Modesty

Author's Note

: My sentimental side :) The sharp-eyed reader may catch my little twist on an old Ira Gershwin lyric. Dedicated to a pseudonymous cyber-slut, long ago and far away, who helped shape the character of Jamilah.

~P.M.

DISCLAIMER

: This is a BDSM story. Posting as 'Erotic Coupling' better fit the bill, but be forewarned. Contains imagery of D/s, slave-training, bondage, humiliation and corporal punishment. Also contains prominent themes of race-play.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Modesty

.

Her

.

In five short minutes I will be in the tub, soaking in hot, jetted whirlpool bubbles. That thought sustains me as I ride in the elevator to my hotel room on the 10th floor. The doors open, I step out and walk across the plush burgundy carpet of the corridor leading to my room. I stop outside my door, Room 1025 and rummage in my purse for the card key.

A man follows me up the corridor and past me, stops at the next room over, but I am too tired and preoccupied to pay him much mind. I enter my room and kick off my shoes even before the door closes behind me.

I smile as I survey the lavish suite, delighted I splurged on this little extravagance. I knew beforehand how exhausting these meetings would be, and this was my consolation. My retreat at the end of endless days. Except, it's Friday, the endless has ended, and tomorrow I check out.

The living room is rather large and subtly decorated in muted rose, ivory and floral motifs. The drapes are heavy damask and opened, letting the late afternoon sunshine flood the room. Beside the couch, there are two armchairs positioned opposite, one next to a lamp and so perfect for cuddling up and reading deep into the evening.

That is my plan. A long hot soak, then lose myself in a book.

I pad barefoot through the room, tossing my purse and briefcase on the couch, and enter the bedroom. The king sized bed is carefully made and the room

oh-so inviting

. A moment of regret floods through me, wishing I had company in this beautiful room.

My thoughts are filled suddenly with "him." I sigh and enter the luxurious, white-tiled bathroom and start the water running in the spacious whirlpool tub. While it is filling, I go out to the living room and I cannot resist booting up my laptop to check my messages.

I haven't heard from him in days... no, weeks. Not unusual. He travels so much. Still,

this

silence has been lengthy, and perhaps it is a sign that he is losing interest.

I push that distressing thought out of my mind. As I am logging in to my personal emails, I hear a thump against the wall between my suite adjoining room. I quietly walk over to the door and test the latch, making certain it is locked.

I return to my computer. No new mail. I bite back the disappointment. Maybe tomorrow.

Standing and looking down forlornly on my computer, I start to unbutton my white silk blouse, pulling it from the waistband of my short navy-blue skirt. I have the odd sensation of being watched. I quickly cross to the windows and draw the drapes closed.

The feeling persists. I go to the bedroom to feel a greater sense of privacy. I tease myself,

Silly, you are alone

. I shrug. Just my natural modesty...

Now I toss the blouse on the bed, reach behind and unzip my skirt, let it fall to the floor. Clad only in an ivory silk bra and matching thong, the whiteness nicely contrasting my tan skin, and nude-colored thigh-highs.

I go into the bathroom. Placing my left foot on the rim of the hot tub, I carefully work the silk stocking down over my thigh, knee, calf and foot, and take the same care with the right stocking.

Feeling more assured here of privacy, I peel off the stockings

slooowly

, feeling sexy, blushing. I do this with an assurance that I am alone in my subtle striptease. But a part of me -- one that tickles my modesty in ways that, in turn tickle me

down there

-- imagines me doing it in front of others.

Well, one other.

I search the vanity for a barrette and secure my head of full, wavy black hair in a messy pile on top of my head. The tub is near full and I turn on the jets.

I reach behind and unhook my bra, feel the white silk slide down my arms, let it fall to the floor. I like the feel of the rising steam on my ripe, honey-brown beasts, watch beads of moisture forming on them. My long, dark nipples are already at attention... and I'm sure that's not just from the tickle of the steam.

I light two jasmine-scented candles and place them at opposite sides of the hot tub rim and shut off the overhead and vanity lights. The flickering dimness of the light alone begins to unwind me. That, and the thought of the hot, bubbly water waiting for me in the tub.

That, and the feeling of being near-nude in a strange place away from home, and one step away from finishing the job. I slip my fingers inside the waistband of the thong and push it down my hips.

Finally, I sink into the steaming, bubbling water, moaning as the wet heat immerses and enfolds me, starting to ease the tensions of my day.

I lean back and close my eyes.

Images of "him" fill my mind. I knew they would, I knew I wouldn't be able to stop them. Thinking of Liam is pleasurable, but also a torture. He can fire up all the lust in my belly with his images and stories -- most of them painted with words alone -- but then, too, he can fill me with excruciating longing and self-doubt. But here, now.... in this hot bath, alone on a Friday night, naked in a tub... God help me, what else am I going to think about?

I smile to myself, imagining those lips pressing against mine. Reliving in my imagination so many of the scenes we have enacted together... remotely.

I can see his face so clearly. This man I have never met, but who consumes me. I can see his mouth, with lips much too sensual for a man, but perfect for this man. The large eyes, so blue. I like that he is blue-eyed. Irish-American. And so fair-skinned. I don't know what about the image captivates my imagination and warms my belly: Seen from above, the two of us on cream-colored sheets, my rich black hair spilling out over the linens and my dark limbs splayed, his white torso, back muscles heaving, draped insistently over mine. It feels

right

for me to be under him that way.

My hands rise to my chest, cupping the proud fullness of my breasts. I wonder what he would think of them in the flesh. I think he would like the sensitivity and responsiveness of my long, coffee-brown nipples, already hardening and distending under light teasing, and they would

inspire

him.

"

Ohhh,

" I sigh.

I lose myself in the sensations my fingers are evoking. He taught me that. He taught me how to feel more comfortable with my body and the sensual delights it could enjoy. Welcome that without shame. How to give long and patient focus to the smallest pinpoint of sensitivity in some favorite place, in no hurry to move on to the next. He taught me, no pleasure is taboo, and no self-gratification

immodest.

I want to sneak a hand down

there

to caress the those forbidden folds, so aching from neglect. I hear his voice in my head,

Ah-ah-ah... patience. I will say when.

So I go on fondling my breasts, stroking, tugging, pinching the nipples... mixing pleasure with pain... gasping aloud as I feel the beautiful heat building in my belly.

I smile languidly, my eyes flickering open.

I am not alone.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, watching my every move is a man. Dressed in a fine grey, hounds-tooth suit, purple necktie loose at his throat, blue eyes piercing me. His hand shutting off the jets. Shock is replaced by disbelief. It is "him."

It is you.

Him

.

Your mouth forms a perfect "O" of surprise, Jamilah, your eyebrows arch and the flush on your dusky cheeks -- which I had been admiring a moment before -- instantly drains from your face.

Your surprise is fascinating to me. When you booked the adjoining suites, instructing the front desk to issue key cards that would open the door between them, you knew it was possible I might appear.

The same way you knew I might not. I did not enlighten you as to my intentions the last time we communicated by email, now almost two weeks ago. Or if I did, by implication, I meant for you to think it unlikely I could make it to San Diego on this date.

Still, the look of disbelief on your face appears genuine. The surprise framing your expression implies your innocent, honestly-felt expectation that this place was a private one, all your own... and that the locked door connected to the next suite was just that, locked.

That's what fascinates me: I don't believe you have

forgotten

that I might come through that gate, and up to the edge of

yours

. I believe you

chose

to forget.

Your rounded lips close and begin to reopen, intending to form a word... But my hand darts out, and I place one finger over them your lips. "

Shhh

. Not a word."

You blink. Compliantly, you nod. Your face starts to regain its composure. Although underneath my fingertip, I feel your lower lip momentarily quiver... then watch it curl into a hesitant, delicate smile.

"

Shhhh...

" I remind you. "You know, Jamilah. I always imagined, when we finally met in 'Real Time,' the first part of you I touched would be your lips. Funny... not quite the way I thought, but I was right."

I caress your lower lip with a soft knuckle, keeping you silenced. Your eyes tell me you love obeying me. I move my gaze away from your eyes and mouth and down to your breasts, the fullness of them buoyed in the sudsy water. I notice you haven't moved to cover them or slide down under the water line. This pleases me. I could just as easily imagine you more conscious and protective of your unexpectedly revealed charms, given what I know about you, Jamilah. So... is this how you will play your part,

my concubine

? On display for me?

We are hesitating on the edge of beginning. Beginning the way we told each other it would begin. You eyes are eager. But I'm not yet sure,

for what?

I mean to find out.

I lean in a bit, keeping my finger in place. I see your eyelids flicker and your liquid brown eyes beginning to melt into that... that

state

you've described, that languid dreaminess, a

subspace

... elaborated to me so eloquently in endless emails, texts and calls.

I like what I see in those eyes. And I'm pleased to see them up close and for real. No number of texted or emailed pics could do them justice... especially the way they look right now.

"Ah, but --" I go on, "when I say 'not a word,' that's not the same thing as 'shut your mouth.'"

You are smiling sheepishly, a Mona Lisa with a dash of contrition.

I place my thumb and forefinger between your lips and gently pry them apart. Your eyes sparkling, you do not resist. Your mouth opens for me, I see your pink tongue squirming behind fine white teeth. But I leave two fingers laid gently on your upper lip.

"Remember, I said how I wanted your mouth to be at all times in my presence, yes? Open,

my concubine

..." I dip my finger in the bath water, raise it to your lips and trace the fullness of them with moisture and with a smattering of suds. "Open... and wet. Did you forget?"

Your lashes flutter and dip.

"And

offering.

"

Your tongue barely, playfully flicks my fingers.

I pull away, turning on the rim of the tub to reach down to my shoes. "Very good. We'll find out soon you do recall," I say as I unlace my shoes. "Won't we?"

I hear you whisper, "Yes, Liam.

Test

me."

"'Liam.'" I muse. Socks and shoes off, I rise and remove my jacket, hanging it on a hook by the mirror. Undoing my tie, I move back toward you in the tub. "Stand up, Jamilah. Let me see my slave."

Your head lowers, but I can hear you repeat it in a faint, hoarse whisper, "

Slave

."

That word. You are remembering it, along with others we exchanged in the cybersphere, and that galvanizes you.

Slave.

Why do I feel I need to remind you?

"You wanted me here," I go on. "And to persuade me to appear -- even though you were unsure if I would -- you accepted my terms. You gave your word to me, Jamilah. You promised you would submit to both things." I nod meaningfully, "To my Game. And to your slavery,"

This time more firmly, "I

said

, let me see you... my concubine."

At last, you move dutifully to get up, water dripping off you, a crisp little

splishing

the only sound in the darkened bathroom. Your eyes are down as you rise. Your culture demands modesty from its women -- a modesty I plan to violate -- but for now, your reticence is fetching to my eye, and arousing. My gaze slides down your naked body as it starts to unfurls as it rising in the tub.

Quickly, I take it in -- from the loose-clipped pile of rich, way raven hair, candlelight glancing off your cheek, down your curvy ripe body, skin soft and golden like honey, down over your full breasts. Like

acorns

, I think quirkily, but just meaning the colors, the soft tan of the breasts and coffee-dark brown of your areolas and nipples -- and down to the neatly-trimmed bush of your sex.

How does it feel, Jamilah, to bare all that before my real eyes? I smile, more pleased than I honestly expected to be. I see what an exotic beauty you are --

-- But only briefly.

Once you have straightened up fully, you have already lifted up a towel from the rim of the tub, and now you drape it in front of you, one hand at your throat as you hold it up, the other draped vaguely over your sex.

Hmm

. Or is

that

the way you mean to play the Game?

I smile. No, this is good. If this is the part you mean to play, against the Master's role I play -- that of the unconquered and resistant,

modest

slave -- I like it. That's why I don't just step up to you and tear your modesty off of you, as is my right.

I am meant to bargain the terms of her servitude... even if I may have to remind the recalcitrant girl, even forcefully, that she is still my slave

.

"Come closer," I say, beckoning you to the edge of the tub.

You agreed to this next part too, this first step in the slave's subjugation -- or at least, I hope you remember it that way. No matter. I take my necktie and wrap it several times over your eyes, adjust and tighten it. A tiny gasp escapes your parted lips as my hands skims your cheeks, brushing back stray wisps of hair, and my darkness fills your world.

"Remember, I've always told you. The first night we met, you would be playing my Game?" Seeing you are startled, I try to use a soothing tone as I explain, "Well, we're playing it now. And this is how I told you it would begin."

"I -- can't see you?" It's a question that asks permission.

One hand, the one not shielding yourself with the towel, floats like a slow-moving moth, uncertain about where it should be. Up to your face, testing the the tightness of the blindfold, unsure if you are free to take it off, then sure you are not... then unsure again, about where it should be. You settle it crossed over your chest alongside the other, clutching the towel to your throat.

Then, you say it for the first time tonight, "

Master

--?"

"Slave," I reply. "You agreed to this. And I will hold you to your word."

"Did I? I mean, wasn't there supposed to be a part first, about... about

bargaining?

"

"There is. But this is how we start, regardless. This is what you --"

"

Agreed

..." The word comes flat out of your mouth, not a question or a demurral or a willing

yes

. Just flat.

You need to be reminded. "Look, Jamilah, I can show you the emails where our arrangements took shape, but it's easier if you take my word for it. The last time we discussed our pact for

this

, for when we first meet... whenever that turned out to be, no matter where, no matter if you were ready for me or not... you accepted my challenge. We are playing the Game."

You nod.

"So... the blindfold," I stroke your face, lightly skimming my fingertips across the YSL silk that enfolds your vision. "I'll be inspecting

you,

my concubine, not the other way around."

You nod. Your lips parted, I see the flush has returned to your cheeks full-bloom. And though I can't see your eyes, I read it on your quivering lips: You are excited, aroused, long to submit... and afraid.

"Then... what happens next?" Your voice is small, speaking from that erotically fabricated forgetfulness.

I take a little pity, and refrain from scolding you for remembering nothing of what you'd agreed to, by email, voice and text. But the reason I don't is, I have guessed that it serves your desire --

your

Game -- to forget. That's at least part of the role you are playing.

Deliberate, erotic

forgetting

serves you as a kind of distancing -- distancing the

real-world

Jamilah, properly raised in good family, casually religious, professional, accomplished,

virtuous,

on the one hand... and the eager, groveling cyber-slut on the other, who willingly acquiesced to the way I said it would go.

"What happens next," I reply, "you won't know until it is happening to you."

You brush back a lock of hair draped over your cheek, clearly flustered. "And if I say no?"

"Ahh," I smile. "Then we're bargaining."

"I can bargain for what I want?"

"No, for how you will serve me," I correct you. "The uses I will put you to for

my

pleasures. Is a concubine good for anything, if not that?"

You let out a husky gasp, lips wet and wanting.

"Do you trust me, Jamilah?"

Finally, you nod. But not quite answering the question posed, what you say is, "I want to submit."

I take your hands and guide them to the top button of my shirt.

"May I join you in the tub?"

Your mouth serious, you nod. I ease in closer to you, and as your hands go to work, you necessarily drop the towel, which drapes down to the rim of the tub. Put to work now, you must surrender a shred of your innocence.

And without you seeing me, as promised, I inspect you.

Blindly but knowing your way, you unbutton my shirt. I like the way your fingertips brush the skin of my chest as you move down, exposing my skin. I relax and enjoy the warmth and obedience of your hands.

"By the way," I add. "You notice how politely I asked? That will be the last time tonight I ask your permission for anything..."

Her

.

Your last words reverberate in my head, in my soul, and in my belly. Is this finally it, at last, the moment of my submission?

Is this what I bargained for, the way I wanted it? I am terrified, actually. And what if this is all in my head?...

Dear God, no.

The flesh beneath my fingertips is real. The heart that beats so strongly in the chest I have just bared is real. But I struggle with so many doubts and fears.

As I finish with the shirt buttons, you pull away from me and I snap out of my reverie. Losing your body for my bearings, I totter a little, feeling my nakedness, that tender sheath of my vulnerability. My hands briefly reach for orientation.

I can hear you unzipping your pants.

Next, I see you looking up, your smile freezing.

You see the necktie-blindfold is in my hand.

I reach out a hand to you. After that, neither of us speaks or moves. Your eyes are harder now, your lips pursed in a straight line. I know I have displeased you. I am scared you will punish me.

Not giving me a further clue, you step into the tub, ignoring my offered hand, and sit on the rim. I go to my knees in the water, scoot forward and insinuate myself between your legs. My hands on your thighs, I gaze up at you. Hoping you will see how eager I am to obey.