The minutes tick by as she stands in the middle of the room. He said 2:30pm but he could be early and she wants to be ready. Ready for Him, for His pleasure. She feels the familiar drop in her stomach as she thinks about the evening ahead. Shrugging off the thin, button-down shirt, she steps out of the short skirt she wore at his request. The jewelry is next to go. She takes off both rings she loves, the dangly earrings, the watch, the bracelet. She feels more naked without those than she does without her clothes. After all, she's frequently naked with him but she only started taking off her jewelry recently.
The black lace thong is next and now she's shivering in the cold air-conditioned air. She runs her hand over the silky sheath of her black thigh-high stockings. The wide band of lace on top hugging her thighs with a loving caress; the thighs that will soon feel the sting of a whip or the pressure of a cuff.
She shudders as she thinks about it. Almost feeling the ghost of the sensation now. The high-heeled sandals that he allows her to keep on as a concession to her one remaining vanity, stay on her feet. The black bra circling her torso manages to simultaneously conceal and expose her breasts. She adjusts it nervously, glancing in the mirror as she tugs at it. She's ready. Now for the hardest part.
On shaky legs she walks to the door and opens it, wedging the book into the opening gap as instructed. If he's early, the door will only remain open a few minutes, if he's late... She refuses to think about it. The gap in the door is only an inch or so, just the width of the Gideon Bible, ubiquitous in every hotel. She suppresses a giggle at the irony of using the bible to prop up a door to a room that is about to play host to their games.
Returning to the center of the room she takes a deep breath and turns so that her back is to the door. She won't be allowed to turn around until he comes, no matter what happens in the meantime. She's facing the glass doors to a small balcony, the curtains fully open, daylight pouring into the room, making the two lit lamps obsolete.
She closes her eyes and steps into the position he taught her. Feet about a foot apart, back straight, arms raised over her shoulders, hands clasped behind her head. Motionless, she waits. She doesn't know if minutes pass or hours, from her position she cannot see the clock and she doesn't dare turn, the door is soundless, he could be in the room already, watching her, waiting to see if she follows his instructions. Just as her arms are beginning to ache she hears his quiet voice behind her,
"Very nice."
She stiffens in surprise and then relaxes, the blush of pleasure at the praise suffusing her cheeks, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He is pleased. She hears the soft thud of his gym bag hitting the floor and then the heat from his body indicates that he's behind her.
"Very nice... But something is missing..." His fingers trace a path around the back of her neck and she feels her heart jump in her throat. In her haste she had forgotten to put on her collar. She opens her mouth to speak, to apologize, to explain, but he interrupts,
"No need to talk, just nod if it's in your bag."
She nods, shivering with a mixture of fear, shame and excitement. He walks to the far side of the room and she gets her first look at him. He's wearing the usual get-up of t-shirt and khakis and he is ignoring her as he lifts her bag to the bed and shakes it open to empty the contents onto the flowery bed spread. She stiffens at the invasion of privacy. Almost worse than the invasion of her body is the invasion of her bag. She watches the contents spill out – her wallet, make-up, pouch with both the public and the private collars, the smaller bag with all her toys...
Suddenly she goes pale and almost takes a step forward, catching herself just in time but unable to contain a soft moan of surprise and confusion. A large, spiral-bound notebook tumbles onto the bed, resting on its back, a single word "Create" emblazoned on its glossy gray cover. She remembers putting it in, thinking that she'll write a little as she waits for him and then hide it in her card before he comes. His phone call and instructions for pre-meeting preparations had forced all thoughts of the book out and now here it was. As these thoughts flit through her mind, he looks up.
He notes the pallor and the trembling lips, the strain in her entire body and lifts a questioning eyebrow at her. With a supreme effort of will she relaxes and pretends calm. He reaches for the book and lifts it off the bed, preparing to flip it open.
"Please..." her voice is urgent, pleading and striving to sound indifferent at the same time, "please don't..." Unable to help herself, she breaks the posture and closes the distance between them, placing her small hand on the cover, looking up at him, the plea clear in her large brown eyes.
He looks down at her hand and raises and eyebrow, waiting for her reaction. As if her error had just occurred to her, she gasps softly, her hand falling away from the book, feet automatically stepping apart, hands once again interlaced behind her head. She's looking down at his feet, as if unwilling to meet his eyes and see the reflection of his thoughts.
"Need I remind you that anything you bring into the room is fair game?" He waits a space of a heartbeat and adds, "You may speak."
Her response is immediate,
"But I didn't mean to bring that!"
"Look at me when you're speaking." His voice is quiet but does not invite argument.
She looks up, meeting his eyes and swallowing at the unsmiling expression she encounters.
"I didn't mean to bring that," she repeats, holding his gaze as instructed though it's clearly an effort for her.
"What is it?"
She's silent.
"I could always just open it and see for myself..." His voice trails off as she quickly shakes her head,
"No..."
"No?" amusement and disbelief are warring in his voice as she rushes to qualify,
"No, I meant that I'll tell you. You don't need to look." She swallows again, considers lying but, knowing how easy it is to disprove a lie about the contents, sighs and replies,
"It's a sort of a fantasy journal."
"A fantasy journal? Explain please..." His hands are caressing the spine of the book as he waits for her answer. She's motionless, wondering how much to tell him, how much she can get away with holding back. He is looking at her, his eyes narrow slightly as he turns away, walks to the chair near the window, sits down and faces her, laying the book in his lap. Folding his arms across his chest, he speaks,
"I asked you a direct question. Omissions in this case will be treated as lies and punished accordingly."
She is trembling, forgetting for the moment that she's virtually naked, feeling much more exposed by her lack of control over her book than over her clothes. Finally, she answers,
"When I'm bored, I daydream and I thought that I might try writing them down... They're incomplete... Really just bits and pieces of scenes, images, words..." her voice trails off. She wonders if she's managed to satisfy his curiosity or if her half-baked explanation had just managed to inflame it further.
He is silent, caressing the spine of the book, almost absentmindedly, but she shudders inwardly, knowing that he's anything but absentminded. A desolate sense of helplessness washes over her and at the same time she wonders if subconsciously she forgot to put the book back in the car intentionally. Had she wanted him to find it? Had she wanted this to happen? He lifts his eyes to hers and she can see that he's wondering the same thing.
"How long have you been keeping it?"
"Not long..." she doesn't pretend to misunderstand, she knows exactly what he's asking, "a couple of weeks."
"So, you started it after our last meeting." It's a statement, not a question, but she confirms it anyway,
"Yes, but not immediately after."
He nods, then continues,
"And how many of these fantasies, snippets have you written?"
She bites her lip and shrugs,
"I don't know... I didn't count..."
He gives her a measured glance,
"You can lower your arms." As she complies, he hands her the book. Relief rushes through her as she grasps it and turns to put it back in her bag when his voice stops her cold.
"Count them."
She whirls back and stares at him, her lips parting, words about to spill out as he continues, seemingly unaffected by her outrage,
"You said you haven't counted them... I could count them for you, but I won't necessarily know where one ends and another begins," he adds, "not without reading, anyway."
She's motionless, considering her options even though there are none to consider. Sighing, he reaches forward, as if to take the book from her but she takes a quick step back, sitting down on the edge of the bed, flipping the book open and leafing through, counting to herself. Finished, she snaps it shut,
"Five... Well, six if you count the one I started, wrote a few sentences and abandoned." She waits for his reaction, her voice edgy, almost defiant. He notes it and raises an eyebrow in question, shaking his head slightly, reaching toward her; his gesture indicating that she should return the book. She draws back, holding the book to her chest. He waits, his hand still outstretched. Finally she whispers, her soft voice begging for a favorable answer,
"Why?"
"Because I want you to," the edge in his voice is unmistakable. "Walk over here and hand it to me." His hand returns to his chair as he waits for her to comply.
And comply she does, walking toward him and gingerly placing the book on his lap.
"Good," his voice is calm, "but not good enough."
She stiffens as she waits, looking down, knowing that she's in trouble but not the extent of it yet.
"Let's see... You forgot to put on the collar. You broke posture and spoke without permission when explicitly instructed otherwise. You hesitated when given clear instructions. You questioned my orders. Need I go on?"
She shook her head wordlessly, knowing that everything he said was true.
"Turn around."
She turns without hesitation, presenting him with her back, holding herself straight as he likes. His fingers trace a path down her spine, trailing gently over the curve of her backside. A sudden smack on the right cheek of her rump makes her jerk in surprise, a hot flush spreading over the skin. She gasps but doesn't move away; waiting for the next slap but it doesn't come. Instead he speaks,
"Go bring me your collar," after a moment's pause, he adds, "the private one."
She walks to the bed, opens the pouch, pulling out the rigid leather collar with its D ring on the front and a small padlock with a key on the chain in the back and carries it back to him, placing it gently in his hands and waiting for the command she knows will follow.
"Turn around and kneel."
She turns again and sinks to her knees, as gracefully as her high heels and trembling legs will allow. Kneeling between his spread legs she resists the impulse to touch him, instead she bows her head forward and lets her palms rest on her thighs. She feels the braided leather slip around her neck and tighten as he locks the clasp and then threads the padlock through it. Finished, he commands,
"Stand up."
She struggles to her feet, leaning on his knees for help to get out of the awkward position. She's between his legs, her back to him, her arms hanging limply by her sides, languor invading her body as she waits for his command. She doesn't have long to wait.
"Present yourself..."
The phrase always sends a shiver of delicious excitement through her. It has the same effect now as she complies, letting her feet step apart and clasping her hands behind her head.
"So, your punishment..." As he speaks, his fingers are tracing random patterns on her backside and the pale skin of her thighs above the wide lace of her stockings. She shivers, not quite sure if in response to his touch or in anticipation of his next words.
