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Description
Two weeks ago, she had come here on an impulse. For years, she had bemoaned her inability to act on her deepest desires, the desires to be bound tightly and unforgivingly, for hours and hours, citing the need to work extra hours, or that she wouldn't be able to find a house-sitter, or that she was just focusing on other stuff right now.

Two weeks ago, she'd finally stopped lying to herself, and admitted that she was just nervous. And as her first step into a real BDSM scenario, she decided to pick Reg as her Master. They'd been chatting for years, learning about each other. He was a wealthy man, given a decent inheritance that he worked hard to earn back, twice over. He was sweet, she thought, but liked to hide it, putting on the mask of a superior almost 24/7. But most importantly, she thought, she LIKED him, in a way that she couldn't say for all the dozens of guys that messaged her every week. He was considerate, but relaxed about it, confident without being overbearing, and not too bad-looking, if a bit plain.

So when she finally arrived, two weeks ago, she had already painstakingly gone over the terms of her servitude with him, which he had patiently listened and agreed to, making sure she knew what she was getting into, making sure she was ready, and making sure that she knew she could ALWAYS say no if she needed to.

It made her feel safe, knowing that, but she never did. Reg was gentle with the bondage, even now, after they'd gotten into the swing of things. Forceful, certainly, but always careful. The first day, she had donned leather gloves that ran up her arms and were bound tightly with straps near the shoulder. They had no fingers, and though she could walk, with fat gag and attached duster, she had no way to get them, or the gag off. She had dusted and cleaned, laughing through the gag at how silly she felt, listening to him compliment her and run his hands up and down her body while she tried to focus. It had been hot. Undeniably so. But she had felt like something was missing.

After that, she revised her terms, knowing a little more about what she wanted, now, and he was all-too-willing to accommodate. She served as a coffee table, one day, kneeling low and kept in place with an intricate series of straps and hooks, a coat rack the next, which quickly turned into a dress-up game, where Reg put whatever he pleased on her, and took whatever he pleased off. One day, she even worked for him as a candelabra, shivering in anticipation of the next droplet of still hot wax landing on her upper arms.

But this.

This was different.

"I'll be organizing a ball soon," he had told her one day. "A get-together I do for all of my friends in the business." She nodded, curled up next to him, but didn't speak.

He continued, "Everyone there is kink-friendly, and they all know- well, they don't know your name, or anything about you, but they know you exist. And, well, I was hoping to make a big impression on a select few of the guests."

He laid out his plan for the evening, with a board of pictures he had picked out for what her outfit would look like- he was thorough- and she had nodded in agreement, not thinking too much of it at the time. Just another game.

But now, as she strained against the creaking leather and biting metal, hands stiff from holding the same position for so long, she was painfully aware of how exposed she felt, how exposed she was, and for the first time since she'd arrived, began to feel trepidatious. Because, she realized, it wasn't just him this time. There was a room full of other people right there, right there, people she had never met, people who would be seeing her and judging her for the first time, and there would be nothing she could do but watch. It didn't feel like a game anymore.

She felt around in her glove, feeling the remote. A tiny, simple thing, with two buttons. The small one would send a text to his phone, telling him to stop playing with the toy he had left inside her, in case it got too intense. The other... it would kill the lights. He would make up a story about the generator being down and escort the guests out without them ever seeing her, and that would be that. Two feet of drywall separated her from an entire crowd. She could end it right now, he wouldn't even be mad, she knew. He would be understanding, and polite, and offer her something with way too much sugar, probably, because that was the kind of guy Reg was. And that was the thought she couldn't stomach. She moved her thumb off the button as she felt a brief jolt of pleasure run down her legs. That was something the old her would do, the version of her that wasn't brave enough to come to this place. Besides, decorations don't get scared.

I can do this, Rose thought. Let 'em see me.

The crowd began to enter the room.

Description
Two weeks ago, she had come here on an impulse. For years, she had bemoaned her inability to act on her deepest desires, the desires to be bound tightly and unforgivingly, for hours and hours, citing the need to work extra hours, or that she wouldn't be able to find a house-sitter, or that she was just focusing on other stuff right now.

Two weeks ago, she'd finally stopped lying to herself, and admitted that she was just nervous. And as her first step into a real BDSM scenario, she decided to pick Reg as her Master. They'd been chatting for years, learning about each other. He was a wealthy man, given a decent inheritance that he worked hard to earn back, twice over. He was sweet, she thought, but liked to hide it, putting on the mask of a superior almost 24/7. But most importantly, she thought, she LIKED him, in a way that she couldn't say for all the dozens of guys that messaged her every week. He was considerate, but relaxed about it, confident without being overbearing, and not too bad-looking, if a bit plain.

So when she finally arrived, two weeks ago, she had already painstakingly gone over the terms of her servitude with him, which he had patiently listened and agreed to, making sure she knew what she was getting into, making sure she was ready, and making sure that she knew she could ALWAYS say no if she needed to.

It made her feel safe, knowing that, but she never did. Reg was gentle with the bondage, even now, after they'd gotten into the swing of things. Forceful, certainly, but always careful. The first day, she had donned leather gloves that ran up her arms and were bound tightly with straps near the shoulder. They had no fingers, and though she could walk, with fat gag and attached duster, she had no way to get them, or the gag off. She had dusted and cleaned, laughing through the gag at how silly she felt, listening to him compliment her and run his hands up and down her body while she tried to focus. It had been hot. Undeniably so. But she had felt like something was missing.

After that, she revised her terms, knowing a little more about what she wanted, now, and he was all-too-willing to accommodate. She served as a coffee table, one day, kneeling low and kept in place with an intricate series of straps and hooks, a coat rack the next, which quickly turned into a dress-up game, where Reg put whatever he pleased on her, and took whatever he pleased off. One day, she even worked for him as a candelabra, shivering in anticipation of the next droplet of still hot wax landing on her upper arms.

But this.

This was different.

"I'll be organizing a ball soon," he had told her one day. "A get-together I do for all of my friends in the business." She nodded, curled up next to him, but didn't speak.

He continued, "Everyone there is kink-friendly, and they all know- well, they don't know your name, or anything about you, but they know you exist. And, well, I was hoping to make a big impression on a select few of the guests."

He laid out his plan for the evening, with a board of pictures he had picked out for what her outfit would look like- he was thorough- and she had nodded in agreement, not thinking too much of it at the time. Just another game.

But now, as she strained against the creaking leather and biting metal, hands stiff from holding the same position for so long, she was painfully aware of how exposed she felt, how exposed she was, and for the first time since she'd arrived, began to feel trepidatious. Because, she realized, it wasn't just him this time. There was a room full of other people right there, right there, people she had never met, people who would be seeing her and judging her for the first time, and there would be nothing she could do but watch. It didn't feel like a game anymore.

She felt around in her glove, feeling the remote. A tiny, simple thing, with two buttons. The small one would send a text to his phone, telling him to stop playing with the toy he had left inside her, in case it got too intense. The other... it would kill the lights. He would make up a story about the generator being down and escort the guests out without them ever seeing her, and that would be that. Two feet of drywall separated her from an entire crowd. She could end it right now, he wouldn't even be mad, she knew. He would be understanding, and polite, and offer her something with way too much sugar, probably, because that was the kind of guy Reg was. And that was the thought she couldn't stomach. She moved her thumb off the button as she felt a brief jolt of pleasure run down her legs. That was something the old her would do, the version of her that wasn't brave enough to come to this place. Besides, decorations don't get scared.

I can do this, Rose thought. Let 'em see me.

The crowd began to enter the room.