It's weird to be standing here, all alone, waiting for him. I don't know what he looks like--in my head, he's perfect, but he has insisted to me that he is not. We've been together for over a year now, email, IM, phone calls, gifts in the mail and even handwritten letters. His handwriting is a chicken-scratch, but I've learned to decipher it. It's no worse than mine, so I can't complain. I savour every pen-stroke.
He knows me, of course. Many of my tasks for him have involved taking pictures in the clothes he sends me. I stand here, alone in this dark room full of people, and trust that he will come for me.
He has to. I have nothing left but him. Nowhere to go. I don't even have my cell phone. I can only trust he will come for me. I left everything behind, gave up my apartment and everything in it. I have only the clothes on my back, my ID in my pocket, and the rings on my fingers, each one a gift from him, one for each month of the last year. A year ago today he told me I would be his, forever, full time in his own house. I didn't have to say yes. I had no choice.
And I can't wait. I want to go home.
I'm standing in the dark on a dance floor, on a raised dais. There's a railing I can lean against, because every once in a while my knees start to tremble and I have to lean. Every wall of this place is a projection screen, scenes of naked bodies, clothed bodies, men and women coming together in ecstasy. Scenes of rape and love. It's all beautiful and it's all a little too loud and a little too bright. There are people here but I can't see them very well. They stay away from me. I'm not dressed well enough to be here. I'm wearing his favourite jeans and the brand new sparkly red tank top. Everyone else is in suits and dresses, straight back to Victorian. No one comes near me. I'm glad of that, even though I scan every face I can see, wondering if it's him.
I stand and watch the screen directly in front of me, watch skin on skin, bodies moving together. People on the dancefloor. People on the screen. My body can't decide whether to be terrified or aroused. Maybe both.
And then there are hands on my hips and lips at my ear. "Don't turn around," he murmurs. His voice, no mistaking that voice. He's here, he's come for me, I'll never be alone again. My knees give way and the tears start down my face.
He catches me, doesn't let me fall. He chuckles, a low and beautiful sound. "Hello, my girl."
"Daddy," I whisper.
His hands are sliding up my body, over my breasts, his body pressed against mine. I can feel him in the small of my back, already hard. "I'm so glad you're here, baby girl," he whispers, swaying with me, reaching under my shirt and pinching my nipples. "Good girl," he murmurs when I gasp.
His hands travel down to my jeans, unbutton them. Here in this place, here surrounded by people. Surely not here?
"Daddy," I whisper again, hesitant now.
"Yes, my girl?"
"I..."
"Are you scared?"
"Yes," I say, almost too quietly to hear.
"You can be scared," he says, "but your body is mine and I'm going to use you. I want you. Now." His fingers find their treasure, sliding into my oh-so-wet pussy. "Mmm, you're going to be such a good slut for Daddy," he whispers. "You're so tight and already so wet."
