What goes up must come down
Spinnin’ wheel, got to go round
Talkin’ ’bout your troubles, it’s a cryin’ sin
Ride a painted pony, let the spinnin’ wheel spin
A Touch of Fantasy
“Come here,” he says.
“What?” She doesn’t look up from the computer, finishing the email she’s drafting. But when he doesn’t respond, that gets her attention.
One look at his expression and she stands. Changing her tone completely, she amends her response to, “Yes, Sir.” Moves quickly toward him.
He nods, acknowledging the improvement.
“Kneel,” he says. He’s sitting upright in his recliner, a cushion on the floor nearby just for her. She puls it over and kneels in one graceful movement. Instinctively arranging herself in the most basic position, the first he had taught her. Head up, eyes down. Knees open, back straight, breasts forward. Hands resting on her thighs, palms up. It feels odd to be still dressed in this position but she lets her dress ride up a bit. She is already not wearing panties, or a bra, as he requires on Friday.
His eyes move over her slowly, she can feel his gaze, and looking up through her lashes, she watches him measuring her. She knows that she is being evaluated, and trembles a bit.
After what seems like a long time, he says, “Rest,” and she feels herself relax a bit. She is allowed to look at him now, and searches his face for a clue as to what he’s thinking. He smiles a bit, and her breathing gets easier.
“Now,” he says, “Where was your head today when I said ‘come here’?”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize we were starting! I was just finishing that email message we talked about. Are we starting early today.”
He looks at his watch, “It was already noon. That is when we start.” And he hides his smile when she blushes and stutters out an apology. “Enough. Get ready now. You have 60 seconds.”
And he looks at his watch again. She gasps, stands and strips off the dress. The dress is carefully laid across a nearby chair. No underwear to take off. The collar is handy, it’s stored in the little table with drawers between their chairs. She quickly takes it out and lowers herself to her knees. Same position, but this time she holds the collar in front of her, offering it on her palm, both hands cupped lightly presenting it to him. Eyes down, but the corners of her mouth turn up in a half-smile.
In his mind, he counts to ten, slowly, making her wait. Then he leans forward, takes the collar from her. “Now,” he says, and she raises her chin, offering her neck. He has to lean a bit to reach around her, and he takes his time fastening it. Then –
“Who do you belong to?”
“What does that mean?”
“I obey you, Sir, and follow your rules. I give you my attention, my thoughts, my feelings. I trust you with my heart and with my body.”
He smiles, “And if you disobey me?”
“Then I appreciate your punishment, Sir.” As she says the words, she feels herself slipping more deeply into submission. Her worries and planning slipping away, she feels herself opening to him. And she smiles as she hears his next words, those almost magic words,
“Then let us begin.”