From po0tigger@alices.com Thu May 22 22:35:13 1997 Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news-east.sprintlink.net!news-dc-26.sprintlink.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!Sprint!howland.erols.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!in3.uu.net!206.55.3.16!news2.mnsinc.com!news1.mnsinc.com!usenet From: po0tigger@alices.com Newsgroups: alt.sex.femdom,alt.sex.stories Subject: ASF: Story: Not One of the Herd (Fd, mild) Date: Thu, 22 May 1997 22:35:13 -0400 Organization: House at Pooh Corner Lines: 464 Distribution: inet Message-ID: <MPG.deecc6dcd4dbdfd9896e7@news1.mnsinc.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: mballard.mnsinc.com X-Newsreader: Anawave Gravity v1.10 Xref: news1.infoave.net alt.sex.femdom:74560 alt.sex.stories:198086 DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction and is intended for the entertainment of mature individuals who are also legal adults in their community of residence. If you do not fall into that category, or if dominant/submissive themes offend you, please do not go further. This involves fantasy, not reality. Outside the Herd by Tigger copyright 1997 all rights reserved Truthfully, I had come to this gathering with very little idea what I should realistically expect to find here, but this. . . this was nothing like even those wild and ignorant imaginings. It was all so frenetic. So pointless. So empty. All right, so I admit it. I am a romantic. I dream of dragons to vanquish (bloodlessly), or great deeds of derring- do done well and of fair demoiselles won fairly. I want meaningful ritual, delicate flirting, old fashioned courtship and vivid pageantry. Not too surprisingly, I have felt quite out of place in this modern world of fast food, fast living, fast sex and fast divorce. Then, in my senior year at college, I thought I'd found a spark of hope. Someone at the Computer Systems Center slipped up and a female domination newsgroup got put onto the news server. Intrigued (and yes, excited, too), I subscribed to it, hoping there might be some answers for me there. Instead, what I found was a mess. There seemed to be more spam than would fill a Hormel meat packing plant, volumes of warring silliness about how "my dominance/submission is more dominant/submissive than your dominance/submission - nyah", and tons of "personal ads" written, if the spelling and grammar are any indication, by someone with a sixth grade education or with only one finger and one eye half on the keyboard. And yet, in the midst of that confusion and muck, there were a few, bright, shining pearls that spoke to the parts of me that wished for a life more akin to the olden days of yore. Posts that spoke of caring and responsibility, sacrifice and triumph, commitment and devotion, and yes, pain and pleasure. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I had found my trials by combat, my dragons and my dreamed of demoiselles. So what if the demoiselle was also the trial I had to confront and overcome. So what, if the dragon she delivered up for me to defeat came from inside me rather than from without. I still saw the possibilities of the things I sought and strongly felt that I *needed* in my life. I read every, *single* post in that newsgroup religiously; refusing to kill file anyone or anything so that I would not miss even *one* of *those* posts inadvertently or by mistake. Shyly, and after having hidden in the dark corners for a few months, I posted a few things of my own - questions mostly - and invariably received polite, caring, well considered answers from the pearls, along with a backed up sewer of junk email from the spammers and other denizens of the group. Then, a posting came out calling for a gathering in conjunction with a fan convention of some type. The location was not so far away that I could not get there in a few hours. Besides, the distance was a benefit, since it was not so close that I would be likely to be recognized accidentally, or that *someone* might follow me home. I recognize the implicit paranoia of that statement, but the feeling and the fears were, none-the-less, real to me and something I considered carefully in my decision to try and attend. I must have filled out the electronic registration form a dozen times, only to hit the "delete" button instead of the "send" button before I finally transmitted it. Even that act may have been an accident, because the "save" and the "cancel" buttons are so close together in that dialog box. Surprisingly, I got an answer the next day - from one of the ladies who had communicated with me earlier in response to one of my posts. She was one of the pearls, and having recognized my address, had sent me a reservation for the gather. Along with the reservation, she also included a very warm message filled with tips and other helpful advice about how to conduct myself at such an event as a "newbie". As with sending the message, I almost procrastinated into not going at all. Even after arriving at the site of the convention, I almost turned around at the very brink. The sudden arrival of a large group of people behind me in line at the entrance door is probably the only thing that stopped me from turning tail and running for the boring comfort of my safe apartment. I did not want to appear cowardly by not even entering. Besides, I told myself, I could always leave later when there were not so many people around. Wide, colored wristbands made of a velvet-like material were handed out to each reveler entering the auditorium by a tall, wiry man in what looked like a leather tuxedo. Mine was an odd-looking pinkish-mauve color and I wondered aloud what, if anything, the colorations meant. The "butler" told me that the wristbands served many purposes. Some colors indicated a preferred play-style or other partialities of the wearer such as whether the wearer was here as a dominant or as a submissive, or if they were into heavy play or light spankings and bondage. Some colors told the knowledgeable observer if the wearer was looking for a male or a female playmate. I asked him again what mine meant. He smiled gently and told me that "Dusky Rose is a very special color that indicates the wearer is a sincere virgin at one of these gatherings." He went on to say that I must have impressed someone with my sincerity because normally, first timers got a band that meant "clueless" to the experienced attendees. I went into the large central auditorium shaking my head. What I saw inside brought me up short, my mouth dropping in surprise. I had never seen so much leather, chrome, latex and skin in my life. And then there was the facility itself - the decor had cost someone (okay, many someones) a lot of sweat and effort. Lighting, curtains, drapes, tapestries and some oddly flickering lamps turned the huge auditorium into something that looked like part cave/part medieval Great Hall/part dungeon of the Inquisition. Frankly, it only served to make me feel more nervous and out of place. How did that electronic game commercial go? "You ... Are. . . Not. . . . Ready!" And I wasn't. I *really* was not ready. Shrugging off my growing anxiety as best I could, I drifted along the periphery of the action, watching some of the demonstrations, looking at some of the exhibited merchandise, but mostly, just observing the people. I am very good at "observing". It is probably one of my greatest strengths. It is also one of my greatest weaknesses. For a while, I tried watching the "scening" going on in some of the partitioned-off alcoves that had been set up throughout the auditorium for special types of play. That did not last very long, however. What I saw either seemed very intimate or very plastic - like grown up kids playing dress-up with living Barbie and Ken Dolls. The really intimate sessions had an aura of passion to them that made me feel like an intruding voyeur, while the plastic ones just left me wondering why the participants even bothered. So I decided to take a stroll around before leaving and ended up fascinated by the folks who were not actively playing. A large lounge area had been set up in the middle of the "Great Hall" where attendees would congregate between demonstrations and sessions. What struck me was the stark dichotomy of behaviors. Some of the people were just relaxing, enjoying the conversation and company of like minded individuals. If you discounted the garb (and the lack of garb) many of them wore, or the fact that some of them were not seated on the furniture but rested at the feet of another, you could almost forget the nature of the gathering. Most were involved in small conversation groups, happily exchanging greetings and evidently catching up on news with old friends. For the most part, the submissives were equally involved in the conversations, and if from time to time, some element of play entered into the exchanges, it was done with the confident, comfortable assurance of people who felt cared about and who enjoyed the company and the play. On the other hand, there was the group I thought of as the "unattached dominants and the herd", or maybe "the hunted and the hunters". What was *really* strange was my perception of just who was doing the hunting and who was being hunted. Any unattached person, particularly any female unattached person, who looked at all like she might be a "domme" was almost instantly accosted by a pack of males "vying" for her attentions. I remember seeing this one group of five guys huddled around the door to the lady's rest room. A woman emerged and they really converged on the door, practically barring her way into the lounge.. She turned to go back inside the bathroom, only to have one of the pack fall to his knees and try to crawl inside after her. Fortunately, the leather clad butler quickly arrived and escorted that one out of the arena. His presence also effectively ended any further unwelcome pursuit by remainder of the herd - at least for a little while and with that woman, anyway. Still, over the course of the morning, I saw at least three other women finally give up trying to have a good time and leave the place as quickly as they could (with a few members of the herd still hot on their heels). I hoped they made it to their cars without incident, but I was too far away to offer assistance they probably would not have felt safe accepting anyway. Finally, I accepted that there was nothing here for me. As I said in the beginning - empty and pointless. I headed for the concession area and bought a large soft drink, needing the fluids, the caffeine and the sugar as fortification for the drive home. As I trudged towards the curtained exit, I reflected how much some of what I had seen spoke to things deep inside of me. I remembered a male submissive seated on the lounge area floor, his head resting on the lap of the woman who was obviously his Mistress. As she talked with another woman, she was absent-mindedly running her gloved fingers through his hair. The complete contentment and happiness that shone on his face was almost painful to look at, but at the same time, more than a little surprising, too. I had seen that pair playing earlier and remembered them - it had been one of the scenes that had seemed too private, too intimate for outside eyes. From what little I had observed of their scene before turning away, I knew that sitting on that hard concrete floor had to be hurt. She had been very demanding and forceful with the heavy strap she had been using on him, and his backside had already been coloring up when I'd left that alcove. Another pair I'd come across in the lounge area had the dominant gently massaging a kink out of her submissive's shoulders while she murmured quiet encouragements and praise for the girl's performance and effort in an earlier scene. Pride, affection and happiness had glowed in the faces of both women. I wondered if I would ever be able to win such a trial, defeating my own secret dragons in the courtship of the fair demoiselle. Would I ever earn the Lady's Favor? I knew that was what I wanted, but I also knew that I would not find it here this day. The ones I had admired were well and truly committed and did not need or want an outsider. And I was *not ever* going to join the herd. I promised myself that I would find my own way. Somehow. I parted the beaded curtains and stepped back outside the entrance/exit. I was surprised to realize that the small alcove was configured as another, smaller, lounge area. In the nerve-edged tunnel vision of my arrival, I had missed that completely. There were small cubicles set up as dressing rooms, and a "hat-check area" manned by a French Maid (and I mean "manned" quite literally). Then, I saw her. It was the woman who had been forced to take refuge in the lady's room earlier. She was seated at a small table, impatiently waiting for one of the dressing rooms to become available. She had a rolling suitcase beside her and she kept glancing over at the closed doors as if willing one of them to open. Not even the dramatic cosmetic artistry on her face could hide the fatigued smudges beneath her eyes or the frustrated disgust that seemed to permeate the air about her. Evidently, she had not found what she sought, either. Feeling oddly sorry for this fellow refugee, I impulsively set the sweating paper cup of soda down in front of her. "You look like you need that more than I do" I said softly. Her head snapped up and violet eyes locked on mine before slipping down to give me a once over. Her downward progress ended with a snap and suddenly, she was looking up at my face again. Fresh fury burned in her eyes as she shook her head and pushed the cup away - hard, making the foaming liquid slosh over the rim of the cup. "I am not your Mother and I don't frankly give a damn if you cum or not." she said in such icy tones I was frankly shocked. Then I remembered how I was dressed. Not having any "scene clothes" (and probably being too shy to wear them if I did), I had opted, instead, for comfort. I wore my cleanest pair of running shoes, a pair of jeans that an old girlfriend had once said showed off my butt to advantage, and a T-shirt. In a bit of whimsy that was not normally a part of my makeup, I had chosen a T-shirt from an old time rock group my Mom had liked, emblazoned with the title of one of their hits. "Momma told me not to come." Somehow, the title had seemed appropriate when I considered coming to this shindig, but not for the reason she had evidently assumed. "No, you aren't my Mom, nor am I looking for another." I said, the fraying edges of my own temper creeping into my voice. "The shirt is not an advertisement for today's activities." I pushed the cup back towards her and moved away from the table. "The drink has no strings attached. I just thought you needed a little pick-me-up after your run-in with the herd inside. I don't know your name, and you don't know mine, so once I walk out that door, you won't have to worry about me again. How does that old jingle go?" I tried to sing which I don't do well under the best of conditions. "Have a Coke and a smile." While she considered my retort, one of the herd exited the auditorium and thought for a moment about coming over. I gave him "the look" and he reconsidered the idea. Just then, a cubicle came open and she rose to take it. I slid the coke back over to her, again, and gave her the promised smile. With what I hoped was a jaunty boy scout salute, I turned to leave. I was nearly to the door when a voice called "Wait!" I turned and saw her standing in the cubicle doorway, holding the paper cup up towards me in a toast. "Thanks for the drink." she called, then smiled. "And the smile. I needed both." It might have been an opening, but I did not think so. I smiled back, waved, and headed for my car and home. I thought about waiting, to make sure she made it to her car without being accosted by the herd again, but decided my White Knight complex was getting out of hand. Besides, she could get an escort she knew and trusted if she decided that one was necessary. She did not know me from Adam, and should be wary of me or any unknown male. Just because she was a domme did not make her Superwoman. I got home late, having stopped along the way to replace my Coke and then to have dinner. It was only as I was unlocking my door that I realized I still had my wristband on - dusky rose for the virginity I really hadn't lost yet. Idly, I wondered if I ever would. A weary smile curled my lips as I thought about how many folks who saw me at the rest area or at the restaurant might have wondered at the significance of that accessory or about me for wearing it. Too wired to sleep, I turned on my computer and logged on to the school's system. I'd get some work done while I drained off some of the tension and nervous energy from the day's experiences and disappointments. As soon as I finished logging on, the computer chimed, announcing that I had unread mail. Opening my inbox, the only unread message was from an address I did not recognize; one that did not have the "uxx.edu" domain name that indicated it was from someone on campus. Once I opened the mail, however, I instantly recognized the sender. It was from one of the pearls. "Dear Martin Greetings, and thank you again for the Coke and the smile. You don't know how badly I needed both at that moment, but then again, maybe you do. The submissive I had planned to bring with me today had to cancel at the last minute because of a family emergency. Foolishly, I decided to attend without him. I had forgotten how pushy the wannabees have become of late. What was it you called them? The herd? Appropriate. It was like being caught in a stampede. Right now, you are probably wondering how I found you. It was simple, really. I saw your wristband when you waved good bye to me the last time. Only three of the dusky rose wristbands were given out today, and the other two were given to women. Lady Z, who handled the arrangements for this meet, knows me and trusts me to be discreet. She kindly consented to give me your address so I could write this note and say thank you again. (I will also tell you that she is just a little hurt that you did not stop by to say hello to her, so you might want to drop her a note). I see from your email address that you are either a student or an employee of the university here in town where I live, too. I would like to meet you, this time in a less stressed and more convivial setting. I know a nice beach front cafe where we can meet, if you'd care to. I would very much like to return the gift of a coke and a smile. There is no obligation, definitely no roles to be played here, Martin. Just two people who have a chance at friendship for the time being, and perhaps a chance for something more down the line. I made a point of tracking down and reading your posts. You ask intelligent questions, and sadly, that is very rare these days on the newsgroup. I can see why Lady Z gave you the rose wristband. You intrigued me today, especially after I had calmed down from the meeting to think about it, and now, your writings intrigue even more. So, let me know if you would like to meet. I know that I would like to, and hope you will, too. Sincerely, Leticia" For long minutes, I simply stared at the screen, not sure what to think, and even less sure what I should do. Then, I reread the entire note, again - twice. I tried to remember what she looked like and was dismayed when I couldn't. I could not even remember how tall she was because I hadn't looked at her *that* way. All I could remember was her back as she turned to go back into the bathroom, and the image of two violently violet eyes burning into mine. Those I remembered vividly indeed, along with the sound of her husky voice telling me she wasn't my Mother. What was I going to do? Ignore it and go on as I had been doing? She told me there would be no roles, no games. For just an instant, I felt oddly disappointed. And yet, those were precisely what I had seen too much of today; what had sent me home feeling so empty and dissatisfied - games and roles a-plenty. I did not need those, or at least, I needed *much more* than just those things. I needed to be much more than a role or a game to someone in return, too. Honesty curbed the wave of romantic fantasy that welled inside me. It was not likely that she was going to be that other half that matched on me, that would make us both more together than we were alone. After all, she was a pearl and I was not certain what I was. A marble, perhaps? At this point in time, anything more than simple friendship between us was wishful thinking on my part - the stuff of romance novels and heroic ballads. But, as I said, I *am* a romantic. There are always possibilities I reminded myself with a grin. Besides, I had promised myself to find my own way. And friendship was an excellent thing, in and of itself. I hit a couple of keystrokes and waited for the screen to change. She might not be the way I sought . . . "Dear Leticia, Thank you for your kind invitation. I would love to share conversation and a Coke with you. When would be convenient for you? Sincerely, Martin" . . . and if she was not my way, she still might be able and willing to help me find the path that was mine. I suddenly felt quite pleasantly tired and relaxed. Confidence in myself and my self image bubbled up inside me and I added my home phone number to my sig line. Then, I pressed the "send" key and watched as first the screen cleared, and then the "sent" report flashed. Satisfied with my decision, I logged off, shut down my computer and went to bed. I was asleep within moments of my head hitting the pillow.