Sandra stared at her reflection in the mirror; triple checking every detail of her appearance. She had never been a particularly vain person, preferring instead to focus upon what was on the inside as her grandmother would have said. This night though, she wanted everything truly perfect.
Six months and it was Valentine's Day. How those six months had sped by with Zane. They had met when she had messaged him about one of his popular writings on the kinky social networking site that she joined following the divorce.
Yes, thanks to those stupid books, BDSM had become the chic thing, like gourmet coffee and e-readers. She had tried to read the damned things, but had soon given up in the shallow quagmire of immature characters, irrelevant backstory and manipulation. One thing had resonated though: submission. Sandra felt like it was the key to unlock her soul, a key that had been missing her whole life.
Even with the key in hand though, she had been uncertain how to proceed. Recently separated after twenty years of marriage, it was so cliché: the devoted wife and mother tossed aside for a younger, thinner model. At first, she had been devastated. Her work skills were rusty to say the least; her resume was laughably thin after devoting herself to advancing her husband's career and her sons' upbringing. With the youngest in his final year of high school, Sandra had faced an uncertain future at best.
But as always she had a strength of spirit that carried her through so much, including a five year battle with breast cancer. Of course, she was not immune to the darker moments of human existence. In those times, she succumbed to doubts: was she less of woman for the loss of her breasts, was that why her husband had strayed? But she refused to stay in that dark place. She had beaten the cancer; her magic five year check-up had been just weeks before and no sign of the enemy. It was something else to celebrate.
Her job as manager at the local book shop was another. Books, romances in particular, had been her solace throughout much of her life. She had struggled with dyslexia as a child and still had the occasional problem phonetically with new words, but from the moment that reading had dawned like a sun rise, she had been a bibliophile. She could always be found curled up with a book in a corner while the other children ran and played. As a young mother, one of her favorite things about breastfeeding her boys had been the guilt-free relaxation of holding a book in one hand while her baby suckled upon the teat. She would often get so lost in the book that the baby slept undisturbed in her arms while the story unfolded in her mind.
So when she had seen the 'help wanted' sign in the window of her favorite shop, it had seemed like fate. It was all too easy to approach the older gentleman that owned the store. They had known one another for years. An application became nothing more than a formality. Over the past year, she had been given more and more authority to the point that Jethro was little more than a figurehead that stopped by the store on his way to his favorite fishing spot along the pier. It was an arrangement that suited them both very well.
Zane had been another stroke of fate. Over the past six months, she had almost forgotten the subject of that journal entry which had brought them together. But she could never forget the brilliance of the mind that enthralled her from the beginning. No, theirs was a partnership of equals, a meeting of the minds that few others could ever understand. At times, even she did not fully understand it. Everything had happened so fast; others would say too fast perhaps. But she knew, just knew, in her heart that time was too precious to waste when something was right.
Sandra was happy this night. Happier perhaps than she had ever been. At forty-five, she had everything she wanted in life. A job she loved. A small but cute apartment overlooking the beach. Her sons were settled and doing well at college. And a man that she loved, respected and could entrust with her most precious gift...total surrender.
She sighed and smiled as she adjusted the red corset that tucked in her waist and pushed her reconstructed breasts even higher towards her chin. She noticed the scars that extended from the cups towards her armpits, but they no longer held the same significance. Those scars had become badges of courage, a reminder of her victories.
She would never forget the healing stream of tears that had flowed form her soul as she lay in Zane's arms after they made love. His fingers had so tenderly traced along the numb, ridges of those scars. She had stiffened in his arms. His voice had taken that deep and ridged tone as he commanded, "Look at me." It was one order that Sandra wanted to avoid. She had even done the unthinkable, shaking her head in denial. The firm and loud smack of his hand connecting with her thigh had overridden her reluctance. "Do not ever disobey me again," he said as his fingers returned to mapping the tracts across her chest. "Now, tell me."
The story had flowed so freely then. All of it. Some things that she had not shared with anyone, not even her counselor. Her insecurities. The soul rendering pain of seeing pity in her husband's eyes the first time she had found the courage to bare them. Her withdrawal afterwards, sex becoming something to be endured in the dark. Her very womanhood thrown into question.
But Zane had never allowed her to hide in the dark; physically or emotionally. He of her had demanded everything; the best of her mind, complete surrender of her body for His pleasure or pain, and of course perfect obedience and submission. She shuttered as she smiled weakly at thought if the words of her favorite poem:
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, .... A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death-hour rounding it. (Elizabeth Barrett Browning)
It so eloquently described the love that she and Zane shared. She frowned in the mirror. When had she become so comfortable with the L word? It seemed odd that she should surrender her heart so easily after the battering that it had endured. Then again as Elizabeth Barrett Browning had said 'With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.' She had faced that death-hour and knew that this life could be a fleeting thing. Time was too precious to waste over-thinking some things.
She smiled at the soft rap on the door. "Coming," her voice rang out as she made her way through the tiny central room of her apartment that served as the living and dining rooms as well as a study of sorts. Its biggest asset was of course the sliding glass doors that covered one wall and led out onto the balcony that overlooked the ocean. She had dared to open them a crack earlier and the room was alive with the brisk sea breeze and its pungent aroma.
Her hand trembled as she threw open the door. Her actions were automatic as she dropped to the floor at His feet. Her knees spread wide, her cunt bare and open for His inspection. Freshly shaven, the smell of her arousal overpowered even the sea breeze. Her chest heaved and strained the confines of her corset. It was no longer the fear of discovery that had plagued her the first time she had received His instructions via text on the 'proper' way for a submissive to greet her Dominant. No, now it went much deeper: anticipation, arousal but most of all the utter completion of surrendering to her own submissive nature confident that the man to whom she submitted valued it and her.
Her eyes were down, as they should be in His presence. She waited there, her hands palm up on her knees as the moments ticked by. Whether seconds, minutes or hours, it did not matter. She craved only one thing: the whispered words that were her ultimate reward. "Good girl," His deep, husky voice washed over her. She inhaled deeply as if she could soak in the words as readily as she could the air; both were life-giving to her.
It was her cue; she could look up at Him now. He was not what many would consider the Dom-ly type. A greying man of middle age, He was beginning to thicken a bit around the middle. Rather than the stereotypical leather that many associated with the BDSM lifestyle, He wore khaki slacks and a plaid shirt, and a thin black tie. It was practical attire for the High School English teacher.
"I made dinner," she stammered almost nervously, though she had no explanation why she should be. Except for that dark twinkling in His eyes that warned her this night would be another journey of lust, love and kink.
"Food can wait," His words caressed her soul as His fingers sank into the thick strands of her hair that hung about her shoulders. She felt them tighten even as the knots of anticipation did in her tummy. His firm tug drew her head back until she stared up into His eyes. Her vision blurred just a bit as tears began to gather in the corners so firm was his grip upon her hair.
