I step off the plane and my cell phone rings.
It's her at the other end, Sara. Lost love, the one I had let go years ago and had never quite forgotten. Obviously she hadn't forgotten me.
I'd received a letter from her in the mail a week earlier, an actual letter sent through the U.S. Postal Service, which I had previously thought to be defunct since I paid all my bills and sent all my letters online. But this letter was special, meticulously written on the highest quality stationery in flawless calligraphy. When I broke the seal on the envelope, the most enchanting perfume wafted to my nose.
This wasn't a friendly, "just to say hi" letter; this letter had a purpose.
"...when you go down to get your baggage, there will be a small, black Nike duffel bag on the belt. Pick it up..."
"What is this," I ask her, "what are you talking about?"
"Just shut up and do it."
The line goes dead.
Her words surprise and confuse me. This from the sweet young girl I'd loved? "Just shut up and do it" was not the phrase to describe our previous relationship, the relationship that had been tender, sweet, and loving, the one relationship from my past that I looked back on fondly.
Her letter had been cryptic at best, indicating only that she still thought about me, and that she wanted me to visit her. It listed a time and a place, and was signed, "Love, Your Sara." Penned in that elegant handwriting, her last words made me tremble, and the love I had let fade for so long was finally starting to return.
I make my way down to the baggage claim and wait patiently for my bag to show up on the belt. My body is exhausted from the jet lag, and all I can think about is getting into a motel room, taking a hot shower, and then having quiet dinner with Sara. I've missed her more than I've been willing to admit until now.
A grab my bag, and sure enough, a moment later, a black Nike duffel bag rides down the belt. I take it and look around me. It has no airline tag on it; it's been dropped here by someone in the airport, but I don't see Sara. As if to answer my question, my cell phone rings again.
"Hello?"
"Did you get the bag?"
"Yeah, I got it. Sara, I'm confused, what are we-"
"Don't talk, just listen. I want you to open the bag. On top should be a black sash. Don't touch anything else."
I open the bag and pull out the sash. This is an odd game.
"Okay," I say hesitantly, "I got it."
"Good, now drop your bags."
I obey.
"Now, I want you to take the sash and wrap it around your eyes so that you can't-"
"You've got to be fucking with me, right here in the airport in front of all-"
"Don't interrupt me!" her voice isn't angry, but firm and forceful, not a voice I recognize, a voice that frightens me a little, but turns me on at the same time. "Tie the sash around your head, cover your eyes so that you can't see anything."
"Okay, okay, but-"
"I didn't tell you to talk."
My mouth shuts almost immediately and I wonder to myself why I'm playing this game. Regardless, I follow her instructions and clip my cell phone to my belt while I tie the sash around my head, completely blocking out the light. Through the darkness, I hear a few whispers and laughter, which I try to ignore.
I grab the phone and hold it to my ear.
"Okay, I look like an ass now, but...Sara?"
The line is dead again.
"Sara? Shit!"
I'm just about to give up and take the sash off when the phone is gently taken from my hand, and the same fragrant perfume from Sara's letter finds its way to my nose. I feel warm breath on my ear.
"It's okay," she tells me, placing her hand gently on my shoulder, "how do you feel?"
"I feel...silly...standing here in the airport with a damn blindfold. What exactly are we doing?"
"Don't ask questions," she says, in a low, throaty tone, "you'll do what I say, when I say, and you won't ask questions. Tell me you understand."
"I understand."
"Good. Now, I'm going to put your hand on my shoulder, and then I'm going to lead you out to the car. Don't worry, I'm going to take care of you. Understand?"
"Yes."
She puts my hand on her shoulder, I feel her begin to walk, and I follow her. My heart is pounding now, a mixture of fear and excitement taking me over completely.
It takes us less than a minute to get outside the airport, and another minute later, I'm sitting in a car. I hear her get in the driver's side, start up the car, and then we're moving.
It's a strange sensation being completely and utterly disoriented. All sense of time, all sense of direction is gone, leaving me completely vulnerable, with only sounds and smells to rely on. All I have now is the sound of the car running and the exotic, flowery scent of her perfume.
"Are you afraid?" she asks quietly from beside me.
"No."
"You're lying," she says coyly, "I can tell. If you do what you're told, you'll be okay."
"Where are we going?"
"That's none of your concern."
"No, I think it is my concern, and I think-"
"I think if you don't stop talking out of place, I'll put the gag on you."
As if it's not humiliating enough being driving around in a blindfold, the last thing in the world I need is a gag, so I keep my mouth closed. After what seems like forever, we pull to a stop, and Sara gets out of the car. I hear my door open.
"Get out," she says.
I step out of the car. From what I can tell, we're in some kind of garage, a parking garage. Sound seems to echo through the air, and in the far distance, I can hear cars pulling in and out.
I hear Sara rooting through the bag. She grabs my hands and ties them together tightly with some kind of rope. A firm push makes me stumble back against the car.
"This is how it'll work," she says, "from now on, you will call me Mistress, and nothing else. You will do what I say, and only what I say. You will not speak unless I address you, and you will not touch me unless I ask. When you obey, you'll be rewarded, but disobey me, and I promise, you'll be punished. Understand?"
"Oh my God-"
A hand clamps down into my hair, pulling my head back roughly, and I can feel her warm breath next to my cheek, making my skin tingle.
"When I ask if you understand, all I want to hear is yes or no. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Good." A can feel her pull closer, and there's a sudden surge of electricity as she runs her tongue from the base of my neck straight up to my ear. "You're mine," she whispers, her lips brushing against my ear, "never forget that. I own you. Promise me you won't forget. Call me Mistress."
"Yes, Mistress, I promise," I manage to stutter.
She presses her entire body close to mine, and the thrill is amazing. I haven't even seen her yet, but I remember her vividly, her petite, perfectly proportioned frame, her long hair, green eyes. I outweigh her by at least thirty pounds, but she has complete control over me, and I can't do a thing about it. It's an extraordinary feeling.
I feel her lips on my neck again, placing soft, gentle kisses, and at the same time, her hand slipping down my body. My cock has been throbbing painfully against my jeans since she tied my hands together, and now her hand brushes against it, teasing me, letting her fingers slip delicately down my shaft, then taking them away.
"Do you want more?"
"Yes."
A stinging slap on my cheek. "Yes what?"
"Yes, Mistress."
"Get in the car. Now."
My heart rate is skyrocketing, but I manage to struggle my way back into the car. My state of mind flashes erratically, my confusion runs deep. I know we're on the road, but I don't know where we're going, and I don't care. I just want her, I want her, I want her to command me, I want her to punish me and pleasure me at the same time. I feel like I'm going to pass out.
It's all darkness now, and all darkness is the same.
I don't know if I passed out, or if time is simply passing quicker, but we've arrived somewhere, and I hear the car engine turn off. Sara once again comes to my door and forces me out of the car, dragging me roughly by the arm. Her strength had always amazed me.
We're in a house now, at least I think it's a house, I can feel soft carpet under my feet. I don't hear anything, but I can smell the fragrant aroma of potpourri or scented candles-I can't tell the difference. I feel Sara's hand fall away from my arm.
"Wait here," she commands me.
"Yes, Mistress."
And then silence. My knees are growing weak from anticipation. She has me so worked up now that I don't know how much longer I can stand. She's done this on purpose. It's torture.
I jump slightly as I feel a hand touch my calf, exploring my thigh, running up my body as if it is feeling me out, sizing me up. Again, the smell of perfume, but different this time, and the scent of something else more potent, more sexual...
