Her fingers nervously adjust the string of pearls wrapped around her slim neck. She smoothes the white apron, and fluffs the full skirt of the 1950s vintage dress, straightening the glass tumbler on the tray, as she anxiously awaits his arrival home. She is going for demure, her natural curves tight and constrained beneath the dress. Closer to the middle of her life than the start, she is no longer a girl, yet still not quite a woman. She knows when he arrives home, he will be hungry for her. He always is. The dark look he gives her flashes through her memory, quickening her heart, dampening her panties. He is her teacher, showing her the depths of her desire, awakening her sensuality in a way she had never imagined possible.
In her life she has accumulated things, a handful of valuable possessions, some adult responsibilities, a scattering of vague achievements, a sprinkling of indefinite wisdom, she supposed she is a well rounded human. But the door that has been opened before her, the one that she tentatively stands on the threshold to, has her all consumed. It is him that stands on the other side, beckoning her. She is afraid, scared of the boundaries she has created, that each time she pushes against them, how easily they fall.
As she stands in their kitchen, she second guesses her gift to him this Valentine's Day. Her complete surrender. He is greedy, insatiable and seemingly without limits. He tells her to be scared of him. And she is. Terrified. He keeps her unbalanced. She knows better than to be complacent. He tells her this is just the beginning.
She hears the key in the lock of the front door, and she scurries out of the open plan kitchen, standing in front of the island, she waits for him.
His footsteps echo down their long hallway, heavy on the well worn boards, he strides with purpose. She clasps her hands in front of her to quiet the shaking.
And then he is there. The worst kind of iconoclast, taking her in, his eyes roam down the curves of her décolletage, she catches the slight flare of his nose as he passes the frilly apron tied at her waistline. Down her full skirt, over her silk stockings, before landing on her high stilettos. She has taken some liberty with the six inch heels, finding a pair with a cute bow on the toes to meet the 1950s brief she was given. She infers from the low growl that reaches her from across the room he approves. The sound reaches deep inside her core, sparking her desire. Her need to be taken.
"Welcome home Daddy." Her voice barely above a whisper.
"Hello little kitten. You look particularly delectable this evening."
"I dressed for you."
"Good girl." And with those words she begins to tumble. The now familiar fall into submission.
She approaches him, tentatively, like a mouse to a lion. He remains still as she loosens his necktie. Unable to resist the need to feel his skin under her fingertips, she tugs the silk of his tie, and as he drops his lips down to meet hers, she strokes his cheek. He kisses her deeply, showing the card of his own hungry need, his stubble rough against her soft skin, his body hard against hers as she presses against him.
Breathless she draws back, sliding the tie from under his collar.
"I'll keep that." he commands as he folds and pockets the necktie.
She shivers at her imagining of what he plans to do with it.
She steps around to his back. She pulls the suit jacket down his arms, hanging it on the coat stand. Returning to stand before him, she removes his cuff links, and unbuttons his shirt, revealing his broad chest. She takes his hand and leads him to his lounger, a gentle push sees him seated below her. His eyes sparkle with amusement as they follow her to the island bench, the clinking ice swirls in the freshly made bourbon she hands to him.
He eyes her over his drink, with unsure hands she pulls at the bow of her apron strings. His gaze never wavers, following her every move, she reaches behind pulling down the zipper of her turquoise dress. It drops to the floor leaving her exposed in a pale pink satin bra, panties, and garter attached to her silk stockings.
Dropping to her knees at her master's feet, she unlaces his leather shoes, removing them one at at time, and balling his socks. She takes one of his bare feet into her hands and begins to massage his soles, focusing on the pressure points she has learnt in the reflexology course she has taken to please him.
His body stirs, his blue eyes she sees are hard with desire, peering out from the blonde hair that has fallen around his face.
"Stand up." He commands.
She rises to her feet, he stands and he stalks around her, circling her, examining her. He takes the tie from his pocket and binds her wrists together behind her back. Her heart begins to pound. She has been craving this moment.
He returns with a pair of scissors, he slides the cold metal from collarbone, down her chest, between her breasts, she shudders at the chilly touch, at the fear of his control. He opens the blades and with one snip, cuts her bra open between the cups. Two more quick snips and the brassiere lays in a pile around her feet. He runs the cold steel further south, over her belly, tracing the satin covered swollen mound between her thighs. Two more quick cuts and the ruined panties fall to join their matching partner. He leaves the garter in tact to confirm her nakedness.
"Kneel at my feet." She does as she is told. His darkened eyed locked with hers his deep voice reverberates through her,
"You belong to me.
You're mine.
You're my property.
You're my good girl.
You're my plaything.
You're my slave."
