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Cole waits for me as Iâve ordered: on his knees, fingers laced behind his head, in the dark. I walk into the still air of the studio apartment, close the door, twist the dead bolts, the sounds sharp and final. With a flick of the switch next to the door, several table and floor lamps situated around the apartment come on. As I set my purse on the marble-topped table by the door, I treat myself to a long, thorough look at him.
Even kneeling heâs large. His bowed head comes to my rib cage, and while his fingers in their woven position are relaxed against his closely cropped reddish-brown hair, as the seconds tick past I see his shoulders tense ever so subtly under his black motorcycle racing jacket. Threat is implicit in his size and strength, but for me his power is tightly leashed.
Standing close enough to hear his deliberately even breathing, I study him for a moment. In the past heâs waited in a businessmanâs armorâsuit, tie, wingtipsâso this insight into his leisure activities intrigues me. He smells of fall wind and sweat, with a hint of oil underneath, as if heâd worked on his bike before he rode it.
Slowly, methodically, I remove my gloves and my coat. The pace is intended to get Cole into a certain frame of mind, to move him from nervous anticipation to inexorable submission. Until I am finished with him tonight, we move at my speed. At my command. More important, removing my trench coat reveals the antithesis of dominatrix gear. Tonight I am the idealized version of a 1950s housewife in a light green watered silk dress, sleeveless, full-skirted, and belted around my waist. Iâm quite petite, with chin-length white-blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes.
Standing slightly to one side, I lay my palm against his laced fingers, and he tenses again. His breath eases from his broad chest as he makes himself relax. I may look like an ethereal fairy, but Cole knows exactly how deceiving appearances are.
This is the ninth time Iâve met Cole. We are both clients of Lady Matilda, an expat Brit who will, for a rather considerable fee, arrange meetings between like-minded individuals. I heard about Lady Matilda from a friend who found a Cantonese conversation partner. I wanted a man who wanted me to whip him. Lady Matilda didnât bat an eyelash.
Three weeks later, Cole waited for me for the first time. I donât know what he does to afford Lady Matildaâs fee. I donât know his last name. He knows neither my real first or last name or my phone number or job. When he wants to meet me, he calls Lady Matilda; she calls me, and I choose a date and time. I donât know if he lives in the city or comes here on business. I know heâs not married because I refuse to play with a man who is, and Lady Matilda does a background check run by a very expensive security firm. I know heâs completely self-assured, and hot as hell.
I know he fears this as badly as he wants it. But there is so much we donât know about each other.
I step behind him, my heels clicking against the parquet floor. Lingering behind him makes him uncomfortable, so I remain there for a few more moments, examining his ass in his faded jeans, the worn soles and scuffed leather of the black motorcycle boots encasing his feet. He canât be comfortable kneeling in those boots. He will be even less comfortable when I make him undress.
I complete the circle, noting the dark stubble on his jaw, the way he keeps his gaze forward and down. He will not meet my eyes. He will address me as Miss Banks. He will follow my every command. At the end of the night he will say âThank you, Miss Banksâ before he goes. At some level, that will be the most gratifying part of the evening.
I seat myself on the damask-covered bench at the foot of the roomâs sole piece of furniture, a king-sized four-post bed, and spread my skirt to either side. Although his eyes are trained on the floor in
Cole waits for me as Iâve ordered: on his knees, fingers laced behind his head, in the dark. I walk into the still air of the studio apartment, close the door, twist the dead bolts, the sounds sharp and final. With a flick of the switch next to the door, several table and floor lamps situated around the apartment come on. As I set my purse on the marble-topped table by the door, I treat myself to a long, thorough look at him.
Even kneeling heâs large. His bowed head comes to my rib cage, and while his fingers in their woven position are relaxed against his closely cropped reddish-brown hair, as the seconds tick past I see his shoulders tense ever so subtly under his black motorcycle racing jacket. Threat is implicit in his size and strength, but for me his power is tightly leashed.
Standing close enough to hear his deliberately even breathing, I study him for a moment. In the past heâs waited in a businessmanâs armorâsuit, tie, wingtipsâso this insight into his leisure activities intrigues me. He smells of fall wind and sweat, with a hint of oil underneath, as if heâd worked on his bike before he rode it.
Slowly, methodically, I remove my gloves and my coat. The pace is intended to get Cole into a certain frame of mind, to move him from nervous anticipation to inexorable submission. Until I am finished with him tonight, we move at my speed. At my command. More important, removing my trench coat reveals the antithesis of dominatrix gear. Tonight I am the idealized version of a 1950s housewife in a light green watered silk dress, sleeveless, full-skirted, and belted around my waist. Iâm quite petite, with chin-length white-blonde hair, pale skin, and green eyes.
Standing slightly to one side, I lay my palm against his laced fingers, and he tenses again. His breath eases from his broad chest as he makes himself relax. I may look like an ethereal fairy, but Cole knows exactly how deceiving appearances are.
This is the ninth time Iâve met Cole. We are both clients of Lady Matilda, an expat Brit who will, for a rather considerable fee, arrange meetings between like-minded individuals. I heard about Lady Matilda from a friend who found a Cantonese conversation partner. I wanted a man who wanted me to whip him. Lady Matilda didnât bat an eyelash.
Three weeks later, Cole waited for me for the first time. I donât know what he does to afford Lady Matildaâs fee. I donât know his last name. He knows neither my real first or last name or my phone number or job. When he wants to meet me, he calls Lady Matilda; she calls me, and I choose a date and time. I donât know if he lives in the city or comes here on business. I know heâs not married because I refuse to play with a man who is, and Lady Matilda does a background check run by a very expensive security firm. I know heâs completely self-assured, and hot as hell.
I know he fears this as badly as he wants it. But there is so much we donât know about each other.
I step behind him, my heels clicking against the parquet floor. Lingering behind him makes him uncomfortable, so I remain there for a few more moments, examining his ass in his faded jeans, the worn soles and scuffed leather of the black motorcycle boots encasing his feet. He canât be comfortable kneeling in those boots. He will be even less comfortable when I make him undress.
I complete the circle, noting the dark stubble on his jaw, the way he keeps his gaze forward and down. He will not meet my eyes. He will address me as Miss Banks. He will follow my every command. At the end of the night he will say âThank you, Miss Banksâ before he goes. At some level, that will be the most gratifying part of the evening.
I seat myself on the damask-covered bench at the foot of the roomâs sole piece of furniture, a king-sized four-post bed, and spread my skirt to either side. Although his eyes are trained on the floor in
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