The instructions had been so detailed: how she was to open the door with the provided key; enter without noise; close the door again. How she was to let her eyes get used to the darkness for a precise number of seconds -- she counted in her head, one . . . two . . . ten . . . eighteen . . . .
She left the key on a small table by the door. Being accustomed to obedience and trust, she did not mind that said table was invisible for the moment. She had known exactly how far her hand had to rise from her side before dropping the key, so very detailed had the letter been.
So little control now; she was a puppet, not able to control even the wild beating of her heart. And whatever control she had left, she was about to let it go as well; it would be handed over to a stranger, along with the tether she reached for that was hanging on an invisible coat hanger to her left.
At the end of the tether was a collar. She recognized it, not only from the instructions she'd received, but because she was used to wearing this for The One. She promptly attached it around her neck.
Unfastening her blouse and skirt, she wondered if He could see her. She never had seen Him. Not once. What had started as a dare over the phone with a Stranger had turned into this, a mutual obsession, an addiction. Even though that one time on the phone had been the only time she heard His voice: low, slightly hoarse, sexy as hell. Now she was hoping . . . and afraid. Hoping . . . and afraid. Yet she also was excited . . . as always.
Her blouse and skirt fell with a whooshing sound; she wore nothing underneath. She had wondered why the colours of her clothes mattered to Him since He probably would not see them. But who was she to question?
The previous times with Him were a blur. Twice she had lost consciousness. She clearly remembered hooking herself up by cuffs she had attached to her wrists. She remembered the provocative, lewd poses she had been required to strike; the things she had been ordered to use on her body -- inside her body.
Her remembrance of those acts was intensely pleasurable. What had made her swoon and faint were the almost imperceptible sounds, the whiffs of cologne nearby, the air moving around her . . . HE had been there. Close to her; so very close -- black out.
She inhaled deeply, and then walked forward. One step; two steps; three -- her scream erupted in the room and startled her. The smarting from the slap on her buttock brought images of bright red flesh. She could not even know if she had been hit with the palm of a hand or something else. And she was wise enough not to turn around to find out. Anyway . . . she could not have seen a thing. She hoped it had been His hand -- the very first time He touched her. Mind straining now. . . remember the instructions . . . timing is everything. She shut her lips to stop the heavy breathing that was starting to sound like panting. Too soon; He enjoyed coolness, composure -- a zen-like attitude almost. But the next order was for her . . . to bend over.
A second too late, she did. As her upper body leant forward, the snap of fingers had been heard. That could not be good. Timing had not been respected; precise counting of seconds was overlooked. There would be a price to pay, undoubtedly. She fought not to smile. Whatever He would do to her . . . .
At once. Grating feeling between her legs; a hand, definitely a hand this time, slapping her right breast fiercely. She moaned. Could only guess: emery paper stretched across a hard object? A piece of dried, rough concrete? Before the feeling on her mistreated sex could be analysed, it stopped.
And then . . . oh yes. His hand again, along her body from breast to knee; very light touch. His other hand on her inner thigh; slow. She squirmed out of their scenario, and so half expected the dual slap -- sex and breast: Hard. Cruel. Delectable.
It was hard for her to stand. HE HAD TOUCHED HER SEX. Slapped it. No other gesture could mark it so thoroughly as now being HIS.
Tip of a hard object sneaking between her nether lips. She smiled. She knew what that was. A vibrator. He slid it inside with cold control, not needing any lubrication beyond what she was providing so profusely. Many inches of cold plastic inside her. And then, she heard the flick: top speed.
Time for the requested dance. She wondered if He could see her hips grinding lasciviously. She loved to move like this, feeling the sexiness of the stilettos at the end of her long legs. Sexy because with it came, naturally, the arching of the back, the protruding of her ass, and so, the protruding of her pussy. She knew all this.
A second vibrator was pressed against her clitoris. She could not help but let her tongue point from between her lips. Thus she acted under intense sexual stimulation. Her lovers had always known when they had succeeded in exciting her sexually not only because of the wetness induced between her nether lips, but also because of this pointing of the tongue, insinuating itself between her other lips.
Instruction: Go on with the dance. AND DO NOT CUM. You will be informed of the proper moment to cum.
She almost was improper, but succeeded in holding on. The second vibrator stopped. The vibrator inside of her also was turned off, and withdrawn. The light slap on her breast, followed by a thoroughly investigative but ultimately soft caress, informed her that she had performed adequately.
Leather. A leather-gloved hand. Tough, rough leather. Two fingers seizing her clitoris, shaking it wildly. Pressing down harder and harder as they shook, reaching such a rapid rhythm that it felt like a vibration. Hard grabbing vibration. Yet nothing indicated that she was allowed to cum. Tongue protruding further, she moaned like a she-beast.
