Good Girl

She dresses carefully to meet him, the outfit he has chosen laid out piece-by-piece on the bed. Gossamer-thin stockings, smooth and soft as they slide over her skin; panties, a scrap of lace. Matching bra, balconette with a strip of lace over the top and straps that criss-cross over her chest, pushing up her breasts so they jut before her, eagerly awaiting his touch. His favourite suspender belt and LBD, slim fitting and hip skimming, covering her body yet leaving little to the imagination. His collar at her throat, snug and familiar.

Her long, brunette hair is pulled back and up into a tight ponytail, high on her head and spilling down onto her back. He loves her hair long and loose, flowing around her face, yet on occasions like these, his request is that it is tied back. Out of the way. Easier for him to grasp and pull.

At the thought of this, she shivers and the sweet, secret place between her legs tightens, then loosens, leaving her panties damp. She feels weak with desire, heady with lust. Her body quiver ever so slightly in anticipation, yet her limbs are languid.

She takes a sip of white wine, relishing the cool, crisp taste in her mouth. Just a taster; no more until he allows it. He doesn’t want her drunk at the beginning of their encounter. He wants her collected, in control, until he says otherwise. He wants to be the one who loosens her inhibitions, who musses her hair, who causes her to forget her own name and cry out his.

She checks the time on the digital clock on the nightstand. Four minutes and he will arrive; always prompt, never keeping her waiting. She smoothes the bedclothes, checks her reflection in the mirrored wardrobe, tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her insides fizz, swoon, tighten. Her breath catches in her throat as she hears the ping of the elevator doors outside in the corridor.

He is here.

A pause, a beat, a quiet movement outside the door, and then a knock on the panelled wood.

She moves to the door, her steps elegant and measured in her heels, controlling the impulse to rush. She swings the door open and he is there. Tall, dark hair curling at the nape of his neck, tailored suit smart and unruffled, dark eyes on her.

She smiles and moves back to allow him entrance.

“Good evening, Sir.” Her voice is husky and low.

In one smooth move, he kicks the door shut behind him and reaches for her, drawing her into his arms. In a rare moment of uncontrolled passion, he takes her face between his hands and kisses her, deeply and ardently, working her lips with his own, darting his tongue into her mouth and ravishing her. She begins to kiss him, but he suddenly stops, pushes her back, holding her arms close to her sides, his eyes heavy-lidded and caressing her with a sweeping, measured glance.

“Assume your position, kitten,” he says, his voice deep, throaty, yet firm.

As she instinctively falls into the Nadu pose, she knows that the night is going to be intensely pleasurable for them both.

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