There is a cafe downtown Vancouver called Cafe Deux Soleils. It is a lesbian cafe. I learned of it through my daughters, one of whom is gay and the other of whom is undecided but finds lesbians are less pushy about hitting on people, so prefers lesbian to straight spaces when she is dressed up.
We were taking a trip into Vancouver so they could enjoy a Cat Cafe, a Cafe in which grown people pay to spend time in a cafe filled with dozens of overentitled cats. I know we have between us three cats in two households already, but that does not detract from their desire to eat overpriced muffins and drink coffee surrounded by cat fur and pee stains. I would join them for the trip down as they are not winter drivers, but I would not go there.
I had quietly scouted the Cafe, and knew that I would be free to attend a poetry slam. I wrote poetry when I was in the army. Surprised? Don't be. My father gave me the copy of Kipling that he carried through the Congo and his father carried from Normandy through Holland and the Schelte. Poetry is good for dealing with those feelings that don't fit inside words, but between them. Poetry is good for those feelings too powerful to process with the rational mind.
I had not written as a civilian. There had been nothing like the soul twisting fear, rage and hunger of deployment that called for it. My Lady fixed that. Now there was a storm inside me. I was falling for her the way I fell for the army; she was my new crucible in whose fires I would reshape myself, and whose desires I would serve in turn for this reshaping. Her goals were now my goals, her will my will. So not going to win any prizes for setting limits or boundaries, probably not going to win any prizes for mental health either, but I muddle through. I muddle through because I pour into poetry those things I need to say but don't have the words for.
I shared my poems in the army sometimes around a coffee at a check point, or manning an OP. In the silence of a far off place, in the magic of a moment no one else would ever understand they reached some of those I served with. Captured the thing none of us could put into normal words, and once someone said it, we could all process.
Now my poetry was terrible lesbian love poetry. I am out of practice as a poet and a neophyte lesbian. More of a bisexual who has fallen so deeply in love with My Lady that it is hard to remember I like men who aren't My Lady as well as I like women who aren't My Lady. In all honesty, I wouldn't care if it was a man, woman, or fence post, if My Lady ordered me to please it, I would be transported in delight to do just that for her.
I am getting bolder because of her. You would think being made more submissive would make you weaker in the rest of your life. Either the opposite is true or I am doing it wrong. I don't really know, but I am getting bolder.
I booked online a spot in the poetry slam. While my daughters were paying to play with strange pussies, I would talk about being made to please them.
The Cafe was on Commercial drive, dark wood tables and chairs, dark wood floor and bar with stainless steel devices that either bent time or space, or made coffee depending on what buttons the baristas pushed. The stage was a small affair, little more than a two foot raised platform at the back with a spot light above it and a mic stand.
I listened to the poetry, feeling inadequate before the young passionate lesbians who seemed so sure of themselves, and so rooted in their own culture. I felt like one of those aquarium whales who gets released into the wild. Hearing the song of the free whales as they own the ocean, while I remain terrified in the harbour, dreaming of the deep sea.
I was in the front table, not wanting to see the crowds reactions to the other poets so I wouldn't have to compare my own reaction to that. This was my first public poetry reading, my first public admission of being lesbian, I needed the cuff at my wrist, and the two at my ankles that My Lady gifted me just to have the strength to do this.
I stepped to the mic, and looked up. I had a piece of paper in front of me, less because I needed it, more because I gave myself the out of looking down if I my nerve broke.
My heart just about stopped. My Lady was in the cafe. She was feeding a bit of cheesecake to a younger woman. One elegant leg was crossed over the other, and I saw her shoes. Those shoes. The ones that used to be mine, like I used to be my husband's.
She was paying little attention to the stage, so I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and began my slam.
"This is for My Lady, who is here tonight, as are Her Shoes."
"Her Shoes
I had worn them for my husband
When I thought I knew myself
Then I came upon a goddess
I came, I came, I fell
She took me with a whisper
She took me with a word
She took me like a tidal wave
And washed away my world
She took my marriage vows
The illusion I was straight
Then she took from my my dancing shoes
And I knelt to girt her feet
She bids me clean them every day
And deliver them to her
I kneel to place them on her
And she takes me like a whore
I dance on them for her delight
She looks me in the eye
I will take all you have
I will take your pride
I cum upon her painted toes
I cum at her command
In my mind a thought still burns
A dream I dare not speak
One day a collar for my shoes
I will receive from her
To crawl naked beside her shoes
While my Lady marches Pride"
I had heard the sound of a fork hitting the plate and looked to see My Lady and her date staring at me. My Lady's eyes were blazing, and her date looked with wide eyed wonder from My Lady to me, as if figuring out what was going on.
I stepped off the stage after some faint applause, about what everyone else got, and put my head down to move straight out of the cafe without causing an incident. I didn't get far.
My Lady snapped her fingers and gave the command. It wasn't all that loud, just firm and confident. Weak people yell, strong understand there is no question of obedience.
"Jan, position!" She snapped, pointing down before her shoe.
I knelt before her. More specifically, I squatted on my heels, knees apart, yanking my skirt up half my thighs so I could bare my pussy to my owner's eyes and toes.
Her date grabbed her free hand, and squeezed it, moving forward so she could see.
My Lady moved her foot forward and her toes rubbed up and down my sex. I was in public, I could get arrested, my daughters would hear that I got busted at a lesbian cafe humping some woman's shoes.
They were her shoes, this was her cunt. I was her cunt. I could no more deny her this than stop the sun rising in the morning. The result would be the same, my world would end.
I looked into her eyes, and gripped the table so she could push into me. I humped her shoe right there in the cafe. Women moved to look, a small amount of laughter, a few whistles and comments. Not as ugly as I feared. I had room only for her eyes, and my cunt.
I didn't take all that long. The pressure was too much, I had been thinking of her to build the courage to go onstage. I had been listening to the other lesbian poetry and letting the romance of it carry me away. I was wet before I saw her, and now she was making me hump her shoe before a cafe filled with lesbians. I was in a special kind of submissive heaven.
"My Lady may I...?" I didn't get all the way through asking permission to cum before she ordered me.
"Cum slut!"
I banged my forehead on the heavy dark wood table as I came on her shoe. Dropping to one knee I rode it out. I wasn't shuddering, my back was bucking like I was on a mechanical bull. Suppressing it was a mistake, it just shook me harder.
There was a second round of applause, this one louder.
My Lady extended her hand to her date and said to her.
"Come child, this has me fairly worked up. We will skip lunch and move to your place for desert. Thank you Jan."
The two of them left, and I dragged myself into one of the hardwood chairs to recover. The barista came over. I was expecting to be asked to leave, but she had a soft smile upon her face, and a large coffee cup(yes one of those shi-shi ones with an actual heart patterned in the foam on top) on a saucer for me.
"This is from table six. The ladies admired your performance."
Two grey haired lesbians raised their cups to me as I sat and sipped my coffee. The feeling of My Lady's shoes was so strong I would need all 16 ounces in me before I trusted my legs to walk out.