Playing with Perspective Pt. 01

He slowly caresses my ass with one hand over my dress, until He gets to the hem. He reaches under and softly drags His fingertips along the curve of my ass, toward the middle, then up to the top of my panties. In a flash, His fingers are deep inside of me, the force and pleasure startling me and causing ripples of excitement throughout my body. I see the family pile into the elevator and hear the doors ding closed. We are safe for now, and I let myself enjoy the feeling of His penetration, for just a moment.

He removes His fingers just as quickly as He inserted them, and whispers into my ear: "Who owns this pussy?" Swallowing hard and speaking in the most even and collected tone I can muster, barely, I respond: "You do, Sir. You do."

* * *

"Complete one last task for me, and then we can be on our way."

It was not going to happen as quickly as I was making it sound, but she didn't need to know that. From the look on her face, I could tell that her keen desire to be anywhere other than here was overwhelming any sense of trepidation she might have had. I was glad to see that her passion was constant, and that there were no signs of hesitation or fear. She clearly still felt safe to continue. It was a judgement call made on the spot, confidence that I would not need to check in with her first. And as I took another sip from my drink, keeping my eyes on her face, I realized that I wanted to play with her reactions a little more, pushing her even further through her conflicted mental states of tension and relief. My goal was to create a strong contrast to the physical side of those states she would get to experience later.

As a result, I made another spontaneous decision, choosing to alter my plans slightly. I had put considerable time and effort into laying out a course of action for today, but experience taught me that if I tried to adhere too strictly to an internal script, I would fail to assess our encounter clearly as it unfolded in reality. Not only would I run the risk of missing an opportunity like the one currently before me, but I would be failing to deliver on my responsibilities as the one who was assuming control.

There were always so many details to pay attention to: adapting to the environment (I knew, for example, that the restaurant was currently much colder than she would prefer); or reading physical comfort level (her flushed reaction to the current predicament was lovely, but her overall discomfort was not going to be sustainable); or understanding the limits of how far to push a situation (should I call the waiter over to pay the bill while she is in this state?). Managing every aspect required an active mind, and the ability to be, if not totally in the moment, then at least highly flexible.

I asked Sarah to stand up, and to come around the table to stand with her back to me. She had to lurch up off the chair awkwardly -- one last reminder of her current state -- but she said what was expected of her, and did as I asked promptly, despite not knowing what was coming next. Remaining seated, I used the key that I had kept ready, and released the handcuffs from her wrists. I could tell she was surprised, and as I slipped them back into my jacket pocket, I was impressed to see that she still left her hands behind her. Waiting for my permission to move.

However, the subsequent "Thank you, Christopher," felt like it expressed a little too much relief and not quite enough gratitude. I chose to ignore that, generous soul that I am, and stood up behind her so that our bodies touched once more. I placed my hot hands around hers, feeling the chill of reduced circulation there, attending to yet another little detail, and held them for a long moment before moving them to her sides. Then I leaned in behind her, stroked her hair back across one shoulder, and spoke softly into her right ear:

"You are free to go off and freshen up one last time in the restaurant washroom. Enjoy your final taste of freedom, and try not to spend too much time in front of the mirror. You look great already, and better by the minute. Make sure to relieve that nervous little bladder of yours. And when you return, I would like you to bring me your panties for further inspection. Have I made myself clear?"

This time she said the expected words EXACTLY the way I liked them.

* * *

"Yes, Christopher."

That phrase wasn't getting old; not even a little. Each time it sent a thrill through my already overloaded nervous system. It was starting to feel like those words might tumble from my lips no matter what he told me to do. Ok, maybe that wasn't literally true yet, but the more chances he gave me to comply willingly, the more the perception of total submission was in place, and the easier it was to forget that there was any other reality for me. The background mental static of career and family and chores and responsibilities could just fade away and let me become immersed in the moment. The fantasy of absolute surrender was a deeply seductive dream for me, made even more so when paired with the underlying sense of trust that we had been working on building together. It didn't feel like much of a stretch to imagine that I could find myself compliantly, automatically, unthinkingly accepting his commands... now wait, hold on a second, what did he just tell me to do? Gah!

Thankfully, my legs had already taken over subconsciously and were carrying me toward the 'restrooms' sign at the back of the restaurant. He was totally right, I did need to take a piss, badly. Was he getting to know me that well, or was he planting ideas in my head? Either answer freaked me out a little bit; probably best to put those questions aside and come back to them later! Regardless, using the toilet was going to be a huge relief, and would help my brain to reset.

Oddly, having my arms free again was not giving me that same sense of relief. Here was the confusion coming forward again. Somehow this felt like a step backwards, and therefore more like a punishment instead of a reward. Well, if that was his message, I would just have to do better! Having my arms hanging free at least made it possible for me to swing my hips a lot more, to strut in my heels and put on a good show for him, as I snaked between the tables and across the room. I knew he would be watching me the whole way.

As I passed out of sight, I also knew the clock was now ticking, waiting for me to bring him my wretched, wet, pungent underwear. How classy! How dignified! How sanitary! What exactly was he intending to do with them? Raise them to his nose and sniff my dank bouquet like a fine wine? Oh hell, who was I kidding? He would totally do that knowing it would embarrass me. How absurd was it that this thought was making me so much hornier?

I breezed past the sink and the mirrors, never glancing at myself, not wanting to see just how much of a mess I was. All of the stalls were empty and I locked myself in the first one, hiked my dress up, slipped the offending panties to my knees, and let fly with a quick, warm stream that came paired with a shuddering sigh. As I finished wiping, I let the underwear fall further, shaking one leg and then the other, until they slipped past my boots and fell to the tiles. I reached down to retrieve them, and then hesitated.

With my legs bared, I found myself impulsively placing them in a position that I had only recently become very familiar with. On three occasions in the past several weeks, I had asked Christopher for permission to masturbate at work after a steamy lunch-hour chat session. He had always granted it to me, but with very consistent instructions concerning the location and my body position. On account of this, the position of being perched on the edge of the toilet, back straight, holding my legs spread wide, with knees high and calves taut (thanks to the office heels that always had to stay on), was at some risk of sending me over the edge without even the need to touch myself.

Bloody hell, I didn't have time for that! I scooped up the underwear and rushed out of the stall to the sinks, where I washed my hands quickly and used the mirror to check my hair and clothes. Outwardly I was still holding it together, although I could see I'd done nothing to reduce the flush in my cheeks. And I was utterly stumped as to what the correct etiquette was for carrying soiled panties out of the bathroom when you didn't have a purse with you. In the end I just bunched them up tightly in one hand as I navigated back to the table. The raw shame of hiding that damp lump of lace provided very little help or inspiration for a return strut; crawling seemed rather more appropriate.

When I arrived at the table, I was once again stumped, this time as to how I should present my "gift". There were no obvious cues from him; just that same familiar, all-consuming gaze. I meekly slid into my seat, clutched my hands together in my lap, and waited for his next instruction.

* * *

"Show them to me."

It was a simple command, but for a few seconds she hesitated; and I knew why. There was an art to maintaining authority while leaving expectations a little vague and open-ended, and I was definitely doing it intentionally. This was my own personal preference: establishing the 'what', but not necessarily the 'how', and then measuring the response. I knew the more conventional approach was to state precisely what was expected, and accept no deviation. The problem I had with that mentality is that it makes it too easy for the submissive to run through a checklist -- like my instructions for her attire today -- and know that they've done everything correctly in advance. I personally don't like to provide many opportunities to be perfect! I prefer there to be a degree of uncertainty where the submissive has to think on her feet, figure out what she is comfortable with, and comply to the best of her ability without being able to confidently guess my response.

Mind you, I also try not to take liberties with that approach, or to punish unfairly. I understand and accept the increased consideration that comes with it, and I try to be flexible and prepared. While she was in the restroom, I had been carefully mulling over how I was going to handle her return, and visualizing a number of possible actions on her part that I would consider to be acceptable. None of which she chose to take, unfortunately for her.

She didn't get down on her knees by the table and then offer her panties respectfully to me. I would have been suitably impressed by this, but it was easy to forgive not taking that route, as public as we currently were. She also did not smooth-out, flatten, fold or in any way neatly present her underwear to me. Any gift should at least have some care taken with the packaging, should it not? Nor did she respond with a "Yes, Christopher" and hand them to me instantly and directly, taking the easiest route of fully compliant obedience. Not quite as interesting perhaps, but acceptable in this moment. And in the panicked absence of any one of those ideas, she did not even ask me politely how I wanted her to proceed, or if I had any special instructions for her.

Instead, with her face an anguished mask of uncertainty, she held out both of her hands cupped together and then dropped the offending bundle of lace onto the table in front of me, where it slowly began to uncrumple in awkward silence.

I pointedly broke my gaze to look down at the table, my face carefully still and expressionless. Then I turned away and signalled for the waiter, keeping my head aimed in his direction until he arrived.

"Are you all finished, sir?"

"Yes, something has come up and we need to leave right away. Please go ahead and clear the table, and put the drink on my room tab."

The waiter glanced down and then back, his face held as expertly blank as mine. "Shall I tidy up... everything?"

I paused as though very seriously considering that option. "Just the glass, thank you." And as the waiter departed, only then did I turn back to see Sarah's face, all the color now drained from it.

"It's time to go."

* * *

"...and keep that behind your back and away from me, with both hands."

He was already standing as he gestured dismissively at my unwanted gift on the table, but I remained frozen in my chair, eyes staring forward, thoughts racing to process the events of the last few moments. Failing to impress him was an unexpected, and rather large blow to my ego! Feeling unworthy simply because of a rejected pair of dirty underwear was oddly gut-wrenching. And being put under a spotlight, brief though it was, as a consequence for my failing was utterly humiliating. Wow, I really wasn't sure exactly how I felt about that last one. I hated it, and maybe I deserved it; I was shocked by it, but also exhilarated; I felt unbecomingly out of control, and yet more deeply, intimately bound to his will than ever. It was a strange feeling, arriving at this moment I so strongly craved.

My state of confusion was complete, because there was another sensation that I was experiencing quite clearly, a final hesitation that could stop me from surrendering fully to him. In those last few moments, he had (accidentally? intentionally?) broken off part of my willing, eager anticipation and replaced it with... something else, worse than stage-fright, closer to raw anxiety. Whatever the label, it was not a comforting sensation. And the final piercing look he was giving me while I tried in vain to pull myself out of this reverie wasn't helping either. I knew I was probably over-reacting, but my emotions were real and too strong to ignore.

He must have read my face and my body language, because almost immediately his gaze softened noticeably before he outright winked at me, dropped character for a moment, and said: "I can see I've made you suffer a little too much. I promise that you are doing great, so just stay strong a little longer. Let's hurry up to the room so we can close the door on in-public mind games, for today."

The presence of a friend instead of my dom was exactly the reassurance I needed. The gentle words that he was not going to push my limits any further were an added bonus. I was still nervous, but it didn't feel like a speeding car was careening off the road any more. He grabbed the handle of my suitcase and took a few steps away from the table, then turned back again to ensure I was moving with him. I stood up and threw my coat on, then quickly gathered up my panties as well. I remembered his instructions and reluctantly placed them behind my back, hidden in both hands.

This was an interesting replacement for the handcuffs earlier. Instead of forced confinement I was now expected to keep my hands there willingly. Honestly, having something to hold onto actually made it a bit easier, even taking into account that it was my own dirty underwear. Ugh! My arousal, briefly forgotten in all my previous mental angst, began flooding back to the foreground again.

He had already started striding back toward the entrance ahead of me. I was forced to take fast and awkward steps to catch up -- without his support this time. Passing the threshold of the restaurant, moving from carpeting to granite floor, my heels began clicking loudly and rapidly, making me even more self-conscious as I walked, but I hardly cared. It seemed like an eternity since my first parade across the lobby, and now finally we were headed in the direction of the elevators. My anticipation was becoming fully restored. I was still several steps behind him, and he was not slowing down for me, but I tried to keep up and ignore the other hotel guests around us. The more quickly I moved past them, the less time they had to wonder at my trailing position relative to him, or the odd stance of my arms and hands.

As we came close to our destination, I noticed that there was already a group of teenagers, perhaps part of a school trip of some kind, gathered and waiting. How rude of reality to intrude on my mad dash for the hotel room! But there was absolutely no way that I was going to get on an elevator like this, with them. Christopher hearteningly felt the same way, because he carried right on past them and into an alcove at the end of the hallway.

Within the alcove sat a single stool at a table with a terminal for paid Internet and a phone. It was blessedly unoccupied. He waited for me to catch up with him, and then turned to face me before pushing me roughly back into the corner of the booth. I gasped in surprised delight; I was unapologetically filled with lust for ANY physical contact at this point. Yes, please sir, put your hands on me! Don't make me wait any longer!

"Keep your hands behind you," he commanded. I did.

"Spread your legs," he commanded. I did.

"Close your eyes," he commanded. I did.

Each time, I also gladly spoke the words he wanted to hear from me. And each time, I lost a little more control. The world was drifting out of focus, and my mind was finally free of wandering thoughts, aware of nothing other than his words and his presence. My whole being hung there trembling, my body aching for his touch, as I felt his hands first caress my breasts and teasingly pinch my sensitive nipples, and then reach down and slowly pull my dress up until my ass and my pussy were fully exposed again. He tucked the fabric of the dress up and under my hands behind me, so that I was the one holding the dress up and exposing myself for him.

"Do not let that dress fall down," he commanded. I did not.

"Do not move, even an inch," he commanded. I did not.

"Do not forget what you are," he unexpectedly whispered in my ear. Holy fuck, I could not.

And then there was nothing. His touch was gone, his warmth was gone, his breath was gone. I didn't know if he was still there looking at me, or if he had abandoned me there. I didn't dare open my eyes, but held my body still, and tried not to think about how exposed I was, how helpless I was, how wet I was. I found myself in total acceptance of the situation I was in, and entirely unconcerned with what came next.

And it was then in a shocking rush that I felt his hand between my legs, two of his fingers pushing inside of me, and I nearly screamed out in joy and relief and surrender.

His hand locked onto me, pressing upwards firmly, his fingers buried as deeply as they could go at that angle, his thumb resting against my clit, feeling my body vibrate helplessly from his touch.

"Tell me, plaything, who owns this wet little pussy?"

"You do, Christopher."

"Very good! It sounds like the other elevator has just arrived. Now, at last, we can begin."