Lauren walked into the hotel room. It was utterly dark. She could not see anything. It seemed to her that she was in a room, filled with no breathing, until a tall box, outlined in a faint yellow light, appeared to her. She stood quietly by the door. Waiting. She heard his voice, filled with male husk: "Lauren. Do not speak." He paused for emphasis, and her stomach churned in knots. "There is a candle in the bathroom. Go and get it and return."
She immediately walked, black high-heeled saunter, toward the tall, yellow outline of what must be a door. She reached out blindly for the doorknob, found and turned it. Pulling slowly outward, she caused a wave of warm amber light to wash over her body and out into the room.
Jesus.....On the black marble counter was a single pillar candle, flickering its snake's tongue of fire to and fro lazily, firmly, in partnership with itself in the mirror, and causing the whole room to vibrate with thick, golden light. Lauren could not see her reflection, but knew that to anyone looking in, it must look as though her tall, tan form had just been enveloped in a room full of honey.
On the sink stood 4 heavy crystal vases, filled to overflowing with a cacophony of screaming red tulips, the flickering candle's light causing them to MOVE -- twisted and drooping and proud on their long green stems -- excited by their own smudged and potent reflection in the mirror, looking in the dim glow like a thousand red secret-agent kisses -- a Russian, writing a farewell love-note to her American lover in the only way she knows how....
My God. She stood, frozen, awed, and wondered what it looked like from behind as the honeyed light slowly oozed past her, full of magic. She wanted to stay -- to bathe in the richly red-flecked riot that she had suddenly found herself in.
But Lauren knew better than to hesitate, especially for her own pleasure, and thinking of her Master, she turned to go back to her position by the hotel room door. Her retinas, now faced with the darkness again, pushed before her in protest the bright, chiaroscuro after-image of Nietszche-narcississm -- that image of one thousand identical red tulips shouting, "mirror, mirror, on the wall." And, she was blind again. Damn. She had forgotten the candle.
She heard her Master clear his throat in mock sternness and a harsh whisper, "The candle, slave. Get the candle and return to your position by the door as I told you. Can you not obey a simple order?"
She did not answer but was immediately and blackly disappointed that she had displeased him, even though she could also tell by his voice that he was secretly pleased, too. But then again, the pleasure in his voice could have been from any number of things he had seen or thought while watching her the past few minutes. He was an intelligent and complex man and Lauren had eventually learned to stop trying to second-guess him. He was not like the men she so easily toyed with in her professional life. Each morning, she got up and with trousers snapped, made big noise in the man's world with the sheer strength of her intellect. She was used to a "kneeling mind" in a man, for generally they had no other choice once time was spent with her. It drove many away, ashamed or afraid, or just too daunted to remain. But Marc was different.
Actually, his full name was "Marcus Moynihan" as he had briskly stated as he had leaned down upon her almost imperceptibly during their first meeting. Lauren smiled in the darkness now as she remembered that for days afterwards all she could think of was the deep caramel color of his eyes.
Perhaps she would be punished for her blunder with the candle. Perhaps not. She would not know until it happened or it did not.
She turned on her heel, walked back into the holy light and lifted the candle, careful not to spill the hot wax, pooling like rich vanilla lava around the thick, black stump of wick. Cupping her hand in front of the flame, she walked to her place by the hotel door, and leaned slowly against the door jamb, very aware of the fact that he could see her every move.
"Put the candle on the floor in front of you. Take off your coat and lay it on the bed and return," he said. She complied, laid the warm sheath of buttery leather on the end of the bed and returned to her position. She was still unable to see the man behind the commands.
"Lean against the wall and hike up your skirt."
Lauren reached down and started to pinch the long, rich black silk skirt, accordion style, with both her hands, gathering the material so that it made a slow climb up her leg like a velvet theatre curtain, until it reached to just above her shaved cunt. The candle's light undulated beneath her like little escaping snakes coming up from between her legs... painting her in golden and impermanent serpents: tongues forked and full of fleeting licks.
"Stop. Now, without letting go, slide down the wall for me, very slowly."
She complied, inching her way down, bending deep at the knees and pivoting on her heels so that her cunt was spread as far as possible in that position. Pushing back hard against the wall for some relief on her back, she was glad now she had spent those long, boring hours in the gym each week. Even though she was weakest there -- alone, while working out. At the gym, her frustrations about her relationship with Marc often turned to anger at herself for allowing herself to continue in such a strange relationship as theirs had become. WHY did she allow it to continue---week after week?! Shit. She had no control over the relationship at all. And, in truth, it frustrated her to no end when she was alone long enough to brood about it.
She did not know where Marc lived or what he did for a living or even his home phone number. He had given her a pager number and instructed her only to use it for emergencies. On their first date, she had slipped quickly into her "reporter" personality, firing off at him one probing question after another. He answered maybe one in every three, forcing her to slow down.
Finally, on their third and last "date", he had told her he was the CEO of a large multi-national pharmaceutical company, which kept him travelling much of the time. He had then leaned toward her and very deliberately took control of the conversation by asking her, with a raised brow, if that was a problem? She remembered mumbling "no" in a soft and quiet voice that was NOT her own.
"Good," he had said, "you will be required to meet me weekly hereafter and will receive instructions for doing so each Monday evening."
That particular date marked only their 4th time to ever see each other but something in Lauren clicked over in her --- her belly flipped and dove, sending waves of wet pleasure down, down and in, drenching her cunt. "Hell," she'd thought then. "This is screwed up. Who the hell does he think he is anyway?" She had flashed her electric blue eyes at him once, but inside, she knew she was hooked.
He must have seen the silent flare up of her ego in her eyes because he smiled then, reached across the table, encircled her wrist with his strong fingers like a cuff and squeezed, whispering, "Good girl." And that, THAT PRECISE MOMENT, was when "it" had "started" and Lauren knew without a doubt, that she was beyond saving. There was no going back, the road had forked and she had chosen and now she was not her own anymore.
Her Master's voice brought her back to the present. "Now. Sit down on your ass and spread your legs wide for me."
She could feel herself becoming wet as she squatted to comply, embarrassed and red-faced,. She landed too sharply on her ass and almost lost the grip on her black silk skirt.
"I said, "Spread your legs, bitch."
Too quickly, she spread her legs, snagging her left heel on the carpet, dropping her left skirt hem in an effort to keep herself from tipping over.
"You will pay for that," He said harshly.
Immediately, she hiked the hem back up for Him. Slowly, the handle of a long black whip extended from the other side of the candle and pushed the candle closer to her, between her legs, and she was bathed in its glow, her pink fingernails echoing its flame ten tiny times.
"Pull your skirt all the way up, hold it with your left hand and play with your clit with your right. Do it now."
She began to panic inside. She could not go through with this, she was too damn nervous. She made a move to get up.
"SIT DOWN," His voice BOOMED from somewhere to her far left front. She slumped back down immediately.
"Now, you can do this your way, or you can do it mine-- but either way, you WILL DO IT. Is that clear?"
She could hear the anger begin to edge into His voice and so she answered, meekly, "Yes, Sir," keeping her head down out of reflex.
"Good. We will begin again. Now, reach down with your right hand and masturbate for me, bitch."
Lauren reached down, tentatively, flushed now with embarrassment, and touched her clit. *Whoosh* The sound of the whip cut through the air and a mean lash landed on her right thigh seemingly from nowhere and reflexively she gave a shout of PAIN.
"I said, Masturbate for me, bitch, like the whore that you are, like MY whore, not like some guilt-stricken nun." He sighed deeply for emphasis. "Must we always begin this way?" *whoosh* Another invisible lash screamed down and landed on her left thigh. "Why do you continute to insist on trying to be in charge?"
She was silent as snow now as she looked meekly down, watching the two impudent, red streaks interrupt the tan on her thighs and race to turn to raised welts, filled with heat now and beating in time with her quickened heartbeat. She knew now her Master was truly angry, for he rarely, rarely marked her body. Then, right then, there was the turn of that infernal key within her, the clicking over inside her, bright-bright even as she tryed to fight it...she could not. She was powerless in the force of its wakening within her. The submissive in her suddenly loosened everything within and she felt the blood flow to her nipples and cunt. She was in heat and she was HIS... At that moment. The moment of turning. She wondered if he could see. She wondered if he knew.
"Now. Do it." He whispered.
