in for the wait.
Tara dressed in a beige lace dress, matching jacket, and nude heels to coordinate the outfit. Grabbing her bag, she checked her appearance in the mirror. She could clearly see the shadows under her eyes, made darker by the mane of hair surrounding her face, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Though she had not heard from him, as the time had got closer, the more she had convinced herself that he would be there, waiting for her. She refused to believe he would not go to the Club. She could not admit to herself that there was no hope.
As she left the apartment and walked to the metro, it was still light out, and she passed people returning from work or an early dinner. She went down the steps of the subway entrance at Union station, merging with the professionals and tourists, the air still quite humid in the early autumn evening. As she stood at the edge of the platform, she wondered what would happen to her tonight and the familiar butterflies started in her stomach as thought about it; what he would say to her when he came through the bedroom door, what he would do to her.
Disembarking from the Metro, she came up to street level and again nerves gripped her stomach as she walked to the Club. She was so close to him now; he could arrive at any moment.
She went up the steps of the Club, images already in her head of events that had occurred here with him; in the Bar, in the Library, and in the room that she thought of now as theirs.
It was the same well-groomed receptionist she had seen the first time she had come here. With a terrible shock she suddenly realised she had not reserved the room, that she wasn’t a member and therefore couldn’t reserve it now. She had not thought about the practicalities. Perhaps, given that Damien had always made the arrangements, she had simply assumed. She hadn’t thought beyond the act of them physically coming together. And now she stood in reception like a fool not knowing what to do. She didn’t have a key to the bedroom they used, and she didn’t know if Damien had reserved it; she couldn’t simply go up to it and she didn’t want to embarrass herself by asking the receptionist if he had. Uncertainty filled her. She couldn’t call him; she didn’t want him to think she was chasing him any more than she already had. She would have to wait for him in the Bar, just like the first time they had met, when he had kept her waiting.
She approached the Barman.
“Hi, I’m meeting Damien Lawson. Have you seen him?”
She hoped the barman would tell her where he was seated, saving her the embarrassment of having to look around for him.
“Not this evening Madam.”
“Oh ok, thank you, I will wait for him.”
“Would you like a drink Ma’am?”
“Oh, thank you, could I have bourbon please?”
“Of course, I will bring it over.”
“Thank you so much.”
She hoped the barman would put it on Damien’s tab; she could barely afford to pay for it herself.
There were perhaps twenty members, scattered throughout the plush bar on various tables, laughing together, or talking. She took in the lavishness of the decor again, the obvious expense it must have cost to furnish the Club.
She walked over to the newspapers and picked one up, before choosing to sit at ‘their table;’ the one they had met at the first time, before he had dragged her shockingly by the arms out of the bar in front of everyone, into the Library, and assailed her sexually in the most exquisite act of eroticism, slapping his cock across her lips as she he made her kneel before him.
She began to read the headlines, although she found she could not focus her attention on them; the words going in but her mind processing none of them, thinking of his cock, abusing her, provoking her, wielding its power over her.
Goddamn him, where was he? He seemed to like playing power games, liked her to be at his beck and call. He had probably done this deliberately, his twisted idea of
Tara dressed in a beige lace dress, matching jacket, and nude heels to coordinate the outfit. Grabbing her bag, she checked her appearance in the mirror. She could clearly see the shadows under her eyes, made darker by the mane of hair surrounding her face, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Though she had not heard from him, as the time had got closer, the more she had convinced herself that he would be there, waiting for her. She refused to believe he would not go to the Club. She could not admit to herself that there was no hope.
As she left the apartment and walked to the metro, it was still light out, and she passed people returning from work or an early dinner. She went down the steps of the subway entrance at Union station, merging with the professionals and tourists, the air still quite humid in the early autumn evening. As she stood at the edge of the platform, she wondered what would happen to her tonight and the familiar butterflies started in her stomach as thought about it; what he would say to her when he came through the bedroom door, what he would do to her.
Disembarking from the Metro, she came up to street level and again nerves gripped her stomach as she walked to the Club. She was so close to him now; he could arrive at any moment.
She went up the steps of the Club, images already in her head of events that had occurred here with him; in the Bar, in the Library, and in the room that she thought of now as theirs.
It was the same well-groomed receptionist she had seen the first time she had come here. With a terrible shock she suddenly realised she had not reserved the room, that she wasn’t a member and therefore couldn’t reserve it now. She had not thought about the practicalities. Perhaps, given that Damien had always made the arrangements, she had simply assumed. She hadn’t thought beyond the act of them physically coming together. And now she stood in reception like a fool not knowing what to do. She didn’t have a key to the bedroom they used, and she didn’t know if Damien had reserved it; she couldn’t simply go up to it and she didn’t want to embarrass herself by asking the receptionist if he had. Uncertainty filled her. She couldn’t call him; she didn’t want him to think she was chasing him any more than she already had. She would have to wait for him in the Bar, just like the first time they had met, when he had kept her waiting.
She approached the Barman.
“Hi, I’m meeting Damien Lawson. Have you seen him?”
She hoped the barman would tell her where he was seated, saving her the embarrassment of having to look around for him.
“Not this evening Madam.”
“Oh ok, thank you, I will wait for him.”
“Would you like a drink Ma’am?”
“Oh, thank you, could I have bourbon please?”
“Of course, I will bring it over.”
“Thank you so much.”
She hoped the barman would put it on Damien’s tab; she could barely afford to pay for it herself.
There were perhaps twenty members, scattered throughout the plush bar on various tables, laughing together, or talking. She took in the lavishness of the decor again, the obvious expense it must have cost to furnish the Club.
She walked over to the newspapers and picked one up, before choosing to sit at ‘their table;’ the one they had met at the first time, before he had dragged her shockingly by the arms out of the bar in front of everyone, into the Library, and assailed her sexually in the most exquisite act of eroticism, slapping his cock across her lips as she he made her kneel before him.
She began to read the headlines, although she found she could not focus her attention on them; the words going in but her mind processing none of them, thinking of his cock, abusing her, provoking her, wielding its power over her.
Goddamn him, where was he? He seemed to like playing power games, liked her to be at his beck and call. He had probably done this deliberately, his twisted idea of
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