The Storm Shelter II Cynthia
- 2 years ago
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Homage To Cynthia free porn video
This is written in honor of Cynthia @cair4.com Unfortunately, she has
disappeared from the web, but she left me with a good feeling about her,
and also about me.
I was driving from Leadville to Aspen through Independence Pass in a
rented black Mercedes Benz. The top was down, and I was enjoying the crisp
fall air as the narrow road climbed and twisted toward the summit of the
pass. In the valley below me was a chain of beaver ponds that sparkled
like an emerald necklace. The leaves of the aspen trees were changing to
the yellow that surpasses any yellow found in a tube of paint. In autumn,
Colorado in the mountains is more beautiful than any place I have ever
seen.
On the cream leather seat beside me was a letter from Cynthia. In her
clear and feminine manner she had requested that I meet her in Aspen, and
had given the reasons for the meeting. She would be coming to Aspen with
her fianc?e' for a series of business meetings pertaining to her cosmetics
businesses, and for a brief week end vacation with her lover. She asked
that I attend her in Aspen and perform whatever service she and her guest
would require.
The letter had the desert rose imprint of her lips beside her signature.
Although I had never met Cynthia in person, that nothing would keep me
from this summons.
In my daily life I am a private investigator, although not the steely
eyed, strong jawed bruiser of lore. In fact, although I am well known in
certain circles as a tenacious, determined and resourceful person, my
physical appearance is not inspiring. Even though part of my expertise is
providing protection for executives and celebrities, I look more like a
stylist or artist. My hair is fairly long and impossibly curly, and I am
constantly asked if I have a perm. No one ever believes me when I answer
that it is natural. In certain respects my face is more feminine than
masculine. That is what I was born with, and I am satisfied with that. I
am in no way rich, but I am content with my work and my books. Almost
content.
My personal life apart from my career is quite different, and again, was
what I was born with. From the earliest times, I remember being fascinated
with women and especially those with strong, independent personalities.
The primary women in my life as I grew up were my mother, grandmother and
aunt. No matter what the circumstances of their marriages, the jobs,
children or lives, they fell back upon each other in adversity and trial,
like pioneers circling the wagons at night on the prairie. Each of them
were dark beauties, all could sing and write and paint, all were more
vibrant than any of the men who were around. How could I help not being in
thrall to women?
In my case this thrall became a desire to serve and worship women, and how
else could it be? I remember as a young boy, talking the baby sitter into
tying me to a chair with a jump rope, and being disappointed that she tied
it so loosely that I could easily escape. When I was in fourth grade, and
was being vulgar to April Blake, the prettiest girl I knew, she slapped my
face hard and then looked me in the eye and told me to watch my language.
She knew, and I knew, that I was not going to hit her back. I was her peon
for many years after that.
I also felt that a portion of my soul shared this powerful femaleness with
the beautiful women in my life, although my body is unmistakably male.
Although I spent years trying to understand this, it no longer matters to
me, it just is.
My attention returned to the twisting road before me. It had narrowed to
one lane, and of course a truck pulling a travel trailer was belching
exhaust and climbing the road at 7 miles per hour in front of me. I am
very impatient in situations where I am hindered, so I forgave the people
who were slowing me down, and breathed slowly in and out through my nose.
(When this doesn't work, I scream and pound the steering wheel). In this
case, when I was able to pass safely, an elderly man and woman waved at me
sweetly from the cab of the truck. Waving back, I accelerated slightly and
entered the town of Aspen, heading for the address that Cynthia had given
me, a ten room stone and timber "vacation" home that she owns in a gated
community south of the old town of Aspen, high on a hill.
Using a key code that Cynthia had provided me with, I entered the five-car
garage, and parked the Mercedes. Entering the house through the garage
service entrance, I marveled at the interior luxury of the home. The
inside walls were mountain stone with colorful tapestries, fabrics, and
southwestern Indian art, including paintings, Navajo rugs, and pottery and
sculpture. One painting that I stood before for many minutes was of an
Indian woman in a white buckskin dress. She was looking at the observer,
and was surrounded by several wolves. Something in her stillness and
beauty reminded me of the women in my family.
In a room that looked like a great hall in a castle, there was a large
fireplace against one end of the hall, a conversation pit in front of it,
and rose colored leather furniture in two groupings in the living area.
Several large windows looked out over the town of Aspen. This was a
beautiful space designed for gracious and pleasurable entertaining by
gracious and beautiful people. Or for simply gracious living and peace for
the people who lived here.
I returned to the Mercedes and brought out the two coolers full of
provisions that Cynthia had asked me to obtain, and the box of fine wines
and champagnes that she wanted as well. I placed the champagne in ice to
cool and settle it and the wines in the refrigerator for the same purpose.
Various delicate leafed heads of lettuce and other vegetables were placed
in the crisper, and the other victuals placed in the cupboards.
As I opened the front door of Cynthia's stone house to sweep off the front
walk and to air the house with the pinon scented mountain air, I thought
about the reasons that I answered Cynthia's call.
I had found Cynthia's website called Caring Domination during a black
period in my life. After a long marriage, and after raising two children,
my wife had told me that my desires to be submissive to women were
"unclean," and that my feelings of femaleness had always alienated her and
that she could not get beyond these feelings. She actually said,
"perverted desires" at one point during the many interminable, hopeless
conversations that we had on our weary road to divorce. My sadness and
exhaustion led me into many experiments in self-degradation, and self-
punishment for my failed marriage.
In my attempts to annihilate any sense of worth that I had left, I
contacted a notorious domme in the local SM scene who agreed to use me as
a maidservant during a series of parties that she was hosting one winter.
She was very ingenious and aggressive in her efforts to humiliate and
diminish me. I gave her every reason to think that that was what I wanted
her to do. I felt that I deserved every bit of what I got.
The absolute bottom was reached one evening when I was serving in a maid
uniform at a small gathering. As I answered the doorbell, automatically
curtsying as I opened the door, I was shocked to see my wife and 17 year
old daughter at the door. "You!" my ex-wife hissed, as she glared at me in
shock and anger. My daughter just looked at me and smirked, an expression
I had been accustomed to for years as my wife had berated me in front of
the children on many occasions. I had never had any authority in my
daughter's eyes, and what she now saw confirmed it. "You've finally found
your own level" my ex-wife spat at me as she thrust her fur into my arms
to hang up in the hall closet.
My daughter merely smiled at me gleefully and said, "Can you take these
for me, Dad?" as she handed me her wrap and purse. I hung my head and
could not meet the hatred and contempt in my ex-wife's eyes. I deserved
every bit of her cold dislike and disdain. I remember very little of the
rest of the party except the laughter in the hostess' eyes, and the
constant demands from my daughter to bring her drinks, take away empty
drinks, bring her pillows, fetch this and fetch that. My wife did not look
at me once, nor did she speak to me. Apparently this chance meeting
between my ex-wife and daughter was not by chance at all, but the final
step in the domme's campaign to destroy any sense of self worth that I had
remaining to me. It succeeded completely. I bear no ill will to the domme
because I essentially asked her for this culmination.
Cynthia had exchanged several e-mails with me, listening to my heartbreak
and remorse, understanding my yearnings and submissive emotions,
explaining certain things to me, and finally granting me a kind of
absolution. She let me know that I was not perverted and hopeless, that I
should not feel guilty for my feelings of submissiveness and femininity,
and that also my wife was not to blame for our incompatibility and sorrow
either. Finally, I reached a point of acceptance of myself, and a kind of
peace. For this I would always be grateful to Cynthia.
For now though, I was determined to make Cynthia's house ready for her
arrival with her fianc?e'. She had trusted me, someone she had not met in
person, to enter her house and to dust everything, change the linens,
freshen the air and lay in provisions. I was determined to repay her
kindness with whatever service I could provide. I busied myself for two
hours readying champagne in a cooler, laying charcoal in the grill,
marinating salmon filets in olive oil, red wine, garlic and pepper,
tossing salad and making sure that the master bedroom was fresh and airy.
I placed flowers in every room, with red roses in Cynthia's bedroom, and
put pinon wood in the fireplace in case it became chilly in the evening.
People are often surprised when a hot mountain day becomes cold when the
sun goes down.
In the master bedroom I dusted all the woodwork and opened windows. Upon a
chest of drawers, a collection of cosmetics and perfume bottle were
scattered. As I straightened them, I noticed a tube of lipstick had fallen
to the floor. When I picked it up, I took off the top and twisted the tube
to look at the shade. It was a desert rose, much like the colors of
Cynthia's house, a color I was beginning to associate with her. The smell
of the lipstick was intoxicating, and I quickly put it down.
carefully shaved and bathed, put on a white on white Egyptian cotton shirt
with a subtle mauve tie, grey woolen blend slacks, and soft and well-
polished black leather shoes. I put an understated cologne that smelled of
pine and sage and coffee on my face and entered the Mercedes to go to the
airport to meet Cynthia's jet.
When Cynthia walked down the steps from the Learjet, ducking her head
slightly to clear the doorway, my first impression was of her clothing,
which hugged her like expensive silk, yet flowed like leaves on a tree
around her legs and arms. Her eyes met mine directly, and I was struck by
the kindness in her face. Her features seemed to reflect all the races at
once, including the elven and star born. She could have been Asian,
African, Cherokee or Sioux, Spanish or French, and all at once. She had
the most beautiful face I had ever seen. I lowered my eyes, not wanting
her to see- what?
Her fianc?e' was a well built brown haired man with a rumpled face. He was
well dressed in the manner of a professional man, and seemed to be older
than Cynthia by several years. As Cynthia greeted me and took my hand, she
introduced him as Brian Scott and he regarded me frankly and with
cynicism. As I helped Cynthia into the rear of the black Mercedes, he
stood back slightly and spoke to me briefly.
"I don't really understand this domination stuff that Cynthia does. But
you had better mind your manners around me, and in addition do not address
her as Cynthia. She is Miss Cynthia to you and I am Sir, or Mr. Scott. I'm
willing to go along with anything that makes her happy, but I don't know
you and I don't care if you are happy or not."
I did not know what else to say except, "Yes Sir."
I was not sure what to do with Mr. Scott, but if Cynthia loved him, then I
would do whatever I could to make him happy and comfortable too. I drove
through the Roaring Fork Valley toward Cynthia's home smoothly pushing the
Mercedes solid transmission and engine, accelerating through curves, and
braking softly to a stop at the guardhouse entry to Aspen Hills Estates.
When we finally arrived at Cynthia's house, both She and Mr. Scott entered
and walked through immediately to the deck overlooking the town of Aspen
and the dark mountains to the south of the town. The ski runs were bare
and brown at this time of the year, but the purple mountains were glowing
with the ending of the day's light. Twilight is the prettiest time in the
mountains. It is the magic time when wolves run at the edge of the trees,
the moon is surrounded by a gold and green and red halo, and when lovers
walk hand in hand toward their homes.
When I had brought the luggage into the house, I went onto the deck and
offered the champagne that had been on ice for several hours. Cynthia was
in Brian's arms, and they were softly kissing each other. I tried to
rapidly backtrack with my tray and the champagne glasses, but Cynthia
heard me and turned to look at me.
"I want to thank you for your quick response to my summons to come here.
It is almost impossible to find help on a moment's notice."
I assured her that I was honored that she had called me, and that I hoped
to be of service. God, how trite I sounded. I was falling into the
submissive role-play that I was so comfortable with, when I truly wanted
to connect with her in a real way. By this I mean that I wanted nothing
more than to be useful and helpful and unselfish, and to make her stay
pleasant and graceful and effortless on her part. If I could do my work
without ever speaking or being seen, I would, as long as she was cared for
and happy. I was so grateful for the chance to do this, and to meet
Cynthia at last.
I served Cynthia and Mr. Scott broiled salmon on a linen covered table
with silver settings and massive candelabra. A pinon pine fire in the
fireplace perfumed the air, perfectly complementing the crisp Chardonnay
and the broiled salmon. I served a terimasu, which I learned to make for
this occasion, and went into the kitchen to get the coffee service. When I
entered the dining area, Mr. Scott looked at me thoughtfully for a second,
and I got the impression that Cynthia and he had been talking about me.
Cynthia looked at me calmly, but gave me no hint about what they may have
been speaking about.
"When I met you at the airport I believe that I was a little abrupt with
you," Mr. Scott said. "Cynthia has told me a little more about you and
your kind, and I am willing to let up on you a little bit. Cynthia said
that you are born this way, that you did not choose your submissive
desires or your femininity. I am willing to accept this at face value, as
long as you do what you are told to do in an unobtrusive manner. I'm just
not used to men who want to act as servants or even worse, who want to be
women."
Again, I did not know what to answer to this. If I were not here to serve
Cynthia, I would not tolerate this mans treatment of me. But it really was
no different from what I have faced all of my life, and he did not say to
me anything I have not said to myself. The first time I had heard words
like that was when a female classmate noticed that I wore clear nail
polish on my nails. When she reported loudly what she had noticed to the
class, I was taunted with insulting words for the remainder of the class,
and indeed, for the rest of my term at school.
Mr. Scott had spoken more words to me since dinner began than Cynthia had
said to me since I picked them up. She may simply have been more
comfortable about accepting service from someone than Mr. Scott. To him
service was a monetary transaction. To me it was a gift from the heart,
freely given out of love or admiration, or simply recognition of
superiority. The best service I was capable of, however, was given out of
love.
"Yes, sir," was all I said.
The evening was drawing to a close, at least for me. I served to Cynthia
and Mr. Scott an ice cold Russian vodka, with caviar on toast, washed all
the dishes and pans, and made sure that comforters and blankets were
available in the master bedroom. I then went to the kitchen and sat down
to wait for them to go to bed. With the lights off in the kitchen the
bright moon shone into the rooms and glinted on the copper pans and into
my eyes. I heard a noise and rapidly got to my feet. It was Cynthia.
I looked into her eyes at first, but then lowered my eyes. What the hell
was I thinking, that I could come to Aspen, pull off a weekend serving her
and her lover, and keep my emotions secret? I looked her in the eyes again
and saw only compassion and understanding. Without any more conscious
thought on my part, I sank to my knees, my eyes suddenly brimming.
"Now don't cry," she said with a smile. "There isn't anything to cry or be
ashamed for. I already know your secrets, and I even know there is
something you want to tell me. I have read you e-mails for the last year,
I know of your longing and your desperation. It is alright that you want
to serve me. It is in your nature to give, as it is in my nature to take
from you.
What is it that you don't want to tell me?"
She said this in a way that surprised me, and I was unable to guard my
expression.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"I'm in love with you," I said, not knowing how to hide from her.
She looked at me calmly for a minute, and then said, "I know you are. I am
in love with Brian and not with you. We are to be married. I can't tell
you anything different than that". She put her hands in my hair, and
ruffled it, and rubbed my ears as though I were a large friendly dog.
"But it is in my nature to take what you give me, and it is in your nature
to give to me. Thank you. I accept your love, but I do not reciprocate. I
take also your service. I am in Colorado often on business, and I need
someone who Brian knows is harmless to drive me, and do my bidding, act as
a personal servant as it were. Brian and I were discussing you, and in no
way do you pose a threat or competition as far as he is concerned. As far
as I am concerned as well. He told me that you were the same as a girl in
his estimation, and that you looked like a hairdresser. If you are willing
to do this, I want you to serve me as you have been doing."
My heart was barely beating. In one second, I had told Cynthia I loved
her. In the next second, she told me that I was only acceptable as a
servant, and not as a lover. I honestly never expected anything from her,
I just wanted to make her visit to Aspen wonderful and easy, and I never
wanted to impose with my feelings of love for this wonderful person. I was
not sure if I should feel good about being acceptable as a servant as far
as Brian Scott, Mr. Scott, was concerned, either. But what other course
could I take? I have been thirsting to kiss someone's feet. I have been
yearning to belong to someone. I needed to be a slave and to be a
possession. I told Cynthia this, at the same time I was falling in love
with her.
I went from my knees to face down on the floor, kissing her lovely feet.
"Please accept me as your servant, as your slave. I don't want anything
else".
I was openly weeping now. She was still for a few minutes as I made my way
back to my knees, then she took my face in her hands, and tenderly kissed
my mouth. Her lipstick was the same that I had seen on her letter to me,
and that I had opened in her room. I nearly drowned in her scent.
"We need to go in and tell Brian, she said.
When I was done hearing a lecture on my expected demeanor from Mr. Scott,
I was allowed to leave for the evening. I wandered outside to feel the
air, and to calm down. The moon, which was nearly full, beat upon me like
a desert sun, and filled me on the inside with its calm white light. I was
afraid for what I had done, but the certainty of my love for Cynthia made
everything bearable and light.
At the end of the weekend, I chauffeured Miss Cynthia and Mr. Scott to the
airport to their waiting Learjet. As Mr. Scott got out of the Mercedes, he
smiled at me and tipped me a twenty- dollar bill.
"Thanks for the good work, Tamlyonne," he grinned at my discomfort. He
climbed on the jet ahead of Miss Cynthia.
Miss Cynthia herself spoke to me for a few minutes with details about the
closing of the house until her next trip to Colorado. Then, handing me an
envelope, she said, "I will be in Denver in about six months for a series
of corporate meetings. I may be back sooner than that. If you still wish
to serve in my household, you will take the $500.00 dollars in this
envelope and go to the links on my website and order a chastity belt. One
with a tube like Lori's device that is secured with a frenum piercing.
This tube is to fit in the chastity belt so that you cannot manipulate
yourself in any way. If you are to be in my service, then I will impose
this control and any other control in any manner I wish. Do you
understand? I expect an affidavit from the piercer that you have the belt
on within the next six weeks. This should give you enough time to examine
yourself and really decide if you want to be mine".
I took the envelope and smiled at her happily.
"Yes, Miss Cynthia. I hope that you and Mr. Scott have an enjoyable trip
home. I will see you in six months!!"
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