The snap of the metal nib into the slot of the garter belt, the adjustment of my stockings so that my ass and cuntlips are so very much on display, so that the wind can hit them just as He snakes His hand under my skirt is a luxury one either gets or doesn't. Either you see it as an encumbrance and an annoyance, or you see it for the frame that it is for my most vulnerable spots. To offer them as a gift to my lover excites me. I like the ritual of dressing, imagining what will turn Him on when I know quite well that these - the heels, the collar, the lace bra, the stockings, the earrings - will please Him just as my wearing nothing would please Him. He did not tell me what to wear. He no longer needs to.
Of course long before I chose any of this, I waxed myself, the pain only another reminder of my desire to please Him. I've always been amused by the exaggeration of how it feels to wax oneself. I choose waxes that are gentle, effective and aromatic with cinnamon or vanilla. The warmth of it on my skin reminds me of the candle wax He dripped on me when I was little more than a girl. The possibility of damage, the trust it took to allow it, again my aching vulnerability rewarded with sensual delights that scarred me much more deliciously than any mere sexual encounter could have.
He promised me a night like no other and from Him that was no small matter. I have never known anyone whose perversity complemented mine so well. I have been driven to madness by Him, horizontally and vertically. Both my brain and my body used and opened like a delicious orange for Him to devour, each new segment bursting and dripping for Him alone. For days after our encounters, I feel the battering of His hand in my cunt. I walk with a silent ecstasy through the halls of my workplace knowing how that pulsing painpleasure got there and I know without a doubt that nobody in that building or within miles of it has ever been fucked so completely. Brushing my hair, I feel His hand expertly pulling my head toward His cock so that He may use me, make me cough out my lust and ruin the pretty makeup I have applied just for Him. The bruise left on my ass in the shape of His hand – my reminder of how close we walk to the edge and a promise, like the rainbow, that it will never happen again.
He had dispatched a car to pick me up at my hotel. When the driver called my room, I walked through the lobby noticing the families and couples staring at my disgracefully high heels, my shamelessly red lips and my collar. Though many clearly disapproved, there were more than a few who simply stared at what they thought was a whore. I wondered what they might think if they knew I was doing this not for money, but for lust. I met their eyes, winking surreptitiously at a handsome father who I am sure gave his soccer mom wife a time that night. I like that, stirring lust, even if I am not on the receiving end. Just a little sexual bodhisattva. My gift to them. . .
The driver was waiting by the door. I tried to make eye contact, but he refused, though I did see him staring at my legs, the seam of my stocking fixing him to the spot. Ever the professional, he only slightly adjusted the crotch of his trousers as he closed the door. I settled in for what I thought would be a long ride to the country. I had heard of houses where parties began on Friday and did not end until the last guest left, but I could not imagine how to get myself invited. When He suggested I gain my freedom for a weekend, I dared not hope it could be such an arrangement. A few minutes into the ride, I realized we were not leaving the city, but heading to another high-rise hotel. Fine, I thought, I like hotels. And though I desperately wanted to run a finger around my slickening lips, I knew He would inspect me for such unapproved explorations. Rather than encourage His wrath, I wanted to prove my devotion to Him. I waited and felt my upper thighs grow slick and warm with my own anticipation. My clitoris pulsed, but like His good girl, I waited.
We pulled up to the lobby and the driver opened my door. "You are to wait in the lobby, whore." I was shocked as much as by the sound of his voice as by his choice of word. What right had he? Every right, I remembered. A night like no other, His voice echoed in my memory. I took a seat at the bar and before I could order, a vodka tonic was set before me.
"From the gentlemen in the corner," said the predictably blonde bartender. I turned to see my benefactors when I realized this was just the beginning. I quickly counted four of them. I smiled in acknowledgement of the gesture, but was too uncertain to approach them. What if they weren't in on the plans? What WERE the plans? Where was He? I heard His voice in my ear.
