I know you better than you know yourself.
I know what you want and what you need.
I know what you'll give me, what you'll offer me and do for my pleasures.
Most importantly I know how much more besides that I can take from you.
You stand there, hands clasped behind your back, head bowed, dressed in your best, wondering what's next, what's to follow and just what have you let yourself into. The room is largely bare, with its polished wooden floor, a wide, padded chair sat next to a thickly made plain wooden one. In one corner of the room, covered in dustcloths, are other items of furniture. The room looks as if it has been cleared to make space for... what? I have you stand still in the centre and I pull the soft chair rumbling over the floor and settle into it.
So easily deceived. Seeing everything yet seeing nothing.
I motion for you to lift your head and you don't know why. I do, you don't. Briefly you look at me and I see the confusion and the hint of fear in them.
Those eyes tell me that you're regretting this decision to come to me a little, that you're remembering those old sayings like 'be careful what you wish for because you might just get it' and starting to wonder... starting to feel that initial nervous excitement you felt on the plane, that build-up of tension, delicious and excited, turn into something more like worry, more like fear.
You're not scared yet but it's in the post, you feel it coming to you, feel that panic begin to rise. I see it as I see so many other things.
I look at the outfit you have chosen for your first time standing before me. I look at the heels and wonder how long they've been on. You have a suitcase that you trundled up the path, leaving it behind when you followed me into the room. I saw the way you looked at it as you left, your eyes sad like a child who's leaving a puppy behind at the vets, wondering if she will ever be reunited with it.
You left almost all of your life behind to come here, I know this. I've talked you through it, nurtured it, ensured you'd tidied up as much as you could before you took this step and shared the pain of your sacrifices as the time drew nearer. What remains of your life, what was essential and irreplaceable and intimate is in that suitcase isn't it? Perhaps some photos... perhaps some personal documents which I will take for safekeeping. The clothes I will also go through, though most of them will be useless. You're in my house now and you will wear what is laid out for you. It will be some time before you're trusted to choose for yourself again because your judgement, whilst well-intentioned, is still lacking. I have laid in a small amount to be getting on with now, but your wardrobe will increase, though fashion will take a backseat to design.
I look at you now, this outfit you wear. I look at the heels you perch on, your ankles already aching as you stand. I wonder when you put them on again. They would have come off on the plane and been uncomfortable even to walk on or off in. Strappy and high, they are the choice of a woman who wishes to tempt and tease and entice without looking like a slut. They have no substance, no purpose. They are trivial, decorative. Worst of all, they would appeal to the lowest common denominator of a man as a rule.
From the shoes we have legs clad in black nylon. I can see by the tiny bulges under the tight fabric of your skirt that they are stockings held up by a suspender belt. I smile inwardly at this. I think that when you put them on, when you rolled them up your leg, you almost smiled at the thought of my eyes seeing them, that you would have to be exposed and vulnerable for me to do so but, most importantly, your journey would have ended and you would be here. Did that thought excite you, I wonder? Did it arouse you? I would think so. Does it now? Do you feel the heat between your legs now, stood here, waiting, perched on those uncomfortable heels?
Where's the romance, where's the swept-off-your feet soft-focus feeling you were banking on? Only been here a short while and already it feels unlike anything you thought it would, doesn't it. Already you're regretting the decision, wondering how to get out of it, how to extricate yourself from it before it goes too far.
I see that rising panic in your eyes. The reason you raised your head is so I can see what you're thinking by following your eyes. Looking at the windows? Locked. The door is locked because I made a point of doing so after I closed it behind you, making sure you had stopped walking on the bare wooden floor before allowing the snap of the lock to echo through the room.
There's a door behind me though, and you don't know what lies beyond it. I can see you focus on it; see your eyes calculating the distance to it and past me.
You're very close to deciding now, aren't you? Very close to opening your mouth and starting to explain how you've made a mistake, that you're very sorry and blah, blah, blah.
Perhaps you'll start to talk, trying to get my eyes to focus on your words instead of the fact you're edging towards what you hope is a way out. But you don't know what's behind that door, do you now?
Nervous now, too, aren't you? Breathing rate going up, chest rising and falling under your likely expensive white silk blouse to go with your tight skirt. There's a flush to your skin now and you've licked your lips three times already. Oh yes... I can almost smell it on you... almost see it rising off of you like heat in a cold room, waves of it.
Can you feel my eyes on you? Do they make you uncomfortable? No sound... no words... no movement. You stand there, waiting and tense and afraid. I sit here looking you over, eyes slowly running up and down you, taking you in, and breathing you in. You see the smile playing on my mouth because I let you. I want you to wonder what I see in my head, what I picture and create in my mind.
I stand quite suddenly and I'm pleased to see your focus snaps to me instantly, that you almost step back. You're concentrating now aren't you girl? No distractions now, are there? Eyes front and centre, pay attention, watch and learn.
I walk around you, slowly, deliberately. Your fingers are twitching as you clasp your hands. There's a very slight shake to your legs from standing still in those heels whilst most of your common sense is telling you to get away. But you've stayed so far.
Ah but the door... what's behind it, you wonder. Could you get out, could you get free, could you run in those heels? Could you kick them off in time?
