She stands before the mirror.
Her reflection is the same and yet she knows something inside herself has changed. She had expected to see the evidence in the face of the slightly pensive woman staring back at her, but there is none. Except perhaps a slight blush in her usually pale cheeks.
She raises her chin and flicks her long black hair over her shoulders. She is aware of a pulse dancing beneath the skin of her throat. The room is as silent as a church. She feels holy and profane at the same time. She feels like she did her first day at school. Excited and afraid, and slightly awed, all at once.
She unties her gown, opens it and lets it fall from her shoulders. As it glides to the floor it brushes her skin like a soft caress . She is wearing nothing beneath.
She is not ashamed of her body and yet, even though she is completely alone, she has never felt so exposed. She interlocks her fingers behind her back and places her feet a shoulders width apart as he has instructed.
It as if she has undressed for him. In front of him. And yet he is not there. He cannot see her. There is no camera running. There are no stills to be taken. He has simply told her to do this. He wants no proof that she has complied.
As the allotted minutes tick away she becomes aware that her breathing has quickened. She can hear the blood pumping steadily through her veins. Her nipples have hardened and there is a slight but definite ache in her lower belly. Her mouth is dry. She knows she is wet.
She has no idea why she has become so aroused.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Another rather old post of mine that perhaps deserves to be reposted
Photo discovered on a website without reference to the owner. If it is yours please let me know so I can credit or remove
A Faded Romantic's Notebook 
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