She's late.
It's okay that she's late. It would be okay if she doesn't show tonight. It would be okay- well, I'm stretching the definition of
okay
a bit here- if she didn't show ever again. I'd steadied myself against the possibility months ago when this all started. I'd promised myself that I would work within the rules of the little game we play and nothing more.
It'll be okay if she's late-
There's a knock on the door and I'm on my feet in a heartbeat. I stop and smile to myself- denial is a helluva drug, isn't it?- and I force myself to move with unhurried steps to open up the door.
Priya's on the other side. She wears a dark sweater (designer), jeans (designer), stylish shoes (designer) and a withering glare (very much bespoke). She sweeps into the room, carelessly draping a handbag that costs more than the possessions in my apartment combined onto the couch. "Hello pervert."
"Good to see you too, Priya."
She sneered. Priya had the sort of arrogance that's entirely natural; that is to say, the sort of arrogance that came from being rich, from being from a well-connected family back in India, and being stunningly- painfully- gorgeous. It was an arrogance that had been cultivated over generations, passing down from daughter to daughter over the centuries; I could easily imagine Priya sitting on a jewelled throne, viciously berating some cowering husband for not sufficiently resisting the British. "Need anything? Water?"
"No." Her cupid-bow lips twist into distaste at the idea of my disgustingly common tap-water. "Let's just get on with it. This place is depressing."
I nod. I'd had plenty of time to get used to her snipes. They'd ranged from the casual ("You're nothing but trash"), to the personal ("You only do this because you couldn't get a woman any other way") to the genuinely frightening ("One phone call and I could destroy you. Remember that").
(After that last one I'd sent her away. I thought it was all over- surprise, surprise when she showed up the next week, spitting out something that vaguely resembled an apology).
Priya sighs theatrically, breaking me from my recollection. "Are you ready? Or did I just waste my Thursday night?"
"I'm ready." Priya came over most Thursdays, unless she was busy or decided that she hated me enough to not come one day or she was still upset about what happened the previous Thursday. Or that one Saturday night she showed up at my door at 3am, drunk and utterly unapologetic in her need. I'd made a point to keep my apartment clean(ish) just in case.
It's unclear if it ever made anything like a difference.
"Let's go over the rules," I say.
"Do we have to do this every time?"
"Yes," I say patiently. "Say the rules, Priya."
She stops and closes her eyes. Then she slowly said, "Rule one. I can leave at any time. Rule two. You're not going to force me to anything. You're only going to ask." She hesitates. "Rule three...rule three, if I leave...I won't be a good girl."
"And?"
"...Bad girls don't get rewarded." She's promising silent murder with her eyes.
"Thank you. Now-"
"Why?"
"Why what?" I ask.
"Why don't you just- push me to do things? If you were more aggressive, then..."
It's my turn to hesitate. It was dangerous to tell her but I'd promised myself that I'd be honest. One of the more unspoken rules that I followed. "Do you know how you train a dog?"
"Are you calling me a dog?"
I ignore her. "You train a dog with patience and kindness and repetition. Not cruelty. Not force."
"You couldn't train a dog that way?"
"You could- if you wanted to do it wrong. If you wanted to end up with a messed up pet- stressed and damaged and mentally unsound. If you were a bastard."
Priya mutters in a silken whisper, "So you're training me to be your little
bitch
?" She wants to look angry- she probably is angry- but there's a flicker of amusement on her cold face, a hot spark that promises me:
You think I'm a bitch? I am, little man. I'm more bitch than you'll ever be.
I say, "Strip down."
She doesn't move. I repeat the command in the same soft, gentle tone of voice. With an abrupt jerk she pulls her sweater up over her head. A moment later she kicks off her designer shoes and unbuttons her jeans.
I should be used to the sight of her. I'm not. I'm not sure I ever will be. Priya's skin is light brown and silky smooth. Her hair is dark and long and lustrous, spilling down over her shoulders to brush against the tops of her breasts. Her proportions are the best sort of pleasing. She wears silken purple matching underwear (designer) and a wary expression (bespoke).
"The underwear too."
It took a lot of efforts and a lot of arguments for her to get to the point where she would take off her shirt. Getting down to her underwear took the better part of a month. Nudity was the work of multiple months, including a gap of three weeks where I asked myself precisely why I wasted so much time and energy on Priya when the world was full of women who'd be happy to get to this stage with much, much less effort and pain.
Still, persistence and patience have paid off. Without breaking eye contact she reaches behind and unhooks her bra. She throws it carelessly to the floor and her breasts- moderately sized but so wonderfully shaped, capped by two dark brown nipples- sag just a little as gravity works its will on them. She hooks her thumbs through the lacy fabric of her panties and pushes down. She meets my eyes.
And there it is; there's the other Priya. There's the woman that has marched out of my shitty apartment a dozen times but always comes back. There's the woman who threatens me but never delivers, the woman who calls me a pervert but wears slinky underwear to our meetings. The woman who claims to hate this but who's pussy- exposed to the eyes of some poor British university student- is glistening right now with moisture.
The woman who loves what I make her do.
She stands naked in my apartment, her back straight and her eyes boring into mine. Only her hands- clenching and unclenching- reveal her nervousness. "Well?" she asks.
"Your homework?"
She grimaces and moves to take her phone from her handbag. She gives it a few taps and hands it over to me, scowling.
I look at the photos and smile. Whatever her feelings about the homework- and oh, how she has strong feelings about homework- there's never any doubt that she gives it her very best. The shot was of professional level-quality, the poses carefully considered. The first shot was of her sitting on a couch on a balcony. She was entirely naked apart from a set of shades, her body on display as she lay atop a couch. I looked up from the phone to see her glaring at me without a shred of repentance. The city skyscape could be seen in the background. "I said in a public place."
She rolled her eyes. "See the next one."
I flicked over to the next image. Her back was to the camera as she leaned over the edge of the balcony to peer down at the street below. The shot had her ass- round and plump, firm and peach-like in all it's glory- front and centre. "Hmmm. Not convinced."
"Keep looking," she mutters sullenly.
I kept switching. There was another shot of her leaning against the balcony but facing the camera. Her arms helped to prop herself up, ensuring that her perfect breasts were completely uncovered. Her long legs were closed but I could still see the strip of dark hair on her mons. Her shades were off and for all her nudity it was her eyes that drew my attention, hot and layered with erotic meaning.
More photos. More poses on the balcony, and then...
I laughed and she bristled. She'd found a nearby alley and had clearly taken the photo in a desperate moment. A silken kimono hung off her shoulders, unbelted at the waist, while she leant against the brick wall with one hand on her hip.
"Technically you're not naked."
"You can see everything."
"That's not quite what I asked for, was it?" She falters and I relent. "But I suppose this is good enough. And the other task?"
She takes back the phone and then reaches into her bag. She pulls out a sheaf of papers. I take them from her hand and begin to read.
It was...acceptable. Priya's clearly not used to creative writing; her prose is shaky and she has no idea about the adage of showing and not telling. I make a point of reading for several minutes while she grows steadily more anxious. I eventually stop and say to her, "A bondage session with your high school teacher?"
"I never did it! You told me to write about a fantasy I had!"
And now I know you like bondage,
I think as I fold the paper up.
You know full well I'm going to take advantage of that.
"Don't worry. It's a perfectly normal kink."
Her face twists at the outrage that a woman like her would ever have anything as
