As soon as Helen got out of the shower, she wrapped a towel around herself, opened the bathroom door and peeked out into the living room. Nothing moved. The light from the computer cast an eerie glow into the room. She worried about leaving it unattended, as if something might crawl out through the screen, or that it might shut down or that he might get there early and, finding her not there, lose patience and just leave, but everything seemed normal. She told herself she was just being foolish—nervous. She closed the door and began to quickly towel off.
She slipped into her robe and took a fresh towel for her hair. She was lucky. Her long black hair was naturally curly and recovered quickly from washing, and in a few minutes she was presentable enough that she felt she could open the bathroom door and leave it that way. On these nights when she was going to see him she always kept it closed until her hair was at least decent, because she felt as though he was actually in the apartment, or could be at any minute, his spirit at least, and she wouldn't let him see her in disarray. It was a superstition, a game she played with herself, but she was acutely aware of the computer being on in the living room, quietly spreading its glow over the carpet and walls, beckoning like a window to another world, and she was similarly aware that he was on the other side of that window—Alex, her master. The door that connected her to him was open and his spirit and his power could come through, and would. What he took from her would be real.
Thursday nights were the best. Alex's wife visited her mother and he was alone. Roy had softball and then went drinking with the team and stayed at Phil's house to be close to work, leaving her alone as well. She didn't have to worry about being disturbed. Alex would come to her on her computer and make her do things: terrible, wonderful things she would never do on her own. She couldn't describe what it was like but it was like nothing else she knew. He took her over somehow, possessed her and set her free. He made her filthy and pure.
She picked up the blow-dryer and a brush and finished her hair, then took a fresh towel and walked into the living room to check the computer again. Nothing. The screen wallpaper showed a windy hill covered with wildflowers, and superimposed on that, her chat window was open. The cooling fan hummed, the cursor blinked patiently. She folded the towel and laid it on the desk, then took the mouse and made sure the sound notification for incoming messages was loud enough. She turned off some lights in the room to create a mood, then went to the corner and up the three stairs to the turret window.
The building had been a grand Victorian gingerbread mansion, now cut up into apartments for young couples with, incongruously, an off-campus coffee shop downstairs. Her place was on the second floor in the back with an old turret window in the living room, looking down upon the garden and a street that ran behind the place—an alley really—lined with old trees and lilac bushes that were dripping now in a foggy mist. There was a window seat at knee level, and standing there exposed on three sides, naked beneath her robe, Helen felt displayed and vulnerable, ashamed and aroused. There was no one around because of the drizzle, but the turret window exposed her like a princess in a castle tower, back-lit from the dim lights of her living room. She turned and stepped down, feeling excitement uncoil like rope from her stomach, and walked back into the bedroom.
He hadn't told her what to wear, but after two months together she knew his tastes. She'd even purchased clothes she thought he'd like and had been proven right, so she was pretty confidant. Roy never noticed and never asked her about them, but then, that's why she'd found Alex in the first place, because Roy just never noticed and never asked. He'd never asked her what she wanted in bed, never noticed what she liked, never paid any attention to her as her interests drifted towards the subject of women tied and captured and forced to perform lewd sexual acts Roy would never engage in. When she'd even hinted at them, he'd laughed and dismissed her as acting "sick".
Alex hadn't. From the first time she'd connected with him he'd seemed to know. He'd seemed to be able to reach inside of her and grab on to something and pull it out of her, and her whole soul followed. Though part of her fought him and resisted, the greater part loved being out of her own control and under his. She loved the fear of not knowing, of not being responsible.
She sat down at her table and did her face, then brushed out her hair again. From her bottom drawer she took out a new package of white stay-up stockings and slit it with her thumb nail, pulled them from the box and dangled them in front of her. She rolled one up and slipped it on her leg, then straightened it out and smoothed it in place, then did the same with the other. They looked wonderful—the pure, virginal white over the undulating curves of her legs. He'd be pleased.
She stood up and got out her new dress—a simple thing really, a silky, white, short-sleeved sun dress that buttoned straight down the front that she'd bought as a cut-out for five dollars. But that was the joy of cyber—she got to shop for things she'd never normally buy.
She looked at herself and felt her pulse increase. The weight of the dress against her naked skin was strange and arousing, and the sensation of wearing stockings with no panties made her feel salacious and lewd. Already her nipples were semi-erect and pressing against the dress. She could see them through the thin, clingy fabric. She was almost done wrapping his gift now, she thought. There were just the bracelets—two heavy silver chain costume jewelry bracelets he'd had her purchase—and finally, the collar.
Not really a collar but a necklace, a choker, a black satin ribbon that held a large, rough-cut slab of green jade to match her eyes. The collar meant something. When she put it on, she was his. She belonged to Alex.
She looked in the mirror now—the black curls from which the velvet ribbon emerged, the cheeks touched with color, the blush-red lips, the green eyes that echoed the color of the stone around her neck. Her skin was coffee-and-cream, contrasting with the pure white of the dress that clung in such a dramatic fall from the gentle spheres of her breasts. She was ready.
She slipped into a pair of heels from the very back of her closet, then gathered up her supplies, the things he'd want her to have—the two belts and a leather strap from a purse, the hair clips, the wooden ruler, the vibrator and the lube—and walked into the dim white glow of the living room. She placed these objects on the towel and looked at the clock: eight-fifty-five.
Perhaps some solitaire on the computer, or a look at her e-mail.
She sat down on the chair and rolled it in to the desk, called up her e-mail and his name jumped out at her: SmokingMirror111. She felt an immediate thrill in her stomach.
Why would he be sending her an e-mail now when he was going to see her in five minutes? Did he have to cancel? He would have sent an IM. She moved the mouse and clicked on his message.
Slave—
I've been thinking of you all day. Your body in my hands, your mouth on my cock, your ass beneath my whip. This is what I want from you tonight—your body and your pleasure. Tonight will be special. I'll make a special demand on you. Don't fail me.
"Slave." He knew how she felt about being called that. And why would he send her a message like this? He always said every night was going to be special and she never failed him. It didn't mean anything...
She turned her web cam on and positioned it to check herself. She looked good. She looked more than good. She looked like an offering, ripe and enticing, something virginal and yet sexual and knowing as well. Her nipples were hard now, her lips slightly swollen with arousal, her heart beating quickly. She didn't usually dress like this for him and she was excited, anticipating his reaction.
She was tempted to touch herself, just to see how sensitive she was, when she heard the signal for a message and there he was, early, his simple, innocent, "Hello?" sitting on the screen.
"Hello," she typed back.
"Good to see you," he responded. "Alone?"
"Yes. You?"
He gave her a smiley face.
It was impossible to know his moods when he first signed on. He might be gentle and want to chat and perhaps discuss his day or hers, or he might want her right away and take her without a word, like a dog takes his bitch in an alley, having her get down on all fours, grabbing her hair and humping away. Not knowing—that was part of the excitement.
Helen wasn't a perfect slave either, which was why she resented the word. She wasn't a doormat. She resisted. She didn't mean to, or at least she didn't think she meant to, at least, not as much as she did, but she did nonetheless. It was complicated; she didn't understand it herself.
He was usually stingy in his use of her web cam, finding it too distracting to leave on all the time and saving it for the climax of their play, but now he told her to turn it on immediately.
As it made connection he said, "I missed you."
She was surprised. "I missed you too, Master."
"Ah, there you are." He took a moment to look at her image. "Nice dress, bitch. Are those buttons all down the front?"
"Yes, Master."
"Very good. I didn't tell you what to wear tonight, did I?"
"No, sir."
"Then why'd you wear that?"
"I thought you'd like it."
He paused and Helen sat nervously at her keyboard, aware that she was being inspected. The LED on the camera glowed red.
