HIS

The instructions had been so detailed: how she was to open the door with the provided key; enter without noise; close the door again. How she was to let her eyes get used to the darkness for a precise number of seconds -- she counted in her head, one . . . two . . . ten . . . eighteen . . . .

She left the key on a small table by the door. Being accustomed to obedience and trust, she did not mind that said table was invisible for the moment. She had known exactly how far her hand had to rise from her side before dropping the key, so very detailed had the letter been.

So little control now; she was a puppet, not able to control even the wild beating of her heart. And whatever control she had left, she was about to let it go as well; it would be handed over to a stranger, along with the tether she reached for that was hanging on an invisible coat hanger to her left.

At the end of the tether was a collar. She recognized it, not only from the instructions she'd received, but because she was used to wearing this for The One. She promptly attached it around her neck.

Unfastening her blouse and skirt, she wondered if He could see her. She never had seen Him. Not once. What had started as a dare over the phone with a Stranger had turned into this, a mutual obsession, an addiction. Even though that one time on the phone had been the only time she heard His voice: low, slightly hoarse, sexy as hell. Now she was hoping . . . and afraid. Hoping . . . and afraid. Yet she also was excited . . . as always.

Her blouse and skirt fell with a whooshing sound; she wore nothing underneath. She had wondered why the colours of her clothes mattered to Him since He probably would not see them. But who was she to question?

The previous times with Him were a blur. Twice she had lost consciousness. She clearly remembered hooking herself up by cuffs she had attached to her wrists. She remembered the provocative, lewd poses she had been required to strike; the things she had been ordered to use on her body -- inside her body.

Her remembrance of those acts was intensely pleasurable. What had made her swoon and faint were the almost imperceptible sounds, the whiffs of cologne nearby, the air moving around her . . . HE had been there. Close to her; so very close -- black out.

She inhaled deeply, and then walked forward. One step; two steps; three -- her scream erupted in the room and startled her. The smarting from the slap on her buttock brought images of bright red flesh. She could not even know if she had been hit with the palm of a hand or something else. And she was wise enough not to turn around to find out. Anyway . . . she could not have seen a thing. She hoped it had been His hand -- the very first time He touched her. Mind straining now. . . remember the instructions . . . timing is everything. She shut her lips to stop the heavy breathing that was starting to sound like panting. Too soon; He enjoyed coolness, composure -- a zen-like attitude almost. But the next order was for her . . . to bend over.

A second too late, she did. As her upper body leant forward, the snap of fingers had been heard. That could not be good. Timing had not been respected; precise counting of seconds was overlooked. There would be a price to pay, undoubtedly. She fought not to smile. Whatever He would do to her . . . .

At once. Grating feeling between her legs; a hand, definitely a hand this time, slapping her right breast fiercely. She moaned. Could only guess: emery paper stretched across a hard object? A piece of dried, rough concrete? Before the feeling on her mistreated sex could be analysed, it stopped.

And then . . . oh yes. His hand again, along her body from breast to knee; very light touch. His other hand on her inner thigh; slow. She squirmed out of their scenario, and so half expected the dual slap -- sex and breast: Hard. Cruel. Delectable.

It was hard for her to stand. HE HAD TOUCHED HER SEX. Slapped it. No other gesture could mark it so thoroughly as now being HIS.

Tip of a hard object sneaking between her nether lips. She smiled. She knew what that was. A vibrator. He slid it inside with cold control, not needing any lubrication beyond what she was providing so profusely. Many inches of cold plastic inside her. And then, she heard the flick: top speed.

Time for the requested dance. She wondered if He could see her hips grinding lasciviously. She loved to move like this, feeling the sexiness of the stilettos at the end of her long legs. Sexy because with it came, naturally, the arching of the back, the protruding of her ass, and so, the protruding of her pussy. She knew all this.

A second vibrator was pressed against her clitoris. She could not help but let her tongue point from between her lips. Thus she acted under intense sexual stimulation. Her lovers had always known when they had succeeded in exciting her sexually not only because of the wetness induced between her nether lips, but also because of this pointing of the tongue, insinuating itself between her other lips.

Instruction: Go on with the dance. AND DO NOT CUM. You will be informed of the proper moment to cum.

She almost was improper, but succeeded in holding on. The second vibrator stopped. The vibrator inside of her also was turned off, and withdrawn. The light slap on her breast, followed by a thoroughly investigative but ultimately soft caress, informed her that she had performed adequately.

Leather. A leather-gloved hand. Tough, rough leather. Two fingers seizing her clitoris, shaking it wildly. Pressing down harder and harder as they shook, reaching such a rapid rhythm that it felt like a vibration. Hard grabbing vibration. Yet nothing indicated that she was allowed to cum. Tongue protruding further, she moaned like a she-beast.

Stop. No more touching. The moaning had been a second mistake.

A series of hard slaps on her buttocks. Fast, vicious spanks, slamming down on her in extremely precise and deliberate rhythm. Expertly delivered. Delightfully painful.

She had forgotten everything about the collar and the tether, which was pulled down violently, forcing her to her knees.

She shuddered. THIS HAD NOT BEEN IN THE SCENARIO.

Whatever would happen now, it was out of order, so possibly out of control. Terrified, she reached for the hands leading her on, but her own hands were pushed away. There was a loud crack as the flogger hit her lower back. Once. Twice. But when her thighs were forcefully parted and that the flogger's coarse hair started to hit her sex, she stopped counting.

After a while, the flogging stopped. She was pulled up again by the tether. Pulled forward. Felt heat against her face: HIS COCK.

The rapid succession of sex flogging and hard cock almost lost her for good. She fiercely pressed her thighs together, and so could avoid the cum. But He reached forward and pulled her thighs apart again. And pulled her back to His Cock.

It was huge and filled her mouth. Her tongue fluttered underneath the mighty Shaft. She suckled and sucked. Stroked and squeezed and licked. And sucked and sucked and pulled. And then her head was pulled back with a jerk of His hand.

Warm Cum over her face. Loads and loads of it. Hot Lava. Thick. Powerful. Smelling of maleness and pleasure. She laughed out loud, and so got a spurt on her grateful tongue.

She sobered when she heard, once again, the Voice that had been in her head for weeks.

"This is the handle of the flogger. Now is the time to cum."

The announced hard handle of the flogger was shoved between her legs, and rubbed hard against her sex. Seconds later, she climaxed ferociously.

She heard a door open. A light was turned on. She sighed. The game was over. Her legs almost gave under her as she strained to get rise off her knees. She walked towards the light, knowing already that it led to a bathroom.

There she found flower-scented soaps, warmed towels, a bath already prepared. Soaking in flowery aromas, she wondered where this would lead her. Wondering as her eyes wandered -- had He chosen the colours? Did He look through that window sometimes? Did He soak in this same tub? (shudders . . . )

Carefully, she took the dress out of the silky box on a shelf. Off white linen. Perfect for her. A simple, classic cut, exactly the correct size. Never had any piece of clothing become her better, she thought as she watched herself in the full length mirror -- had it reflected Him often? Naked? (stop . . . )

Dressed, she moved out of the bathroom and found her handbag by the door. Another gift would be in there, a printed paper gift. The value inscribed on it did not matter. It was a symbol, she knew. He had made her His slut.

As she opened the door of the apartment and walked out, she felt the softest caress on her arm. She turned around. HIS FACE. Barely lit by the faint hallway light. Dark hair. Pale, smooth skin. Eyes as those of night itself. A fleeting Image that would stay there, engraved into the fabric of her mind, forever. He kissed her.

His hand grabbed her wrist, and pulled her back inside again. Then the door slammed shut behind her.

(Heartfelt thanks to sdbnnc for editing)