Candles in the Darkbypsymonkros©
"You're still on time! It's all right, you're still on time." You say to yourself for the thousandth time as you check the clock on the dash, also for the thousandth time. You aren't wearing a watch because that would be out of costume. Watches are worn only when one is working.
"I mustn't be late!" you think to yourself for the millionth time, because you've been thinking it ever since the call came.
The call. The voice on the phone a few days ago simply said: "Jewelry…heels…coat…gloves," and the appointed time. She knew the rest, the where…and the who. Nothing more was needed You knew you would obey. It wasn't that you had no other choice, you wanted no other choice.
Rain begins to splatter on the windshield, and you add yet another delicious fear to the list, that you will get your perfect hair and makeup ruined. They have to be perfect! Nothing less will do for…for Him.
Briefly she considered putting on that plastic rain hood she kept in her purse for just such times as this. It looked cheap and hideous, but worked well. You lean forward to look up through the windshield at the sky and judge the weather. He might be watching when you arrive, and you want your total presentation to be right. That's what attracted you to him, that he was as appearance-conscious as you were. So many others don't have a clue.
The ache to please your man has driven every thought, every motion you have made. You spent hours bathing your body in a warm (not hot!) bubble bath, scrubbing with a loofah until you were as smooth as velvet porcelain all over. You carefully shaved your legs, your arms, and even your patch, because you knew He liked you that way. You endured those awful rollers for hours because you knew you, or rather He, would be rewarded with clouds and clouds of a woman's glory.
Your eyes are iridescent with a rainbow of colors, from peacock green to mauve. Your cheeks are highlighted with pearl blush, and your lips are like carmine glass. Your nails are perfect, as are your toes, as they should be, given how many hours you spent on them! It's almost a pity your toes don't show, but you know how much He likes stiletto pumps. Secretly, you know he's right, because even though they hurt, they make your legs look so good. He does always say that a lady shouldn't be required to walk great distances…
But you're still not there, and your heart races at the thought of being…late! You know He wouldn't say anything, but it would be a failure on your part, and a signal, however small, that you didn't care enough.
"I WON'T be late! I WON'T!!! Oh WHY won't this stupid light turn GREEN???"
As if in response, the light turns green, and you inadvertently screech the tires as you pull away. Now another fear, that a cop was lurking and even now zeroing in for the sting. That might make you hours late! You anxiously scan around and in the mirror, but see nothing. The relief you feel almost makes you dizzy.
You're out in the countryside now, and traffic lights and stop signs are fewer. Speed limits are higher, but your experience at the light makes you cautious, and you deliberately drive just under the posted limit no matter what the other drivers are doing. Some zoom around and speed away, some pause to make their opinions known first, but to Hell with them. They don't count. Nothing else counts.
You cross the bridge over the river, and look for the drive on the left. It's deliberately left shabby and neglected-looking to discourage uninvited visitors. You make the turn and drive between the solid banks of trees and shrubs on either side. The chain-link fence has an automatic gate, which is open. You see it close behind you in your rear view mirror. Does the car activate it, or is He watching already?
The drive to the house goes downhill into the river gorge and bends sharply right. The house can only be seen from directly above until you get to the bottom. It's a large almost pizza-box of a house, single story, with a flat roof punctuated by skylights and metal chimneys, with an open air atrium in the center. Most of the outer walls are glass, and sometimes the view goes all the way from front to back.
This evening, however, is different. All the blinds are drawn, there is no seeing in. You park your car by the walk to the front door prepare to step out. The clock says you have minutes to spare, and you breathe that sigh of relief. Careful now, He might be watching! You search your memory frantically for clues about how He likes you to be. "The best defense is a good offense!" comes to mind. You make a final inspection in the rearview mirror, step out, draw yourself up straight and even give your head a shake to sway that magnificent mane and say: "Ready or not, here I come!" then you strut your stuff boldly up to the huge red double doors of the house.
The door on the right swings open slightly as you begin to knock. You push it open and step in, then close it behind you. It shuts with the solid "thud" of a bank vault, and the sound echoes off the hard surfaces of the walls and floor, giving the quiet house a feeling of immense space and vacancy. It had rained harder out here in the country, and outside had that "after the storm" stillness where the only sounds were the river flowing over rocks and a single bird chirping somewhere in the woods.
The transition to the house was to step into a delicious coldness. Indeed, the whole building was designed to be a triumph of technology over nature. It was definitely a man's house, with it's chrome and black leather furniture, use of brick and metal for interior walls, and air conditioning to hold the weather out and comfort within. It soothes your naked body after the steam bath outside in that fur coat.
For naked you are, except for the dozens of chains around your neck and waist, the bracelets on your wrists, and the opera-length black gloves that match the black satin pumps on your feet. Only the coat stands between you and the outside world. The thought actually makes you tingle, even though many times you've gone shopping in shorts and T-shirts without underwear. Maybe it's because you're open at the bottom…
The only lights in the entry foyer are single candles, each on the shelf-tables set in the facing mirrored walls. You see yourself repeated to infinity on both sides, indeed the mirrors were adjusted during installation to be perfectly parallel so the reflections wouldn't curve away from a straight line. The whimsical side of you briefly considers opening the coat and flashing yourself an infinite number of times, but decide against it, lest you be discovered doing something unladylike. Must stay in character!
You look around and call: "H…hello?" Your voice echoes back from the empty house. Even though you know full well that you are safe and protected, your natural insecurity rises and makes you uncertain.
You venture forward, searching. You pass through the enormous living room and on through the dining hall, pass the kitchen and the study, all open and empty. The house was designed in such a way that few of the more "public" rooms have any doors or even doorways.
After a few minutes you see another candle burning, down at the end of the hall going towards the more private quarters. When you reach it you see a few more around the corner, and then more and more as you proceed further and further into the house. Finally, you stand before a tall door, one that reaches almost all the way to the roof itself. Trembling, you knock too lightly at first, then after mentally kicking yourself, more assertively.
You step back and take a second to make a final arrangement. You know a "curtain" of sorts is going up, and it's showtime!
Music is playing in the room beyond, sounds like Sarah Brightman. The door opens and…He is standing there, dressed all in black; jacket, satin shirt, bow tie, trousers, shoes…your pulse quickens at the thought.
"Come in!" He smiles, His eyes giving you an appreciative once-over before settling back on yours unblinkingly. "It's good to see you."
With more bravado than you feel, you breeze into the room beyond like a movie star at her premiere, only to be stopped in your tracks by the sight. The large room contains literally thousands of candles, of all shapes and sizes, and all dark red, matching the wine-red curtains that completely covered the walls. Large candles stood shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor, and tier upon tier of lights marched higher and higher to end with small votives at the top. No wonder the air conditioning is set so high! In here the air was a more normal temperature.
"I"ll take your coat." He says. It's not a question. You hadn't expected to be required to reveal yourself so soon.
You hesitate momentarily out of habit, but say "Yes, thank you!" You hand him your purse and turn your back.
"My lord…!" he reminds.
"My lord." You reply. (Oops!)
Your garment flows from your body, and you stand fully exposed before him. You turn and pose like a proud fashion model in your nakedness. That tingle goes up your spine again, as you realize that even your slit is displayed fully for his enjoyment.
Your slit, your cunt, your pussy, your quim, your box, your vulva, labia, nether lips, the ultimate feminine jewel, here on display as if it were in a museum. The seventh veil has left the building! All this passes through your mind as He drops his gaze to take you in. You fight the urge to cover yourself with a hand as He stares unabashedly at the well of your womanhood. The best defense is a good offense! You stand even straighter and prouder as you are admired, and toss your hair back with your hands to show off your tits with your arms up so they bulge out beyond your rib cage. You put your hands on your hips to anchor them out of the way as much as complete the pose . You even square your shoulders and thrust out your mams in an arrogant display of defiant pride. Let's see how he likes THESE babies!
He likes. He invites you to sit at a table in the middle of the room, set for two. He serves you food in small portions, but great variety, all in some way symbolically sexual in nature. Oysters, hot cross buns, cucumber salad, carrots, hard-boiled eggs in the salad, banana daiquiris…and wine. Rich red and light white wines, they go straight to your head and you already feel weightless as He prepares flaming pepper steak at tableside as a main course, and cherries jubilee for dessert. There is fire everywhere, including your heart, and you even blush across your breasts from excitement.
There is little conversation during dinner, but your eyes are speaking volumes to one another across the table. The meal becomes a marathon of challenges made and challenges met. He tears a bun apart savagely and offers you half. You take it and bite it in a way that would be painful if it were a body part. He responds by destroying his half by dragging it to pieces with his teeth and an animal toss of the head. The same with the vegetables, and especially the meat. You're like two wild animals in the zoo, each trying to out-sex the other with your food.
You are so totally aware of your nudity. But you've been with men before, why is it now that you can't seem to move your arms without your knockers getting in the way? Every move you make makes you more…naked! He watches you across the table and you can tell He is amused by your self-consciousness. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at you, half in affection, and half in glee. You are so wet from excitement you can feel a puddle forming on the seat cushion. It's leather, and it sticks to you whenever you cross or uncross your legs. Damned uncomfortable! He's still dressed, you bet He's not uncomfortable!
Mostly you keep them crossed because it squeezes your cunt tight. It's like trying to hold your water, the urge is so strong that you want to throw down your knife and fork, overturn the table and jump on Him right now, which would be dramatic, but presumptuous, cheeky, even brassy. He is in charge here.
The candles, the flames, the wine, the music, the man…a fire is smoldering between your thighs and beginning to burn you all over. But should you make the first move? You've tried every gambit you can think of, even to taking a glass of wine, dipping your nipple in and handing it to Him. He merely smiled.
If a fire burns it must be quenched! You take the chance, you can't wait any longer. It's not for nothing they call it being "in heat." He has gotten up to pour champagne. You follow and when he turns back around you press forward against him, suprising him, and cupping his manhood in your hand. You look up into his face with pleading eyes.
"Please?" you beg, then you whisper again: "Please?" Dignity be damned, and to hell with your pride. You need Him now! It's been days since you had Him last. Inwardly you pray He doesn't take offense at your arrogance.
Without a word He smiles and gently kisses your cheek. Your passion is so great that you almost swoon at this tiny morsel of affection. You respond by squeezing a little harder, and he takes your breast in hand and returns the favor. He kisses and gently bites your neck and shoulder, His passion increasing with each touch. You raise your arms and embrace, His hands sliding around your back and drawing you against Him.
And you kiss…
After what seems like hours, He takes you by the hand and leads you to the curtain on the opposite side of the room from the door. Through the curtains is a smaller curtain-lined bedroom, also lit with candles. He turns to you and takes you by the shoulders. You lower your eyes and fold your hands submissively, but he takes your chin gently in hand and lifts you up to meet His laserlike gaze.
"You are a brazen slut, my pet!" the emphasis on the word "slut" ever so slight and delicious, and you revel in the term being applied to you. You want to be a dirty little tramp for Him. His eyes are dancing ever so lasciviously at yours. "And you must receive…punishment…for being so arrogant."
"Yes, my lord." You quietly reply. Your heart leaps. Hooray!
"What will be my punishment, my lord?" you ask, risking all to inquire without permission.
"You must be made to give love in a way you have never done before." He replies. "And you will learn a profound lesson as well! Come!"
"Does the punishment involve…pain…my lord?"
"There can be no punishment without pain, my pet!" Your inner self smiles in anticipation.
He leads you to a thronelike chair in the corner, and sits, positioning you before him, his strong hands on your bare hips, squaring your body in the most basic and revealing way. The final frontier of "FULL FRONTAL NUDITY." The words ring in your head in high volume capital letters. You straighten and assume a pose of full military attention, modified with one foot in front of the other to enhance the roundness of your female hips, and staring at a point above his head.
"Good! Good!" He says approvingly of your performing correctly without having to be instructed. "You must first be…inspected. Set your feet apart so that I might gauge your feminine gap."
Your feminine what? Nevertheless, you part your feet, careful to stay on centerline with the chair. You clasp your hands behind your back in a parade rest pose. You hear Him hum approval at your good training. He leans forward and cups your sex in his hand, sliding His fingers along your vulva and under your buttocks, touching and feeling your smooth pussy. You worry He might be troubled by stubble, even though it has only been hours since you shaved and powdered.
But your fears are groundless. He clearly is enjoying his probe. He discovers your wetness and pauses to stir your honeypot. You struggle to maintain control against the jolts he is causing. You don't have permission to climax. Permission, like all privileges, must be earned.
"Your gap is excellent." He says, admiring your handiwork. "You are smooth..."
Without warning, He thrusts his middle finger deep into your sopping cunt and holds it there. Startled, you cry out.
Moist? You're sopping wet! Will He take offense that you spoke without being bidden? You bite your lower lip and tighten up your stance even more, but He merely smiles up at you and begins to stroke his finger in and out of your slit. You close your eyes and bite your lip harder as you fight the urges that are pounding at your gates.
Mercifully, He withdraws as suddenly as he had entered, leaving your snatch burning even brighter with unfulfilled want. He begins to slide his hands along your thigh, starting all the way up in your crotch against the bone, squeezing gently now again to test their firmness, then down the smooth skin to your knee, where he pauses to stroke the backside with his fingers and you almost collapse from the sensation. Again you make a little noise of discomfort, and again He smiles up at you. At least you're ready when He reaches your other knee, but He doesn't repeat the attack, and you almost fumble with misfired anticiapation as when one jumps when playing "Mother, May I?" but without the key phrase.
He sits up and takes your round hips in His hand, squeezing the flesh in His strong hands and gritting His teeth with pleasure in the sensation. His hands encircle your waist, then your ribs, just under your breasts.
"Present your breasts to me!" He commands.
You move your feet back together and bend forward at the waist, your breasts swinging free of your body. You know how much He likes it when your breasts hang down, and you want more than anything else to be pleasing to Him.
Again, He reaches for your cunt and inserts his finger, and uses it to pull you closer. You awkwardly follow. He cups your breasts in his hands and weighs them, judging their quality. He presses them together and examines? no, savors your cleavage. You resist the urge to smile at your triumph. You want Him to like your breasts.
"Hold them up for me, I wish to suckle." He says. You are amazed at how sexy He can make such a term sound. You cup your hands under your fine mams and lift them up like a Wonderbra for his enjoyment.
His lips are like hot irons on your nipples, His tongue like sandpaper, His breath like hot steam. He places His hands over yours and buries His face in you, swimming in you, drowning Himself in you. Though it doesn't seem possible, you melt even more at the giving of such pleasure.
Abruptly, He withdraws again, relaxing back in the chair. "You may drink now." He hands you a glass of champagne. "And turn." He directs. You turn your back and resume attention, your head spinning from the bubbles.
"Bend over and present your cunt!" You love it when He speaks to you in such commanding fashion. You are so totally His possession now that you would do anything to receive His touch again. Even His use of the vulgar term makes the very object twitch with desire.
Slowly, sensuously so as to draw out your presentation, you bend low from the waist, your tits swinging upwards towards your chin as you reach for your ankles. You stand totally revealed to Him, your slit exposed to His probing and fingering.
He waits. It is unbearable that He is only looking at your most intimate parts and not touching you. You ache to be stroked, to be parted, to be used as His own personal sex toy. The agony is driving you mad and you have to resist the urge to back your ass into His face and force Him to violate you.
At last a touch. Brief, fleeting, a stroke of a fingertip along the crease of your buttocks at the top of your thighs. It is almost undetectable. It tickles, and your butt cheeks tighten reflexively. You know He is deliberately tormenting you for His amusement. You hear Him laugh softly.