Waiting

"Do I need to repeat anything?"

"No, sir."

"Good. I have something rather special planned."

He hung up without a good-bye. I had plenty of time to get ready but started to draw my bath immediately. I hated to rush before our meetings. 'Something rather special' hung in my imagination as I watched the tub fill with water. Was he about to start a new phase? As I lay in the hot water and made little waves with my hands, I wondered how in the world I had gotten to this place. This place with him. This place in myself. We had known each other for such a relatively short time. It had been little more than six months. Sex had never been anything like this before. I had certainly never been like this with any other man. I had never even imagined it could be like this. Just a few months ago I would never have been able to imagine that anyone really acted this way, let alone me. Not like this. I mean I guess I had had fantasies but this was real. I am not some stupid young girl. I am an adult, a mature woman. My God I am over forty. At work I am a respected professional. I am relatively intelligent and at least I thought a very responsible person. My marriage, my ex-husband, other men, it was like they had been from another planet. How could I possibly feel this way about him? What kind of love, what kind of obsession was this? No one in their right mind, no one in the real world actually lived like this. What kind of a woman would allow herself to be used like this. I was moments like this that frightened me.

What was worse, I now wondered whether it was really him who was always doing the leading. Was he still pushing or was I now asking to be pushed? Was it he or was it me who just wanted to dive down deeper and deeper into the darkness? At the end of our first real scene, after the agreed upon time had elapsed, it had been like we just popped back up to the surface like a cork. Like coming up from under water for a fresh breath of air. Then it was clearly he who immediately wanted to dive back down into the darkness again.

Now it seemed sometimes like we would never return to the surface. Each time we met we only dove down deeper and deeper. Down into the warm darkness. Down deep under water, leaving the light at the surface farther and farther behind. Holding your breath, going deeper and deeper. Now it was like we would never come up for air again. I now wonder if I even know which way it is back to the surface. The lack of oxygen has made me drunk. I am intoxicated and no longer responsible. I breathe but below the surface but there is no oxygen. We swim in the darkness, weightless and delirious with pleasure but how can one live without air, without light.

I waited for him perched on a barstool in the middle of my living room floor. Everything was precisely as he had instructed. Although I could not tell exactly because of my blindfold, I knew the room would be in little more than half-light. The only illumination was the single candle he had instructed me to light. I was facing the front door with the heels of my black patent leather pumps hooked on the chair rail. I held one hand in the other at the small of my back. My knees were splayed lewdly apart. I knew what I looked like. I was on display. Waiting.

I fidgeted and I waited. I would periodically drop my chin to my chest and then arch my back and lift my chin to the ceiling. It released some of the tension and kept by back from cramping. Then I would let my chin drop again to my chest. I waited and I fidgeted. Every few minutes I slowly rolled my hips backward and forward. The sensation of the benwha balls moving inside of me was lovely. They might have slipped out except for the narrow panel of my thong panties tight against my vaginal lips. I waited. No matter how I anticipated it I knew he would open the door without warning and startle me. The knowledge that I was sitting here like this just 10 feet in front of my unlocked front door frightened me a little but mostly just added to my anticipation.

What if some stranger walked down the hall and tried the door? Here I sat, blindfolded, all dressed up in black lingerie, on display, more naked than if I had been nude. What little I wore only accentuated my obvious role. His favorite black leather waist cincher held up my sheer seamed stockings. The tiny thong barely covered my freshly shaved and oiled pussy. My breasts were bare except for the makeup he had taught me to so carefully apply to my nipples. First I had to trace the edge of the aureoles with a pencil. Then fill them in with lipstick applied with a brush. Finally dust with blush and blot. My once innocently pink little nipples now an almost perfect match for the deep red of my lips and my fingernails. So, here I sat, the carefully prepared sex slave, on display. The submissive slut waiting for her Master. Waiting. I estimated it had been about 20 minutes now.

We seemed to be in a Waiting phase now. I had had to wait like this the last four times we met. I do not mean exactly like this, of course. How I was dressed, where I had to wait and my body position had varied but the idea of waiting had been the same. And the idea of being on display while I waited. The first time had been in public on the patio of a local restaurant. Then the only sexually overt thing been the same absurdly too high heels I wore tonight. That evening while having a drink after he arrived he had first presented the benwha balls to me. I really did not know what they were when he casually set them on the table. Then he proceeded to just as casually but graphically explained to me their use. Of course he then ordered me to go to the ladies room and install them. The walk back to the table was an experience. A lovely balance of surprise, embarrassment, pleasure and fear. Later the walk around the block to his car was long enough to really get my attention.

That time he had had me wait about 20 minutes. The shortest had been little more than five. The longest thus far had been about forty. The previous phase had been Photography. The one before it had been Anal Penetration. Waiting was proving to be much easier than either of these. Each of them had been very difficult in the beginning.

From the first he had been very careful and gentle when he started Anal. He made sure it never hurt me. Not as part of that phase. He started with a long narrow dildo. He always used lots of lubrication. The discomfort was always more psychological than physical. I just did not think any self-respecting lady could say, "Please fuck my ass, sir." It was also that I felt my vagina had been abandoned. My pussy was the center of my femaleness. It was made for his nice thick cock, not my anus. It was all so pointless to me. He would tell me how much he loved my pussy as he pushed into my ass. He always made sure either he stroked my clitoris or he ordered me to, and I always came. He still licked and sucked my pussy with his mouth but he reserved his cock for my ass. I lasted for over a month. The position I came to like best was on my back with my knees drawn up to my chest. He would usually work on my nipples while he had me stroke my pussy. In that position, when I was not blindfolded, I could see his expression as he came inside of me. I enjoyed watching the violence and lust pour out of his eyes and be replaced with such tenderness. Before he came I was his but after he came he was mine. But why my ass? Then just as I came to accept it and even enjoy it he stopped. That, of course, was his point but his points just do not seem to make much sense sometimes. It was not like I ever really tried to deny him anything, my ass included. I had accepted him from the start. I had always tried to open myself. I had tried to relax. But for him acceptance was never really enough. For him there always had to be one step more.

Photography had actually been more difficult. I think erotic photography with settings and props and soft lighting can be beautiful. The fact that that was not what he wanted was obvious from the start. It was not beauty or even eroticism he seemed to want. He wanted a record. Physical proof of my sexual submission. Hands bound, cum dripping down her chin. Stripes on her ass from the crop. In bondage with dildos imbedded in her mouth, pussy and ass. Before the pictures, in the morning, in the light of day, dressed for work I could deny any of it had ever happened. But pictures did not go away. They could not be denied. They did not fade into a memory, which could be recalled as nothing more than a fantasy. No, pictures proved the reality. They were a permanent record. They could be handed to you and make the reality undeniable. That seemed to be a big part of what he wanted, but there was more. He also seemed to want to capture the moment. He wanted a record of the lust, the passion of the moment, the narcotic effect. When I saw them all I could see was how big my butt looked. How blotchy my skin was. That did not seem to matter to him. I came to understand that what he wanted was the look in my eyes. He wanted a record of my passion, my lust, my surrender. He wanted to hold forever that moment when I came. He really did not care if my hair was matted and sweaty. He did not care if my lipstick was worn away and my mascara had run. It was understanding that that finally let me get past it. I could never really see what he saw but it was enough that I understood his need. By understanding it I finally got to the point where I could at least try to respond to the camera rather than loathe it. That had been enough for him. We moved on.

I waited. A new record. It must have been at least 45 minutes by now. A little uncomfortable but easier than most of his phases. Arch your back. Stretch your neck. Roll your head. Move so those nice little balls bounce against each other. Feel them move as I move. Back and forth. But do get caught. Listen for him. Do not let him catch me rocking. Do not let him catch me squeezing my thighs together. Keep my hands behind my back. Relax. Calm down. Wait.

Oral Sex had been one of the easiest. I always really like it, even before him. For him it was my submission. His cock in my mouth. His control. His cum down my throat, in my mouth, on my breasts. Not for me. I liked the taste of him. The smell and taste of his maleness. I liked tasting and drinking his cum. I liked my power. My power to make him come. The position did not matter. Whether he let me control his thrusting or he just held my head and fucked my mouth. Once I learned to control my gag reflex it did not matter. It was still my control and his orgasm. It was still my lips, my tongue, my mouth that made him come. My mouth could shrink him right down to gentleness. I liked sucking him and I loved feeling him come in my mouth. We moved through that phase very quickly.

Still I waited. Maybe this phase would better be called Remembrance. While I waited there was nothing more to do than think and remember. I wondered what the next phase might be. I could guess but it scared me so much I thought I should push it out of my mind for fear of encouraging him. In my heart I knew I was probably too late.

Each of these Phases was defined by his obsession with the specific act. During Oral and Anal it had been the only way he would allow himself to climax with me. During Photography every meeting seemed to require a series of pictures. Now any of these activities may happen during an evening together or none of them. Other things were never so much a specific obsession as they were more of just a recurring theme. These were things like Bondage. I was made physically helpless for some period of time almost every time we met. The severity and duration would vary enormously. There were days when all he would do is tell me what position to maintain. "Lie down on the bed and keep your hands above your head." "Bend forward over this table and grip the edge." "Don't move your hands." Other times I might be tied with rope or chained so that I could hardly move a muscle. My wrists might be cuffed in front of me and then stretched above my head so that my feet hardly touched the floor. Bondage was not so much an activity as a given in our relationship.

For him Bondage seemed to be the major symbol of my submission. For me it was more the costumes I was always ordered to present myself in. I had had to develop an almost entire wardrobe of clothing I wore just for our time together. Some of his preferences were rather obvious. He loved anything in black. Black dresses, black skirts, black blouses. Black Black Black. Always with very shear black stockings and high heels. And of course he hated pants. I was never allowed to wear them in his presence. Other things were less predictable. He did not like sandals. Even pretty delicate high heeled sandals. Instead I had three pair of shoes for dress up.

One pair were pumps in grey suede with three-inch heels. This was the more conservative pair. The other two were the identical except for color. They were patent leather pumps with four inch spiked heels. One pair was in black and the other was in a bright red. The red ones never went out in public. They were just too obviously sexual. Typically my only underwear was a garterbelt for my stockings. He seldom allowed me to wear panties of a bra. No teddies, no French cut panties, no corsets. He did not have me wear my skirts particularly short. Nothing was much shorter than an inch above my knees but they had to be tailored and close fitting. He particularly liked one long mid calf skirt with a high slit at the side. For blouses he favored creams and white, particularly in silk. In general, when I was dressed for him in public, I always felt rather well and even slightly conservatively dressed except for my lack of underwear. I never felt he tried to make me look cheap or overtly sexual.

My favorite outfit is a pale grey silk suit he bought me just last month. It has a long jacket just slightly shorter than the skirt. It is also my shortest skirt, cut at about two inches above the knee. The grey pumps are a perfect match for the color. The jacket closes with one button. I have only worn it in public once. He had me wear lace top thigh high hose from Victoria's Secret rather than regular stockings since the skirt was so short. We went to dinner and then had a drink at a downtown bar. That night at dinner I really felt I looked well dressed and attractive. And the whole time no one would have guessed that I had nothing else on. No panties, no bra, not even a blouse under the jacket.

I was careful with how the jacket draped and it did not really show that much cleave. Then at the bar he went even further. He had me go to the ladies room and attach clamps to my nipples. So when I came back we just sat there like any ordinary couple and talked for about twenty minutes. And the whole time, unbeknownst to the world, all I really want to do is have him release my poor little nipples and fuck me hard. On the road back to his place he even had me open the jacket so he could watch the clamps sway with the car but he would not let me remove them until I masturbated to orgasm as he drove.