Modesty

But... can you help me understand first, how? If I knew how, I would yield to that. I need your help, Liam.

You are looking up and past me, jaw firm, unsmiling.

"Jamilah," your voice is coarse. No slave this time. I can hear your disappointment. I can feel my own.

"Liam..." I am surprised at the steadiness of my voice, since inside I am shaking. "This first time, please. I need to see you. I need to see what, what it means to you. Being with me. I have so many -- Am I making sense?"

You are quiet. I am near tears. I am so distraught, I want to reach for the necktie, discarded on the bathmat. But don't think it would do any good now to put the blindfold back on. I don't really want to. Not for this. I need to see you.

I go on, "We agreed, I know, Liam. But think of it, our first time? Does it have to be your way? I will do anything you ask of me... demand of me, take from me... after this one time. Without, without the domination you crave... please."

"What about the submission you crave?"

I cannot read your eyes, they have blocked me out completely. I lean forward to kiss your lips, but a gentle hand holds me at bay.

Biting back tears, I start to rise, needing to escape, if only to the other room. You stop me, your hand gripping my wrist to pull me back down

Then tightly to your chest. Our first embrace. I try to hold back a sob of relief, and release, at the feeling of you holding me, but I fail. You hear it, I know.

Suddenly, your lips take mine. What they take is demanding, exacting, punishing. Our first kiss. This is how it will always be.

Then you pull back and take my face in your hands, forcing me to look you in the eye. "Is this what you wanted to see, Jamilah?" Demanding of me, "Is this what you wanted to see -- my face? My naked body? My cock?"

The intensity of your gaze and words, however stern and frightening, are what I wanted: You, in the flesh, controlling me. Had you asked me at that moment to put the blindfold back on I would have without question or complaint. But you are not demanding it any longer.

Have I made my point? Liam, I know you understand what this means to me. Your embrace and your kiss, they told me you agree, that this can be bargained. Will I pay later for my defiance? I know I will. But I would offer that chip of my compliance into this erotic haggling, even not knowing the punishment I would face. I would offer that blindly, if only I can get the things I need first.

Then, surprisingly, you push me away from you with a strong hand, back to the middle of the tub... a chasm between us now.

"You and I are in the same field, Jamilah, professionally. So you know what an arms-length transaction is. You want to negotiate? It will be like this."

I am too shocked to respond, and in the space of my hesitation, you rise up from the water and hop over the rim.

I am shocked, flustered, fearful I am ruining this. I feel the fear flushing my cheeks, my belly, and my wet, sudsy breasts, nipples still at attention from having moments before pressed them into your chest.

Standing on the bathmat and toweling yourself off your legs, you demean me. "Worthless brown slave! I could take you right now, and punish you while I do it. I could take you -- but I think the better punishment would be to leave you."

The words cut me like a blade. I can't think of what to say, so what comes out is impulsive and wrong, "You can't --"

"Can't?" you sneer. "Is that how a slave speaks to its Master? Or are you not my slave?"

If I were to answer you truthfully, it would be, I don't know. But this is unacceptable. How can I satisfy this demanding, proud, stubborn dominant man, and make him stay?

"Answer me, Jamilah."

"Please," I whisper. "I want you as my Master." I know I shouldn't say it, "But --"

Him.

"'Master?'" I repeat, scoffing, giving you a scornful look. "But?"

I am pulling up my drawers while I speak. Taking away my cock. The lesson isn't lost on you.

"There is no Master without slave, and what a slave does is obey. So if you want a 'Master' tonight -- not just a face or a body, hands, a cock -- you will begin to learn to obey."

"I want to learn that." Perched at the edge of the tub, modesty preserved behind the porcelain rim, your voice has regained a thoughtful, self-possessed tone. "I want you to teach me."

"I'll tell you what a slave would do. A slave would obey my next command, without question."

With a demure smile you say, "You ask a slave's permission? You have said it, I am your concubine. I am bound to obey."

Cheeky, I think, but don't retort. I will not command you just yet. That would be a weak concession to your impetuous, unpredictable submissive heart. First, I must walk you through the steps. I must remind you of the Game.

"You are a beautiful woman, Jamilah, so pleasing to my eye," I say gently, pulling up my pants. "Any man would be pleased to make love to you -- ecstatic. You know that, don't you?"

Looking up, you glow at warmth of my praise, but I think it also makes you feel shy, and nervous about where I am heading with this. "I don't know, Master --"

"'Master,'" I repeat, tasting the word. "You blush. Are you modest about your body? Or do you doubt me?"

"That I am desirable?"

"Yes," I say. "You have trouble seeing yourself this way, Jamilah."

You don't reply, and I see you don't want to. So that's your challenge, my novice slave-in-training. Then that is how I will proceed.

"I'll tell you what an obedient slave would do for me know. She would dress and paint herself up like a slut, a whore, go upstairs to the rooftop bar and sit there alone," I say. "Displaying her wares..."

Your breath catches. The vision of this is vivid to you, but lurid and frightening.

I finish, "Learning first-hand how the market values her worth."

"What? You can't --?" Biting off the C-word that I've already scolded you for, you fall silent.

You are confused -- is this a mockery of you, abuse? Or a command I truly mean for you to obey?

So I will I make it plain. "Obey me, get slutted-up. Go to the bar. Sit there. Alone. I'll be right here, reading I guess, waiting to hear your report back."

"Report? Of what?"

"How it felt to display yourself for sale!" I reply. "Allow yourself to feel what a slave would feel. Displayed on the market for prospective owners. Alone on the auction block. An object of desire. Oh, you'll get all hot in the belly, feeling those eyes on you, despite your coy little 'modesty -- or no, because of it."

Something of what I just painted galvanizes you. Deliberately, you rise up in the tub to display yourself, your graceful movements accompanied again with the soft music of splishing. Candlelit, your skin looks darker than what I know it to be, especially sett against the white tiles that frame you. You stand straight and proud, hands loosely behind you.

"No..." you say. "I am not shy. I would do all of that for you, Sir. Please, if you could see how eagerly I would embrace the whore's part, I know I will please you."

I scoff.

"But for you, your eyes only. That is my bid. Can't we just...?"

"We're not done with my bid!" I cut you off. "My command, let's get to the specifics. I want you to wear that, that slinky black thing you packed, hmm? In that moment of unguarded fantasy --?"

I see in your eyes you know the one I mean.

" -- while you fantasized about meeting me 'unexpectedly' this weekend? You had no idea if I would appear. But packing it was a heady thing for you all by itself. Or tell me I'm wrong -- you didn't pack a slinky black thing?"

You meekly reply, "Red, actually..."

"Even better," I say as I button up my shirt. "Red, to go with your untamed Eastern passions. Red to accent the fight between those passions and your soul-crushing, inbred modesty. The men will smell that on you and move in on it like like jackals. You'll have no lack of suitors --"

"'Suitors?'" you repeat. "And do what with them?"

"Choose one!"

"Oh --" your breath catches a little, "my God."

"That's right. Choose the man whose cock will fill your greedy holes tonight. While I sit with my Tolstoy on the other side of that wall, listening."

You are flushed. "Why do you speak of other men, Sir? Please stop --"

"But my advice is, be choosy about it. Select one who is more masculine than me, younger, with a better physique, more virile and well-endowed..."

"And a stranger."

"Exactly."

You stammer, "But, but -- wh-why?"

"Because any one of those handsome, eager, lusty strangers would be the same for you tonight as what you expect me to be," I make my point as I finish tying my shoes. "A lover, nothing more."

I get up and turn and leave the bathroom.

"Which makes you a slut, Jamilah... nothing more."

"No!"

"You'll know where to find me."

Naked and dripping wet, you follow me. "Master?"

"'Master?'" I stop in the open doorway between our suites, our worlds, and look back. "You broke your word, Jamilah."

"Wait --"

"You call me Master, but you do not obey."

Her.

Your words could not have hit me any harder if you had slapped me.

But in the moment it takes me to recover, you disappear through the door adjoining our suites, which loudly closes, and you are gone. I take a tentative step forward, but I hear the click of the latch, like a gunshot in my head.

Naked and numbed, I go into the bedroom and slump onto the bed. This dream, this beautiful fantasy, slipping away. You think it's only a lover I want, Liam? You know, you have to know, how wrong you are. And you know me too well not to see that you are pushing me too far, too hard, too fast.

I try not feel hear doubts and self-blame, but it is difficult to keep them at bay. But I will, I will pull myself together, be strong for this. I have to believe that this is what you want from me.

Still unsure what I mean to do, I rise and wander. I go into the closet, find the garment bag and zip it open. The slinky red dress. Yes, it is desirable, even irresistible. My plan... or perhaps better said, my best, last hope-against-hope... begins to form in my mind.

Purposefully, I stride into the bathroom and quickly towel off. I search through my cosmetic bag and find my moisturizer, hastily slathering the fragrant lotion all over my legs, my breasts and tummy, my buttocks, my arms and hands. Every part of me is silky smooth.

Not every part, the slut inside me coaxes.

And I know she is right. I reach for my lady-razor and cream. I know what I am supposed to be. A whore should be clean and smooth down there, the better to please the john's cock. Finishing up, I smile to myself, hope blossoming in my mind.

Naked, I return to the garment bag and fish out the lace-up teddy undergarment that I had packed -- oh, you didn't ask about that, did you, Master? -- alongside the wishful red dress. It is corset style with a thong back. I have worn it only once since the store, modeling it for a long, slow-grinding phone-video...

... that I never sent. Why not? Because you hadn't texted or emailed or called in days, and I did not want to seem desperate. Or slutty, for that matter. Or seen as offering myself to you as your whore. Obviously, now I am having second thoughts about that...

Thinking back, was it modesty, of self-preservation, behind my indecision about sending the video? I had to have you, Liam, and couldn't risk souring you on me. My indecision over the best way to get your attention back, tied up in excruciating self-doubt, merged into procrastination, which merged into a pathetic longing.

But now you are here. And I will do what it takes to keep you. That's right. I will be your whore.

Use your whore, Liam, use me like a cheap tart, do it with humiliation use and abuse. Then give me money afterwards, even try and stiff me on my services -- God, I think that might make me cum!

Just do it privately, Liam, between us!

Do it that way, and I will endure any shameful use you put me to. Unblindfolded, though, with eyes open to my own humiliation. And if I can do that for you, then all I will ask in exchange is, You and me, Liam, alone together.

And when you see the slut I mean to put on display for you, Master -- mmmmm, I think you'll agree to that!

Stepping into the teddy, I shimmy the lace up over my hips, the thong settling snugly between my buttocks. It is strapless and I work the demicups up over the roundness of my breasts. Reaching back, I tug on the laces and with each pull, I feel my bosom thrust upward, my rack pressing together. I know the cleavage will be shocking, but also, I hope... irresistible.

Next come the black silk stockings, old fashioned nylons with garter belts I fasten to stays underneath the waistband of the teddy. I spend time and care smoothing the nylons over my thighs and calves, straightening the seams in back. This feels slutty, too.

Shoes. Smiling, I remember the four-inch stilettos, I fish them out of my suitcase and slip them on. Moving to the bathroom, I practice walking along the way, and although a little wobbly at first, I soon get the hang of it.

I stand before the bathroom mirror. My tits look great! Turning, I admire the roundness of my butt-cheeks, accentuated by the slash of satiny black lace disappearing into the cleft.

Next, face and hair. I apply a light powder and a touch of blush on my cheeks. A black eyeliner pencil adds drama to my eyes, mascara fluffs up my lashes, smears of mauve eyeshadow. Ruby-red lipstick completes the effect. It all says, this bitch is for sale!

My hair. I release the barrette and let it fall loose around my shoulders. Hmmm... Leave it? Yes, but I brush it a little, not too much. Leaving it, wavy and wild, a little unkempt. Like I was already working earlier, before I show up to service you, my next john.

Time for the dress. Retrieving it from the living room, I go back into the bedroom and shimmy the skimpy scarlet sheath over my head, wiggle it down over my curvy, lingerie-formed figure, then return to the bathroom mirror.

Oh my God! The dress is shorter than I remember from the dressing-room at the store. And tighter. And the display of my cleavage, my tits practically spilling out of everything -- Is that what I'd hoped for -- or feared? The outfit molds to every curve, the small of my waist, the flare of my hips. Turning and wiggling my ass just a bit, I can see it wouldn't take much more than a little bow at the waist to take what was left to the imagination... and leave the imagination satisfied. Not to mention a seductive glimpse of the garters... Yum!

I take a deep breath. I am ready. I stride to the adjoining door, and -- Wait, a purse! A hooker always carries a purse, seeing as how she puts out for cash. I find my little black-sequined Chanel clutch.

Seduction: Plan B, ready to be put in motion. A nervous giggle escapes my lips, but I think it is meant to reassure my thundering heart.

That service you called for, the cheap tramp? She has arrived.

I knock.

"Master --" No, I start again, "Mister?"

I hear footsteps padding and smile in anticipation. The door is opened by a matronly hotel maid, light blue uniform, dishwater-blonde hair up in a bun. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me, then quickly suppressing that, remembering her hospitality duties. "Miss?"

"Um, I was uhm, looking for the --" I stammer, unsure what to do my arms. "The gentleman staying in this room, my coworker..." I improvise, "Mister Masters. Is he in?"

"Your -- The guest in 1027 has checked out. I am remaking the room now, there is a party waiting..." I peer through the doorway and see your luggage lined up by the coffee tale. She senses what I am thinking. "The bellman is coming to collect his luggage."

"Where is he? Where did he --?"

"All I know is, he has checked out. Well... I believe I was told, there is a forwarding address for his luggage. Another hotel, I believe."

"Which one?"

She is patient, although my questions, together with my appearance, are suspicious. "I wouldn't know, miss. I'm sorry, but --"

"Thank you," I nod curtly, in a rush to shut the door.

*********

Alone on my side of the divide. I put my back to the wall and slide my butt to the floor. You have checked out? I am devastated. There is no other word. I am numb with hurt.

No. Something inside me says, No, you are not. I must recover, quickly, and think what to do now. You surely expect me to act, Liam. You could not be so spiteful as to leave me this way. Could you?

For some reason, your words come to me, "You'll know where to find me."

But if not here, then... The bar. Did you mean the rooftop bar? Recovering from the shock of your angry departure, I find a kernel of hope. Checked out, yes, to torment me and leave me questioning. But leave?

No. I don't believe you are done toying with me for the night.

That means, I am still playing your Game.

I make my decision -- rise and move toward the door -- and then next instant, I second-guess it. Dressed like this?

But my third-guess is spot-on. Yes, like this. Master will want me to come to him as his whore, and in front of others.

The thought gives me actual shivers, both cold and hot. I can't overthink it. I move without meaning to, something in me driving my legs, saying, Get a move on, Jamilah, before you change your mind!

I grab my clutch, this time filled with my wallet and key-card, take a breath, and with determination, launch myself out the door and into the hallway.

I am grateful to have the elevator up to the roof all to myself. Although I know I'll be exposing myself and my slutty charms to others soon enough, it comforts me a little bit to have a quiet break to myself, before I begin.

*********

I exhale. The elevator opens to the spreading out of the San Diego dusk sky directly in front of me, the deep magenta horizon far out over the Pacific Ocean. Just to the right, the lounge area and bar, a place of tranquility and furtive murmurs. Wicker chairs tables and ottomans. How SoCal, the potted palm trees and pastel lighting. As I approach, I see the place is fairly packed. There is a bandstand, apparently for a piano-jazz quartet in the corner to the right, but it is unoccupied. There is an empty dance floor.

Walking in through the outer tables and chair-settings, I see a few straight couples -- the men noticing me, the woman hating me -- even some women noticing me?-- and the single men, their looks devouring me.

With an outward show of confidence I do not actually feel, I square my shoulders, hold my head high and walk toward the bar. I head to the far bend of the circular bar counter, settling in there. My stool is four places removed from anyone on either side of the bar counter. As anonymous as I can be, I think hopefully... except, dressed like this? Keep dreaming. It's only a matter of time.

I wish I could nonchalantly announce, No, nothing to see here, boys. I am just here looking for my Master, I tell everyone as I briefly rise from my stool. That's all.

Of course, I don't. I don't look at anyone. I am scalding hot with self-consciousness. But I push that feeling down. I will be strong for this. After all, it may be my last chance.