I - The Dance

 

Still damp from the shower, Sarah padded down the hallway trailing wisps of steam. As she entered the master bedroom, she unwound her towel and bent to wipe away the last traces of moisture from her legs and feet. Straightening, she briskly rubbed the towel over her damp hair until it too was dry, and then draped the towel over the back of her chair.

Turning to the bed, she saw what Mark had selected for her to wear that evening. The garter belt and stockings were no surprise, the dress he selected was. He had laid out a slinky black cocktail dress with an off-the-shoulder Lycra top. When worn without a bra, it outlined her nipples with indecent clarity. The dress clung to her every curve until it reached her hips; then it flared into a flouncy little skirt that fell well short of mid-thigh. She hadn't worn this dress since New Year’s Eve. The shoes next to the bed were the Brazilian pair, dark, with short sturdy Cuban heels; just tall enough to accentuate the curve of her calves and emphasize the sway of her hips with each step she took. Still, they were comfortable enough for a long evening on the dance floor. She didn't bother looking for her bra or panties; they wouldn't be there.

Slipping on the garter belt, she sat and rolled the stockings up her legs, carefully straightening the seams before clipping the tops to her garter belt. Standing, Sarah wiggled into the dress, thankful that it still fit. With a giggle she playfully twirled before the dresser mirror. The skirt swirled up, revealing a neatly trimmed thatch of pubic hair framed by the belt and stockings. With a grin, she sat before the mirror once more.

Sarah quickly ran the brush through her hair. It had always been full, with a slight natural curl to it. Her haircut was short and stylish with a decidedly modern look. Mark liked it that way. As an added bonus, keeping it this short meant she hardly needed to brush it. That saved time, and Mark had better uses for her hairbrush anyway. Finally, she applied the bright red lip-gloss he had left out; that was the only makeup he ever allowed her on these evenings.

Looking into the mirror, Sarah saw his reflection. Mark was standing in the bedroom doorway watching her; she did not know how long he had been there. He was dressed much more casually than she was. He wore tan slacks, a light blue dress shirt open at the neck, and a gray sports coat. When she stood, startled and anxious, he closed the distance between them until his body pressed against her back. She shivered as his warm breath caressed her neck. He smiled and she relaxed, feeling the gentle flutter of relief at his approval.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

But it was not meant as a question; he turned and left the room without checking to see if she was behind him. Sarah didn’t hesitate; immediately she followed, down the stairway and out to the garage and the waiting car.

Ever the gentleman, he held the car door open for her. Just like in The Story of O, Sarah carefully raised her skirt to avoid sitting on it. Settling into her seat, she shivered as her naked bottom came to rest on cool vinyl. He bent down to kiss her. For a moment, his lips possessed her fully, hungrily, completely; then he tied an impenetrable black blindfold over her eyes and closed the car door. She listened as he entered the driver's side. Reaching across her, he fastened her seat belt. His arm gently brushed against her breasts as he adjusted the shoulder strap. He lingered a moment, savoring the contact, then straightened and started the car.

This was how it always was. They only went to the club on weekends, at night, and she always rode there blindfolded. Sarah could not tell anyone where the club was and could only guess as to how long it actually took to drive there. She sat quietly with her hands folded on her lap. Sarah was nervous and excited of course, feeling both adventurous and a little bit foolish, as elation and terror struggled to claim her thoughts. The drive was usually made in silence, reflective. The radio played soft gentle music, a soothing backdrop for her inner turmoil. This time he broke the silence, telling her casually that they would be performing tonight; it added to her unease. Would she be clumsy, look bad, or worse yet, make him look bad?

Sarah didn’t need to say a word; he understood her fear and tried to reassure her.

“You just have to follow my lead; it’s my job to show them how beautiful you are.”

A grin crossed her lips, reassured that he would make her perform well. That was his job.

They were an odd couple, these two. She was a stay at home wife with a few carefully selected clubs and charities that he chose for her, as much for his political advantage as to fill her days. He was a mid-level civil servant, an assistant District Attorney. His position required he be discreet; hence, when they played it was in private or far from home. He was her husband; in all but name his wife’s master. Yet for nearly a year, he had forbidden her the use of that particular word.

Sarah would have readily admitted that was her own fault. Despite numerous warnings, she had used that word inappropriately, without thinking, and more than once she had embarrassed him. When she unwittingly called Mark “Master” during Thanksgiving dinner at her parents’ home, it was the last straw.

Her mother had looked from Sarah to Mark, at first with shocked disbelief, but that had slowly turned to a bemused smile. Sarah had flushed with embarrassment; she had felt her master’s rising anger without even looking toward him. Her father had chosen not to notice the exchange, deciding it must have been a rare case of sarcasm on his daughter’s part.

When they arrived home that dreadful evening Mark had vented his pent-up frustration. He had bound his wife face down on their bed, and then thoroughly punished her poor bottom with a leather belt. It was the closest Sarah had ever come to using her safe word, but her courage failed her and she accepted the punishment that he felt she deserved.

To this day, part of her still wonders if the safe word would have stopped him that night. She thinks he would have honored it, but will never really know. The bruises lasted for weeks. Since that night, Sarah had not used the word ‘Master’. Perhaps someday he would relent, and if he ever did, she was determined to be more respectful of when and how she addressed her beloved.

Mark could forbid her saying the word but her thoughts would always know the truth. Sarah was his. A devoted slave, and yet he used her like one all too rarely. In their ordinary lives, she played the role of his wife and partner. Only on these special evenings could she become what she always longed to be, what she felt she was meant to be; completely his.

The car continued through the night. Later, she really didn’t know how much later, perhaps a half-hour but no more than a full one, the car stopped and they had arrived. He patiently guided her from the car; once they were safely inside, he removed the blindfold.        It was a private club; one they had visited for three years now. They usually came here once a week, but they had always managed to come at least twice a month. Each time they came after dark, and always on a weekend. Mark headed toward their regular table and Sarah followed a step behind. Miss Ruth waved a casual greeting from across the room and headed toward them.

Her two man-servants flanked her as she crossed the room. It was obvious she had selected them for their looks. Both were tall, muscular, and completely shaven. They could have almost been brothers, except that one was the darkest ebony and the other was such a pale white that he seemed almost bloodless.

Everyone called them the twins; Mistress Ruth had never revealed their true names. They both wore nothing but leather chaps. The dark one was dressed in glossy white leather and the other wore burnished black. Sarah peeked at the open juncture of the leather leggings when she thought, or at least hoped, no one was looking. They were both uncircumcised and nearly identical in size there as well. Neither showed the least sign of arousal; they were much too well trained for that. Some club members claimed that the two would both become rock hard instantly with only a nod from their Mistress and that if she ordered them to, they would cum spurting into the air with no more stimulation than her command. It was a sight only a few people had witnessed; Sarah would love to see that someday too.

The club belonged to Mistress Ruth. Sarah didn’t know its name or even if it had one. Some of the conversations she had overheard here referred to it as “the power exchange”, which seemed apt but might well have been more a description than an actual name.

Ruth had nearly reached their table. Sarah looked away, toward the stage, her eyes stealing one last glimpse of the two men who remained a respectful pace behind their Mistress. On the stage, a demonstration of safe suspension techniques was taking place. A tiny oriental woman called Annie was bound to a massive eight-foot high tripod constructed of metal poles and tubing. She was wearing nothing but her padded wrist and ankle bracelets and a pair of impossibly tall platform heels. With her hands bound high, the high heels barely allowed her toes to scrape the ground. A small crowd had gathered before the stage to listen as her owner explained, gesturing at her, and using his riding crop as a pointer.

“Mark! How delightful! You'll be able to use the stage in about forty-five minutes. I hope that will be all right?”

Mark nodded agreeably. This was not the first time they had performed on stage. It terrified Sarah yet perversely excited her when he displayed her naked before people whom they barely knew. That very anonymity was what allowed Mark to participate in such a public exhibition. The humiliation was what first captivated Sarah, but more importantly, she could reveal her submissiveness to these strangers. Perversely, the humiliation allowed her pride to swell. The last time they were here, she had groveled naked under the table, her lips curled around his cock, as he watched others perform on stage. Tonight they would be the ones performing for others.

Sarah’s belly clenched as she felt Mistress Ruth's eyes turn toward her.

“Why Ms Sarah, you look positively ravishing tonight.”

Sarah could not look at her; she dare not answer her. The club owner always addressed her with this exaggerated politeness, pretending Sarah was a free woman. This teasing quip never failed to make Sarah squirm as she sat, fully clothed, beside her lover. Still this was what Mark wanted, and her discomfort only amused Mark and Ruth.

Mistress Ruth may have been the one person who recognized the true irony of Sarah’s situation. Her master embarrassed and humiliated his slave by making her dress and act like a free woman. Because she was his slave, she agreed to those absurd demands. Ruth could only speculate why he wanted to pretend that his wife was free. In its own way, it was an exquisite punishment, but too subtle for Ruth to consider. She suspected that Sarah rarely played the slave role outside of this club. The obviously frustrated slave would play whatever role her master demanded, but she would rather spend her days kneeling naked at her master’s feet, as so many others at this club were allowed to do. Mark indulged her sometimes; but his point was that what she desired was of no real consequence. She might wish to wear his collar, yet he had valid reasons why that would not happen, at least not in any public way.

“Can I get you a drink, Mark?” Miss Ruth asked.

“Yes please, my regular.” Her master replied

“And what about you, Ms Sarah?”

Ruth’s eyes swung toward Sarah and Sarah held her breath.

“Perhaps we can get you a cup of tea to sooth those frazzled nerves.”

Ruth certainly didn't expect her to respond; she knew Sarah’s true nature. Sarah should have sat silently and accepted whatever Ruth’s servants brought her. She should have demurred to the desires of those above her. She definitely was not expected to speak up.

“No thank you, Miss Ruth.” Sarah boldly proclaimed, “My nerves are quite fine and your tea might just make me need to pee at an inopportune time.”

The outburst surprised everyone at the table. Mark’s expression seemed to darken but he tightly controlled any signs of displeasure. Miss Ruth's eyes flashed with anger and amusement, as if enjoying the prospect of a challenge and a modest rebellion in need of crushing. Sarah was probably the most surprised of the three. That woman’s cloying manner always goaded her; she never could deal rationally with Mistress Ruth.

The club owner turned to the pale twin and instructed him to fetch Mark’s regular drink. He returned with a bottle of 12-year-old single malt and two glasses. The pale twin poured about four fingers into the tumbler. His duties finished, he stepped back to his place behind his Mistress, leaving the bottle behind. Mark offered to pour Ruth a drink but she declined. He raised his glass, offering a salute to Sarah, who blushed in response.

“You know, Mark; you really ought to put a collar on that cute little bitch before someone else does it for you.”

Miss Ruth spoke casually, almost affectionately about her as Sarah fidgeted under the mistress’s gaze.

“That cute little bitch is my wife, Ruth, so don't even think you can toss a collar on her. She wouldn’t submit to just anyone, you know. She only does this for me.”

Sarah was glowing. Mark’s answer showed a flash of the possessiveness she longed for.

“Oh I wasn't thinking about myself. Still with a little training, I’m sure she would submit to anyone; it’s in her nature. Some here wouldn't be the least bit hesitant, whether she’s married or not. But now that you mention it, maybe we could work something out between the two of us… if you'd like.”

Her eyes swept over Mark’s wife hungrily and Sarah shrank down into her chair. She supposed she should be grateful. Ruth was arguing for exactly what she desired! She wanted to be kneeling at her lover's feet. She wanted to wear his collar. She wanted him to admit he owned her, body and soul. Somehow, Miss Ruth managed to be irritating even when she spoke up for what Sarah desired, but dared not plead for. The two of them continued to discuss Sarah as if she couldn't hear them or, more truthfully, as if Sarah’s hearing their thoughts about her just didn’t matter.

The demonstration on stage was in full swing. The little Asian sub now hung four feet off the floor, her wrists bound to one leg of the tripod, her legs splayed wide with an ankle bound to each of the other two supports. She was now wearing a belt-like leather harness around her waist, which was attached to the chain dangling from the top of the tripod. The harness took up some of her weight as her body swung suspended. The handle of her owner's crop delved between her legs and she squirmed in a most delightful manner.

“Gentlemen,” Ruth addressed her two servants, “Would you be so good as to take Ms Sarah to the Red Room and prepare her. Perhaps give her some of that nice ginger peach tea to help calm her. Make sure she is in proper attire. I'll expect you to have her on stage in,” their Mistress glanced at her watch, “about twenty eight minutes.”

They stood behind her chair waiting for Sarah to rise. The dark one pulled the chair back for her as she stood, and they both followed her into the changing room. Privacy was hardly a concern for her now. Her lover had turned her over to others. When the door to the Red Room closed, the dark twin stood at her side and collected her dress as she pulled it up over her head. He carefully folded it and set it on the spare chair. The pale twin had begun heating water in an electric hot pot; Miss Ruth would see that she had her tea, one way, or another.

Sarah removed her garter belt lest it twist and tangle, ruining her stockings during their presentation. She tossed it on top of her dress. The dark twin knelt and slid an elastic garter up her left leg to hold her stocking in place. Her legs trembled at his intimate caress. His hands reached her upper thigh but he seemed oblivious to her uneasiness. He moved over to her right leg. Sarah struggled to keep from brushing her hands over his bald scalp. With her stockings secured she stood, stripped before these two uncaring men, holding out her wrists for the cuffs. The light-skinned twin buckled the fur lined leather cuffs around her wrists while the dark twin bent to attach the ankle cuffs. His head was only inches from her naked pussy and the sight made her nether lips thicken and swell. In her perverse imagination, she wanted to grab his head and grind herself against that smooth surface. Thankfully, he was unaware of her thoughts. He was careful not to put a run in her stockings as the cuffs tightened around her ankles. With a gesture, he directed Sarah to sit at the small table.

Her tea was ready and the two of them stood with arms folded over their chests, watching Sarah sip the hot beverage. The tea was actually quite good, tasting of ginger and sweet peach with a touch of honey in it. Sarah sat quietly sipping without complaint. She was sure the two of them would force the stuff down her throat if she refused it. Their Mistress had given them an order and they would no doubt go to any lengths to obey. Sarah didn't want to cause them any trouble. When she finished the tea, the light twin took her cup. Time passed in agonizingly slow silence.

At last, the moment arrived. The pale one gestured for her to stand and pulled her wrists forward, clipping them together in front of her. The dark one draped a short cape over her shoulders, closing it around her neck with a clasp to hold it in place. A blindfold covered her eyes and the darkness of this new journey swallowed her. She was shivering as they led her back into the main room, where an audience waited.

Two pairs of hands guided her forward; she mounted the stairway leading to the stage. Though darkness engulfed her, Sarah knew what lay ahead; the eight-foot high tripod still commanded the center of the stage. The hands stopped her and unhooked the cape that covered her from neck to thigh. It carelessly fluttered to the floor and people applauded. Sarah’s breathing became shorter and faster.

They clapped for her, though all had seen her naked before. Those who bothered to look had seen her transformed from wife to slave just a week ago, when she knelt naked at Mark’s feet. Now, she stood before them naked but for her gartered stockings and her ever-so-sensible high heels. Sarah’s master had put her on display for them. They applauded in appreciation.

This was more than a private transformation that she performed for her lover; this was panic-filled breathing in the darkness as strangers drank in her nakedness. Their eyes claimed her, and she felt that with a trembling dread. They clapped for her, and Sarah became theirs in that moment. She was prey to their whims, but only because it pleased Mark. The applause slowly faded; the audience was ready for the show to begin. Sarah wasn’t sure she was ready, but she vowed to herself that she wouldn't embarrass her lover.

The two pairs of unseen hands turned her away from the impatient crowd and she could feel the heat of spotlights on her back. They walked her forward until her feet nudged the low metal crosspiece that braced the long legs of the tripod. The bar was about three or four inches off the ground, which allowed Sarah to slip her feet underneath it. They made two points of contact, a hard piece of cold reality. It comforted her. One of the twins knelt down and pushed her feet a little further apart before attaching her ankle cuffs to the bar.