A femdom story: The Store Boy

The Store Boy

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"How suspicious," she thought, "too many signs, or am I just imagining it?"

Maybe he was so respectful out of habit because he treated all his customers that way, but no: she knew that wasn't true. Or maybe he respected her out of age. But she wasn't THAT old to be called that.

She suddenly remembered all the strange situations: every time he'd accidentally knelt down to put merchandise on the shelves as soon as he saw her nearby, or how he'd look at her for a moment, then lower his head and visibly blush. He made her feel like she had the word Domme written on her forehead. She didn't think of herself as the typical Domme with impossible heels and a bitter face. But something about her posture or gestures might have "given her away." Especially in front of someone who was susceptible to certain things, as this boy seemed to be.

How old could he be? Twenty? Twenty-five at the most? And suddenly she saw it. When he held out his hand to give her some coins, he had turned his wrist almost imperceptibly. The tattoo was not easy to see. It was no larger than the diameter of a penny. But she quickly recognized it. A two-tone triskelion. Distinctive.

Her heart began to race, but she tried hard not to show any sign that she had seen it or understood its meaning. She tried to avoid his gaze.

"Okay," she said aloud as she took the coins from his teasingly tattooed hand. "Bye."

She picked up the shopping bag and left the store, lost in thought.

***

Had she noticed? Had he acted too obviously? He didn't want to make any false moves and upset her. Much less did he want to appear selfish, trying to "top from the bottom," or look like he was asking for something: everything should be her decision.

For weeks he had been planning how to make her understand that he felt something he couldn't explain. She could be the woman of his dreams, the one who matched his desires for submission. The tattoo had been there for years, he had always known what he was and hadn't asked his mother for permission. It was so small that to anyone unfamiliar with BDSM it looked like a scar.

"I wish I could read her mind," he thought as he mechanically continued his work. What if she was the wrong person? He knew nothing about this woman, he had barely heard her voice, but... a certain arrogance, something in her eyes, some words he had picked up while she was talking to her phone... Meeting a dominant woman in real life seemed such a difficult goal that perhaps his senses were deceiving him. He would be patient and continue with subtle signals. What happened next would be up to her. There was nothing else he could do.

***

The boy was cute, she couldn't deny that. She noticed his tight butt under the light cloth pants of his uniform. His face had a sweet and mischievous expression. He was usually joking with a work colleague and the others seemed to like him. She noticed all this because she couldn't dominate just anyone: her dominance was only aroused by certain men, lights and shadows included. His age was a turnoff. Long-term plans seemed out of place when there were more than ten years between them.

It had been so long since she had last scratched a back or run her bare feet over a male torso that she seriously considered trying to figure out what was behind those signals. But she couldn't find a suitable way to do it and preserve her dignity in case she was wrong. There was no way to get some privacy in this place. It didn't seem like the best scenario to try anything. She was running out of ideas until she noticed the new sign at the entrance.

"Home delivery."

Sometimes she would overfill the bags and wonder why the heck they didn't offer the delivery service there. She was thrilled. Now she had the perfect excuse. And she would use it.