October 2012.
Zipping up the cool leather boots to within an inch of my knee always sent a delicious shiver racing up my spine. It wasn't just the temperature of the soft material against my bare flesh, it was what it symbolised; what it made me.
It made me his.
Alone I sat, framed between pillars either side of the headboard that was almost twice the width of the one at home. Green irises stared back from the mirror on the wardrobe opposite, chest heaving with anticipation beneath the snug-fitting black dress. I'd elected to wear my hair down, its inky length outlining features lightly accented with mascara, a dusting of blusher and a ruby lipstick to which I was unaccustomed. With the make-up the only colour in my otherwise monochrome outfit, I bore more than a passing resemblance to Sin City's Ava Lord, yet fretted it wasn't a bold enough statement for him.
Uncertainty occupied every second that ticked through treacle towards the designated hour. Should I be early or fashionably late? Would tardiness displease him or increase his desire for me? He could be so unpredictable, which was precisely his allure. I trembled a little and willed my nerves to calm, running through his checklist in my head to give myself focus.
The first item: boots. An end-of-season bargain from the previous year, they hugged my calves, delivering an air of femininity, elegance, yet striking authority. The extra handful of inches in height they afforded gave me fabulous poise, accentuating hips that I traced with my fingertips, slowly following the contour of my hourglass up to the swell of my chest, then down and down, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the material and my body beneath.
Brushing flesh a mere couple of hand-widths from the top of my thighs, I shuddered. The list merely stated "something short" yet I could hardly believe the dress still fit me. The thought of what he would be able to see when I sat, and how close others would be to discovering my charms as I breezed through the lobby flushed warmth to my cheeks.
Breathing deeply, I stared hard at my reflection, the sensible side of me searching for reasons to run while my more reckless inner tramp was raring to play his sexy game. Deep down I knew there wasn't much point fighting: I wanted to blame the boots for uncaging Her, but knew which side of my psyche was really in control. The proof was when I gingerly parted my legs to check the next item from the list, heart rate increasing several notches when the light from the hotel's bedside lamp caught a telltale glazing of wetness across my smooth lips. My belly fluttered and I clipped my knees back together. If the evening took the path I hoped, there was no doubt that She would make an appearance and take charge as desire overflowed, but I wanted to delay the inevitable.
Nervous energy consumed me and I paced the room as distraction therapy, plush carpet springing back with each step, like fresh moss beneath the soles. Although no stranger to the footwear, I knew the execution of my entrance had to be flawless. I'd seen too many girls in killer heels do themselves a major disservice by tottering ungainly into a room instead of allowing the shoes to help sell the package.
I practised the perfect walk, heel-toe, heel-toe, trying to ease myself into the correct mindset. He wanted the confident, sassy me who would challenge and tease him, not the everyday, indecisive introvert. Hands on hips I stared myself down, unhappy with the overall effect, frustrated that I couldn't even seem to act in a manner that lived up to the promises the outfit portrayed. There was something missing, some quality that would make me own the boots instead of vice versa.
Trying again, I accentuated my swagger with varying degrees of success before I hit upon the catwalk strut, slightly crossing my feet to parade along an imaginary beam. The effect was sensational and I swelled with pride. He would definitely approve. It exuded power, radiance and, most importantly, sex appeal. I repeated the move, each time better than the last, finally smiling at the result, boosted... until I spotted the time.
Cursing and grabbing my clutch bag from the bed I gave one last lingering look in the mirror, telling myself I could totally do this, then crossed the room, swung the heavy bedroom door inward and whipped the room card from its holder, plunging the place into darkness. The next sound was the door latching some distance behind me.
Using the strides I'd just perfected I sashayed along the garish carpet that lined the corridor, past closed doors from which snatches of TV shows or conversations bled. I became intensely aware of my pussy lips rubbing and squeezing together with each step, cooler air swirling under the ridiculously short dress as I swept towards the elevator. Confidence grew, inhibitions faded like the memory of summer, transforming me from chrysalis to the alpha female after whom he lusted. The boundary where apprehension ended and excitement began was a blur, ensuring I remained wet.
Summoning the lift gave me a short while to reflect upon my day. The morning had been fairly ordinary save for the printer going down for an hour, which upset management more than anyone else. But it had been almost impossible to get through the afternoon thanks to the lunchtime texts that burnt a hole in my knickers.
They started out playfully: "I want you to myself. Tonight. It's been too long."
I pictured him tapping in the words with his piano player's fingers, choosing carefully for the greatest effect. He was meticulous like that. I'd replied: "I can't. I have plans." I almost added "With Adam," but thought it might be a shade too far.
His response took long enough for me to start to wonder if I'd disappointed him already: "No you don't. Cancel them. You're mine from 7:30. The suite is paid for."
With already trembling hands I tapped out: "Suite?"
"Radisson Blu. Cash. Nobody will ever find out."
"There's always a trail."
The reply was swift this time: "My hot little pussy getting cold feet?"
"It's not like that."
"Then I'll see you at 7:30. Wear something classy and short. No underwear. And your FMBs."
Oh the boots, the fucking boots. How could I resist?
The remaining texts described what he'd do to me in increasingly graphic detail, to the point I started turning red at my desk. Kept checking over my shoulder to make sure nobody in the office could see what he'd sent and in the end had to leave to cool down. Knew I should delete the messages, but the conversation was too delicious for that. I re-read its entirety a few times during the afternoon, each iteration rekindling the heat and wetness at his use of the words "caress", "ravish", "kiss", "shove", "lick", "ice" and "spank". The whole sexual spectrum was represented, from love to lust and beyond. I'd been a shaking wreck ever since, adding precious little value to the company's bottom line, my imagination taking over instead.
The lift pinged obediently, silver doors sliding open to reveal the empty interior. I entered, watching myself every step of the way in the mirrored upper half before reaching for the control surface and keying my destination. The doors imprisoned me, and even though the lift descended steadily, my stomach remained on the fifteenth floor.
The lack of control was suffocating, yet somehow liberating. Everything about the evening was his choice, from the swanky location right down to the very clothes I was wearing. And those I wasn't. To him, I was merely entertainment, his plaything for the evening. A malleable rag-doll he could wine, dine, bend, treat, mistreat, taste, fuck, and everything in between. I ought to have felt shame or revulsion at being chattel, but my nipples straining against the lacy bra, and the juice factory working overtime between my legs belied any such notion.
