Friday

friday

My stomach tensed in the elevator up to the eighth floor. The ride felt longer than it was; the oversized green duffel bag slung from my forearm was heavy, and the strap was leaving an indent in my skin.

That one wouldn't last, but made me wonder about the many more marks to come. Would they fade quickly, as this one, from red to pink back to peachy flesh? Or would they turn those glorious shades of purple and blue and remain there, souvenirs tucked under my shirtsleeves and hemline for weeks after you'd be gone?

The elevator slowed and lurched. I tried to steer my thoughts away from the future. Exhaling, I planned for just my next steps out of the elevator as I searched for my bearings. Inhaling, I closed my eyes. Exhaling, I tried to slow my racing heart. My eyes fluttered back open as the doors parted, and I stepped out into the hallway.

I had followed your instructions earnestly. Upon arriving and parking in the downstairs garage, I checked in and left one of the two room keys at the reception desk with your name.

The large green bag on my arm was packed full with everything you had asked to requisition for the week, as was the brown leather backpack hung from the opposite shoulder alongside my yoga mat. I had checked the contents of each against your list three times before leaving the house that morning.

I knew there would be suffering ahead. I knew I would make mistakes. But not yet. So long as I had opportunity to be meticulous, I would be. So long as I could keep it that way, you would have no grounds to inflict punishment upon me.

The contents of the duffel jostled as I walked; there had been no way to organize them well. Clothes and toiletries for the week ahead - a mix of things to wear out & stay in. Tools to give pleasure, cause pain, and restrain. A bottle of whisky (for you). Three bottles of wine and a corkscrew (for me). A few snacks. In my backpack, smaller, more familiar things. Headphones. A blank, mid-sized notebook and a few pens. A Polaroid camera.

I wound my way down the hall to the right, finding the room I'd been assigned by the front desk: 816. As I dipped the key into the slot, my mind raced through mental lists of the tasks before me. Your instructions had been detailed, but gave me few hints about how our first night together would take shape. The light on the lock clicked and flashed from red to green. I pushed the door open, took a breath, and entered.

Walking in, I set the duffel down and surveyed the room. Through gauzy curtains, natural light streamed in from the late afternoon sun. The plum-colored drapes weren't drawn, and I could see across the back alley. Down a few stories were the rear windows of a row of brownstones. More buildings, further toward the city, were visible at eye level. But no one so close they could peep in.

Thank goodness for that.

For a suite, the room was neither small nor large. There was a kitchenette to the left of the entry, complete with a small island and two stools for eating. Across the rectangular room, a small sofa and coffee table combo formed the left bracket around the far window while a wall-hung TV and desk set formed the right. The door to the bedroom was between the kitchenette and the sofa.

Walking through it, I faced the king bed, with a bathroom and closet to my left. On the other side, this room also had a large window, perhaps bigger than the first one I had seen. Nightstands bookended either side of the bed, and another TV hung to my right above a dresser. There was floor space between each piece of furniture, though the bedroom was notably tighter than the foreroom.

I walked back to where I had dropped the green bag, and noticed a front closet by the door that I had initially missed. I stood my yoga mat up against its corner, and, opening the luggage stand inside, I set my bag upon it and got to unpacking.

I started with my clothes. Not knowing what to expect, I'd tried to bring along a little of everything. Three tops I could go out in, a sweater, a jacket. A pair of jeans, a red skirt. A pair of sweats, some workout clothes. A big, cozy t-shirt. A black dress, tights, and tall wine-colored boots. Black heels, sandals, tennis shoes. I filled the bottom left drawers of the six-drawer bedroom dresser, and hung a few items in the closet.

After the street clothes were folded neatly and away, I began pulling from the bag items for "staying in." Lingerie had been the hardest category of items to pack; you had requested nothing specifically, and deciding what lacy underthings might ensnare your senses had been an embarrassing exercise in my closet at home.

Cheeks pink, I'd ultimately decided what I was aiming for confidence more than any one particular aesthetic. You liked me sure of my whorishness, especially in relation to your position above me. Most of the pieces I'd grabbed were black and strappy: three sets, two teddies. Stockings, and a simple garter, the classics for good measure. One bright pink set, too, so as not to take myself too seriously. A few extra thongs. I laid them all out in the top drawer on my side of the same dresser, folding them carefully, as if they belonged in some absurdly expensive atelier.

Next to unpack were toiletries, which I set up carefully throughout the shower stall and bathroom sink. I'd brought a few things beyond the basics. A sweet, vanilla perfume I thought you might remember fondly. Plenty of extra hair ties. Non-waterproof mascara, knowing full well how much you enjoyed watching blackened tears stain my face while you hurt me.

Finally, a few things from your list. Lube. Arnica gel. An antibacterial foam for cleaning. These I cheekily added to the hotel-provided amenity basket.

I moved back to the living room next. The toys, I decided, should occupy the generously sized desk drawer. I lined it with a burgundy silk scarf, and then laid them out on top one by one. A pink vibrator. My lovense toys, all fully charged. My small, black plug with its bejeweled base. A small, black, pear shaped gag that buckled around the head. Two sets of quality cuffs - the pink, faux fur lined ones you'd seen and a new set you'd requested I pick out for our time together, this one plain black and padded. Links to connect them in three lengths.

Then, things that made me a bit more nervous. The bag of clothespins. The small, familiar binder clips, fetched from my office. A new crop, recently purchased and of similar quality as my first one had been. Climbing rope, several lengths of paracord, and five carabiners in different sizes. A few rolls of fabric, skin-safe medical tape.

Into the kitchen I unloaded the last contents of the large bag: drinks for each of us, a few ice packs for the freezer. Clif bars and Gatorades I knew might come in handy for aftercare. Three cans of chicken soup. A few limes. A nalgene.

Finally, I unloaded my backpack. I set the Polaroid camera, headphones, and two bandanas atop the desk. The blank notebook and pens I set on the bedside table, along with my phone and its charger.

Per your instructions, I messaged you then that I had finished unpacking. I noted the time: 5:11, about half an hour before you were due in. Then I selected a bottle of wine to open, the barbaresco, and poured myself a glass. A good pick, I thought to myself, taking a sip. The tannins were grippy and the acid strong.

Grabbing the ice bucket, I exited the room and wound my way back through the hall to the vending area at the other end of the hall. Walking back, I noticed a grey, geometric pattern along both sides of the hallway. Running my hand along it for a moment as I walked, reaching for something sensory and feeling the grooved texture, I wondered when I would next see this wallpaper.

Would it be hours, or days?

When I returned, I took several more sips of my wine and turned down the thermostat to 67 degrees, slightly cooler than comfortable. Though you had not instructed me to do so, I knew you'd like seeing my nipples pert when you arrived. And I suspected our collective body heat would ensure the room temperature would creep up by the end of the evening.

I rechecked my phone. The small circles at the bottom of my most recent message had filled in. My stomach fluttered and turned, pulse suddenly racing. Another sip. I set my phone down on the nightstand, ringer on, and left it to charge.

I took a moment in front of the mirror, giving my hair a quick brush and refreshing my mascara. Looking back at my reflection, my excitement was evident. But something else, too. Not quite trepidation, not quite incredulity.

How did you get here?

I took a deep breath. I looked back at my reflection once again. I shifted my attitude away from doubt, sinking into my mantra, saying it aloud softly at first and then gradually louder until my voice sounded true and sure.

I'm your whore.

Following your last few instructions, I walked back out into the living area and moved the coffee table to the far side of the couch beneath the window. I drained the last of my wine before washing and drying the glass, returning it to the cabinet. I then stripped down into nothing at all, removing my shirt, my bra, my socks, leggings, and my thong, piling them into the closet and shutting the door.

When I was naked, for the first time in that room, I sunk down onto my elbows and knees where the coffee table had been, forearms placed parallel along the carpet in front of me, hips turned to thrust my bare cunt out toward the back wall. I took one last look at the door from where I kneeled. And then I cast my eyes down to wait.

***

Your final instruction to me was to stay still until you told me to move. And so I did.

Every few minutes or so, I'd hear a set of footsteps in the hall. Each time they passed the room, it undid me. Waiting for you like that, with so much adrenaline pulsing through me - it felt like an eternity.

And then, finally, I heard it. Footsteps that slowed as they approached. The click of the door lock. I came to attention. I heard the door creak, whoosh, and then footsteps.

Your

footsteps. The door closed.

You were here. You were inside the room.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I was sure you could hear my shallow, rapid breaths from where you stood in the far corner. I tried to relax. I closed my eyes. I inhaled, I exhaled. I repeated my mantra inside my head. I'm sure it was only a moment before you started walking across the room, but it again felt like an eternity.

You walked by close enough to me as you headed into the bedroom that I was able to see your boots. I heard you set bags down - at least two, by the sound of it, maybe three. And then remove a jacket. A rustle, a pause for a moment. Maybe to check your phone?

Then you walked into the bathroom. I heard you lift the toilet seat, undo your buckle. The clink of the metal made my mind race to memories of my doing the same, yanking and pulling and winding my fingers dexterously around the clasp. My body pulsed with anticipation of the opportunity to do it again, here with you in this room.

A zipping sound followed, and then the loud stream hitting the still water. A flush, and then the reverse of your unbuckling and unzipping. You stopped at the sink to wash your hands. I wondered if you smiled then, seeing my additions to the hotel's amenities. You paused again in the bedroom. And then you were crossing the room, back toward me.

I again tensed, arched my back more, this time bracing for closer scrutiny. But it proved to be unnecessary. Your boots came into and out of view quickly from where I kneeled before I heard it again: the door handle, a whoosh, a click.

Just like that, you were gone.

***

The first thought that came to mind as you'd left was some choice-word variation on

"are you fucking kidding me?"

I didn't doubt you'd be back soon. My best guess was this was a cigarette break. But the adrenaline-fueled anticipation was practically intolerable at this point - not to mention the ache building in my joints. My neck was the most noticeable. I dropped the crown of my head to the carpet, bowing my head further but offering a reprieve for my neck, an adjustment I felt I could defend if you were somehow testing me.

About two minutes later, I got the answer to that question as my phone chimed from the bedroom. Your message sound.

So, yes, this is a test.

I stayed put. More chimes. In my state, I lost count of them. Realizing this, I panicked and redoubled my efforts to keep track. I'd have guessed around 15 when they stopped.

A few minutes later, footsteps again outside the door. I snapped my head back up from the carpet just in time to hear the click, the whoosh, and you were back.

***

With you in the room, I was aware of every movement I made, every subtle way I shifted my weight. I had jerked to attention quickly. I wondered if you noticed as I settled slightly, returning to the precise angle of neck extension I could hold for you.

You walked over to the kitchen. I heard you open and close a cabinet, retrieving what I imagined was a glass. This was confirmed when I heard the clink of a scoop from the ice bucket, and the twist of packaging being removed from the top of the whisky bottle. The pop of a cork, and the splash of the liquid into the glass. Two glugs, and you set the bottle down and corked the top. I heard you take a sip. And then you began moving toward me.

Your boots came into view before they passed me on my right side. You sat down on the couch, and put them up on my bare, arched back. This close, I could hear your breath, much slower than mine. And, after a moment, tapping on your phone.

I felt every square millimeter of your boots against me. The stiff soles, the leather, the stitching. I drank it in, this first form of touch. It was already weighty and overwhelming in its appeal. I let out a nearly-silent whimper of pleasure. I wasn't sure if you heard it. But I hoped you did.

We stayed like that while you finished your drink and kept tapping away on your phone. My knees and elbows ached with almost unbearable stiffness - it had certainly been close to an hour in that pose. I caught a rogue chuckle at one point. At once, it made me grateful for the tiny morsel of auditory experience and indignant at the projected distractedness.

But you couldn't have been distracted, however much you made me wonder if it was the case. We were in the same room, touching, after so long without. No way your mind wasn't at least partially regarding the electricity radiating from the joint where we were connected. Right? I was sure, I told myself. No way.

Finally, you removed your feet from my back, and stood. Snapping to, I tightened the arch in my back, trying to be subtle so you wouldn't notice the extent to which I had slouched under the weight of your legs.

Of course, you did notice. You leaned over and put one hand firmly on the small of my back, the other onto the back of my thigh. Forcefully, you pushed down and up at once respectively, tilting my ass high into the air, exposing my cunt further to the room's cool air and the open space behind me.

And then, I heard it: your real voice echoed into my eardrums. Not some digitized, long-distance, pixelated fractionation of it. One word spilled out in your low, all too familiar drawl.

"Better."

My reply was immediate. "Thank you, Sir, for your correction."

The protocol of the words felt strange to jump to so quickly in the quiet room. It almost felt silly. Yet, despite myself, I found I meant them earnestly, a tenor you seemed to detect in my voice given your response.

"Mmm. Good girl. You're welcome."

You stepped away, towards the kitchen. I heard you uncork the whisky bottle, and pour a fresh drink before offering your first command of the night to me.

"Fetch your phone."

I knew well enough you expected me to crawl. By then, I'd begun to figure I would be crawling around most of the time we spent together in this room. With nary a glance, one touch, and fewer than ten words, you had established that beneath you was my baseline for the week ahead. Anything above that would require permission.

And so I fetched on all fours, through the bedroom door and toward the bedside table. Crawling slowly enough to swing my hips demurely as I moved, but quickly enough to demonstrate my obedience. I was grateful for the movement; pushing past the stiffness had been painful for a brief moment as I began to lurch forward. My knees howled with every step.

Approaching the nightstand, I slowed to reach up and grab the phone. Tucking it between my lips, I crawled back to where I had started. I turned to face the right direction, lowered my head, set the phone down from my mouth, and then rocked back into my tabletop position.

Another minute or two must have passed. You walked across the room in silence; I could feel and see your boots padding around me. Then you came over and sat back on the couch. No boots on me this time.

"Sit up, turn toward me, onto your knees, clasp your hands at opposite elbows behind your back, spread your legs wide, and look at me."

The words tightened and drenched my cunt immediately, raising my respiratory rate, a black magic seeping up through the carpet. This was it. I hadn't been this nervous to lay eyes on you since the day we met. I sat up and arranged my body accordingly before lifting my chin and eyes.

As I did, I noticed your legs were relaxed to either side of me; it was not lost on me then how I was positioned in relation to your cock. I understood then why you'd instructed me to hold my hands behind my back. Without a physical grip on myself, I wouldn't have been able to keep from reaching forward.

Finally, I met your gaze. It was as if the earth stopped spinning for a moment; I felt vertigo overtake me staring into your blue eyes, those same blue eyes that haunted my most lurid dreams and wildest fantasies. I couldn't help it then, not anymore than I could all those years ago in that bar on that warm spring night: a jumpy smile spread across my face as I looked at you, dimples evident, cheeks flushed.

I spoke to counter the intensity of your eyes piercing me. It was an anxious habit, one that led to nervous chatter you were used to calming upon our greetings. Unable to organize my thoughts with you staring through me, I started at the only place I could find.

"Hello, Sir."

It was only then you smiled back. "Hello, whore."

My cunt throbbed in response.

We looked at each other, just like that, no other words exchanged, for long enough that I suddenly felt idle. Here you were, and yet my orifices were not yet in use. I glanced downwards, breaking your gaze as that thought crossed my mind. Realizing my error, I quickly returned my eyes to yours. You seemed forgiving, but I couldn't be sure.

After another moment, "you can look at your phone."

"Thank you, Sir." I was determined to remember my manners.

Breaking the eye contact, I picked it up, switched on the screen, and tapped through to your messages. There were many, and they were long. I scrolled to the top and began reading.

Pet, you have been very good today, and this pleases me. Continue at this pace, and it will please me even more.

I encourage you to focus on that goal as your singular purpose this week. Know your behavior, whether good or bad, will not protect you from pain. We may discover together in this very room whether you really are the masochist you present yourself as from behind your keyboard, but trust that this discovery would be incidental to your true purpose. You are here simply to be used by me, however and whenever I care to use you. If I cause you to suffer, remember that you are suffering for me, and suffer well.