Good Things Come

All names have been changed to protect the (not so) innocent. But this is for my 'Nick', who knows who he is.

*

I wait.

The room is dim, warm, clean; comfortable. The only light comes from the fire which dances in the stone hearth behind me. The smell of incense and old books mingles with woodsmoke.

And I wait.

Beneath my kneeling form is a deep rug; soft as kittens' fur. Directly in front of me is a high-backed leather chair with a generous seat and widely spread armrests. It is well made and well worn; a dark shade of cherry which almost matches my hair. A small black iron table stands beside the chair, supporting a bottle of single malt, a heavy crystal whisky glass and an obsidian ashtray

And I wait.

The clock on the wall to my right claims that it's 9.25. It is the kind you might have found in a small village train station in the 1920s: all black Roman numerals and elaborately designed hands. It is this clock that ticks off my waiting seconds. However, there is no real time here. This room is outside time; outside day to day normality. You will find no television in this room; no computer, no phone. It is a haven, a safe place hidden away from the rest of the world. A place just for me... and Him.

The heavy wooden door opens. I do not turn my head; I do not need to. On the other side of that door, in the room beyond, is an ordinary looking wall. If you didn't know there was a room here, you could be standing right in front of that wall - leaning against it, even - and never be any the wiser. Only two people know this room exists. One of those people is me; the other has just walked through the door.

I hear His bare feet pad across the hardwood floor; then whisper over the rug. A scent of cinnamon mixed with tobacco reaches me from behind: His scent. I bow my head and smile.

A cool hand, strong and refined, settles on the back of my neck:

'You know why you're here, my sweet'

His voice is deep and warm; His accent RP. He was educated at the English boarding school to which some might refer as 'The other place', but it was a late 1980s and 90s education. No cold, draughty dorms or beating of unruly boys; more like rooms plastered with Guns n Roses posters and classes in Personal Development. His voice, however, conveys tradition, culture and discipline. It is a voice which makes my stomach flip and my skin tingle.

'Yes, Sir.'

I know why I'm here, alright. I don't mean in this room; this is a special place for us to spend quiet time together away from the pressures of the outside world. This is no dungeon, no 'Room of Pain'. No, I mean here: kneeling in contrition on the rug in front of His armchair; head bowed, hands behind my back, knees held primly together as if I were praying. That's what He meant when He said 'here'.

'Well?'

His hand moves to my hair, taking a fistful and pulling my head back so I'm looking up at Him. From my upside down perspective, I see He has one eyebrow raised and His head cocked to one side, questioning.

'For being a brat, Sir,' I say.

He laughs at that: a rich, deep sound that rolls outwards from His chest and throat, His smile making His blue-green eyes crinkle at the corners. God, I love those eyes! Sometimes, I swear I can see galaxies of stars swirling in them. For now, though, I see shadows in them the firelight doesn't reach, and a sternness that belies His laughter.

'For being a brat,' He says, chuckling. 'Yes, that about sums it up. Concise as ever, my darling.'

From the pocket of His skinny black jeans, He removes a scrap of silken material which He fastens around my eyes, plunging me into darkness. I do not move. I trust Him completely. I would trust Him to the end of the world.

He moves to the armchair and settles Himself down. I hear the gurgle as He pours Himself a whisky, and the clunk-flick-clunk of His Zippo. A moment later, cigarette smoke blends with the other scents in the room. He knows I worry about His health because of this habit, and has tried to quit several times, if only to please me. But it seems it's the one thing over which He has no control.

He exhales smoke with a long sigh and, in my mind's eye, I see Him leaning back in the chair, crossing His long legs and swirling His whisky around in its glass while He watches me with that intense, scolding look. I am so glad to be blindfolded because I know that look well, and I know how it burns. I imagine Him holding His cigarette between His lips while He runs His hand through His golden-red waves of hair, contemplating His next move.

'Patience, Violet,' He says, 'is a virtue. How many times have I told you that?'

'I don't know, Sir, about a thousand?'

SLAP!

His palm strikes my face and I struggle to keep my balance. It was a stupid thing to say, I know. Smartmouthing Him while I'm already in trouble is a bad idea, but sometimes it's like my brain shuts down and my tongue flaps away all by itself. I feel the heat of the slap on my right cheek, and another, more insistent heat begins to build between my legs.

'Don't think you're joking your way out of this, slut!' He says, keeping His voice low and firm. I have never heard Him raise His voice in anger. He doesn't need to, He's commanding enough already.

'I'm sorry, Sir.' And I mean it. I bow my head again.

'Stand for a moment, please, Violet.' Although this sounds like a request, I know better. My Nick doesn't make requests in this mood; He gives orders.

After being in a kneeling position for at least half an hour, my legs are stiff and I'm a little awkward in getting to my feet. I feel the blood rush back into my limbs and wobble a bit on my high heels. I keep my hands clasped behind my back and my legs together. He stands in front of me, still nearly a foot taller than I am, even in bare feet, and tips my chin upwards to take a slow, soft kiss from my mouth. As He breaks away, He takes my bottom lip in His teeth and bites gently, drawing a needy moan from me. I move my head further forward, aching for more, trying to find him in the darkness of my blindfold but He steps back and puts one hand on my shoulder, warning me not to go any further.

'Patience is something you have to learn. That's why I kept you waiting this evening. And that's why I've had you dress as you are.'

The corset I'm wearing, a black brocade underbust with a delicate spray of crystals, is testament to my lack of patience. I had seen it in my favourite lingerie boutique around three weeks ago, when I was buying the rest of tonight's ensemble (a ridiculously expensive black and purple bra, French knickers and garter belt set I had fallen in love with on sight). I showed it to Nick for a second opinion and he agreed it was very beautiful.

'Tell you what, darling,' he had said, squeezing me around the waist and resting his chin on my shoulder, 'why don't I buy it as part of your birthday present. It'll save you the money and you can wear it on our weekend away.'

I had agreed at the time, and happily. The problem was, my birthday weekend was still nearly two months away and I wanted to wear the corset now.

Nick had carefully packed the corset away in the box from the shop, wrapped in tissue paper and beautifully curled and coloured ribbon. He didn't hide it from me, but put it in his wardrobe, nestled in with his shoes and belts. When I had pouted, he laughed and said: 'Patience is a virtue, sweetheart. Wait for your birthday.'

And I had tried. I had really, really tried. But last night, getting ready to go out, I couldn't find anything suitable to wear. I had a dress, but wanted a corset to go over the top; something to give it a little va-va-voom. And maybe get Nick's engine running a little hot, too. I stood in front of my wardrobe mirror, discarded corsets piling up around me, growing more and more frustrated, when I remembered the exquisite garment in Nick's cupboard. It would go perfectly with my dress, and give it just the right amount of sparkle without looking tacky or cheap. I reasoned with myself that Nick would enjoy seeing me in it, and also that he would rather I opened it early than make us late for our reservation.

So I slid open his wardrobe door, taking a moment as always to inhale his gorgeous cinnamon scent. I smiled when I saw his shirts and trousers and suits and jumpers and jackets hanging there. Even just the sight of his clothes gives me butterflies. The beautifully wrapped box was lying on the shelf where he keeps his shoes and I sat on the bed to open it, determined not to damage the paper so I could rewrap it later. After all, it wasn't a surprise gift; it wouldn't matter if I wore it this once.

After I had laced myself into the corset, my breasts hoisted up proudly and my already small waist cinched in tight, I ran my hands over my accentuated curves and down my stocking clad legs, feeling that slow, familiar pulse deep in my pussy. I looked incredible and I knew it. There was no way Nick would be able to get through the whole of dinner and a two hour play without dragging me into some dark corner to fuck me senseless against the wall.

I sashayed into the living room; my swaying hips exaggerated by the rigid corset, and presented myself to my man with a twirl. He smiled and said I looked lovely, but wasn't I supposed to wait for my birthday to wear that?

'I just couldn't wait, darling. It's the only thing that goes with this dress. Thank you so much for buying it for me!'

I stood on tiptoe and reached up to him. He kissed me gently; then helped me into my wrap, ready to leave.

All that evening, he was his usual perfect gentleman self: funny, sweet, charming, intelligent and warm. I'm His slut, that is true, but I'm also his lady, his girl and his love, and that's how he treats me in our general life. He's a wonderful man and we love each other very much.

All through dinner we flirted like teenagers, playing footsie under the table, stealing glances at each other over the rims of our wine glasses, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes. But Nick made no move to drag me into the powder room at the restaurant, or up the alley at the side of the theatre, and I was beginning to think he had a plan up his sleeve.

After the performance, we went across the street to the place where a small after party was being held. While I was chatting with a group of friends, I glanced across the room and saw Nick surrounded by people as usual.

'Even when he's not in the sodding show, he's still centre of attention,' I thought, rolling my eyes. 'Bloody actors!'

He stood with his legs slightly parted, feet firmly planted on the ground and his body leaning back just a little. One hand held a glass of whisky, with which he was gesturing as he held the group of (mostly female) listeners rapt over some oh-so-hilarious joke or anecdote, and the other was deep in the pocket of his suit trousers. He wore no tie and the first two buttons of his crisp, midnight blue shirt were undone. I caught his eye and he winked, sending a bolt of lust through me with more force than a crossbow bolt. I needed him. Now!

I excused myself from the chattering group and headed over to where he stood. I had missed the end of the story, but it had clearly amused everyone in the 'audience', judging by their raucous laughter. I slipped an arm around Nick's slim waist and snuggled up to him, pushing my body against him with just enough pressure to signal my desire. He looked down at me with a grin, and tapped the end of my nose with a slender finger.

'Are you ready to head home, my love?' he had asked; eyebrows raised and almost supernaturally beautiful eyes glittering. He was playing with me. He knew damn well I was ready for more than that. I was ready to be pounded into submission by his big, hard cock. Puzzled, and more than a little annoyed, I nodded and took his hand. But he was in no hurry. Instead of a quick, polite cheerio to our friends, he went round everyone in the room, shaking hands, slapping backs and kissing cheeks. We got through another three 'one for the road' drinks each by the time we made it to the door.

In the cab, finally on the way home, I had started to whisper all the things I know Nick loves. Keeping my lips close to his ear so the driver couldn't overhear, I told him how much I needed him inside me, how wet my cunt was for him and how I wanted to taste his cum as he fucked my mouth and pulled my hair. He groaned and closed his eyes when I nuzzled into his neck, nibbling gently and running my hands down his body to feel the growing hardness at the centre of him. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, kissing me roughly and with heated urgency:

'God, Violet,' he had murmured into my mouth, 'you are so fucking sexy.'

By the time we got back to the apartment, my head was swimming. His touch, his smell, his voice... I had wanted him desperately all night, and now my need grew even fiercer as we stumbled upstairs to the bedroom, kissing and groping each other all the way. I pulled off his jacket while he unpinned my hair, letting it tumble in coconut scented waves around my face and plunging both hands into its auburn fire. His eyes held a dangerous, almost feral, look and I could feel his erection straining to break free from his trousers. I pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him; his hips between my knees.

That's when he did it.

His big hands grasped my waist and he lifted me off him as if I weighed nothing. Depositing me gently on the other side of the bed, he sat up, laughing in that deep, foggy rumble that sends my pulse rate skyrocketing.

'Oh, no no no, wee lassie,' he had said, mimicking my Scottish accent with a shake of his head and a playful wag of his finger. 'It's time you were taught a little lesson in how to be patient. I'm very disappointed in you for opening your present early, and I think I'm going to make you wait for what you want.'

I thought he was joking at first, but then his smile faded and I saw that he meant it.

'You bastard!' I slammed my fist down onto the mattress, 'You utter, complete, teasing bastard! You want it, too. I can see that from the bulge in the front of your trousers.'

He stretched; yawned and bent down to remove his shoes and socks:

'Now that's true, but the difference is... I have patience.' He flashed me another grin, undoing the links from His shirt cuffs as He got up from the bed: 'Oh, and don't let me catch you touching yourself or putting a vibrator anywhere near that hot little cunt tonight, slut. You're in enough fucking trouble.'

With that, He had wandered off to the bathroom to get ready for bed, leaving me to carelessly discard my clothing in a sulky heap on the floor, swipe my make up off in a haphazard fashion and follow after Him to give my teeth and hair a furious brushing at the bathroom sink.

This morning, when I woke from a sleep filled with sexually frustrated dreams and regret, I had turned over to Nick's side of the bed expecting to see that lovely tangle of amber waves poking out from under the duvet. Instead, there was a tidy pile of lingerie on the pillow with a note resting on top:

'I didn't want to wake you. Early call. I'll be back at nine. Don't worry about dinner, I'll grab something out. Be ready in the study for when I get home. We still need to discuss your lack of patience. I love you. N xx'

I blinked at the piece of paper covered in His expressive, spiky handwriting for a moment, before picking up the underwear He had placed so carefully next to me. There was the new black and purple set, black seamed stockings and, of course, that damned corset. I sighed, but my tummy fluttered with anticipation as I jumped out of bed to begin my day...

He is behind me now; carefully running His hands over every line and curve of my body, gently nipping my earlobe with His teeth, whispering that I am His and I will learn that again tonight. I stand very still, my heart pounding like a speed metal drummer and feeling the rush of blood in my ears. My skin tingles; every nerve awakened to His touch. No man has ever made me feel like He makes me feel. No man has ever been able to earn my trust and submission like He has. It's true: I am His and His alone. And that's all I want to be.

Again, He sits in the armchair and instructs me to kneel. I obey instantly and He gathers my small hands His large ones and brings them to His mouth. A soft kiss; then He cups my face to take the same from my lips.

'Because of your impatience last night, slut, I was denied taking any pleasure from you. I think we need to address that now.'

I hear Him move in the chair; the whisper of friction as he removes His belt from His jeans and the rustle of His clothing. He takes my hand and places it in His lap. I can't help but gasp a little as I feel how hard He is; how hot and throbbing. His cock twitches as I move my hand up and down the shaft, stroking the velvety skin and feeling the iron hardness pulse in my grasp. I use my other hand to cup His balls and He moans quietly before saying just one word:

'Mouth.'

I move my head down to cover His cockhead with gentle kisses and flicks of my tongue, tasting His precum and clean skin. I swirl the flat of my tongue around His shaft and head; then duck down to take as much of His length in my mouth and throat as I can. He whispers to me that I'm such a good little cocksucker; that my mouth was made to take His rod and I belong to Him. I suck Him wetly, enjoying the feel of His velvet wrapped marble filling my mouth and His magnificent taste on my tongue. Hollowing my cheeks and tightening my lips, I plunge my head up and down, varying the depth and rhythm of my strokes and now and then turning my attention to His balls; sucking and licking them while wanking Him with my hands.

'Oh, God! You teasing little whore,' He pants. 'Give me your hands.'

I know exactly what this means and obediently rest my hands, palms up, on either side of the chair. He grasps my wrists and pins them to the armrests.

'Now you're my cocksucking little bitch. Fucking take it!'

He moves His hips, thrusting His dick into my throat while I keep a steady pace with my mouth and tongue. He lets go of my wrists and grabs my hair in both hands, pulling fiercely and controlling my movements. I grab His hips and try to match His furious rhythm, but I'm choking on His cock and have to concentrate on breathing as much I can. He's fucking my mouth now. My scalp is singing in pain and my eyes are tearing up, making my mascara run under my blindfold and travel in dirty streaks down my face. I'm groaning in a mix of pleasure and fear, while He grunts and shudders with each thrust.

I feel His cock pulse and swell in my mouth and I know He's close. I cup His balls in one hand and feel them move upwards, signalling His orgasm. One more thrust, coupled with a gentle squeeze to His testicles, and He's coming down my throat. Spurt after spurt of hot, musky cream is pumped into my mouth, and I swallow it all down; licking Him clean as His cock slowly softens and retreats.

His breath is coming in short, ragged gasps. His hands relax in my hair and I feel Him slump back in the armchair. I return my hands to their clasped position behind me and bow my head again, waiting.

Slowly, slowly, in the darkness I hear His breathing return to normal and the movement as He stands once more, gathering Himself together and readjusting His clothing. I am still, silent; patient.

I feel His touch on my cheek and lift my chin when He runs a thumb over the dried black tracks of mascara on my face.

'Looks like you're learning already, but I think we need to make sure.'

He helps me to my feet and guides me behind the chair, bending me over the back. I have to rise onto tiptoe to arrange myself into the familiar position, my lower abdomen pressing against the chair back and my forearms barely reaching the seat, still warm from Him. My calf muscles stretch and grumble in protest and the corset pushes my breasts up even further. It's very hard to bend wearing this thing; it digs into my ribs and hips, and I suspect I'm going to be aching much more by the time we're finished here. He moves behind me and hooks His thumbs under the waistband of my knickers, sliding them down my legs and off. He crouches down to pull them over my shoes and, on His way back up, leaves a trail of slow, sweet kisses from my ankles to my thighs before landing a stinging slap on my arse.