Gently Bitten

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"I like to sexually enslave vulnerable men.  But, you know, ironically."

Bryce raised an eyebrow, and looked over his PBR at the woman sitting at the bar next to him.

She smiled sweetly through her horn-rimmed glasses.  Then she took a small brush out of an inner pocket in her thin brown leather jacket, and began drawing in the moisture left on the bar from her glass.

"Ironically," he repeated.

"Sure.  You know, since cultural tropes are ultimately meaningless expressions of impersonal social forces, heavily influenced by self-serving commercial interests which use their domination of media channels to shape public perceptions of acceptable forms of identity... having a boy on a leash, kneeling and licking my cunt under--" she looked down at her brown plaid wool miniskirt-- "this skirt, *could* be a sheeplike expression of conformity to media stereotypes like 'dominatrix' and" she looked into Bryce's eyes again, with a half-smile, "'slave.'  Or, maybe it's an ironic reimagining of those media stereotypes.  When you think about that image, what would you call it?"

Her gaze was very direct.  He *could* see that in his mind's eye, and his face flushed pink under his muttonchop sideburns.  "I..." he fumbled.



"That's my name, don't wear it out," she murmured, looking down at her water doodle on the bar top.  It was a broad, tight spiral of droplets, like a miniature galaxy.  "But, you know, my friends call me 'Mistress.'"