"Give me the directions to your home," I repeated more firmly. When he hesitated again, I lowered the phone to the counter and whacked the pad of paper flat against the surface. SMACK! Lifting the receiver to my ear, I heard what sounded like a whimper. "If you want to touch your hard, hot, throbbing cock, and feel it burning with pain and desire, exploding with an orgasm so big, your eyes will roll back in your head like a zombie's...give me the directions to your house."
He gave them to me, his voice sounding almost dazed as he did so. I nearly swore out loud when he gave the address first, barely listening as he recited the unnecessary directions. He was literally less than fifteen blocks away from where I lived—hell, I could have *walked* to his house, if I'd wanted to! And I never knew.
All this time, I never knew my ideal sub lived so fucking close... Well, that was what the tractless wastes of suburbia did to people; no one ever got to know more than their absolute nearest neighbors, if they were lucky. I didn't let any of that show in my voice, however.
"Hm. It'll take me about forty-five minutes to arrive. In the meantime, what I want you to do is to clean up your entryway, livingroom, hallway, bathroom, and bedroom, in preparation for my arrival. In fact, any room I can see from those locations must either be closed off if it is dirty, or clean enough to not disgust your Mistress with slovely, bachelor-style housekeeping methods. In other words, the air should be sweet-smelling, the floor and furnishings clean...and the toilet seat should definitely be down."
"I remember," he murmured in my ear, sounding like he was getting off at the memory. "You said they should see what you do to men who forget."
"—Are you touching yourself?" I asked him sharply.
"Uh—no, Mistress!" he quickly denied.
"I think you are. That will be ten lashes for disobeying me," I informed him, then added, "plus the ten I still owe you from Halloween. So when I arrive, your front door will be unlocked, and you will be kneeling in the punishment position not far from that front door, naked and ready for me. Your home is in one of those newer developments, in the Ashbury Heights lot? It's not a tiny split level, correct?"
"Correct, uh, Mistress. There's a broad tile entryway in front of the door for about ten feet, then carpeting. Um, where do you want me to kneel, Mistress?" he asked hesitantly.
"On the carpeting, this time. I might change my mind later on, but for now, every time I call and say I am coming over, you will meet me in the punishment position on the carpeting just beyond the entryway. No need to bruise your knees excessively if you haven't earned it as a punishment," I added.
"Thank you, Mistress."
"Forty-five minutes, Mr. Bear," I reminded him. "But unlock the door right now. I might arrive early. And you may *not* touch yourself, until I give you permission to. Failure to comply will add ten more lashes to the twenty already awaiting you. And while we're at it, you are *not* allowed to have a drink of anything alcoholic until after I am done with you. Just so you'll know how much more intense the pleasure can be when you're perfectly sober and capable of remembering it in every last, exquisite detail."
"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress," he added quietly, sounding sincere.
Oh, what a treat this one was going to be!
I hung up the phone, grinned down at the address and its directions, licked my lips, and pushed away from the counter. Dancing a happy little jig—how he'd starred in some of my personal fantasies, the last few weeks—I headed for the bathroom. First a shower, a little shaving here and there to tidy myself up, then maybe some makeup, a tiny spritz of perfume, something suitable from my Domina closet to help set the mood, and then the ultimate decision, what to bring from among my selection of 'toys'. My heart beat fast in my chest. I was lucky I remembered to stop by the VCR and program it to record the show I was about to miss.
It didn't take me long to get ready. I was good at fast turnarounds. By day, I worked as a dentist's receptionist, working only four days a week, but with a very good salary. In the evenings, well, I had an active social life. Vanilla friends, not-so-vanilla subs... Some of my vanilla friends were avoiding me at the moment, and two of my three subs had just been released from my care. One into the full-time care of a fellow Domina as her slave/assistant, the other because of a death in his family, and the need to go back to his hometown and help manage things in his family's time of grief. That left me with Cho to fill my evenings, an Asian man who liked being treated as furniture for a heavy but curvaceous woman like me. There was only so much of that a girl could take, however, before it got boring, so I'd taken to using him as furniture while disciplining one of the other two subs, adding to his discomfort and humiliation levels, something which he'd liked immensely. Heck, he'd been proud to serve as my chair or footstool in the presence of the other two, the only one allowed to do so.
That particular option wasn't available at the moment, however. So, as I smoothed stockings up my newly shaven legs, I fantasized what it would be like to discipline my brand-new Mr. Bear while sitting on Cho's back. I'd have to introduce the idea slowly to Mr. Bear, though; I had no idea how much he could stand on a first or even a second D/s date. Which reminded me; as I wrapped my overcoat over my Domina outfit for the evening and picked up my picnic basket of toys, I double-checked to make sure my notebook was in there. It was a trick I'd picked up from a vanilla friend, actually. She carried a notebook everywhere with her, so she could always jot down a note or an idea about something, helping to keep her busy life organized. Not an actual day-organizer; I loathed the things, especially since I worked all day with a huge desk-sized one behind the dentist's reception counter. They were fine for life in an office, dentist's or otherwise, but not for my personal life. I liked a little more spontaneity than that, thank you very much.
Getting in my car, I checked the clock. Half an hour. I drove the five blocks, parked out on the street, checked my lipstick and eyeliner in the mirror, then checked out the house. One of those sprawling three-story suckers, the kind that upwardly mobile couples moved into when they thought of having the 'perfect family', and living in the perfect condo just wouldn't cut it size-wise anymore. Mine was small and cute by comparison, a 'modern saltbox' with faux gingerbread trim; this was large, with angled bits and broad dormer windows, a three-car garage and a rounded archway supporting the roof of the covered porch.
Mr. Bear had quite a bit of money to spend, if he was living here alone, with no girlfriend in the picture anymore. Funny how it was often the ones with power and responsibility in the vanilla halves of their lives that craved submissive experiences. Not always the case, but a good percentage of the time.
With ten minutes to go, I opened the car door, pulled out the picnic basket with a black-gloved hand, locked my vehicle, and headed for the front steps. The house was set at the back righthand end of a large curve in the road, with a wooded ravine behind it, and high privacy fencing to either side. Plenty of lawn space to either side, too, compared to the too-cramped, cheek-and-jowl housing of some other developments I'd seen; the land he owned had to be an acre, maybe an acre and a half, with plenty of trees and hedges to give it an illusion of privacy from its neighbors. How I wished I could afford a house like this, on a receptionist's salary! Walking up the path, which was lit by those clever, low garden lights on either side, I mounted the steps and opened the front door. And nearly sighed aloud with pleasure, as I spotted all seven feet of my latest conquest kneeling naked on the silvery-grey carpet, within an inch of the darker gray, slate tiles lining the hall around the front door.
Shutting the door behind me, I turned and locked it. It was one thing for *me* to walk in the front door unannounced; I was invited. It wouldn't do for anyone else to walk in on us unexpectedly. He'd been drunk, the last time, and both of us caught unawares—shame on me, I know... Sober, there was no telling just how much lower his humilation tolerance threshold could be.
Without acknowledging his presence beyond that first look, I set the picnic basket down by the door, then strode past him into his house. My low suede pumps clacked over the tiles, then scrunched softly on the carpet. The pile wasn't overly long, but it was thick enough to be springy, which made me decide to limit how much time I spent moving around on the carpeting, since these heels were an older, almost spike-heeled style that threatened to wobble on such giving ground. A tour of the house was necessary first, however. I spotted the immaculate living room off to my right and nodded to myself. *Cleaning service; he's got to have a cleaning service, to keep his home this neat and tidy.* It was the rare man, in my experience, who kept his home looking this good by his own free-willed efforts. No wonder he was ready and waiting ten minutes before my arrival.
"Uh...Mistress?" I heard his voice calling out to me from the entryway. "Should I follow you? Just wanting to clarify my instructions, that's all!"
"Stay right there for now, Mr. Bear. I'll come back to you," I called back, reassuring him. Pleased he'd remembered he could ask me a question, if it was to clarify his instructions. I'd have to give him something special for that. Which meant I had to find a good place for us to play in. The living room wouldn't do. Well, I suppose it would, later, but only when he'd learned to control himself. Cumstains on that beautiful carpet, or that butter-soft leather sofa, wouldn't be easy to get out.
I gave myself a quick tour of the house, poking my head into every room that had a door standing open. Later, I'd probably get to see the rest of the house, but sticking to those rooms that were open or had been left open was designed to give him a sense of control over his level of privacy. Mounting the stairs, I found the master bedroom at the back of the house, mainly because it was the only door on the second floor standing open. Wide open spaces, a large, carved, cherrywood four-poster bed covered in a white eyelet-lace comforter—a bit of a surprise, but probably left over from the ex-girlfriend's taste—and a little entertainment nook, replete with a loveseat and a widescreen t.v. set. The bathroom was fascinating; most of it was another nook, opposite the entertainment corner, with a large walk-in closet set between the two.
It was also tiled in white squares interspersed with cobalt blue diamonds, with a broad two-sink counter, one of those silly little toilet closets, a shower stall made out of those glass-cube things that ws big and tall enough enough for Mr. Bear and two nubile blonds to play around in—replete with two handheld shower units, no less, one mounted low and one mounted high and both with the dialing heads that allowed thin sprays or throbbing massages—a dual-sink counter with a vast vanity mirror, and a large whirlpool bathtub done in cobalt blue porcelain, built into the corner of the nook with one side against the walk-in closet wall, looking out over the backyard through a stained-glass window. The only thing this particular part of the house lacked was rings for chains mounted securely into the walls. The posters on the bed, those would do, but right now, I wanted him on the tiles in that open-air bathroom nook.
