The room with quiet curtains, her hand trembling on the doorknob. Step inside, the world changes. Choose to step inside. Choose.
He waits, just inside. A big, imposing figure, yet the smile is friendly. She hangs for a moment in the balance between yes and no, between her old life and new. She steps inside.
Yes, he nods, in approval. The first step is the hardest. She hugs her arms to herself, shivering. Removes her coat. His eyes travel across her body, the full soft breasts, the exaggerated roundness of her hips, her long solid legs. Take off your shoes, he says. She slips them off with relief. Easy. Wriggles her toes in the room's carpeting. The first surrender.
Now the skirt, he smiles. She loves the way her legs feel under the skirt, breeze blowing up against her body as she walks outside, the freedom of her knees, soft drapes of fabric caressing her thighs as she sits. Loves the way it forms a concealing curtain around the roundness of her belly, the extra curves, no longer smooth, hiding the expanse of her body. Loves the waistband hugging her waist.
The skirt, he says, smiling a little less. She pulls it past her hips, lets it fall to the floor.
Because she knew she would come here ... because she knew he would like it ... she is wearing the black lace. The one-piece garment holds her breasts up firm and high, creates the desired cleavage, makes her chest magnificent. She is proud of her chest, clothed. Not the soft pillows of breasts she cradles while she sleeps. But this created breast, a soft shelf, adorned, which moves with each breath.
Unbidden, she unbuttons the shirt, letting it fall open, revealing the bounty of creamy flesh and rose-patterned lace. His smile is broad again. She can see the hardness begin beneath his robe. She longs to cross the room, lay her head on his chest. But she will follow his timing.
This is his game.
Beautiful, he says, you do not need to be shy with me. She sighs, stands a little straighter. Her eyes are afraid to meet his for more than a moment.
Come here. She leaves her clothing on the floor, steps toward him.
The hand around her waist is surprisingly firm. The other hand cups her chin, raises her eyes to meet his. Look at me, he says, unsmiling. Whatever happens here, it's for both of us, for both our pleasure. But you are mine. Your time is mine. And you will do exactly as I say. Understood?
His sternness at once thrills her and alarms her. What might happen here? Could she escape even if she wanted to, half-dressed, against the will of this man who towers over her, commands her with his velvety voice. She shivers, nods. He tightens his grip slightly, and she relaxes into it.
His lips graze her ear, and she closes her eyes, awaiting his kiss. But he does not kiss. He whispers, right into her ear: I will fuck you. Because I want you, and you are mine. You will lie on the bed, he whispers. I will not tie your hands. You will lie obediently, because I command you to. Held in place by the sheer force of my will.
She walks to the bed with slow, dream-like steps, her eyes downcast, disappointment welling in her chest. No bindings. She had longed to be bound, with soft cords, elastic cords, wrists together, arms raised above her head. Longed for the surrender of offering her wrists to him for the binding, knowing with that symbolic act she forfeited any hope of escape.
He senses her sadness, addresses it at once. You regret this, baby girl? he asks. She shakes her head slowly. He smiles, lifting a cord from a drawer in the table next to the bed. You desire the bindings then? She smiles, and he traces her smile with a loop of velvet cord, then pulls it across her breasts, across the curve of her hip, the front of her thigh, the inside of her thigh, making her tremble as she stands.
On the bed, he says. She sits, and his palm against her heart presses her back. Give them here, he commands. She offers her wrists, feeling the first surge of wetness between her legs. His knowing eyes understand. He raises her arms, encircles her wrists, fastens them to the headboard. Steps back to admire his work, as she rolls slightly from side to side, trying to arrange herself in a comfortable position.
She fears the other devices which may be in that bedside drawer, metal clamps, tiny cuffs, long plastic cocks ... She is curious, but fears their invasion. But he has closed the drawer. Only his body, now naked, feels like a threat.
He approaches with a pillow, and she feels a moment of panic. Suffocation? She is helpless now. One leg kicks out involuntarily. But he slips the pillow beneath her head almost tenderly, brushes the hair away from her face. Rests one hand on her pounding heart. Easy, baby girl, he says. I won't take you anywhere you don't want to go. Traces her lips with one finger.
Easy.
Now this body ... he says, and she winces, turns her head. Self-consciousness makes her blush, turn her face. She wishes it was a better body, a proud body, curves only in the best places, firm and young and desirable. She wishes ...
Look at me, he says. This body is mine. You cannot hide it from me. I will know every sweet, soft inch. You cannot be ashamed before me. Because this is mine. I will enjoy it and appreciate it, and you will open yourself to me. Understand?
She nods, still flush with embarassment. Lovely body, he says, calming her, his hands caressing it. You will enjoy how much I appreciate your body.
