by Paul Magnan
“How much do you want it?”
It was hard to concentrate on the question. The Coaxer wore a black leather corset that pushed the upper half of her breasts into view. Black fishnet stockings, attached to the corset with straps and silver buckles, covered her long, smooth legs. Her arms were bare, but her hands were covered with tight leather gloves. Thick auburn hair fell down around her bared shoulders.
But it was the mask that had me mesmerized. It was simple black leather like the rest of her apparel, but it emphasized the sharp green eyes that sparkled within the darkened eyeholes. Her glistening, red lips split open into a smile that did nothing to ease my discomfort.
“Well?” the Coaxer asked. “What’s your answer?”
The erotic allure of the dominatrix-clad woman complemented her unique ability.
I am a man, but I do not have the psychological traits that, for me, define my gender. I am not assertive. I do not look for challenge. I do not have self-confidence. In truth, I am a doormat. I allow the ebb and flow of life, and those who have attached themselves to me, to mold me into whatever shape they see fit.
I’m sick of living like this. I need to change. But I know I cannot do it myself. I need the services of a Coaxer.
Only women were Coaxers. They dressed like dominatrices because that’s what they did: dominate. One had to submit to them to attain their services.
Submitting was something I did well. But I wanted this to be the final time.
I smothered my trepidation. “I want it badly.”
“Then come forward.”
The room we were in was devoid of furniture. I walked up and knelt before the Coaxer. She grasped the sides of my head with her gloved hands. Her fingers pressed hard into my skull.
“Relax,” she whispered as she tore into my psyche.
There was no physical pain. It was worse than that. My personality, my very essence, was seized and ripped open. Hiding within was something furtive and scared. It squirmed as the Coaxer dragged it out and crushed it into motes.
The Coaxer’s fingers probed deeper. Walls of rationalization were torn down. The Coaxer found what she wanted and pulled it forth. It resisted at first, but then burst forward to embrace its sudden freedom, bright and large, as it permeated my being and took control.
I looked around the room. It felt as if I were finally wearing something clean and proper. I was no longer overwhelmed and fearful. For the first time in many years, I felt good. I smiled, and meant it.
The Coaxer released her hold on me. “Are you satisfied?”
I stood up and looked at her. “Yes.”
“Good. Please see my receptionist when you leave. I accept all credit cards.”
Paul Magnan has been writing stories that veer from the straight and narrow for many years. He lives in New England.
Pieces Inspired by this Image
'Death in a Dream'