I shake off my umbrella and step out of my trench coat. You greet me with a robe, towel, tea and the promise of a hot bath after my walk. Thoroughly charming. I'm grateful for your care and consideration. I sorely need this after the rain. But first, I have to strip. I'm thrown, all finesse gone in a daze. Pulling off my bra, I ask after your day. You're not having it. "Keep going," you admonish lightly. Leaning against a column, you quip about still perfecting a Dom scowl. I disagree. You stare me down as I undress, assessing me. Imposing, incisive and alluring. I'm often not sure how I'm measuring up, particularly in this moment. I jerkily free myself from my jeans and panties. You help me into my robe, and I cup my mug, warmth racing up my arms. I inhale as I make my way upstairs, grounding myself in the candlelight flickering beyond the door.
The bath is just hot enough for me to hiss and shudder as I slip in. I'm quickly bright pink below the surface. Nursing my tea, I gaze into the blackened wick of the candle near my feet. Tension drains down my back as I roll my shoulders and sink further in. You make your way upstairs. Will you be joining me? How I would love that, even if there isn't room in the tub. Maybe you'll watch? The faint sounds of clanking chains mingle with hang drum music. You are choosing your toys, arranging them. I listen for what you are pulling out of your toy box, still now in the tub. The wide range of sounds bodes well. I wonder if the soundscape is intentional. I earnestly anticipate my imminent service, being put through my paces. What edges will we tread today?
My heart is light as I grin softly at the candle. The last racing thoughts subside as I savor this indulgent bath. I finally melt. Receding inwards, acutely aware of the sensations around me, I steadily drift into subspace. Water laps around my thighs, clinging to the nape of my neck. My throat bobs as I swallow the last of my tea. I stroke the lip of the tub, and brush my hair back, sensations heightened now. A thready pulse jumps at my temple beneath quiet fingers. I roll forward onto my knees to stretch, and kneel. I contemplate what your first instruction might be under hooded eyelids. I step out, reaching for the towel as you enter. You tell me to take my time, as water rolls off me. I pat down, perhaps too quickly as I'm eager to start. I'm still flushed and damp as you shift a blindfold over me, water trickling from my hair.
Gentle pressure on my shoulder and arm guides me as we weave our way just inside the door of your room. "Step up," you bid me, maintaining contact. It's a lower step than I figure. "Bring your feet to the edge of the step." I comply. "Lift your heels, onto the balls of your feet." Another panel slides in place. I'm expecting more panels, but instead you ask for my hands. Flexible cuffs are worked up past my elbows, and another set onto my wrists. I fumble a bit as you guide my hands into mitts. You set my wrist cuffs onto a hook. My forearms lengthen up the door. Rocking my hips back, I steady my stance on the tiered panels.