Fresh from the shower, I pad out of the bathroom naked, trailing wisps of steam. I head toward the bedroom to see what you've selected for me this evening. The garter belt and stockings are no surprise. The dress you've selected is. It's a slinky cocktail dress with an off the shoulder black lycra top that clings to my curves and then flares into a short, flouncy, skirt that barely falls to mid-thigh. I haven't worn that since New Years. The shoes next to the bed are the Brazilian pair, dark, with short sturdy Cuban heels, just tall enough to lift and accentuate the curve of my bottom but comfortable enough for a long evening. I didn't even bother looking for a bra or panties, they wouldn't be here.
I put on the garter belt, roll the stockings up my legs clipping them onto the belt and then slip into the dress thankful that it still fits. With a giggle I playfully twirl before the dresser mirror, the skirt swirls up. I'd be ever so revealed to anyone watching. With a grin I sit before the mirror and apply the rich red lip-gloss you've left out, you leave me no other makeup for this evening.
I look up and see your reflection in the mirror. You're standing in the bedroom doorway watching; for how long? The clothing you wear is much more casual than mine is. You're dressed in tan slacks, a light blue dress shirt open at the neck, and a gray sports coat. When I stand, you close the distance between us until your body nearly presses against my back, your breath warm against my neck followed by the gentle flutter of a kiss.
"Are we ready?" you ask but you really don't mean it as a question and you don't wait for me to answer. I merely follow behind you, out of the bedroom, down the stairway and out to the car.
Ever the gentleman, you hold the car door open for me. I am very careful not to sit on my skirt. I shiver, my naked bottom coming to rest on cool vinyl as I settle into my seat. You bend down to kiss me. Your lips possess mine fully, hungrily, before you tie a black blindfold firmly into place and close the car door. I listen as you enter the driver's side; you adjust my seat belt and your arm gently brushes against my breasts. Too quickly you pull away and the car starts.
This is how it has always been. We only go to the club on weekends, at night, and I am always blindfolded. I could not tell anyone where the club is or even how long it takes to drive there. I sit quietly with my hands folded on my lap. I'm excited of course, feeling a bit like a bad little girl trying so very hard to be good. The drive is mostly in silence, reflective. The radio plays soft gentle music, a soothing backdrop for my inner turmoil. You tell me casually we will be performing tonight, which only makes me more uneasy. Will I be clumsy? Look bad? Make you look bad?
I don't say a word but you understand my fear. You try to reassure me.
"You just have to follow my lead; it's my job to show them how beautiful you are." A grin crosses my lips, reassured that you will help me perform well.
We are an odd couple, you and I. You are my master and yet for nearly a year, you've forbidden me the use of that particular word. It's my own fault. I am the one who would use that word inappropriately, without thinking, and often I embarrassed you. When I unwittingly called you "Master" before my own parents it was the last straw.
My mother looked from me to you at first with shock and disbelief that slowly turned to a bemused smile. I flushed with embarrassment; I could feel your rising anger without even looking at you. My father barely noticed; thinking, no doubt it was a rare case of sarcasm on my part.
When we arrived home that dreadful evening you vented your pent-up anger. You tied me face down on the bed and you thoroughly punished my poor bottom with a leather belt. It was the only time I've ever seriously thought about using my safe word. I wonder if you would have stopped; I think so, but I'll never know. Since that night I've not been allowed to use the word "Master".
You can forbid my saying the word but my thoughts will always know the truth. I am yours. A devoted slave and yet you use me like one all too rarely. In our ordinary lives I must play the role of your independent wife, on these special evenings I can become what I'll always long for, what I was meant to be: yours completely.
The car continues through the night. Later, I really don't know how much later, perhaps a half-hour, no more than a full one, the car stops and we are there. Your warm patient hands guide me from the car and finally you remove the blindfold once we are safely inside.
It is a private club; we usually come here every week, but we've come at least twice a month, for years now. You head toward our table and I follow behind. Miss Ruth waves a casual greeting from across the room and heads toward us.
Her two man-servants flank her. They were obviously selected for their looks. Both are tall, muscular, and completely shaven. They could almost be brothers except that one is the darkest ebony and the other is such a pale white that he seems almost bloodless.
Everyone calls them the twins; Mistress Ruth has never revealed their true names. They both wear nothing but leather chaps. The dark one dressed in glossy white leather and the other wears burnished black. I peek at the open juncture of the leather leggings when I think (hope) no one is looking. They're nearly identical there as well. Neither shows the least sign of arousal, they are much too well trained. It is said that with a snap of her fingers they will both become rock hard for Ruth, and if she orders them to they will cum spurting into the air with no stimulation other than her command. It is something I would love to see some day.
The club is hers of course; I don't know it's name or even if it has one. Some of those I've heard talking here refer to it as "the power exchange" which seems apt but is probably more a description than a title.
She is nearly at our table now. I look away toward the stage my eyes stealing one last glimpse of the two men who remain a respectful pace behind her. On stage a demonstration of safe suspension techniques is taking place. A tiny oriental woman who I think is called Annie is bound to a massive eight-foot high tripod constructed of metal poles and tubing. She is wearing nothing but her wrist and ankle bracelets and a pair of impossibly tall high heels but with her hands bound high the heels barely allow her feet to touch the ground. A small crowd has gathered below the stage to listen as her owner explains, gesturing at her using his riding crop as a pointer.
"Mark! How delightful! You'll be able to use the stage in about forty-five minutes. I hope that will be acceptable?"
You offer your consent. We sometimes perform on stage; it terrifies and yet perversely excites me to be displayed naked before these people we barely know. More importantly you want to reveal my submissiveness to them and that alone allows my pride to swell. Last week I was allowed to grovel naked at your feet, my lips servicing you while you watched others perform on stage. Tonight we will perform for them.
My belly clenches as I feel Mistress Ruth's eyes turn toward me. "My, Miss Sarah, you look positively ravishing tonight." I can not look at her; I dare not answer her. She always addresses me with this exaggerated politeness, pretending she doesn't know I am a fraud. I sit at the side of my lover clothed as if I was a free woman. It is what you want, but my discomfort certainly amuses her.
She may be the one person who recognizes the true irony of my situation. You are my master and you want me to act as an independent woman, it is what you demand of me. Because I am your slave I acquiesce to that absurd demand. Why you must pretend that the woman who surrenders herself to your demands is free I do not know. I will play that role as long as you want me to. I would rather be kneeling naked at the feet of my master, like so many others at this club are allowed to do. You indulge me sometimes but what I desire is of no real consequence. You know I wish to wear your collar, you deny me this for your own reasons. I will do as my Master wishes; I will even pretend I can refuse you.
"Can I get you a drink Mark?" Miss Ruth asks.
"Yes please, my regular." Master replies
"And Miss Sarah," her eyes swing toward me again and I hold my breath. "Perhaps I can get you a cup of tea to sooth those frazzled nerves." She certainly doesn't expect me to respond; she knows my true nature. I should sit silently and accept whatever her servants bring me. I should demure to her desires. I definitely am not expected to speak up.
"No thank you Miss Ruth." I boldly proclaim. "My nerves are quite fine and your tea might just makes me need to pee at an inconvenient time."
God what is wrong with me? Her cloying manner just goads me on; I can't deal rationally with this woman. Mistress Ruth's eyes flash with anger and amusement, she seems to enjoy the challenge of my little rebellion. She turns to the pale twin and instructs him to fetch my lover's regular drink. He returns with Mark's bottle of 12 year old Scotch and a glass. He pours about four fingers into the tumbler. His duty finished he steps back to his place behind his Mistress leaving the bottle on the table. Mark offers Ruth a drink but she declines. He raises his glass to salute me and I blush.
"You know Mark; you really ought to put a collar on that cute little bitch before someone else does it for you." Miss Ruth speaks casually about me as I fidgeted under her gaze.
"That cute little bitch is my wife, Ruth, so don't even think about tossing your collar on her." Mark answers showing a flash of the possessiveness that I long for.
"Oh I wasn't thinking about myself. There are others here who wouldn't be the least bit hesitant, married or not. But now that you mention it, I'm sure we could work something out between the two of us... if you'd like."
