Scarlett: the First Date

The dress was beautiful. It lay on the hotel room bed, the deep, lustrous red a bright stain against the white sheets I knew I would never lie in. The fabric was rich and luxurious. I held it up against myself, knowing it would fit perfectly. As I lifted it, I noticed the scooped, low-cut back; so low-cut that it was completely backless. My heart, already racing, actually skipped a beat as I thought about how I would be displayed. The rush of adrenaline spiked in my system. This was my choice. This was what I wanted.

*****

I had met him online, of course. Indulging my fantasies, he had reached out to me from the other side of the world. He wasn't like the other guys online. He was the real deal. Twenty years my senior, ex-military, living in Australia. He sent me pictures of himself and my breath caught in my throat. Then he sent me pictures of his restraints, his instruments of torture and pleasure, and described how he would use them on me. And I lay back, alone in my room in a wet, rainy English town, my fingers buried inside myself, clutching at my bed sheets as I came again and again and again.

Until he told me that I couldn't.

And I obeyed.

And so, over time, it dawned on me that I had found him. The one I had been looking for. The one I could surrender to. The man who would own me, completely. I could put my life into his hands, and give up on the tedium and drudgery of making decisions for myself. He would control me, completely and utterly; I would devote my life to his pleasure.

The arrangements were made. His instructions were detailed and meticulous, and I followed them to the letter. My plane ticket duly arrived in my email, as promised: one way to the other side of the world. I gave notice on my flat. Told my family and friends I was going travelling in South America for a year. Donated all my clothes to charity, keeping just enough to travel in. Handed back my key to the letting agent. And set off for the airport.

The flight was long. I slept fitfully, my mind racing with images and ideas of what I was travelling into. Of the decisions I had made. Of the steps ahead of me. But, despite the flutters in my stomach, the shallow breathing, the elevated heart rate, there was never any question of turning back. I had dreamed of this my whole adult life. I wanted this. I needed it.

As I came through arrivals, I saw a man in a trim suit holding out a handwritten sign: "Scarlett." I went towards him, introducing myself. He nodded, silently, and took my case, leading me to a plush black car waiting outside. The case went into the trunk. He held the back door for me and I slid into the seat. He went to the front and drove, without a word, into my new world.

I arrived at the hotel with my mouth agape. A luxurious, five star establishment with opulent fittings, marble floors, cool air conditioning and a dignified hush as elegant guests glided around, attended by expert staff. My driver held the door for me, and I stepped out to be greeted by a concierge.

"Welcome, Miss Scarlett. Your host has made all the arrangements. Please follow me."

Silently, I obeyed. The driver returned to his car and drove away, my case still in the trunk. I would never see it again. I had no need for it now.

The concierge led me to the room, and opened the door.

"Your host will meet you in the bar at seven. He has left you everything you need. He has asked that you meet him, to conclude your arrangements over a drink. Dinner has then been arranged in the restaurant." He left silently, the door clicking shut behind him.

And that was when I saw the dress, laid out on the bed. My new life awaited.

*****

I slid into the dress. As expected, it fitted me like a glove. The back was scooped so low, it exposed the base of my spine and the top of my ass cheeks. There was no way I could wear any underwear, so I left it with my travelling clothes in the laundry bag, as arranged.

The bathroom was fitted out with everything I needed: toiletries, makeup, hair products, a bottle of perfume. I took my time, doing my hair, my makeup, making sure I looked as good as I could for him. The perfume was intoxicating, a delicious, deep scent that I didn't recognise. I wondered if there was some kind of pheromone mixed into it: combined with the anticipation, and the weeks and weeks of no-touch denial, my libido was now driving my every move. The desire for sex was all-consuming. And soon...soon...my yearning need would be satisfied. I hoped.

He had left me jewellery to wear. Some very expensive-looking earrings, a circlet for my upper arm, some bracelets and an ankle chain. The chain had a small tag on it, bearing the words "owned slut." Nobody would see it down there on my ankle, but I would know it was there. And so would he. There was nothing for my neck. I imagined that might come later.

Finally, the shoes. Simple black ballet pumps, setting off the outfit to perfection. The clock read 6:50pm. I looked at myself in the mirror, checking that I was ready. As ready as I could ever be. I tucked the items he had listed into the small, black clutch bag, stepped through the door, and into my future.

*****

I am aware of eyes on me as I cross the lobby towards the hotel bar. Male eyes, hungrily devouring the expanse of exposed skin across my back; female eyes, jealous, competitive, perhaps also desirous. I keep my head high and my face forward, my shoes pressing on the cold marble floor, passing the threshold onto the soft carpet of the dimly lit bar.

Soft music is playing. Chandeliers cast fractal sparkles on the polished surfaces. Elegant men and women sit at tables, or stools, talking quietly. And there you are. Sitting at a corner table, dressed in an expensive, well-cut suit, your tanned skin shining, your eyes fixed on mine, a half-smile playing on your lips. You stand - such a gentleman - to greet me. I try to hold your gaze, but I can't, and my eyes drop. My heart is pounding in my chest, blood thrumming in my veins, at this moment I have longed for, desired, needed. And then your hand is in mine and you lift it to your lips, kissing my fingers softly, gently; your other hand is under my chin, raising my face to meet yours.

"Scarlett," you say, your voice deep, confident, calm. "It's wonderful to meet you. Please, sit."

You pull my chair out and I sit, grateful for the support of the velvet upholstered furniture as the room threatens to spin around me. You take your place opposite me. There is a sparkling cocktail in a crystal glass in front of me. You lift your champagne glass, proposing a toast. I lift mine with a trembling hand.

"To the future," you say.

"The future," I repeat, my voice a husky whisper. You smile as I drink. It tastes divine. I feel it seep into my body, relaxing me, holding me. I take another sip, then replace the glass.

"Are you ready, Scarlett, to conclude our arrangement?" you ask. I nod, silently. You raise one eyebrow, just a fraction.

"Y-Yes, Sir," I say. You nod, almost imperceptibly, in approval.

You push a piece of paper over to me, with a black fountain pen. It is the contract. I read it through, but of course there is no need. It is exactly as we agreed. I lift the pen, and sign my name. You smile, and hold out your hand.

I hand over the clutch bag. You open it, and take out the contents. My passport, birth certificate, driving licence and travel documents. My bank card and my credit card. The key to my hotel room. You shuffle through them, smiling, and fold the contract around them, handing everything to a hovering waiter, who vanishes with them. And just like that, it is done. All that I have is the dress I am wearing. You have everything else.

You move back a fraction, and then stand. I look up at you, your cool eyes taking me in. My lips part, but no words come. I try to communicate all the longing, the desire, the need that I am feeling through my eyes. You understand, that half-smile playing on your lips.

"Kneel," you say.

It's like the air is sucked out of the room. I gasp, my lungs crying out for air, but my body can't - won't - breathe. In that airless vacuum, I feel my body move of its own accord, simply at your command. I move my chair out and sink to my knees before you. You produce the leather collar from your jacket pocket, and gently, but firmly, encircle my neck with it, buckling it deftly under my ear. You slot a small padlock through the mechanism, clicking it shut, sealing the collar in place. I see you slide the key into your pocket. You tilt my head up, your fingers under my chin.

"What do you say, Scarlett?"

"T-thank you, Sir," I gasp.

"Good girl," you say, and my insides melt. Oh God, the power you have over me...

Then you take an elegant silver chain from your jacket pocket, and clip it to the ringlet on the collar. I keep my eyes fixed on you, but I can hear the silence spreading through the bar as the clientele take in this scene, this contract, this moment of complete submission. You straighten up, the leash held casually in your strong hand.

"Shall we go through to dinner, Scarlett?" you ask.

I nod. "Yes, Sir," I respond, and begin to stand. You clear your throat.

"Did I say you could stand, Scarlett?" you ask. I freeze in mortification.

"No, Sir."

"Good girl. Now, heel."

A waiter collects our drinks on a silver tray and follows us as we make our way back through the bar to the restaurant. You walk confidently ahead, nodding in acknowledgement to one or two of the couples in the bar, keeping a gentle pressure on the leash as I crawl on my hands and knees behind you. The long slit in the skirt allows my knees to come through, revealing my pale thighs to the staring onlookers; my naked back is exposed, my anklet sparkling, my submission complete, as we head off for our first date.