I left a note on your mirror, telling you where to meet me later that evening. Not the name, just the street address, a numbered latchkey, the signature S. You discovered it in the morning, after you woke, turning over and reaching out your hand, finding only cold sheets. As your eyes adjusted to the morning sun, you squinted at your reflection, for the first time noticing the angry red markings on your neck and chest. A defiant testimony of consequences rendered when I am not submitted to in all things. Looking yourself in the eyes, you wondered once again what you’ve gotten yourself into.
As the cab came to a stop, you realized it was the hotel I had mentioned to you the other week. You took the elevator to the 26th floor, and when you reached the suite, you could hear the music through the closed door. . . . Remember the scene in Purple Rain: the Kid was playing a cassette tape on the stereo, a mixed track with a woman moaning on it; how erotic those sounds were. It was a woman crying, but it sounded like she was being fucked? You were reminded of that . . . real slow and easy and you were hard instantly. . . . It’s a good thing you no longer have the key to the CB-3000, or you’d be tempted to disobey me, never a good idea. Your balls are so heavy, so full; it’s been three long, torturous months. Will you ever be allowed another orgasm?
Fingering the latchkey in your pocket, a bit unsure, you knocked on the door. The sensual moaning of the music was the only answer. With a deep breath, you let yourself in. There were no lights, just tiny black candles everywhere; the room seemed to glow. Scanning the space, your eyes took in the blackout shades covering the windows, the wood paneling, the plasma flat-screen television, the expansive, overstuffed sofa. You noticed a note on the cocktail table: Savor your drink—you’ll need the fortitude. When you're ready, come into the bedroom. You were more than a bit nervous. Your palms had started to sweat, and your tie was beginning to feel like a noose.
You called my name, but I didn't answer. You didn't hear any sound other than the music. You took a sip from the glass to calm your nerves. I always know how to get inside your head, don't I? You walked slowly toward the bedroom. On the bed, a box, and another note: My pet, put these on and wait for me. You opened the box: a black leather blindfold, alligator nipple clamps with a connecting chain. Your nipples tightened in remembrance of previous scenes we’ve enacted together.
You took a shower, oiled your skin, and put on the clamps I left for you. You didn't forget the blindfold. You heard the click of the lock on the door. . . . The carpet quieted my steps. . . . You were straining to hear me, something, but the music drowned everything out. You called my name, but I didn't answer. . . . You bit your bottom lip, and you heard me for the first time. I was laughing, very softly . . . I know you so well now; when you’re experiencing that heady mixture of anxiety and excitement, how to play you to the threshold: here. Now.
You caught the scent of my perfume right before my nails became entangled in your hair.