It had been a long time since Gillian had last spent a weekend with him in New York. §
As she grew older, it got harder and harder to live out her fantasies. One wrong photo at an orgy or BDSM club and her career would be very ruined, so she'd had to make do with kink in private and encouraging her lovers to overpower her, spank her, slap her pussy, and fuck her face, but to them, it was all acting, naughty sex, they didn't really want her to submit and she didn't feel that urge deep in her to actually submit, she just loved the attention and feelings.
After years of desperately not wanting to think about it, about him, about the level of degradation and servitude she yearned for, it was finally time to lean back into the lifestyle. She'd messaged him a month ago, saying she would be in the city and could maybe meet up. He'd replied, saying he had a spare weekend, which meant only one thing; if she said yes, this wasn't meeting up for a coffee or a few drinks; it was submitting herself to a whole weekend as his toy, his slave, his plaything. It was so long ago that she last let go of control and spent a weekend of servitude that she'd almost forgotten what it was like, but when she replied and said yes, the butterflies in her stomach were so familiar, and the lightheaded dizziness that comes with what she'd agreed to, so welcome and exciting, she knew she'd made the right choice.
So here she was, a month later, ringing the doorbell on the front door of a classic NYC brownstone as the sun set, pushing the door open when it buzzed (he'd said nothing when she rang, he knew what time it was and she'd not dared be late), and walking up the two flights of stairs that were so familiar. Years ago she'd almost skipped up them, stocking tops showing, no knickers, excited by being seen, dressed exactly how he'd told her to arrive, long before the days of camera phones and Facebook. Now she was dressed as anonymously as possible, with a long dark coat, hair under a hat, and big sunglasses. Somebody might have recognized her in the street, but not once she was in the cool, dark hallway.
Stopping outside his door, she tucks the hat away in the coat along with the glasses and folds it over her arm, revealing what's below. Her outfit was still very conservative compared to the slutwear she'd stood here wearing before, but this was certainly not what she wanted to be seen in the street. The knitted mini-dress barely covered her arse. Her stockings came to mid-thigh and were obviously both expensive and disposable. Her tits were pushed up and out, straining the dress, and her posture had her standing tall in her heels, mostly because of the very long, if slim, buttplug that had made her squirm so much in the taxi here. She checked herself and, with a shaking hand, knocked twice.
It felt like she stood there for an age, ears straining to hear him coming to the door, desperately hoping not to hear another apartment's door open and footsteps coming down towards her, standing there in all her finery, a tabloid headline in the making. Did his neighbors even know what went on behind that massive solid door? Had they overheard the whippings, spanking, crying, begging, and pleading? What about the screams and cries of orgasms? Gillian knew she wasn't the only woman to kneel for him even back then; what had his neighbors thought over the years? Other submissive sluts must have waited here for him, or did they get a key, to quietly let themselves in and kneel inside the door? Maybe the neighbors even partook; he'd often threatened her with lending her out as a fucktoy for an evening; had he bribed his neighbors by delivering them a slut on a leash?
The door opened quickly and silently, and before she knew what was happening, he'd punched her in the gut, wrapped his arms around her, and carried her in over his shoulder. The door closed, and she was quickly carried down to the open plan main room, dropped rather roughly onto a sofa, and he was there kneeling next to her, one hand round her throat and the other pressing down hard below her waist, pinning her where he landed whilst her head spun and she gasped for air.
"Welcome back, Gillian; you didn't think your status was going to have me rolling out the red carpet and doffing my cap, did you?" he growls in her ear, the hand at her throat relaxing enough to let her breathe but not get up at all.
"No Sir, not at all Sir", Gillian finds herself saying, slipping straight back into their vocabulary. He is "Sir" and nothing else. She is whatever he calls her, slut, cunt, slave, fucktoy, whore, she wears them all with pride no matter what filth he uses for her.
"Excellent, then we'll have a lovely weekend; it is good to see you again, I must say. You must know I've watched your career with interest over the years, you winning cases in the papers, representing charities, and being all conservative, knowing what you're actually like. Did you ever worry about me telling the world, exposing you?"
"No Sir, I trust you, I've always trusted you, and I don't think there was ever any evidence, no photos of video."
"That's true, and we'll not change that. You're here for a weekend, and once you go back to normal life, that all stays here if that's what you want. Is that what you want, slut?"
"Yes, Sir, very much so, Sir. For this weekend, I don't want to have to be in charge of anything, Sir," Gilian croaked. His hand still round her throat, his other mauling her tits through her dress, groping and squeezing her, his to do with as her please.
"Then go and get your collar, you know where it is," he said, letting go of her throat taking his weight off her, and standing up. He held out his hand, and she got up off the sofa, the initial rush of being overpowered and overwhelmed at the door fading. After smoothing out her dress, she walked off into the second bedroom, heels clacking on the wooden floor.
There in the corner of the room he kept as a playroom and dungeon was the tall chest, exactly where it had always been. She slid the drawer open and realized how many others there must have been. When she'd last been here, there had been four slim leather collars, each with a name engraved on the inside of the buckle. Now, there must be nearer forty, each in its own compartment; all face down, so she didn't see any other names. Instinctively, she picked up hers, turning it over and seeing her name; it was still in the same position it had always been in. Closing the drawer, she returned back to the main room, facing him a few feet apart and slowly kneeing, holding the collar out.
"Last chance, are you sure this is something you want to do?" He asked, knowing her reply but giving her the one last choice of the weekend.
"Yes, Sir, please, sir, making me your toy", Gillian said, looking up at him.
He took the collar, slipped it around her neck, and buckled it at the back. From a pocket, he pulled out a small padlock, solid and grey, and she felt it click into place, making the buckle permanent. This was new, and Gillian looked up questioningly.
"Ah yes, you've not been locked in place, have you?" he said, gripping her hair by the ponytail she'd pulled it back into. "You're there until I let you go, just like always, only now you'll not get any choice; the key stays with me until I'm done", he said plainly. It was just a fact; there was no disputing it.
"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir", she heard herself saying.
"Now, let's get you changed and ready; we're going out."
The words shocked her, and she felt panic rising. For months, years, she'd imagined the weekend here, in the apartment, bound, beaten, and fucked for hours, waking up here in the morning and starting her day with his cock down her throat, not going out, not in public! Was he doing this deliberately, threatening her now he was famous? Was it a trick, and she just wanted to scare her?
