shop owner said to me. The owner was Fred Fergus, a retired wine geek who had the only shop in town with a good selection of high end French wines. Fred knew me because I frequented his shop. He knew his shit.

"That's what I'd get if I ordered the duck à l'Orange. It goes well with the torchon as well. Maybe she'll order a dessert wine..."

"What would you get?" I asked before he could finish.

"With a tarte tatin? I'd get a sauterne."

"Set me up with both," I said.

* * *

I made sure I got to the restaurant plenty early. It was only a few blocks from the Smith College campus and the parking around there was as terrible as I expected. I fought through hordes of students and tourists in my best suit and carrying two bottles that set me back over $400.

I'd been to Le Cygne Noir twice, the first time to celebrate my 40^th birthday and again to celebrate Clara's 18th. They were both amazing meals. I was going to have dinner with the owner of the restaurant, and then possibly some kinky sex after. I was more nervous than I was for my wedding.

The front door had a long high arching red canvas canopy covering it with the restaurant's name emblazoned in fancy script. The door itself had a half pane of glass with the restaurant's name engraved in it over the image of a swan. All of the hardware was freshly polished brass. I'd call it understated pretentious. Others would call it classy.

The door was heavy and I had to put some effort into it to open it. A gust of wind followed me making the red velvet curtains protecting the diners sway with the breeze. A woman was standing behind the podium. She smiled when she saw me enter.

"Hello Mr. Alden," the woman said to me. Clearly she'd been briefed. I never sent a picture of me to Vivian. Somehow she got one.

The woman came out to shake my hand. She was a middle-aged bottle blonde, attractive in her body hugging red dress with a slit up the side to show me she had nice legs.

"Are you Chantal?" I asked.

She covered her mouth to laugh. "No... Chantal is the restaurant's manager."

"She answered the phone when I called yesterday," I said, trying to rescue my faux pas.

"What time did you call?" the woman asked me.

"I think around 4," I said.

"We don't answer the phone until 5. She must have been in the restaurant and decided to pick up."

That explained that. Two fuck-ups and I hadn't yet met either of them.

"I'm Barbara. I'll take you back to your table and tell Chantal and Vivian that you're here."

I followed the woman through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains to a dining room of understated elegance, the hallmark of a Michelin rated restaurant. Beautiful cut flower arrangements. A pristine dining area in a sea of white tablecloths.

We went all the way to the back, next to the door leading to the kitchen. It was the worst table in the house but had a view of all the other tables. It was likely Vivian's base of operation. There was a cut glass tumbler in front of each of the two chairs and in the center was an ashtray with several stubbed out cigarettes in it. The tumblers had a dark brown liquid in it that smelled of expensive bourbon. I sat down ten minutes early. There were only a couple empty tables, but those looked like they were being turned over for the next seating. The place was humming with uniformed waitstaff and there was a steady drone of conversation in the background. The smell of fine French food was all around me.

I was awed by what I saw from my viewpoint, seeing several teams handle the food service flawlessly like an orchestrated ballet. I was interrupted by a woman who was standing next to the seat across from me while I was admiring the restaurant.

"Like the view?" she asked me.

Of course it was Vivian. Although I didn't have a clear mental image of her, she certainly looked like the self-confident woman I was expecting, her sleek black hair worn in a sharp bob, immaculately styled, pale skin on her face with a cool undertone, high cheekbones and dark red lips and steel gray eyes, framed by black liner, scanning and appraising. She had a statuesque, tailored presence - - tall and lean with a dancer's posture, a frame that was angular, not soft, with long limbs and a narrow waist, accentuated with a designer black blazer, matching skirt and stiletto heels.

"I do," I said. I was seeing what she was seeing, which was dining perfection.

"I sit here almost every night," she said.

"I know," I said.

"Why's that?" she asked.

"Because as you said it has a great view of the floor. You can watch all four teams at the same time. It's also the worst table in the house, right next to the kitchen door. You don't want to seat paying customers here," I said.

"Clever boy," she said. Her saying that made my heart glow.

"What do you have?" she asked, looking down at the box next to my chair.

"It's the wine you asked for."

I hoisted the thin tall box on the table. It bore the name of the wine shop.

"Fred," she said under her breath. I heard it.

"You know him?" I asked.

"I sucked his dick," she said without a hint of embarrassment.

"That would count," I said.

She opened the box and pulled out a 2016 Châteauneuf-du-Pape. She held it up and looked at the label.

"Typical Fred," she said. I would have picked a Pomerol," she said.

"The Pomerol was his other choice," I pointed out.

"Sure it was," she said, though not sounding like she meant it.

Then she pulled out the second bottle. It was a 375ml bottle of a 1977 Château d'Yquem. I knew he sold it to me at a steep discount when he found out it was for a dinner with Vivian.

She looked at the bottle's label and kissed it. I could swear she was teary eyed.

"This... this is fucking liquid gold," she said, pointing to the dark amber color of the wine. "You earned yourself something special for bringing this," she said. I didn't know what the fuck she meant but it sounded real good.

"Oh good, here comes Chantal," Vivian said, pointing to the stunning looking woman approaching our table. The woman was Chantal Moreau. She had dark chestnut hair, sleek and shiny, pulled back in a low bun, radiant olive-toned skin, expressive brows and inquisitive dark eyes. She was wearing a black dress, attractive but not sexy, that hugged her voluptuous body. She had a colorful scarf, Hermes if I was to guess, around her neck.

"Hello Mr. Alden," she said, extending her hand and giving me a professional handshake.

"Call me Scott," I said.

"Scott it is," she repeated back.

"I'm pleased to meet you. Thank you for your advice on the menu. It looks like Vivian really liked the sauterne I brought."

Chantal came over and picked up the bottle.

"Fred," she said.

"Does everyone know him?" I mused out loud.

"His stamp is on the back label," she said, turning the bottle around and showing me.

"Right," I said.

"But I knew it was Fred when I saw the front. Vivian lusted after this bottle," she said.

"I'm glad I brought it."

"You scored some points," she said. She turned around to leave.

"Sorry, but it looks like I'm needed over there. Have a nice meal," she said.

Chantal was a knockout. Vivian watched me as I watched Chantal walk away.

"You like her?" she asked.

"She's very nice," I said.

"Don't bullshit me," she said.

"She's very attractive," I said.

"Would you fuck her?" she asked.

"I would," I said. It was honestly or nothing with this woman.

"Interesting," she said.

"So try what's in front of you," she said, picking up her own glass and taking a satisfying draw.

I did. It was 140 proof so it was hot. But behind the high alcohol content was the complexity of a rich bourbon. I'd never had it before but it was excellent.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

"I do," I answered.

"Good boy," she said. "It's a George T. Stagg, my favorite."

It wasn't the usual cocktail conversation but it wasn't that kind of dinner. I was there to be dominated. If drinking a world class bourbon at a fine dining restaurant with the restaurant's owner was submission then I was all for it. Of course I never lost sight of the fact that I was the lamb and she was the wolf.

"Let's decide what to order while we finish our drinks," she said to me. She didn't pick up her menu but I did.

I scanned the menu. Then I put it down.

"What are you having?" she asked me.

"Whatever you're having."

"I'm having the sweetbreads and the beet salad," she said, voicing an untruth. Chantal had already told me what she was going to order.

"I'm surprised Mistress Vivian," I said, trying to sound respectful. "I thought you were going to have the foie gras torchon, the duck à l'Orange, and a tarte tatin for dessert."

Vivian tried to hide the surprise on her face at me calling her on her white lie. "Chantal told you. How?" she asked me.

"I called the restaurant yesterday afternoon. Chantal picked up the phone. I was lucky," I said.

"Clever boy," she said again. "Maybe you want to be in my chair."

"No, no," I insisted. "I very much like it where I am."

"So what are you ordering?" she asked me.

"Whatever you're having," I said.

"Right answer," she said.

As if on cue, two of the waitstaff put in front of us the foie gras torchon. It looked to be a double order the portion was so large. The sommelier uncorked the bottle I brought and decided to decant it. Then he opened another one that he'd brought from the restaurant's cellar.

"I love foie gras," she said, answering the question I hadn't asked. Then she added, "I had Philippe bring a bottle from our cellar, a Pomeral, a 1990 Château La Fleur-Pétrus. 1990 was a great year. Let's compare the two wines when we have the main course."

"I'd like that," I said.

"Take your cock out of your pants," she said to me, clear as a bell, out of the blue. Her request startled me. It took me a moment to remind myself this was my introduction to a Domme, not a fine dining experience.

I looked around. No one was watching us. They were all wrapped up in their own conversations. The waitstaff were watching us from a respectable distance. Apparently Vivian had a DMZ around her.

"Excuse me?" I asked, I guess to buy time. There was no doubt I'd heard her.

She gave me a stern look. No words were necessary. Her eyes said "fucking do it."

"OK," I said. I reached under the white tablecloth, the edge of it thankfully covering my lap and my hands. I unfastened my trousers and shimmied in them until they were down far enough that I could take my penis out of my underwear.