For our first date, I took Simone for the eight-course tasting menu at Spagos in Beverly Hills. When I first laid eyes on her at the bar, my jaw dropped. As you can tell from my description of Master Lance, I’m fond of using comparisons to public figures in an attempt to provide (I write under the pretense, the fantasy that someday, somewhere someone will read my account – maybe if I slip the pages into a bottle and float it out to sea) an at least somewhat objective idea of the appearance of some the central figures in my cautionary tale. With long, wavy, dirty blonde hair, perky breasts, long, firm legs and a shapely, if not overly large (like her breasts) bottom, Simone struck me as a cross between Alicia Silverstone in Clueless (several years older, of course, but think especially of the picture of Alicia’s character Cher smiling as she holds shopping bags from multiple high end boutiques, in a short skirt with sheer, knee high stockings) and the porn star, Haley Reed (I direct my imaginary reader to two cuckold films she made, Horny Haley Reed Gets a Deep DP by two BBC’s and Haley Reed Interracial Threesome, both available on the mainstream on-line porn sites). Possessing a hint of sexy girl-next-door innocence and vast reservoirs of effortless sultriness, Simone is at once madonna and whore, and all the gradations in between, in one drop dead gorgeous package.

From her beautiful face, my eyes next strayed down her long, smooth, toned bare legs. No doubt coached by Elissa, she wore a short, sexy dress with open toed, stilleto shoes, her toenails painted glossy white. From a distance, her feet and toes appeared flawless. Having since spent an inordinate amount of time up close and personal with them, I can confirm the accuracy of my initial impression. I wanted to drop to my knees and kiss her feet right there in the crowded restaurant. Instead, when Simone confidently extended her hand to shake, I bowed my head and gently kissed it. She giggled slightly and smiled, a captivating smile that managed to be simultaneously playful, warm and entitled. If it’s her smile that draws you in, it’s her unusual, magnificent green eyes that hold you. Or me, in any case. To me, her eyes are mesmerizing.

Over dinner, I learned that Simone grew up in nearby Calabasas, one of four children of a successful plastic surgeon. She has a brother who is four years older, a sister two years older, and a (fraternal) twin sister with whom she is quite close. Her mother is a former model, who didn’t work after her first child was born, instead relying on the steady seven figure income of her husband. Simone and her siblings had a privileged upbringing: private schools, maid, expensive vacations, huge swimming pool in the backyard of the 6000 sq. ft. family home, etc. They were on their way to a very generous inheritance until her father died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack at the age of 53 when Simone was in her senior year at USC. He had life insurance and a healthy brokerage account, enough to ensure his wife remained comfortable for the rest of her days, but not enough to make up for several more years of lost income when it came to building up a large inheritance for his children. Simone estimated that, best case scenario, her share of the inheritance when her mom eventually died would be around $1.5 to 2 million, perhaps less if her mom lived a long life. That may sound like a lot of money to people in some parts of the country. In Southern California, however, $1 million could maybe buy you a bungalow in a sketchy neighborhood just starting to gentrify. In addition, her mom was only 56 when I first met her, so Simone and her siblings had many years to wait to see the bulk of their inheritance.

The consummate hedonist, Simone had envisioned something quite different. Although by no means stupid – she had a sufficient GPA and SAT scores to get into USC after all (although I suspect with some help from her father, who was an alumnus of the school and a generous donor to its alumni association) – Simone had no intention of pursuing a demanding career that would enable her to become a high earner herself. As a teenager, and even as a college student, her favorite pursuits were shopping, hanging out at the pool with her boyfriends and girlfriends and going to parties. Her parents made no attempt to instill a strong work ethic or strong sense of responsibility in their children, especially not in Simone and her twin sister, Sloane, the two babies of the family. Both beautiful girls, they were used to getting their way from an early age, and were instructed expertly by their mother in the arts of using their looks to manipulate others. Simone’s appetite for leisure and for luxury, ingrained from an early age, was enhanced significantly by her relationship during her sophomore and junior years of college with Alec, the son of a billionaire tech entrepreneur.

Alec was a surfer who Simone met at Zuma Beach in Malibu. Tall and muscular with sandy blonde hair, Alec apparently had the appearance of a surfer dude, but was, in fact, spectacularly wealthy. Simone surfed as well, albeit more recreationally than Alec, who competed professionally. Simone was then, and remains today, in excellent shape physically. The one area of her life where she is willing to exert herself, to put in hard work, is in the gym. She told me that she calculated pretty early on (again with her mother’s counsel) that a hot, fit body was key to being in a position vis-a-vis men where she would not have to exert herself intellectually, or in the workplace. It was the price of admission, she said, to the carefree, indolent lifestyle to which she aspired in all other areas of her life outside of the gym or sports (in addition to surfing and swimming, Simone was also quite good at beach volleyball). Besides, she explained, she enjoys the endorphin rush of physical activity - sports, working out and, best of all, having sex.

During their relationship, Alec took her to exotic destinations around the world, especially to places known for great surfing (and nightlife): Oahu, Tahiti, Bali, the Gold Coast of Australia, Biarritz, France, Costa Rica, etc. Over dinner, Simone explained that she had hoped and fully expected to marry him, but Alec had no interest in being tied down. When she pressured him to marry her, he dumped her. Her time with Alec, however, served to deepen her love of luxury, beautiful beaches, and partying. And it spawned her passion for sexual pleasure and big cocks – because, as she shared with me on our second date, in addition to being “ripped,” Alec was very well endowed, a “real alpha stud” in her words.

It was not too difficult to discern a straight line from Alec to Master Lance when it came to attracting Simone. Well, not really straight. There was a big detour on her trip between the two – that being me, of course, and our marriage – but it was that detour that made Master Lance attainable for Simone, or at least a little piece of him. You could almost think of Master Lance as sort of a luxury timeshare for the cuckolding wives in his harem, although all the fractional “owners” were present at the same time (and it was they who were owned, in effect, rather than the other way around). But more on that later.

After Alec dumped her, Simone tried hard to find another wealthy, attractive, jet setting, party loving, well hung guy to tie the knot with, but was unsuccessful. On our second date, over the most expensive omakase in greater Los Angeles, I expressed my incredulity at this fact:

“I can’t believe you don’t have successful, good looking guys lined up waiting to propose marriage to you. You’re gorgeous, Simone. You are a goddess,” I gushed.

“Goddess, huh. I like that, Stevie. Oh, you don’t mind if I call you Stevie, do you?”, flashing her radiant smile again, a smile that made me weak in the knees (and still does even today in this tropical purgatory). While her smile conveyed warmth and playfulness that afternoon, I was soon to learn that it could also convey amusement at my expense, contempt, even cruelty. It was in the latter instances, sadly, that its power over me was perhaps the greatest.

“Not at all. You can call me anything you want, Simone,” I replied as I filled her glass with sake.

In truth, I didn’t even like being called Steve, let alone Stevie. I was Steven to co-workers, clients, even friends and relatives (only my mom called me Steve); “Steve” just didn’t strike me as very dignified. At the time Simone asked me, however, I thought to myself, “You can call me ‘Slavie,’ if you wish.” It’s funny, because within a few months, she was calling me just that, and thought of it all on her own.

“Good. Stevie suits you better than Steven, I think. For me, at least. But back to what we were discussing. Ten percent of guys are gay. Of the 90% who are straight, a third are total losers who do nothing but, like, play video games in their parents’ basement and jack off to internet porn.” I squirmed in my seat as she made the latter observation. “A lot of these assholes hate women, like it’s our fault that they’re such pathetic losers.” Well, at least that doesn’t apply to me, I thought.

She continued, “Another third or so are butt ugly – fat, bald, dress like slobs, bad hygiene. Of the thirty percent or less that are good looking and interested in being with a flesh and blood woman, most make way too little money to meet my needs. So that leaves like maybe 10% of guys who I would even consider as a possible future husband. The problem – and it’s a big fucking problem, Stevie, I can tell you from loads of personal experience – the problem is that the truly desirable guys are, like, so few and far between, and in such demand, that almost none of them want to commit. Why should they? Don’t get me wrong. I could totally have my choice of good looking blue collar guys, or even college educated nerds. But for different reasons, they don’t interest me. The blue collar guys, even the most successful ones, simply don’t earn enough to give me the kind of financial security I’m looking for. Frankly, most of the nerdy guys don’t either, and there are other issues with most of them. And guys like Alec can play the field forever.”

Simone has an interesting way of talking. Clearly articulate, on one hand, she often superfluously interjects the word “like” into her sentences as well as the occasional “totally.” She has a trace of a “valley girl“ accent, including occasional upspeak (ending declarative sentences with what sounds like a question mark). This should not have been surprising; she WAS a valley girl after all. But her dialect is not over the top; juxtaposed with her strong vocabulary, it actually adds to her already prodigious sex appeal.

“But don’t they want to have kids, start families? The guys like Alec, I mean?” I asked.

“Ha ha. I’m like totally sure Alec has illegitimate kids all over the place. Or he will before too long, anyhow. Believe me, he won’t have any problems providing financial support for them. The true alphas, by which I mean the guys who, like, have it all – looks, wealth, power, other things – have like no incentive to settle down.” When she said “other things,” she smiled impishly and glanced down briefly at my crotch as I sat next to her at the pristine wooden sushi counter.

“Does your desire for financial security mean that YOU want to have kids?”, I asked.

“I’m not sure really. I’m, like, sort of ambivalent about kids. I don’t want them now, but I may change my mind at some point. And the genes of the father are important; I certainly don’t want to give birth to any losers. But that’s another thing. After Alec, I dated a very successful M&A attorney. Quite good looking. But he made it clear that he wanted me to start popping out babies immediately. I’m not ready for that; I may never be. No, financial security for me is not about kids. For me, it means that I can live in the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed – even better, hopefully – and never have to worry about it. That’s where Elissa comes in. And you, perhaps. Elissa is a trip, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she certainly is something.” I smiled, but was tingling with excitement at the possibilities implicit in her words “And you, perhaps.” Was it possible that I could have a place in the future of this stunning woman, this goddess?

“This toro is amazing,” she said as she chewed on the delectable nigiri.

It was incredibly sexy watching her chew and smile with satisfaction. “Could she devour me like she was that fatty tuna?”, I wondered, hopefully. Be careful what you wish for…

“Isn’t this place exceptional?”, I replied.

“Yes, excellent choice, Stevie. You definitely get brownie points for taking me here.”

“I’m so happy you like it. I want to please you, Simone.”

“Good. I like to be pleased. You wouldn’t expect me to start popping out babies, would you, Stevie, if we were to get married?”

I was light headed, giddy with joy at the mere thought she would even entertain the hypothetical thought of marrying me.

“No, of course not. I mean not unless you wanted to someday. It would be totally up to you.”

“Right answer. So tell me more about you. Tell me about your job.”

So for the rest or the meal and over dessert in a gelato shop nearby, she asked me questions about my career, the hours I worked, the size and location of my condo, the kind of places I liked to travel (I shared Simone’s love of beautiful beaches and high end resorts – what cruel irony, in my present circumstances!).

She asked about my previous relationship history (or lack thereof). I’m sure Elissa had filled her in a bit on that, although I certainly had not gone into details with our esoteric match maker about how things ended with Cara, and how that unhappy experience fundamentally changed me (ruined me, one might even argue). Elissa and Simone were both highly perspicacious women, however, especially when it comes to detecting (and manipulating) submissive men – so some things didn’t need to be said.

“Tell me about Cara. What did she look like?”

After I described Cara in a general way, Simone asked, “Does she look anything like me?”

“She has long legs like you, and a great smile like you. She’s lovely, but not in your league, Simone. You are beautiful. You’re extraordinary.”

She flashed her entitled smile again, asking, “But you were in love with her, right? Be honest with me, Stevie?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And she left you for another guy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Why, do you suppose? Did he make more money than you?”

“No, he was a bartender,” I laughed, somewhat bitterly still.

“So, like, what did he have that you didn’t? Did she tell you?”

“She said she had chemistry with him that she didn’t have with me. He was taller…and he played soccer. He was in better shape than me, I guess.”

I could swear that she glanced down, almost imperceptibly, at my crotch again. “And how did that make you feel, when you were dumped by her for another guy.”

“I was devastated.”

“Poor Stevie. It sounds to me like maybe Cara didn’t have her priorities straight,” she said, resting her hand gently on my thigh. She was wearing a short black skirt and sheer nylon stockings this time, and I tingled when I felt her leg briefly touch mine as she licked the last of her gelato off her spoon. My cock grew stiff in my Armani suit.

However, with my arousal came anxiety, so I went there: “But, if we were together, Simone, you might …might dump me, too, when a better looking guy comes along. You’re taller than me. I’m not in your league. I don’t think I could survive being hurt that way again.”

The mark of a true beta male, laying my most sensitive vulnerabilities and insecurities right out there, on only the second date no less. Such a transfer of power, and we hadn’t even slept together yet (or anything approximating that). But she was the one who had mentioned “marriage” as a possibility; it seemed as if there was no time to lose.

“I think you’re cute, Stevie. You’re a lot cuter than most of the geeks and dweebs I friendzoned in college. The guys who took care of my homework and did other useful things for me. But I bet that you’d be accommodating like them, wouldn’t you?”

“For you, I’d be as accommodating as hell.”

“I would take a totally different approach than your girlfriend Cara did, if someone else were to come along and sweep me off my feet when I was with you. I like to have my cake and eat it too. Do you catch my drift, Stevie?”

“I believe I do, Simone.”

“Could you handle that, do you think?”

“As long as you wouldn’t leave me, yes. Yes, I could. I told Elissa that.”

“I know, she told me. But I had to hear it for myself. Are you certain that you could handle it?”

“Yes, I’m absolutely certain. I may be a hopeless romantic, but I’m also pragmatic. I’m a realist.”

“It might even be kind of exciting, under the right circumstances? Right, Stevie? , she asked, again brushing her leg against mine, this time with a little more force.

I couldn’t meet her eyes as I answered meekly, “Yes, Simone, it might.”

I had no doubt that I was blushing violently as I made this shameful admission. Laying bare not only my vulnerabilities but my most secret, shameful fantasies. Not explicitly, of course. It was a subtle cat and mouse game we were playing at this point, but there was no doubt whatsoever about which one of us was the cat and which the mouse.

After dessert, we walked along Rodeo Drive. This was in mid June, so it was still light out as we walked among the designer boutiques. When she admired a pair of black leather Jimmy Choo ankle boots in the window of one of the women’s shoe stores, I insisted on buying them for her on the spot. She did not resist, but thanked me for my generosity.

As I signed the $1400 charge to my AMEX Platinum card, I asked her, “Don’t you want to try them on to make sure they fit?”

“I own a couple of pairs of Jimmy Choos, so I know the size fits. Besides, this store will definitely let me exchange them if they don’t for some reason. I’ve shopped here many times.”

However, a half an hour later, as we were walking through Beverly Gardens Park about an hour before dusk, Simone sat down on the elevated containment wall of the lily pond and said, “On second thought, Stevie, you’re right, I should probably try these shoes on, because my Jimmy Choos are high heels, not ankle boots, and the sizing may be different. Why don’t you put them on my feet to see if they fit. Like Prince Charming does with Cinderella’s glass slipper?” That flirtatious, impish smile, again.

This request, coming out of left field as it did, both titillated and alarmed me. “Actually, if I’m not mistaken, it was the prince’s messanger, not Prince Charming himself, who tries the slipper on Cinderella’s foot,” I answered lamely, more in an attempt to buy time and sort out my conflicting emotions.

“It’s pretty funny that you, like, know the details of a girl’s fairytale better than I do,” she said, her smile now conveying amusement but also faint contempt for the first time.

“Well, it’s sort of a universal fairytale, isn’t it?

“If you say so. But what difference does it make whether it’s Prince Charming or his servant? Don’t you want to help me try on my new shoes?”

“Well, of course I do. But here?” I looked from side to side at the still crowded park, with couples and individuals strolling around or sitting nearby.

“Yes, of course, here. That way, if they don’t fit, we can take them back to the store and exchange them right away. You’re not worried about someone you know seeing you, like one of your clients are coworkers, are you, Stevie?”

That was precisely what I was worried about, but it somehow felt small minded of me to admit it. So, I answered, stumblingly, “Um, no, of course not…I…”

With a somewhat imperious smile and firm tone, Simone interrupted me, “There’s something you better know about me, Stevie. I like men that are willing to take risks. I also like men that aren’t shy about showing their appreciation for me. Like, you did call me a goddess only a little while ago, didn’t you? Or was I just imagining it?”

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I did. And, no, you didn’t imagine it. You ARE a goddess.”

“Then you shouldn’t hesitate to treat me like one, no matter where we are, right? If you’re afraid to do that, maybe we’re just wasting our time with each other.”

There was a rational side of me that wanted to argue: how could you possibly think I don’t appreciate you after just spending over $1,000 on omakase and $1,400 on boots for you on only our second date? Then there was the other side of me – call it my id, I suppose – that longed to demonstrate my devotion to her, to touch her feet, to kneel before her in this public space in a clear display of subservience. And most of all, to not let her slip away by failing this test she was giving me.

In the battle between my ego and my id, it was no contest. I dropped to my knees before her on the hard pavement and began fumbling with the box to remove her new boots. In my peripheral vision, I was conscious of others in the park watching us – hoping, of course, that no one recognized me – and looked up at Simone, her beautiful smile now one of perfect self satisfaction. I was waiting for her to remove the longer boots she was already wearing, but she made no move to do so.

“Well, Stevie, these boots aren’t gonna take off themselves.” She extended her long leg towards my face. I gripped the bottom of her boot and began tugging lightly

“These boots can be a little difficult to get off. You need to pull harder.”

I did just that, falling back on my rear end as it came off suddenly, causing Simone to giggle.

“Now the other one,” she said to me, extending her other foot.

When I had removed both boots, she said, “Stevie, my tootsies are sore from wearing these nasty, old, tight boots. Would you mind giving them a little massage for me before we try on the new ones?”

Her long, black leather boots looked anything but nasty and old to me, but that was irrelevant. I answered, “It would be my pleasure.”

As I took hold of her stocking-clad foot, damp with perspiration, she smiled and said, “My feet sweat so much in these boots. I hope they’re not grody to the max.”

She giggled with delight at these words. I had to think her use of this phrase was intentional, mimicking the stereotypical valley girl. But I couldn’t be sure. Was she fucking with my mind? Undoubtedly, she was, but it was unclear to me in how many different ways at once.

I did catch a whiff of odor, but it was far from unpleasant. It was a commingled scent of leather and her foot sweat, tinged with the synthetic smell of her nylon stockings: musky, complex, exquisite really. As I pressed my fingers gently into the ball and sole of her foot, I felt my cock stiffen beneath my suit. Again using my peripheral vision, I noticed people starting to stare more openly at the unusual sight of a well dressed man on his knees, tending to the feet of this beautiful woman in the middle of the park. The sun was just starting to set at this point, the light resplendent. There was a soft pink glow on Simone’s lovely hair and face. She was indeed a goddess, worthy of worship.

Even now as I write these words, lying here in my cot – the light of a somewhat similar quality to that evening three years earlier, but this time at sunrise – my cock is swelling painfully against my chastity cage as I recall this moment in the park. My first close encounter with Simone’s perfect feet, my first overt act of submission to her (and a public one, at that).

Simone said, “Press harder, Stevie. I like my massages – and other things – to be a little rough.”

As I tried to dechifer this innuendo, I did as she requested (or was it commanded?), kneading her soles rigorously. Cara used to ask me for post coital massages, a way to reward the feet that had brought me such pleasure. So I was not a complete novice.

Simone said to me, “Hey, you’re not too bad at this. It totally makes me think you’ve had some practice. I wonder if Prince Charming ordered his servant to massage Cinderella’s and the other women’s feet before he tried on the glass slipper? I’ll bet that was in the original story, but got, like, edited out,” she laughed

So now I was no longer Prince Charming, but his servant?, I thought to myself. Not the gallant prince searching for the girl he fancied at the dance, but a mere servant performing a menial task for his superior. Or superiors: the prince and Cinderella. Then I thought to myself, “Get ahold of yourself. It was you who corrected her about the prince’s messanger being the one who knelt before Cinderella to try on the slipper. She’s just playing along, teasing you. Flirting with you.” But looking back today, it’s almost like her words were some kind of premonition or foreshadowing of the current state of affairs – Master Lance as some magnified, twisted, perverted version of Princess Charming and I a greatly diminished, twisted, perverted version of his servant. Does this sound crazy to you? Perhaps, it is. Increasingly, I feel as if I’m losing my grasp on reality in this hothouse penal colony.

“It’s kind of exciting doing this right in the middle of the park, isn’t it Stevie? What would you do if that cute girl and her boyfriend staring at us off to the right was your secretary? Or if he was, like, a junior consultant in your office?”

“I don’t know, Simone. I don’t care. I’m just happy to be here with you,” I replied, half lying (there was a part of me that remained concerned, as back then my identity was so inextricably tied to my career).

“Good boy,” she said, wiggling her toes inches from my face. When I started massaging her left foot, she rested her right foot on my shoulder. It felt natural being her footrest. I wanted to turn my head and press my nose into the sole of her nylon encased foot and inhale deeply. I wanted to suck her toes greedily. Honestly, at that point, it wasn’t even being out in public that prevented me from doing so; it was just that I wasn’t yet certain how Simone would react.

After I finished massaging her second foot, spending about ten minutes on each, she smiled contentedly and said, “That feels better. Now, it’s time to see if the shoe fits.”

After I laced her second shoe, still on my knees, she extended her legs on both sides of my head, pointing out her toes, and turned her ankle to admire the boots from different ankles. Then she said, “They’re a perfect fit. You may have found your princess, Stevie. The question is are you prince or servant?”

I responded by kissing the toe of her boot, no longer giving a damn about who may be watching, and looking into her eyes, said, “Both, princess. I can be both.”

She rewarded me with me her most complex, beautiful smile yet: delighted, amused, imperious, seductive, faintly disdainful. I then saw her eyes wander down to my crotch, and she giggled. Looking down, I saw the small, but unmistakable tent in my suit. My shame was intense, but it only increased my arousal.

I could not know at the time, of course, but my long, circuitous journey to this godforsaken tropical paradise began that evening.