I. Karen
Karen pulled up to the house and tapped on the brake of her car with one absurdly high-heeled patent leather toe. With a last, surly growl the engine died as she twisted and removed the key from the ignition. The "hooker shoes," as she called them, were ludicrously impractical for just about anything, least of all driving, but she had chosen to give Dane the power to decide everything about this evening, up to and including what she would wear. The thought made her head swim with excitement, her stomach knot with tension and parts south damp with need.
If my coworkers could see me now...
In her daily life, Karen worked in middle management for a call center. She'd worked her way up the ranks quickly and in her mid-thirties enjoyed a comfortable if modest living. She liked her job in a mindless way that shambled along just on the razor's edge of boredom, but something crucial was missing.
She'd realized about three months before that she was sick of never having someone around to take the wheel, so to speak. It always fell to her to deliver the carefully scripted, rehearsed, HR-approved "It's time for us to part ways" speech.
At work she was always "on," never allowed to have an off day or a hair out of place, even when catastrophes wafted across her desk that would make a lesser or weaker manager think longingly of a nice, safe career at McDonald's. She didn't mind it, but in her off hours...
Well. She doubted she'd need to worry about her off hours if Dane proved to be everything he claimed.
Stepping out of the car, she picked up her handbag with her right hand and tugged her thigh-length short skirt into place as best she could with the left, thanking whatever deities might be listening that Dane had scheduled her visit after sunset, when she was less likely to broadcast the color and cut of her lilac thong panties to the entire immediate universe. The panties had been explicitly forbidden, and she was curious to see what he would do when he noticed this small bit of defiance. But she had to test him, had to know that he wasn't a "fair-weather Dominant" or worse, some asshole emulating that Christ-awful series of books about the billionaire who was into bondage. He didn't seem like a Christian Grey wannabe, but a girl just never knew. The panties would make a good litmus test.
As she tottered up the driveway toward the front door, she gave a last quick check of her cleavage, displayed enticingly if she said so herself behind the four undone buttons of her blouse. A dab of perfume had been strategically placed between her breasts, ears and wrists. If there was anything amiss with her makeup or hair, she wouldn't know it at this point and couldn't do a damned thing about it even if she could, having left all her grooming supplies at home. All that resided in the handbag were her keys, wallet, cell phone and a change of comfy clothes which he had selected from her verbal descriptions with exacting specificity.
Thinking of the phone, she pulled the thin device out of her purse and quickly tapped out a message.
"I'm at Dane's house. The address is 2742 Seacrest Drive. If you don't hear from me in two hours, call me."
The response came almost immediately.
"K. Have fun."
She smiled a bit at her eternally optimistic friend Zoe, who'd set up her dating site profile for her behind her back and helped her choose from the offerings who presented themselves for her perusal. Zoe had a good feeling about Dane, especially given the parade of losers, fuckboys and "loners with boners" who had littered her online landscape before he showed up. The deal was sealed wne Karen told her it was Dane's idea to make sure Zoe knew where she was and to set up regular check-ins. "Safe calls," he called them, and both of the women admired his ability to think ahead and acknowledge the realities of twenty-first-century dating for women even as he stated his desires in terms that would make even the most jaded streetwalker blush.
The door was nondescript, with green, textured plastic panels in place of proper panes of glass. Taped to the light blonde wood was a crisp white envelope with her name scrawled in a bold, sharp, no-nonsense hand. She took it off the door and opened it, scanning the paper inside.
Karen,
The key is under the third rock from the left. Open the door, come inside, lock the door behind you and then set your purse and the house key on the kitchen counter to your right. You will find an object there whose purpose should be self-explanatory. Put the object on, turn ninety degrees to the left, take two steps forward, turn ninety degrees to the right and take six steps forward. Then stop and await further directions. I am looking forward to seeing you.
Dane
Her heart stuttered a bit in her chest. How long had it been since anyone besides Zoe and her parents had actually wanted to see her? Most people skittered out of her way as if she was a combination of executioner and Typhoid Mary when she walked through the office, doing their best to look busy and blend into the walls.
She shook off the introspection, tucked the envelope into her purse and turned, considering the rocks he'd spoken of. The third one from the left looked exactly like the others until she touched it. Instead of stone, her fingers met smooth plastic. Lifting the rock revealed nothng. She gave the faux rock an experimental shake and was rewarded with a metallic rattle. In a few seconds, she located the hidden compartment, pulled out a small silver key and put the rock back in the hole from which it had come, an easy task since it and its companions were set into rich, black gardening soil and the cavity made replacing it in the same position simplicity itself.
Squaring her shoulders, she slotted the key into the lock and gave the knob a brisk quarter turn. The door opened easily onto a tiny foyer. Ahead of her, a warm amber light filled what she assumed to be the main room. To her right, exactly where he said it would be, a black object that she quickly realized was a sleep mask made of leather crouched on the kitchen counter. She ran over his directions in her mind and realized that if she followed his directions exactly, she would end up in the very center of the main room. Her nostrils flared.
Her heart pounded.
She set the purse down and took the mask in its place.
How tight should I make it?
If he told you to wear it, he probably doesn't want you to be able to see at all, or why would he have given you such precise directions?
Conceding the point, she took a deep breath and secured the mask, tugging the small belt into place just one notch shy of where it would have hurt her. Not even the faintest trace of light broke through, which was undoubtedly what he'd planned.
Sadistic bastard.
Turning to the left, she took two steps forward, hands out to prevent her from running into anything. They smacked gently against the wall. Then she turned to the right and counted off six paces, the mingled fear, freedom and desire that sang through her filling her head with white noise as she obeyed Dane's written commands.
II. Dane
The rattle of the key in the lock shook Dane out of the fantasy world of the novel he'd been reading. To be fair, he hadn't been giving the author his due attention anyway, even though the book was one of his perennial favorites. The idea that a Dominant didn't feel fear or worry was ludicrous. He feared rejection and overstepping the carefully negotiated boundaries he and Karen had established more than anything at the moment. A cool, brusque, uncaring demeanor had become so much a part of the "vanilla" perception of the Dominant's lifestyle that he sometimes wondered if people thought all Dominants just rolled off an assembly line somewhere, like Terminators with floggers instead of plasma rifles.
He heard the door swing open and had to take several deep breaths to still his racing heart. She was here, on time and as planned. He hoped she liked what he had in mind for her; he had very carefully considered how best to introduce her to submission, spending hours he should have devoted to other matters creating an outline for the evening and assembling the necessary items. Now that she had arrived, he felt the old, nagging urge to second-guess himself as she click-clacked into the tile-floored foyer on heels that sounded just a little unsteady. Banishing the thought, he sat back, outwardly calm and controlled.
The outfit he had chosen for the evening, black cargo pants, T-shirt and boots, had been selected for comfort and ease of movement. It had lots of pockets, which helped too. In his right cargo pocket rode a small, sharp pocket knife and a pair of emergency shears. In the other pocket he had tucked away a Wartenburg pinwheel and a handful of wooden clothespins.
He had decided an elaborate scene would not be a good introduction, so he'd steered clear of ropes, restraints and other such devices. Likewise, he wouldn't bring the canes, floggers or whips into play tonight, unless her behavior was such that he decided it was warranted. No, he wanted to go slow and gentle with her, ease her into submission and teach her to associate light pain with pleasure. Walking before she ran, he called it, and it worked. No need to tamper with perfection.
A tentative clacking on the tile floor drew closer. Paused. Started again, this time headed almost straight for him. She stepped into the room, took two steps and halted, her arms out. His mouth went dry at the sight of her. She'd worn a black micro-mini and a long-sleeved silk blouse the color of jade. He noted with approval that she'd worn no jewelry, although he clenched his jaw a little at the blush and lipstick she'd worn. It was natural enough, but that wasn't the same as "none," which is what he had specified. Her long, light chestnut hair tumbled down to her shoulders, her full lips lightly parted. Her legs looked long, sleek and strong, the better to wrap themselves around him later in the evening. The five-inch heels set off her powerful calf muscles to perfection, and he had no doubt the view would be just as delectable from the rear.
"Good evening," he said, keeping his voice low and cool.
"Good evening," she replied automatically, instinctively turning toward his voice like a flower bending toward the run.
"First rule," he said. "You know we agreed that if you showed up, you were saying you are mine to do with as I wish."
"Yes," she said after a moment.
"Yes what?" he snapped.
"Yes, Sir."
"That's more like it." He began to prowl around her, letting his fingertips just brush her arms. "The first order of business is to teach you the Inspection stance. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," she said promptly.
"Well done." He reached down and took her wrists in his hands, marveling at how light and thin they felt in his grip. She wasn't made of porcelain, but somewhere deep down, he feared he would break her if he was too rough with her. He would have to work to overcome that if he was to train her to fulfill his needs properly, and fulfill hers in turn. She didn't need or want to be treated like glass.
He raised her hands slowly to the back of her head, placing the left over the right and then cocking her elbows out so they pointed straight out. Then he crouched behind her and lightly prodded at the insides of her knees. She took the hint quickly and spread her feet until they were just a little over shoulder width apart. He glanced up and froze as he noticed the light purple fabric nestled between her ripe, smooth buttocks.
"What's this?" he demanded, reaching up to give the waistband a sharp tug.
"M-my panties."
