We’ve planned this party - planned going to it, knowing what each other would be wearing. We dressed this evening with each other, for each other, long and slow and teasingly, stopping between pieces of clothing to kiss and suck and nibble. I’m across the room from you, flirting with your friends, swaying my hips beneath my black skirt. When I lean over the pool table to make my shot, the black bodice I’m wearing gives the man across the table a wonderful view of the valley between my breasts. I know he itches to pull down the zipper on the front of it, as I stalk around the table in my high-heeled boots to take my next shot. When I finally turn the table over to him, I reach up and fondle the collar you gave me this afternoon. His eyes are drawn to it, and the sight makes him look around for you, knowing you must be near.
I know where you are. I play, but only for your pleasure. I’ve felt your eyes on me all night, lusting for me even more as I flirt with your friends. Because you know, and I know, that I am owned by you. But despite who wears the collar, we know one other little fact. I own you, too.
I smile at the poor boy missing his shot on the pool table. He’s nervous. Between wanting me and fearing you, he can’t concentrate on his game and I beat him easily. Better luck next time. I walk away, not towards you, not purposefully, but nearing your corner nonetheless. I’ve felt you watching from that corner all night.
Your eyes are dark, matching your black suit. There is a whip fastened to your belt; I know it’s there. I saw you buckle it there. Strangely, it isn’t the thought of you using it on me that excites me; but the thought that other people would think you’d use it, and that I’d enjoy it. Turning to the bar, I wonder if there’s such a drink as a Brooding Englishman. Perhaps I’ll create one later, when we’re home. Or perhaps I’ll have better things to do.
It’s when your breath feathers across my neck that I realize you’ve moved from your corner. You bite, not gently, on my exposed shoulder, leaving a clear mark of ownership for everyone at the party to see. I moan softly, leaning my head back against your chest as you mark me, there at the bar.