The Visit

I swear it was reflex that made me take a sip of the coffee. Mostly reflex. I was also a little nervous, as I tend to be when meeting a new partner. Whatever the cause, I paid dearly for my action. The coffee was old and cold, bitter acid on my tongue and in my stomach. I simply sighed, shook my head, and accepted my punishment. My beverage of choice is tea. I consider coffee the ironic curse of a playful deity upon Type-A personalities and toadies. The only reason I had a cup of coffee in my hand was because they were out of tea, even the foul, mass-market 'stems in a bag' stuff, and I wanted the seat.

The seat was decent. Not particularly comfortable, but with a magnificent view of the terminal. In particular it allowed me to see the entrance from the tramway. Ella would emerge from the tunnels at this point and I would be able to see her from my perch. It seems somewhat predatory to think in these terms and that always pains me. I have no particular dislike of women. To the contrary, I think they are marvelous examples of the genius of the aforementioned deity. Proof positive of intelligent design. Surely nothing so lovely as the female form was formed by happenstance. I certainly intended no harm to Ms. Ella Spence and intended to labor long and hard to ensure that the next week was one she would remember fondly. No, my aim was not predation but, rather, control. It would not do at all, at all, to be waiting for her by the entrance. She must come to me.

Pretty damn ridiculous, isn't it? She flies a thousand plus miles at her own expense to visit me, and yet it's the last hundred meters that will establish the idea that she is coming to me. But that's the way it works. It also helps to give the appearance of being at ease. We would both be nervous, but she would be standing in front of me. Standing creates tension. Sitting allows for the release of tension. It also helps to have a 'servant'. In my case, Ivan. Ivan is just a limo driver, hired for the evening. But Ella wouldn't know that. Not that it would have mattered if she did. The principle remains sound. My servant meets her, the lesser servant, and escorts her to me. Little details do the most to shape our perceptions, and sex is largely something that happens in the mind.

She spotted Ivan, more precisely the little sign Ivan was holding, at the same time I spotted her. She walked over to him and they exchanged a few words, each assuring the other that they had found who they were looking for. Then he escorted her to the escalator up to my level and over to my table. I watched her as she walked, flat shoes, a simple sundress, a back-pack. So simple, and so elegant. I had her give her baggage claim check to Ivan and gave her a glass of water. We greeted each other and went through the paperwork to mutually verify identities, ages, health, etc... Oh so boring, and so very necessary. The real world must be accomodated before fantasy can begin. When we were done I called Ivan on my cell phone and had him bring the limo around.

The limo isn't anything special. It's large enough that two people can sit facing each other and has a partition between the passengers and the driver. That's all I need so that's all I rent. Ella sat facing me, back to the driver. I climbed in and turned on the video camera. The video camera is largely a gimmick. I don't keep the tapes. I use it because it makes my partner self-concious and the spotlight on the camera blinds them. Ella could see my body, but not my face; the camera sat on the window ledge behind me, the spotlight immediately next to my head. Ivan hates the glare it creates, but that's why I tip well.

We talked on the way to my home. The words were largely unimportant, they had all been said before, repeated in conversations via the electronic ether. My interest was in the emotions behind the words. Ella talked and I listened and observed. My partners always seem to expect a scene out of The Story of O or a limo-ravishing. But I want to build a deeper fantasy than this, so I take my time. A feast well prepared rather than a quick snack. I ordered Ella to keep her feet shoulder width apart, her knees separated, and her hands on the seat next to her. Nothing more. The position is not precisely chaste, but neither is it in any way vulgar. What it suggested was largely left to Ella's imagination and her musings would be far more powerful than any action I could take at that point. For my part, the simple act of having her obey my command accelerated my pulse. Is there anything more wonderful than an obedient woman carefully listening for your every command?

Her body language screamed nervous and whispered excited. She licked her lips, repeatedly, and I thought of five ways I wanted to enjoy them. Her leg muscles twitched, a slow nervous tick that she tried to repress. She struggled, oh so self-conciously, trying to become comfortable. First hunching her shoulders, then pressing them back, an action that lifted her breasts beneath the fabric of the dress. I thought of several things I wanted to do with those breasts. Her hands fidgeted, and she kept having to remind herself that she couldn't put them into her lap and fold herself into a protective shell. The body has a language all it's own. It's relatively simple to learn to read that language. But you can also use that language to manipulate people. Putting Ella into an open body posture, even one so innocous as that I had specified, made her feel exposed and defenseless before me.

We arrived outside my home well after 9pm. The timing is, of course, significant. Ella would be physically stressed over the next several hours. I wanted her tired and off balance to begin with. It's useful in so many different ways, and also because when she began to get more rest she would associate the feeling of increased well-being with me. It accelerates the trust process. Too, by arriving in the darkness, Ella was effectively blind. She had been staring into a bright light for 45 minutes and couldn't see anything more than a large vaguely shaped darkness with a poorly lit red door in the center of it. And I took her into that looming darkness through the red door in the wall. Or, rather, I ordered her in. Alone and carrying her suitcase and backpack she had to stumble into the unknown. I tipped Ivan, thanked him for his work and followed her.

I think of it as the reception room. It's stark and forbidding. It has the feel of a torture chamber, a primitive clinical atmosphere. Bare walls of natural earth, a floor covered in brown tile, an enormous old wardrobe, a long metal table, and a single light hanging from the ceiling to create an island of light surrounded by darkness. More than one partner has screamed at the sight, carried away by the buidling tension. I told Ella to empty her luggage and backpack onto the steel table and to remove her clothing. She was eager to obey and enthusiastically dumped the contents out by simply opening the bags and upending them. I gathered a string bag and a canvas sack from the wardrobe and walked back to the table. Ella was trying to avoid attempting to cover herself, sudden modesty overcoming her bravado of a moment before. I ignored her and sorted through her belongings. When I had pulled out everything I was going to permit her to keep, mostly personal hygiene objects, I told her to put the rest in the canvas sack. The sack and the luggage went into a space in the wardrobe that was padlocked. The padlock is meaningless, but every single one of my partners shudders when they hear the lock click shut. The string bag went on a hook next to the blue door, the second entrance to the room.

I took Ella by the arm and pulled her over to one side of the room, facing her to the wall a few feet away. I went back to the big cupboard, behind her, and pulled out everything we needed. Ella's ankles went into a pair of rubber cuffs, one to each ankle, which were then attached to rings in the floor, a little more than shoulder width apart. Her wrists went into rubber cuffs which attached to a rope running through a ring in the ceiling. I pulled the rope tight, slowly lifting her until she was resting on the balls of her feet, arms raised high above her head, and then secured it. A quick turn of the handle started the water falling out of the nozzle above her head. Cold water. Icy. She gasped in shock and lost her balance, fighting to regain it. I left the water running and filled a bucket half-full with powdered soap and hot water. Stirring it with a long-handled brush I returned to Ella.

The water was cascading down on her, running down over her face. She had to blow water out with each breath. I noted she was trying to support herself on her feet and having increasing difficulty as the water made the tile floor slippery. I knew that her calves would begin to ache very quickly, then she would try to support herself with her arms, which would compress her lungs and make breathing more difficult, particularly with the water pouring down. I waited until I saw the calve muscles start to shake and then turned the water off. Circling her I used the brush to throw soapy water all over her.

The human body is an amazing thing, particularly the mind and the nerves that feed it information. That soapy water wasn't very hot. I use hotter water in my daily shower, but as I flung brushfulls of it at her, Ella reacted as if a whip was being applied to her body. To her nerves the temperature differential made the water feel scalding hot. I criss-crossed her body with lines of warm water, watching the muscle twitching reactions of her body after each 'stroke'. Then I began to scrub. That brush is a sham. It looks like an industrial scrubbing tool and, to someone with her nerves in a heightened state of awareness and her mind in the proper state of receptiveness, it feels like an industrial scrubbing tool. But it's actually very soft, a brush for washing your back. Ella reacted as I had hoped, arching away from the brush with a small cry. I gave her a light swat across the ass with the back of the brush and, in my best gruff voice, ordered her to be still. Then I scrubbed her skin lightly, hitting every inch of it. Her face I washed with a cloth and her hair with my hands, standing behind her and pulling her head back as far as it would go. Then I turned the cold water on again and walked over to the sink to clean up. It only takes a minute, but my partners swear it feels like ten.

I untied the rope and lowered her. Most of my partners can't stand at this point, between the exertion and the numbing effect of the ice water and Ella did not prove to be an exception. She went to her knees. I left her there for a moment, letting her really feel the position, her weak legs spread and kneeling in front of a clothed dominant, arms raised above her head by the rope. Her body tingling and telling her that it needed more oxygen. Then I released her cuffed hands from the rope and undid the connections between her ankle cuffs and the rings. She crawled to the metal table at my direction, breasts swaying so slightly beneath her. I swear that moment takes more self-control than I can possibly describe. I wanted her. I wanted to be pushing into her, to hear her gasping and thanking me, calling my name. And instead I helped her climb up onto the table and lie on her back.

I spent five minutes securing her. This may seem like a long time, and it is, but I am meticulous in this regard. Compulsive perhaps? Anal? Whatever. I like to think of it as safety conciousness. What was coming next was possibly the most dangerous act we would undertake all week. When she was secured I ran a fingernail up the inside of her upper thigh. Her body jumped and I judged that she needed to be more tightly secured. The next time I tested by lightly pinching one of her labia. She reacted, but the restraints held her body still. I was gratified to note that even in her shivering state, the folds of her sex were warm and swollen.

I placed a cloth on the table between her legs, took a pair of small scissors and began to trim her pubic hair. I pulled each clump taut, lifting the skin beneath, between finger and thumb and then cut as close to the skin as I dared. Snip. Snip. Snip. I took my time, and a few minutes into the operation I could smell her excitement. The faint musk grew steadily stronger as I patiently trimmed her. When I was done, I took the cloth and emptied it into a trash can. A second cloth, soaked in hot water was carefully applied to her mons. She moaned as it touched her skin. I pressed it into place and then walked over to clean up the shower area.

It only took a few minutes and then I returned to Ella. I used a safety razor and aloe vera gel to remove the stubble. The razor scraped over her soft flesh as I very carefully removed every last bit of hair. When I was satisfied that I was done, a third rag, also soaked in hot water, went over her now bare mons. I cleaned up the shaving gear and went back. Removing the hot rag I slowly rubbed aloe into the pink flesh. She moaned as I worked, thanking me for touching her. I noted the gleam of moisture on her folds and the soft swelling. I chuckled and blew across them, causing her body to tense and pulling a sharp cry from her. Then I washed my hands and released her from the table, removing also her ankle and wrist cuffs. I told her to kneel by the blue door.

Then I asked her "Do you submit to me according to the conditions we have discussed?"

"Yes, sir," she replied.

I grasped her hair and twisted her head to look up at me. "Then I am your master," I told her. "Enter my home."

I opened the blue door and she crawled into my courtyard. I followed with the string bag, closing and locking the door behind me.