By His Command Ch 02

"May I buy you dinner..."

Simple words, but enough to make Sandra's breathing stop, just for an instant. The ringing phone revived her, breaking the spell. She knew it was Spencer. She knew she agreed to dinner. But do not ask her what else was said. The entire time, she was too busy wondering whether Spencer knew of his magical effect upon her, whether he knew that she had masturbated thinking of being in his thrall, climaxing only upon his command.

The rest of the day was also a blur. Sandra was tempted to touch her aching clit and tease her erect nipples while she showered, but resisted, sensing that Spencer would prefer the denial, that he would want her sexually on edge at dinner. Not that she thought the date would be more than dinner. Surely he would be a perfect gentleman - if only because that slight cruelty would make her want him more.

Because they had agreed to meet at his hotel and walk to dinner at a nice fish restaurant nearby, she would not have time to go home after work. All day, she wore her shelf bra, which allowed her nipples to rub directly against the inside of her favourite red dress.

Sandra knew that the red dress was a bit dressy for the office, but pleasing Spencer suddenly seemed like the most important thing. Besides which, her clients might pay more attention if they noticed her lush curvy body.

"Great, but not so hot that it's distracting." she assessed herself in the mirror before heading downtown that morning. "Little will my clients know that I'm wearing a matching thong and that these aren't hose, but instead are stockings, held up by garters."

She chuckled as she applied her lipstick, deep red, which perfectly matched the dress. "I wonder whether Spencer will get to find out. I hope he doesn't think that I'm a tramp if I succumb on the first date, but if things unfold that way, I won't be able to resist."

Sandra winked at her reflection and giggled girlishly, feeling younger than she had in a decade. She slipped on her sensible shoes, carrying her heels in her oversized "magic carpet bag" and headed out.

She worked, advising clients, but retained none of it. She did have a sense of great success, and if that day was a movie montage, it would have shown her sparkling, tossing her reddish hair flirtatiously, taking command of each situation, and bending mere mortals to her will. A client satisfaction survey would have been off the charts. And not one noticed the effect that the anticipation and friction was having on Sandra's nipples. She did though, and the electricity flowed from her breasts through her belly, warming her loins, until, by late in the day, the current was gushing out of her labia, wetness soaking her thong. She just hoped that her perfume masked the scent.

Finally, her last appointment ended, and she gathered her possessions to head to Spencer's hotel. Fortunately, the stuffy British clinic manager did not glance inside her bag of tricks as she stuffed her laptop inside, because, she was shocked to notice, her nipple clamps and handcuffs were floating loosely on top of the other contents.

'Note to self -- if I do this again, book only female clients the days I see Spencer,' Sandra thought, chuckling, but then she realized that this whole situation had evolved so quickly that planning was impossible, and that expectations about the future were ridiculous.

"Is something funny?" her pompous client asked. "I thought this was a rather serious subject."

'If only you knew,' Sandra thought, suddenly wondering if he liked to be tied up, but instead she said "I'm just pleased by how easy you are to work with."

Her ear to ear grin made the Brit blush, and she guessed that perhaps his willy was becoming chubby, him thinking that she found him attractive but actually, it was of course thoughts of Spencer.

Butterflies danced in her tummy as she smiled and thought about how sexuality could be a powerful business tool.

'I'll need to think about how I can use that,' she pondered while waiting for the elevator.

As she descended, she turned her mind back to her idea that a female client to end a Spencer day would be better. She felt her nipples stiffening again at the thought.

'Why?' she wondered, ' would a gal seeing my excitement be better? Would it be any less embarrassing?'

The feeling of dampness running down her bare thighs, coating the tops of her stockings, shouted "Yes."

This time the shiver ran up her spine, starting in her clit, spreading through her groin, and then up through her body until she felt her brain tingle and her face flush. Sandra was glad then that she had not worn a conventional bra, because not only were her nipples rock hard, but she felt her areolae puffing out from the flesh of her tits, as if begging to be sucked, or clamped. She had experimented with nipple clamps with previous lovers, but none had really shared her interest. They had done it haphazardly, locking the teeth in place and then forgetting about them.

"Nothing but vanilla fucking," she muttered out loud in disgust, suddenly glad that she was alone in the elevator. She gazed anxiously at the big red button marked STOP as if it might be a warning, and then wondering if it was a beacon. She felt her arm start to raise of its own volition, as her other hand touched her thigh and began slowly to rise up and caress her belly, that warm seat of her sensuality. Her finger even brushed against the button, the temptation to masturbate to climax was so compelling. Sandra had never been in such thrall.

Only at the last instant did common sense prevail. Sandra managed to remind herself that it was rush hour, that hundreds, if not thousands, of people were still streaming out of the building, and that even in off hours, stopping the elevator would likely set off an alarm somewhere, and a repair person or rescue team would be dispatched. She snickered at the mental image of them prying the car doors open to find her huddled in a corner, dress up around her waist, tits spilling out, sobbing, not from fear but the aftermath of her greatest orgasm ever, leaving a puddle of her essence on the floor.

So she didn't press the button. She contented herself with leaning back against the rear wall, her eyes shifting out of focus, her feet instinctively spreading into a more open stance. Before she reached the lobby, she had just enough time to give her left nipple a good tweak, and rub her clit briefly through the fabric of dress and thong, restraining herself from rubbing harder, fearing she would cause a stain on the front of her dress.

Sandra was surprised to find that she was not solely focused on Spencer during this activity. Her earlier thoughts about women clients kept interrupting her efforts. Initially, this was based on the assumption that women would be less distracted by Sandra being sexually excited by plans with Spencer. But then Sandra realized women might be just as likely to notice Sandra's arousal, which forced Sandra to consider how they might react.

The most surprising part of this thought process was that Sandra noticed that she got even wetter thinking about female clients -- particularly the younger, prettier ones - noticing her lingerie, appreciating how her nipples might press hard against her dress through a sheer bra. Sandra had always considered herself straight, but as she walked the underground pathway from the office building toward Spencer's hotel, she had to ask herself 'does this make me bi-curious or hetroflexible?'

She chuckled and muttered out loud, "Does it really matter?"

When some old businessman with exceptionally hairy ears turned in response and stared, she stuck her tongue out at him like a teenager, and skipped away with a spring in her step. Suddenly, Sandra felt sixteen again, with a whole world of possibilities -- sexual possibilities - open to her. This rejuvenation, she realized, was just the ticket. She floated towards Spencer's hotel in a daze, the fever gripping her. This wasn't Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles, or Mary Tyler Moore conquering Minneapolis, this was a strong, mature woman who had climbed her own mountains, ready to give over control to a man.

'Imagine if Mary had shut up long enough for Lou Grant to bend her over his desk and spank her, and then take her from behind on his couch,' she chuckled to herself reassuring, covering up for her remaining fear that whatever Spencer had in mind would be far more extreme than even Sandra could picture at this early stage in her awakening.

When she reached the hotel, Sandra realized that in her excitement, she had arrived early. She spotted a ladies room just off the lobby, and ducked inside, telling herself that she was going to check her lipstick. Instead, she found herself leaning against the cool marble panelling of the classic old hostelry, the scent of her sex wafting around her in a cloud.

She carefully raised the hem of her skirt with one hand while her other fingers gently caressed her belly before sliding down her thigh and then up again to push her thong aside. Sandra was not totally in a trance. She remembered to pause and glance again to confirm that she was alone - no feet under any stall door.

Still, she had to admit that the possibility of someone entering at any moment added to the thrill. Finally, her chest heaving with excitement, she touched her labia, triggering an instant flood. Her fingers pushed deeper, first one, then two, finally three, curling inside her slit, reaching up to caress her clit.

With her dress safely hiked up by the forearm attached to the hand exploring her quim, Sandra was able to use her other hand -- the one that had first lifted the hem - to pop her left tit out of the top of her dress. She proceeded to caress that mound, rubbing the underside in her palm, her fingers slowly moving up and around the curve which supported her erect nipple. Her thumb and forefinger flicked her clit with a matching tempo. If she had paused to realize, it was the beating of her heart which provided the music.

Before long, her pulse was pounding in her ears like a big bass drum. She began tugging her exposed nipple, and grasped her clit, gently pulling it away from its nest, her eyes closed, imagining that it was Spencer's teeth toying with her womanhood. Somehow Sandra knew that he would nibble her most tender flesh, but that he would remain in control, building her pain as pleasure, but never cross the boundary so that the shock startled her out of the dream. He would hold her right on the edge, like touching her with a knife, building pressure, but never quite cutting her.

"Unless he wants to taste my blood," Sandra snickered, not meaning to say it out loud.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked her reflection in a nearby mirror.

Just at that moment, Sandra heard the hinge squeak and noticed the washroom door begin to swing. She had the feeling that her senses were all heightened. 'I can't be turning into a vampire yet,' she thought, 'he hasn't even bitten me.'

Luckily, she also had the sense to remove her hand from her pussy, drop her skirt, and tuck her boob back into the top of her dress as the new occupant entered the room. From the look that she received, though, the woman clearly knew something was up. Maybe it was the too nonchalant way Sandra leaned against the wall, or maybe the other woman had noticed the last tug to settle flesh into bra.

Sandra felt her clit throb, aching for completion. She stared at the intruder, at first with resentment at the interruption, but then, she realized, with the same odd lust she had experienced when thinking about booking female clients before any future dates with Spencer.

'Maybe I am more curious than I thought,' she considered, the term 'heteroflexible' dancing in her brain. 'I know I really like men, but women can be sexy too.'

The woman smiled across at Sandra, nervously, perhaps noticing some tiny hint of dishevelment which cued thoughts of just why Sandra was lingering in a hotel ladies room in the late afternoon, no sink running, no make up sprawled across the counter. Sandra wondered whether the woman could see through her.

'Just how transparent am I?' she thought as she returned the smile, feeling the corners of her own mouth curve upward just a bit extra into a grin.

'Not nervous though,' she self appraised. 'Cool. Confident. In control.'

The stranger turned to the mirror, digging mascara out of her bag, leaning against the counter as she highlighted a fine pair of dark almond eyes. Sandra watched the reflection of this briefly, hoping not to make the woman nervous. Sandra knew that she was being watched at the same time as she was watching. To avoid staring, Sandra shifted her gaze downward. Suddenly, she realized that she was checking out the stranger's ass, which was a very fine ass indeed -- taut, pear shaped, clearly belonging to someone who kept in shape.

'Two perfect handfuls of ripe fruit,' Sandra felt tempted to say, but restrained herself.

Which brought the thought of restraints into Sandra's mind. She pictured the woman manacled, spread-eagled, ready to be used, but not by Sandra, at least not first. Spencer would go first. If he allowed Sandra to play with another woman, it would ultimately be for his enjoyment.

Sandra blinked breathlessly, even her adept brain overloaded by trying to process these new feelings. After decades trying to be a 'good girl', Sandra was finally admitting to herself that she was polyamorous and polymorphously perverse. Most of all though, she was coming to terms with her submissive nature. She sensed that even if she played a dominant role, it would be just that -- theatre, in itself an act of submission. But first, she had to breathe.

The sound of air flowing in a gasp out of her slack jaw caught the attention of the other woman, who seemed to start to turn, but restrained herself, instead simply grinning at her reflection in the mirror. Sandra wondered whether she caught a tiny wink of recognition, as if between sisters of different mothers.

It was just enough to break the spell and Sandra finally left the ladies' room, floating across the lobby in a daze to find the elevator up to Spencer's room for pre dinner drinks. Fortunately, at this hour, almost all the traffic was people coming down to the lobby, and she had a car to herself. Sandra was extra glad that she had stumbled blindly into an express car, so the journey was brief. She felt like it was impossible to breathe. Slumped back against the rear wall, one hand kneaded her breast, while the other gently caressed her belly, wanting to stroke her pussy, but not quite having the nerve.

The breathless made Sandra wonder just what flavour of kink Spencer was, even before he had ever said anything about being dominant. With some men, Sandra realized, you just know. Would he want to tie a choker around her neck? Would he want to "collar" her in a symbolic gesture of ownership, like Sandra had read about on Literotica?

'Perhaps,' Sandra thought, 'he is into breath play.'

If so, this elevator ride was a good start. That idea brought a grin to her face, just as the elevator slowed and the doors opened. Spencer of course had a corner room, slightly larger than most, but more significantly, discretely tucked away behind two columns, the door afforded privacy. Fortunately, she had no trouble finding it.

'I wonder if we'll make our dinner reservation?' she giggled to herself as she shimmied her dress into position and knocked on the door.

Spencer was not dressed in a tuxedo -- that was just Sandra's imagination having got ahead of her. Still, he was a perfect old fashioned gentleman, just like the hero in some old black and white movie.

'Before romances were comedies,' Sandra thought to herself as she slowly admired Spencer's rugged handsomeness. 'When men weren't afraid to be men.'

'And knew how to use a riding crop,' a strange girlish voice Sandra barely recognized as her own bubbled in the back of her brain.

She could barely restrain herself from saying 'Shut up!' out loud.

Apparently she did give her head a little shake because as he handed her a perfectly chilled glass of white wine, Spencer asked, "Is everything all right?"

"It's like a dream," Sandra said, though to her, the voice seemed like it came from far away. "I feel like Alice, through the looking glass."

"Oh, no giant talking rabbits here, my dear," Spencer chuckled as he walked over to the windows, high above Sandra's city.

Though he was the stranger here, to Sandra, he looked like the king of all he surveyed. Where once she had felt cold and empty inside, just glancing at him, pretending to admire the view outside, she felt filled with heat. It started in her belly, and spread like fire exploding out of a furnace, radiating into her loins. Her thighs tingled like they did at the beach. Her vulva throbbed. She could feel her clit grow stiff. Her nipples were harder than she could ever remember.

As she pretended to look out over the city, Sandra's mind wandered back to how she had felt as a young woman just discovering the thrill of sex. Tonight, she was even more anxiously excited, more frightened, but also more ready than ever.

She took a sip of wine to avoid chewing her lip - a habit, she recalled, of her nervous girlhood. Each breath seemed to take five minutes. Spencer just let the tension build, never looking directly at Sandra, but watching her reflection in the window glass. His eyes never rested for long on her body, never acknowledged her excitement.

"I think I love your city most at night," he finally said. "Mine has the middle American rust belt dullness. Your city shines."

What Sandra heard in these words was "you shine", which just made her feel more of a glow.

She ached for Spencer to turn, lean over and press his lips to hers, though she knew that letting the anticipation build simply would make it better.

Instead, he put his glass down, and brushed his fingers through her hair gently, so lightly that it was almost like a breeze, but also, Sandra reflected later, so casually that it reflected his total confidence, and his claiming ownership of her. It was as if he was saying, 'Since you belong to me, I can touch you however I wish. And at this moment, this is what I wish. But make no mistake. If I wish to touch you harshly, I can and I will. Because you obey my will.'

Sandra understood all this as soon as Spencer touched her, even without articulating it until later. Right then, looking out the window, she could barely breathe. Feeling this entire new reality opening before her was as thrilling and frightening as puberty. But the fear faded quickly, because Sandra knew that she had Spencer to guide her through it.

In the elevator headed down for dinner, Spencer stood just close enough that Sandra could feel their personal space mingling, yet he never touched her. She had to wonder whether she had merely imagined his hand lingering on her back as he guided her out of his room. She had expected that her obvious arousal would have encouraged him to take her right there -- his bed seemed to talk to her. He had simply said "It's time to go eat."

She had wanted to beg him to eat her, but instead accepted his instruction.

If anybody had asked Sandra later about dinner, she would only have been able to laugh and respond vaguely. Perhaps she might say "It passed by smoothly, but way too quickly. The food was delicious, the banter was light."

In truth, Sandra could barely recall eating. The perfectly cooked flaky whitefish might as well have been cardboard. Spencer's charm was delicious enough for her. They drank a crisp Riesling, but it could have been water, or turpentine. The warm chocolate torte topped with strawberries competed with the heat flushing Sandra's loins, and lost. If Spencer had led her into the men's room, she would have blown him right there. In fact, if he had dragged her up onto the table, ripped her dress off and fucked her until she cried, she would have been unable to resist. She was enchanted by this calm confident man. To most of the world, he might appear human, but for Sandra, he was suddenly a giant dwarf star, his gravity pulling her ever closer into his orbit.