Control

Pushing open the French doors, he stepped out onto the balcony, the light breeze fluttering the long, black silk robe around his calves.  The clouds that had threatened rain all day had shifted, giving him a peek at the moon here and there as they moved across the evening sky.  The water was eerily calm as it rolled in to touch the shadowy sand before being pulled back out into the endless deep.  Resting his hands on the railing, he inhaled deeply.  The fresh, salty ocean air combined with just a hint of island exotic soothed his weary, work-worn soul. 

He turned and leaned his hip against the black wrought iron that ran the length of the balcony.  That was part of the reason he bought this little house on the beach.  It was his escape.  His hideaway when he had had enough of the real world and all its stresses.  It was his place to recharge and regain the control he didn’t have anywhere else in his life. 

Here, in this humble cottage - he didn’t need or want the luxuries that went along with his standing - he ruled the roost.  His turned his cell phone was silenced as soon as he stepped through the door.  His laptop was still packed away in its travel bag.   No call would be answered while he was here, unless there was a life and/or death emergency.  No email would be addressed, unless absolutely necessary.  Here, there was no one who would tell him what to do.  Here, he’d be giving the orders.  Here, he made the decisions.  Here, he called the shots.  Here, he wasn’t anyone’s wingman.  Here, he wasn’t second in command.  Here, he was the boss, he was the front man. 

Here, he was the master.

~

Reaching into the deep pocket of his robe, long fingers twined around the braided leather strap that held the keys to the room.  Pulling it from the silken depths, he slipped the key into the lock. The door opened soundlessly and he slid his hand along the wall, flicking on the light switch. 

The room instantly glowed from the low lights in the ceiling.  He glanced around.  Everything was as he had left it the last time he had been here.  He crossed to the platform in the middle of the room.  The thick foam pad needed a sheet, but otherwise it would do just fine.  Sleep was not the priority here in this room, so her comfort mattered little. 

He moved to finger the ornate shackles attached to each corner post.  He’d had them specially made for her.  Her ankles and wrists would look pretty all decorated for him.  He closed his eyes, conjuring an image of her spread before him on this platform, her ankles and wrists held fast by the embellished silver cuffs.  He could see her struggling against the bindings, she always did at first.  She would settle down soon enough, not wanting to risk his wrath.  Though his punishments brought her almost as much pleasure as his rewards.  His cock started to grow at the image that thought provoked.  He groaned and pushed the thought away, this was not the time for those kinds of notions.

He stood and stepped to the cabinet against the far wall.  A second, smaller key unlocked the double doors of the armoire, and he pulled out her favorite midnight satin sheet.  Turning back to the platform, he covered the foam pad and arranged the silver cuffs so they gleamed against the deep blue sheet.  Returning to the cabinet once more, he mulled over his “toys” hanging on the inside of the doors.  His collection had grown over the years.  Paddles, crops, whips, a flogger.  He slid his long fingers over his newest acquisition.  A cane.  Even if he never had an opportunity use it, it was there, just in case. 

That was just the beginning. 

He slid open a shallow drawer, all manner of clips, clamps and thin chains lay in a satin nest of deep, rich red.  A second drawer held blindfolds, ear plugs and gags.  The bottom drawer, deeper than the others, held plugs, beads, vibrators, wands and so on.  It was amazing what you could buy on the internet these days.  Closing the drawers, he selected his favorite implement and set it on the long, low dresser under the window.  He’d start with the crop and see how the evening progressed.  Looking back, his gaze ran over his other instruments.  He could always switch to the flogger or maybe the leather covered paddle if need be.

After closing and relocking the armoire he crossed the room to the closet.  Pulling open the door he flipped another switch, flooding the walk-in closet with bright, fluorescent light.  Stripping off his robe, he hung it on the hanger and looked at himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.  He’d been taking much better care of himself lately.  His skin was bronze from his deep and abiding love of the California sun.  He flexed, pleased at the tone and definition of his biceps and, turning slightly, his triceps.  Relaxing he turned to face the mirror once again.  His stomach was flat and he even sported a slight “v” that his friend would be proud of.  He frowned.  This was not the time or place to be thinking about his friend.  He was here to get away from them.   Him.  Whatever.  This was his time and thinking about that part of his life was not on the agenda.

Huffing out a breath he ran his fingers through his hair and reached for the garment bag that hung next to his robe.  Unzipping the bag, he pulled the black leather pants from their hanger and shook them out.  Stepping into them he slid them up his legs and up over his hips.  They hung low and, after carefully tucking his most prized possession away from harm, he buttoned them with ease.  Glancing at his reflection again he wondered if maybe he should starting wearing leather pants on stage again.  These looked damn good. 

Turning back he pulled on the black leather vest and did up the three buttons.  Combing his fingers through his hair he reached up to the top shelf and picked up the only other item in the closet.  His Stetson.  The Stetson.  He fingered the band of hammered silver discs that ran round the crown.  The original Stetson that had adorned his head in the eighties, every time he took the stage.  He had a replica that he used now, but this one, this was the one that had started his love affair with hats.  He settled it on his head and pulled it low, so it shadowed just one eye.

Slipping the key ring into his pocket, he Stepped back out of the closet and closed the door before heading out of the room and down the stairs.   He had one more thing to take care of and then everything would be ready.

The clock chimed the hour, it was nearly time.  He’d made the call weeks ago.  Just a text really.  A time and place. That’s all she needed.  He hadn’t heard back from her.  He usually didn’t. She would just show up, ready and willing to play with him.   That’s how it had always worked between them.  He told her where and when and she just showed up.  She had never said no.  She had never been a no-show either.  He set the envelope he’d retrieved from his flight bag and set it on the hall table.  He didn’t expect any different tonight.

~

Shay huffed out a breath, fluttering her bangs away from her forehead.  She was late.  He wasn’t going to be happy.  Of all days for there to be an accident, it had to be today?

I should have left earlier. 

She toyed with the idea of sending him a text and immediately discounted it.  He wouldn’t answer anyway. 

I should have taken a different route. 

She cocked her head to one side, pressing her head against the window, trying to see down the length of the line of cars.  She shifted in her seat, knowing what would happen once she did finally get to her destination.  It made her wet just thinking about it.

The car ahead of her inched forward.  She crept up, angling her head once more, trying to see if there was a way to get around all this traffic.  Finally, the bottleneck cleared, and she swore vilely as she moved past the small car pulled off to the side of the road.  All that and it wasn’t even an accident.  Just a damn flat tire. 

Stupid rubberneckers. 

Stepping on the gas, she maneuvered her flirty sports car into the left lane and sped ahead, passing cars as quickly as she dared.  She was late, late for a very important date.

~

Impatiently, he watched the hands on the clock tick past the hour.  Where was she?  He paced the length of the living room, too agitated to sit.  She was never late.  Irritated, he glanced at the clock again, quarter past the hour. 

Where the fuck was she?

He started to pace the room again when he saw the headlights sweep across the front window. 

‘Bout damn time.

Crossing to the door he pulled it open and watched her get out of her car.  He didn’t say a word as she climbed the steps.  When she was in front of him he held out his hand, she dropped her keys in his palm and he moved to let her into the house.  Closing the door, he locked it and stepped up behind her.

“You’re late.” 

His voice was an angry whisper of a growl in her ear.  She lowered her head, her eyes on her shoes.  “I’m sorry,” she paused, “Sir.”  She didn’t elaborate.  He wouldn’t listen to or care about the reason anyway. 

He stepped around her, a long finger tucked under her chin and the slight pressure had her raising her head.  “Put this on.”  His voice brooked no argument.  He held out his other hand and, without meeting his eyes, she took the slim, black leather collar. 

She quickly fastened it around her neck, adjusting it so the silver ring in the front hung in the vee of her trench coat, laying in the notch at the base of her throat. 

Richie slipped one finger through the ring and gently tugged her forward.  “Follow me.”

She trailed along behind him, her red patent stilettos clicking on the stairs and down the hall.  She stopped behind him in front of the door. 

He turned and looked at her.  “You sure?”  Her answer was always the same, but he still had to ask.

“Yes sir.”  She gave one quick nod of her head.

She followed him into the room and he closed the door quietly behind her.