The Moment Before

This was the moment she hated the most. Sometimes it only lasted a few minutes. Sometimes he kept her there for more than half an hour. It always felt like so much longer. And it was always unbearable, standing there, her nose just inches away from the polished wood of the closed door in front of her.

He knew that she hated it. That was exactly why he made her made her do it. He had never said as much, but she knew it was true. Why else would he make her wait so long?

It was bad enough, having to walk through the hotel lobby and ride the elevator up to his room, knowing that every eye would be on her. She could feel them looking at her bare legs, her exposed midriff, the thin cloth drawn uncomfortably tight across her chest. She knew that they would be turning to stare as she walked past in her ridiculous heels, imagining all the things she would be getting up to. There wasn't much else left to the imagination. She would have given anything for a jacket, a coat, even a bed sheet, something to cover herself and hide behind.

But he had always been very particular about how he wanted her to look when she arrived at his door. And she knew what would happen if she tried to disobey. So she did what she was told, walking as quickly as she could through different hotel lobbies all over the city, trying to draw as little attention to herself as possible.

And then, he would make her wait.

She hated the waiting. It gave her too much time. Too much time to get inside her own head. Too much time to think about everything that was about to happen. About all the things he would do to her. About all the things he would make her do to herself. Too much time to let it all sink in, the knowledge that, despite the shame and the humiliation of it all, she would inevitably end up on her knees, begging him for more...

A shiver ran through her body. Her cheeks were burning, as she felt the heat rising between her thighs. She fingered the hem of her skirt, trying it tug it down as far as it would go, knowing that it was pointless, that all she was doing was raising the back up even higher, exposing her bare flesh for anyone to see.

She swallowed. Her throat felt insufferably dry. She desperately hoped that no one would pass by and see her standing there. She didn't dare to take her eyes away from the door in front of her, staring at the brass room number on the polished wood as if it could somehow hide her.

It would be worse, afterwards. Much worse. Sent outside with her makeup ruined, her panties missing, her face streaked with tears and who knew what else, not to mention the mess running down her thighs. Knowing that she would stand, kneel, beg at the door closed firmly behind her, hoping beyond hope that he would call her back inside, even if only for the cruel joy of knowing that she would be at his beck and call, that he could keep her waiting, that she would thank him before he threw her out again. Hating herself for every second of it.

Hating the knowledge that she would have to walk back the way she came on unsteady legs, her head hanging low and trying to make herself as small possible, trying to avoid making contact with the countless eyes staring at her, at her shame, at her humiliation, at the tattered remains of her dignity and her pride. Hating the knowledge that she would eventually catch sight of herself in mirror as she drove home, that the warmest and longest of showers would fail to wash away the cloying stickiness of disgrace, that the same feeling would keep her warm through the night as the memories stirred up an irresistible tingle between her legs...

And more than that, more than any of that, hating the undeniable knowledge that when he called she would be back again, waiting, with her nose inches away from another closed door to another room, hating every second of it, but waiting, waiting...

The door slowly swung open.

The world froze. Her breath caught in her throat, only coming out after a moment that lasted an eternity, as a commanding presence beckoned her forward.