You stand before me.
You are clothed in a simple black dress, arms and shoulders bare. It clings lovingly to your elegant curves. The hem circles your legs at mid-thigh. Your heels are precipitously high. You are almost coltish in them.
The hotel room is close to silent while somewhere outside the old part of the city comes alive with the evening. Its faint echoes are quieter than your heartbeat. You take deep breaths. There is a pulse flickering in your throat. Your eyes are wide and shining.
They dart around the room, taking in the heavy antique furniture, the deep cushioned sofa, the wide four-poster bed. My famous black briefcase is on the chest of drawers. It is closed although the clasps are ominously, thrillingly, undone.
You look at me. Your smile is nervous, hesitant, excited beyond measure.
It does not survive my quiet stare.
I soften my expression and you are reassured. You bow your sweet head. I nod my own, pleased.
‘Take the first position.’ I instruct you. My voice is low and deep. You are startled by the sound and for a moment I can see every memory of my distant teaching fly from your mind and become lost in the dark corners.
You put your arms behind your back, fingers entwined. You move your feet so they are a shoulder’s width apart. A lock of hair falls across your face. Your instinct is to brush it away, but you do not.
I approach you. You are trembling. You run your tongue over your lips.
You glance at the blindfold in my hand.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Photo stolen from deeperunderground