There comes a time in your life when you realize that your mother was right about something for once: someday, you will meet a man that makes you forget about your boundaries.
That man is waiting for me in the living room, naked from the waist up. He's sprawled in the armchair like a bored god-king, eyes agleam with desire. He hasn't spoken a word, but I know he's getting impatient. Meanwhile, I'm still naked in my room, fresh out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my naked body. The...things he's asked me to wear are laid out on the table.
He let me pick out the color, when he bought them for me. Baby pink, with tiny cartoon pigs printed on the fabric. I thought it was hillarious at the time. Next to them, the tiny top and short skirt. 'Pornstar work clothes' I called them, joking. He smiled and said 'sounds about right'. It made my knees go weak, the way he'd say that. The way he would never raise his voice at me, the way he'd stare me down every time I'd go on a tangent and ramble on and on until I was spent. Every inch of him radiated control and I'd be lying if I said that I didn't enjoy it.
I look at myself in the full-body mirror, when I drop the towel. Barry the control-freak had bought it for me, back when we used to date. He used to make me look into it when we had sex. It was the absolute limit of his kinks. That and me being on top, that is. I used to hate how he would fawn over me like I was a goddess, drooling like a schoolboy over my breasts, cupping my face in his hands and cooing. He wasn't half-bad, though. I met Keith through him. Keith the muscle-freak, the forever-jock. Keith who loved to fawn over his bulging muscles all day and pester me to get into shape. I can't say I'm ungrateful for it. I've got a flat stomach now and a bubble behind, good strong legs from running ten kilometers a day. That's how I and Jason hooked up; clumsy little guy, but cute nonetheless. He would buy me outfits so we could roleplay but never act on it. It was through Jason that I met...him. Or perhaps he chose me. It's difficult to tell after all this time, to pinpoint the exact moment that I noticed him in a crowded room, his eyes transfixing mine, drawing me in. I was his before he'd even laid a finger on me. By the time he wrapped his arm around my waist and pressed me against his body on the dance floor, I knew I would be his.
Pulling the thong up my legs, I imagine him looking at me in secret through some corner of the room, quietly observing, eyes trailing across the contours of my body. I close my eyes and imagine his hands pulling the thong up by the straps across my legs, his body so close I could reach out and touch it. The fabric nestles between my buttocks, rides up past my waist. I tug it once, the way I knew he would do it, in a show of quiet force. Once upon a time, me and the girls would make fun of girls wearing those out in public. We never used the s-word, but we all thought about it. I twirl around in the mirror, look at how it nestles against my skin. It makes me feel dirty, in a good way. The bra exacerbates things. He bought it two sizes too small on purpose. My breasts are spilling out of it, exposing my aureolae.
The top isn't any better: the buttons barely hold together, pushing up my breasts. My nipples are sticking out against the white fabric. I run my fingers over them, teasing for a second, before I stop. The orders were clear. 'No touching' he'd said, matter-of factly. Somehow that makes me want to do it even more. With trembling hands, I pinch them softly over the fabric. I tug at them playfully. A live current runs across the length of my spine. A tiny soft moan escapes my mouth. Biting my lip, I shudder hoping he didn't hear. He hadn't mentioned a punishment for disobedience but then he never needed to; I consented to his pleasure. Nevertheless, I ran a finger over the fabric between my legs, as a tiny sign of defiance, moving across the smooth slit all the way to my nub. The fabric was wet already.
The skirt was too short to even cover my behind. It made me feel so utterly exposed, downright dirty. "I hope he doesn't make me wear this outside" I whispered softly and blushed. A tiny little part of me wished he'd do it; that he would parade me down the street and show me off. Uselessly, I tugged down at the fabric, trying to cover myself. What was happening to me? I never used to be like that before, not before him. Stretching myself in front of the mirror, I run my hands down all over my body, all over my breasts, my belly, my thighs. The s-word comes to mind. It's odd, how good it sounds when I think of him saying it, rolling off his tongue.
I strap on the high-heels, a little touch of my own. He doesn't care too much about shoes. Heck, he doesn't seem to care much about anything but I know that he'll love hearing them clicking on the marble floor as I come closer. He promised there was something special in it for me today, so I might as well go the extra mile.
I leave the bedroom, making my way to the living room. My heels click audibly on the marble floor. I put one leg in front of the other, walk so my hips will sway. He can't see me yet, so I take an extra second to master it. When I turn the corner and see him, looking me over like a warrior-king, I know I've got it right. He gives me his signature 'devil-may-care' smile and I know I've gotten it down to a tee. Raising his hand, he motions for me to come closer, raises his hand and holds out his palm for me to stop when I'm three steps away, just out of my reach. He never wears cologne, but I can still smell the testosterone wafting through his skin. I bite my lip to keep myself from just jumping him outright. I know he wouldn't want that and I don't want it either. We want this to be perfect.
"On your knees" he says in a hushed whisper. I comply immediately, dropping down on the floor. It's cold, but I don't care. Every inch of me is on fire. Something clinks in his left hand. My eyes go wide as I watch him produce the bright-red collar from under a couch cushion. I tense up, try to mutter a defense but he doesn't give me any time, clasping it on in the blink of an eye, just tight enough for me to feel it against my skin. A chain dangles from the end of it. It's a DIY job, made out of a length of leather, and a plain steel ring to keep the wrought steel chain in place. Everything about it feels so unclean, almost primal. My defenses are breaking down before I even have a chance to respond.
