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. 

Author's Note: I wrote this story a while back, before I had
access to ssbb, and when I was still doggedly trying to
pretend that asfd was still alive.  Since then, the pearls
have mostly moved here.  The topic that inspired it was much
the same as one of the threads currently under discussion
here.  And as I said above, it is fantasy, but I try to be
courteous, even in my little flights of fancy.

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 expedition did
not last very long, however.  What I saw either seemed very
intimate or very plastic.  The plastic stuff seemed like grown
up kids playing fetish dress-up games 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 or
an interloper, while the plastic ones just left me wondering
why the participants even bothered.  In any case, I decided to
take a stroll around before leaving and ended up far more
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 the company of like
minded individuals.  If you discounted the garb (and the lack
of garb) many of them were wearing (or not wearing), 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".  Maybe "the hunted and
the hunters" would be more descriptive.  What *really* seemed
strange, given the supposed dynamics of this type of
relationship, 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 strictly enforced "no-
play" zone).  A woman emerged and these unattached males
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,
just 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 had laid into him
forcefully with the heavy strap she had been using on him. 
His backside had already been starting to show the first signs
of bruising 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 running 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 missing connection 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.  It was safe to dream, again.