Shall We Dance

Fresh from the shower, I pad out of the bathroom naked, trailing wisps of steam. I head toward the bedroom to see what you've selected for me this evening. The garter belt and stockings are no surprise. The dress you've selected is. It's a slinky cocktail dress with an off the shoulder black lycra top that clings to my curves and then flares into a short, flouncy, skirt that barely falls to mid-thigh. I haven't worn that since New Years. The shoes next to the bed are the Brazilian pair, dark, with short sturdy Cuban heels, just tall enough to lift and accentuate the curve of my bottom but comfortable enough for a long evening. I didn't even bother looking for a bra or panties, they wouldn't be here.

I put on the garter belt, roll the stockings up my legs clipping them onto the belt and then slip into the dress thankful that it still fits. With a giggle I playfully twirl before the dresser mirror, the skirt swirls up. I'd be ever so revealed to anyone watching. With a grin I sit before the mirror and apply the rich red lip-gloss you've left out, you leave me no other makeup for this evening.

I look up and see your reflection in the mirror. You're standing in the bedroom doorway watching; for how long? The clothing you wear is much more casual than mine is. You're dressed in tan slacks, a light blue dress shirt open at the neck, and a gray sports coat. When I stand, you close the distance between us until your body nearly presses against my back, your breath warm against my neck followed by the gentle flutter of a kiss.

"Are we ready?" you ask but you really don't mean it as a question and you don't wait for me to answer. I merely follow behind you, out of the bedroom, down the stairway and out to the car.

Ever the gentleman, you hold the car door open for me. I am very careful not to sit on my skirt. I shiver, my naked bottom coming to rest on cool vinyl as I settle into my seat. You bend down to kiss me. Your lips possess mine fully, hungrily, before you tie a black blindfold firmly into place and close the car door. I listen as you enter the driver's side; you adjust my seat belt and your arm gently brushes against my breasts. Too quickly you pull away and the car starts.

This is how it has always been. We only go to the club on weekends, at night, and I am always blindfolded. I could not tell anyone where the club is or even how long it takes to drive there. I sit quietly with my hands folded on my lap. I'm excited of course, feeling a bit like a bad little girl trying so very hard to be good. The drive is mostly in silence, reflective. The radio plays soft gentle music, a soothing backdrop for my inner turmoil. You tell me casually we will be performing tonight, which only makes me more uneasy. Will I be clumsy? Look bad? Make you look bad?

I don't say a word but you understand my fear. You try to reassure me.

"You just have to follow my lead; it's my job to show them how beautiful you are." A grin crosses my lips, reassured that you will help me perform well.

We are an odd couple, you and I. You are my master and yet for nearly a year, you've forbidden me the use of that particular word. It's my own fault. I am the one who would use that word inappropriately, without thinking, and often I embarrassed you. When I unwittingly called you "Master" before my own parents it was the last straw.

My mother looked from me to you at first with shock and disbelief that slowly turned to a bemused smile. I flushed with embarrassment; I could feel your rising anger without even looking at you. My father barely noticed; thinking, no doubt it was a rare case of sarcasm on my part.

When we arrived home that dreadful evening you vented your pent-up anger. You tied me face down on the bed and you thoroughly punished my poor bottom with a leather belt. It was the only time I've ever seriously thought about using my safe word. I wonder if you would have stopped; I think so, but I'll never know. Since that night I've not been allowed to use the word "Master".

You can forbid my saying the word but my thoughts will always know the truth. I am yours. A devoted slave and yet you use me like one all too rarely. In our ordinary lives I must play the role of your independent wife, on these special evenings I can become what I'll always long for, what I was meant to be: yours completely.

The car continues through the night. Later, I really don't know how much later, perhaps a half-hour, no more than a full one, the car stops and we are there. Your warm patient hands guide me from the car and finally you remove the blindfold once we are safely inside.

It is a private club; we usually come here every week, but we've come at least twice a month, for years now. You head toward our table and I follow behind. Miss Ruth waves a casual greeting from across the room and heads toward us.

Her two man-servants flank her. They were obviously selected for their looks. Both are tall, muscular, and completely shaven. They could almost be brothers except that one is the darkest ebony and the other is such a pale white that he seems almost bloodless.

Everyone calls them the twins; Mistress Ruth has never revealed their true names. They both wear nothing but leather chaps. The dark one dressed in glossy white leather and the other wears burnished black. I peek at the open juncture of the leather leggings when I think (hope) no one is looking. They're nearly identical there as well. Neither shows the least sign of arousal, they are much too well trained. It is said that with a snap of her fingers they will both become rock hard for Ruth, and if she orders them to they will cum spurting into the air with no stimulation other than her command. It is something I would love to see some day.

The club is hers of course; I don't know it's name or even if it has one. Some of those I've heard talking here refer to it as "the power exchange" which seems apt but is probably more a description than a title.

She is nearly at our table now. I look away toward the stage my eyes stealing one last glimpse of the two men who remain a respectful pace behind her. On stage a demonstration of safe suspension techniques is taking place. A tiny oriental woman who I think is called Annie is bound to a massive eight-foot high tripod constructed of metal poles and tubing. She is wearing nothing but her wrist and ankle bracelets and a pair of impossibly tall high heels but with her hands bound high the heels barely allow her feet to touch the ground. A small crowd has gathered below the stage to listen as her owner explains, gesturing at her using his riding crop as a pointer.

"Mark! How delightful! You'll be able to use the stage in about forty-five minutes. I hope that will be acceptable?"

You offer your consent. We sometimes perform on stage; it terrifies and yet perversely excites me to be displayed naked before these people we barely know. More importantly you want to reveal my submissiveness to them and that alone allows my pride to swell. Last week I was allowed to grovel naked at your feet, my lips servicing you while you watched others perform on stage. Tonight we will perform for them.

My belly clenches as I feel Mistress Ruth's eyes turn toward me. "My, Miss Sarah, you look positively ravishing tonight." I can not look at her; I dare not answer her. She always addresses me with this exaggerated politeness, pretending she doesn't know I am a fraud. I sit at the side of my lover clothed as if I was a free woman. It is what you want, but my discomfort certainly amuses her.

She may be the one person who recognizes the true irony of my situation. You are my master and you want me to act as an independent woman, it is what you demand of me. Because I am your slave I acquiesce to that absurd demand. Why you must pretend that the woman who surrenders herself to your demands is free I do not know. I will play that role as long as you want me to. I would rather be kneeling naked at the feet of my master, like so many others at this club are allowed to do. You indulge me sometimes but what I desire is of no real consequence. You know I wish to wear your collar, you deny me this for your own reasons. I will do as my Master wishes; I will even pretend I can refuse you.

"Can I get you a drink Mark?" Miss Ruth asks.

"Yes please, my regular." Master replies

"And Miss Sarah," her eyes swing toward me again and I hold my breath. "Perhaps I can get you a cup of tea to sooth those frazzled nerves." She certainly doesn't expect me to respond; she knows my true nature. I should sit silently and accept whatever her servants bring me. I should demure to her desires. I definitely am not expected to speak up.

"No thank you Miss Ruth." I boldly proclaim. "My nerves are quite fine and your tea might just makes me need to pee at an inconvenient time."

God what is wrong with me? Her cloying manner just goads me on; I can't deal rationally with this woman. Mistress Ruth's eyes flash with anger and amusement, she seems to enjoy the challenge of my little rebellion. She turns to the pale twin and instructs him to fetch my lover's regular drink. He returns with Mark's bottle of 12 year old Scotch and a glass. He pours about four fingers into the tumbler. His duty finished he steps back to his place behind his Mistress leaving the bottle on the table. Mark offers Ruth a drink but she declines. He raises his glass to salute me and I blush.

"You know Mark; you really ought to put a collar on that cute little bitch before someone else does it for you." Miss Ruth speaks casually about me as I fidgeted under her gaze.

"That cute little bitch is my wife, Ruth, so don't even think about tossing your collar on her." Mark answers showing a flash of the possessiveness that I long for.

"Oh I wasn't thinking about myself. There are others here who wouldn't be the least bit hesitant, married or not. But now that you mention it, I'm sure we could work something out between the two of us... if you'd like."

Her eyes sweep over me hungrily and I shrink down into my chair. I should be grateful, I suppose, for Ruth is arguing for exactly what I desire! I should be kneeling at my lover's feet. I want to wear his collar. Somehow the woman manages to be irritating even when she speaks up for what I desire, but dare not plead for myself. The two of them continue to discuss me as if I can't hear them or more truthfully as if my hearing their thoughts about me is of no consequence.

The demonstration on stage is in full swing now. The little Asian sub is suspended off the floor her wrists bound to one leg of the tripod her legs splayed wide with ankles bound to the other two legs. She is wearing a belt-like leather harness around her waist now that is attached to the chain dangling from the top of the tripod and it takes up some of her weight as her body sways suspended. The handle of her owner's crop is delving between her legs and she squirms delightfully.

"Gentlemen," Ruth addresses her two servants, "Would you be so good as to take Miss Sarah to the Red room and prepare her. Perhaps give her some of that ginger peach tea to help calm her. Make sure she is properly attired. I'll expect you to have her on stage in..." Their Mistress glanced at her watch, "about a half hour."

They stand behind my chair now waiting for me to rise. The dark one pulls my chair back for me as I stand and they both follow me into the changing room. Privacy is hardly a concern for me now. When the door to the red room closes the dark twin stands at my side collecting my dress as I pull it off over my head. He carefully folds it over the back of one of the spare chairs. The pale twin has begun heating water in a hot pot; Mistress Ruth will see that I have my tea, one way or another.

I must remove my garter belt lest it become tangled during our presentation. I toss it onto the chair next to my dress. The dark twin kneels and slides an elastic garter up my left leg to hold my stocking in place. My legs tremble at his intimate caress. His hands reach my upper thigh but he seems unaware of my discomfort. He moves over to my right leg. I barely keep from brushing my hands over his bald scalp. With my stockings secure I stand stripped before these two uncaring men holding out my wrists to be cuffed. The dark twin buckles fur lined leather cuffs onto my wrists and then kneels once more to attach the ankle cuffs. His head is only inches from my bare pussy I perversely want to grab his head and grind myself against it, but he is oblivious. He is ever so careful not to put a run in my stockings as the cuffs are tightened around my ankles. With a nod I am directed to sit at the small table.

My tea is ready and the two of them stand arms folded over their chests watching me sip the hot beverage. The tea is actually quite good with a touch of honey in it and I sit quietly sipping without complaint. I'm sure the two of them would probably force the stuff down my throat if I refused it. Their Mistress gave them an order and they will no doubt go to any length to obey. I don't want to cause them any trouble. When I'm finally done with the tea the time passes in agonizingly slow silence.

At last it is time. The pale one gestures for me to stand and pulls my wrists together clipping them together behind my back. The dark one drapes a short cape over my shoulders closing it around my neck with a clasp that holds it in place. A blindfold is placed over my eyes and darkness swallows me once more. I am shivering now as I'm led back into the main room where our audience waits.

Two pairs of hands guide me forward; I mount the stairway leading to the stage. The darkness still engulfs me but I know what lies ahead, the eight-foot high tripod still commands the center of the stage. The hands stop me and unhook the cape that covers me from neck to thigh. It carelessly drops to the floor. My breath becomes shorter and faster.

They applaud though most have seen me naked before. They saw me transformed from wife to slave just last week when I knelt naked at your feet. Now, I stand nearly naked in my gartered stockings, and my ever so sensible Cuban heels. You have put me on display for them. They applaud in appreciation.

This is more than a private transformation that I perform for my lover; this is panic-filled breathing in the darkness as these strangers drink in my nakedness. Their eyes claim me. I feel a trembling dread as they clap for me, I become theirs for this moment, prey to their whims. The applause slowly fades. They are ready. I'm not sure I'm ready but I vow to you, I won't embarrass you.

The two pairs of unseen hands turn me away from the impatient crowd and I feel the heat of spotlights on my back. They walk me forward until my feet nudge the low metal crosspiece that braces the long legs of the tripod, The bar is about three or four inches off the ground which allows me to slip my feet underneath it, two points of support, a hard piece of reality. It's comforting. One of the twins kneels down, pushes my feet a little further apart before he attaches my ankle cuffs to the bar.

My thoughts are coming in quick gasps now, rapid and scattered like my breath. All too soon these flickering thoughts will be forcefully driven away and I will only feel. Now I can feel sheen of sweat forming along my back even as I shiver. The leather cuffs that hold my hands bound behind my back are uncoupled, but only to bring my hands forward. The two men separate. The one in front of me gathers up my hands pulling me forward as he raises my arms toward the chain that dangles from the peak of the tripod. I'm forced forward but a second crosspiece just shy of hip height forces me to bend at the waist: my balance is shifting, breasts swaying and my upper body tips downward only to be pulled up short by the length of chain. The other man behind me stands and his hands grasp my naked hips, He pulls me back toward him but his only interest is to steady me. I am pulled back off the cross bar and forced to stand bent forward.

It is disconcerting to have these two men handle my body with such indifference. A woman should be lusted after when she is bound naked and helpless in the hands of these men. If their Mistress gave them the slightest signal they would both be instantly ravaging me, pummeling my depths with enthusiasm while my helpless body is buffeted between them. They would do this to me, not for their own pleasure and certainly not for mine, but only for the pleasure their Mistress might derive from my helpless plight.

I shudder. It is something that I need not fear. You would not allow it. I'm not sure if my shudder is for my ephemeral cravings, or actually for the guilt I feel for those passing desires.

I envy these two men that bind me. I envy them the discipline they posses and the discipline they endured to gain it. I smile inwardly knowing that only a true slave would envy these two slaves. My wrists are secured now and they move away.

The chain is attached running up the front of each wrist cuff. I grasp the cold links pulling them hard against my palms. The chain supports my upper body's weight. It becomes another bit of cold reality. This too is comforting. I adjust my footing as much as my binding allows. I am keenly aware that my torso and hips rock seductively as I sway bent forward before my audience.

There will be only forty lashes; I've handled that before. The club has it's rules. Only my shoulders and bottom will be struck. I wish it were happening already. Where are you? Why are you making me wait?

Chairs scrape against the hard wood floor, more people gather to watch me perform, someone coughs. They are growing impatient at the delay too. Will they want to hear my anguished shrieks as the flogging makes me writhe in agony?

Undoubtedly!

Will you want to wring those dreadful screams from me as I twist and turn under your lash?

Dark panic and thick sickening fear engulf me as I realize I don't know what you want.

I will not, I can not, fail you.

A recollection of your words

"...Follow my lead. It is up to me to show them your beauty."

Relief! A weight is lifted with the memory. A flicker of a smile crosses my face with this newfound certainty. I have no need to worry. You will lead me.

It is a gift you've given me, like my safe word, a precious present that you bestowed on me. I will cherish it but I know I will never need to use it. I hope you choose the crop, it will hurt a bit more than the six-tailed flogger but the crop is much more accurate and precise; far easier directions to follow.

The crowd is making restless noises, I strain to hear your approach but I can only hear my own ragged breathing and the wild beating of my heart. A hand, your hand, reaches over my leaning back and brushes against my swaying side. I gasp joyfully. You are beside me now, so close I can feel your body's heat. Your hand brushes along my back and over the curve of my squirming bottom. Unbidden, moisture seeps between my lower lips and my body quivers at your touch. Surely you can smell my desire as you bend closer. I feel the six thin leather straps casually caress my thigh. Your free hand is beneath me now running along my quaking belly, soothing, petting, and preparing me as it descends.

It is too much; I want you, no, need you, to begin. My heart thumps louder and I can barely hear your whisper before you step back.

"Shall we dance?"

And we dance.

The whistle of the knotted leather tips slicing the air gives me a fraction of a second to prepare, muscles begin to tighten and my bottom clenches. Pain shrieks out slashing from right to left and my hips twist instinctively away to the left. I can hear the crowds murmur but before I can steady myself and return to my center the leather lashes from left to right with your backstroke. My body lurches to the right as I cling to the chain that holds my torso up. Already tears are forming but I've yet to make a sound. Again you lash out from left to right then back again. My body twists at your command and I gasp at the sheer agony, but you follow without letup another pair of blows and at last I cry out in pain as my body swings wildly back and forth.