PENELOPE MOVES FORWARD WITH WILLIAM

I nod to no one. 
Try. I have to try. What’s the worst that can happen? After all, didn’t William say that it’s the submissives who have all the power? And Shannon wouldn’t put me in danger.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I retype the text I’d written last night


6:01PM
Do you do this 24/7? Or is 
it more just scenes or moments 
for you? 


And then I wait, anticipation prickling in my belly. 
I leave my phone on the sofa and refill my glass of wine. 
I don’t even have half a glass filled when, my phone pings with an incoming text. 
My gut drops. I debate even picking up the phone, suddenly not sure I want to know his answer. However, curiosity gets the best of me and I open my phone to read his reply. 


6:03PM
First, thank you for trusting me 
with your question. Secondly, I’m 
thrilled that you’re actually 
researching things. 
However, it’s only been 21 hours. 
Tsk-tsk. 


As I watch the three balls bounce with the promise of more text coming sooner or later, I read between the lines he’d just sent. Is he hinting that I’ve misstepped? Committed an indiscretion? One perhaps… punishable? Like… a spanking?
My heart beats faster at the notion. Faster from fear? Or desire?
I haven’t yet decided when my phone pings with another text from William.


6:04PM 
First things first. Did you 
sleep well last night? Did 
you have a good day? 


So simple. Basic. Caring. 


6:04PM
I did. Thank you, 


I choose to omit the fitful night. No point in bringing it up. I didn’t suffer any for it.


6:04PM
Now, to answer your question


There’s a return of the bouncing balls. 
Warmth pools in my belly awaiting his answer. It feels like an eternity. I take another sip, staring at my phone and the damn bouncing dots. Finally. 


6:06PM
Maybe… 18/7? I don’t wish to 
dominate every part of the day or 
relationship as I like my 
submissive to be herself. Always. 
Often we are equal. Just a man 
and a woman who enjoy each 
other’s company. And the 
Dominant wholly responsible for 
the care and pleasure of his 
submissive. That said, I do love 
a good moment. Scenes can be 
tremendously rewarding. All in 
all I expect submission. Always. 
Please bear in mind I would never, 
ever put you in a situation you 
wouldn’t be able to handle. That’s 
what communication, and respect 
and trust are for. 


Remember. You hold all the power. 


Even in his texts he’s calming and reassuring. 
Could I possibly do this? 


6:07PM
What other questions do you have?
 
I hardly know where to start. So, I go with… 


6:07PM
What do you like to be called? 


I’d read so many suggestions last night: Sir, Master, Daddy were the most common. It’s fine for some, but I don’t think I could handle it if he wanted me to call him Daddy. 
His response is fairly quick. 


6:08PM
I actually have two that I’m fond of. I 
like Boss. But I also love the French 
language and quite like Monsieur. 


While I’d studied French in high school, I’d never had the opportunity to use it outside of the classroom. Most all of what I’d retained was only the written form, or phrases associated in decorating. But some things would always stay in memory. “Oui, Monsieur,” I practice out loud. 
It feels sexy to say. 
My phone pings with another incoming message from him.


6:08PM
Which do you like? Or is there a 
different one you like? 


I tap back my message 


6:08PM
I like Monsieur.


The balls bounce happily and I can’t wait for his reply.


6:09PM
Call me. I want to hear you say it. 


A jolt of apprehension shoots through my body. I don’t know why there’s that tickle of anxiety. I know I’m going to do just as he told me. Maybe it’s not fear. Maybe I’m simply excited. 
With my finger slightly trembling, I tap the screen and place the call. I swallow my nerves and put the phone to my ear. 
“Penelope,” he says, answering the call. The way he says my name, it sounds like a song. Like a prayer. I don’t think anyone has ever said my name in such a reverent way. The sound enhanced by the deep timbre of his voice and his British lilt. 
And I want to give him something back, so in my best recollection of those long ago classes, I answer, “Oui, Monsieur.” 
Through the line I hear him take in a quick gasp and release his breath. I don’t know what it is about hearing just that, but there’s no doubt about it. Hearing me call him monsieur, maybe even adding the oui, aroused him. 
I flush with a thrill of joy. Of power. 
“Thank you very, very much for that, and thank you for calling, Penelope.” 
“You’re welcome.”
“So, do you have other questions?”
Oh, boy. So many. However it was much easier to text them. Now I have to speak. Trust my mouth to actually utter aloud things I never imagined asking in a million years. At least we’re not sitting across a dining table from one another in a crowded restaurant. And I am wearing panties at the moment, I think wryly to myself. 
“Do you expect me to be your submissive right away?”
“Not formally, no. I think it’s smarter to ease into things. To make sure that we would be a good fit. Build trust. Refine communications. We would start as scenes. In those scenes, I will expect you to fully commit to the role of submissive. You will get to know how I am as a dominant.” 
Somehow all I can think of is the punishment part of the dynamic, the part that frightens me most. 
“What type of punishment do you exercise?” I ask.
“Greatly depends on the indiscretion. The punishment ought to reflect and match the crime, yes?”
“Yes,” I answer, feeling light headed. 
“Now, if the transgression is cheeky, and in a sexual situation, perhaps orgasm denial. If the submissive has been rude, or crass, or chose to directly disregard a rule… well, a spanking might be in order. I prefer by hand. I’m not a big fan of a paddle or other impact implements, although there is something about a paddle. But a hand spanking is best. If it’s going to hurt my sub, it should hurt me too.” 
I’ve never been spanked in my entire life. I’ve never done anything to warrant such punishment. Ever. As William pointed out, I’m a rule follower. It’s just who I am. The only punishment I recall is once losing my TV privileges because I had cut up a fairly new pair of jeans to look like the jeans of one of the characters on a TV show I was a fan of. My parents were not pleased. But the punishment wasn’t really much of punishment as I far preferred reading to watching TV. 
“I actually take non-compliance a little personally,” William continues. “I might wonder if perhaps I wasn’t clear enough with my instructions. Or if I have been remiss in giving my sub what she needs causing her to act out in a way to require a good swat to rosie up her behind.” 
I like his answer and move to the next, each question coming easier. And each answer making me more relaxed. Reassured.
“What is it that you’re looking for in a submissive? Why me?” 
“You’re asking all the right questions. I’m so proud of you,” he says and I feel the delight from last night when he’d called me a good girl. “But to answer your question, I’m looking for an agreeable type of person. I’m not looking for a masochist as I’m not a sadist. I like that you’re a born people pleaser, that you wouldn’t dream of faking happiness for making others happy. I don’t think it would be a stretch for you to do as your told. I like that you’re careful and conscientious. You’re as beautiful on the inside as on the outside.” 
His flattery stirs something deep inside of me. He’s only known me for a very short while, and while I could just think he’s being insincere, everything he’s said is right, that I like to make people happy and follow directions. I am careful and conscientious. The beauty on the inside—I think I am. I do try to be. 
Feeling emboldened I ask my next biggest, burning question. I’m hesitant, but I have to know. “I assume you’ve had a submissive before?”
“I have,” is his simple reply.
“How long were you together? Why did it end?” 
He’s silent a moment and then sighs. “We were together for nearly a year. It ended almost 2 years ago. She ended things,” he confesses a tinge of melancholy and something else in his voice. I feel bad for him. Genuinely heartbroken. 
“May I ask why?” 
He takes a deep breath and I hear him shift wherever he’s sitting. “She wanted things out of the relationship I did not. She decided being a brat was much more fun for her than being a pleasing submissive. She wanted the punishments too much. She craved the masochism more and more, became what is called a ‘pain slut.’ As I’ve said, aside from making a bottom all pink from a solid spanking or a proper paddling from play, which can very much be mutually satisfying, when it’s from punishment, as I’ve said before, I don’t get off on the pain part. I’m not a sadist. I very much prefer the pleasure side of things. Making my sub glow from pleasure, not pain.” 
I find that with his answer, it’s easier to breathe. Feeling more confident with my questions, I push into some of the scarier questions I have. 
“How much do you control? What do you control?” 
“I like to choose my submissive’s clothing. I like to choose what sexual activities will be performed. I control orgasms. Yours and mine. I do not control who your friends are. I do not control how you feel. I do not bend toward humiliation. I do not control what you eat, but I will make sure you are eating well. I’m a dominant, Penelope, not domineering.”
“What about pain play? Do you do that?”
“As I said before, I’m not a sadist. I don’t deliver pain for pain’s sake. I don’t receive enjoyment from my submissive’s pain. I don’t take things to extreme. Ever. I’m not into things like blood or bruises. You’ll recall my former submissive you’d asked about. It’s why we did not work. At all. The kind of pain I choose to participate in is the kind that heightens the sexual experience. Not leave marks.”
“Have you ever been a submissive?” I ask. 
“I love all of your questions, Penelope. You’ve really given a lot of thought tho this. You have no idea how happy that makes me.” I feel my chest glow with pride. “Now, although I have explored the submissive side of things so that I can know what subs experience, it’s not my role. I’m all dominant. But remember, you have all of the power.”
I nod and hum my affirmation. 
“What else can I answer for you? I’m having much more fun with this than I imagined.”
I smile and say, “Me too.” We share a little laugh, then I press on with more questions, feeling more and more resolved. “What are some things you like to do?”
“Blindfolds. Restraints. Flogging and other light impact play like spanking. Tickling. Oils. Vibrators and plugs. Role playing is fun. I enjoy begging and edge play.”
“What’s that?” 
“Bringing my submissive to the precipice of orgasm and not letting her come, for a while. Keeping her there… on edge… until finally I let her.”
His voice is deep and hoarse and growly and thick and I swear my lady bits are clenching as he talks about the edging.
“Penelope,” he says and the the tone in his voice causes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Not in a frightened way. Not at all. But in a very aroused way. 
“Yes?” I answer to let him know I heard him. 
“Would you like me to do that to you?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I hum, my breath shaky, unable to speak. 
“Can you use words, please,” he pushes.
Like a flash, I know what to say, “Oui, Monsieur.”
I hear a breath on the other end of the line. And then he clears his throat. 
“All in due time,” he answers. “Any other questions?”
I blink and shake myself from the haze that he’d built up inside of me. 
“Do you have any specific… fetishes… in the kink world?” I can’t believe I just said the words fetishes and kink out loud. To a man. A man I really want to spend more time with. Intimate time with.
“I like to watch,” he answers, his voice lower and gravelly. “I also enjoy listening to detailed accounts,” he continues. The tone of his voice conceals nothing. It seriously arouses him. I’m about to ask him more about that but then I don’t interrupt as he continues by adding, “And I greatly appreciate the art of Shibari.”
“Shibari?”
“Japanese rope tying,” he explains. “It’s beautiful. Artistic. Requires patience and control. I can be quite meditative as well. The fine silk rope…the gentle marks… There is so much to explore…” 
I nod, feeling stupid. He can’t see me. “Oh,” I add.
“What things do you not like?”
“I’m absolutely not into humiliation. I would never aim to take a woman down. Ever. We are all in this together. I don’t do torture, not the painful kind anyway, but edging can feel like torture. I’m not into breath play or permanently marking.”
Again I find myself nodding.
“You’re asking very astute questions, Penelope. I’m quite pleased.” 
“Thank you, monsieur,” I answer promptly. I can practically hear him smile on the other end of the line. 
I’m just about ready to ask him if we can get together tonight. I’m practically vibrating with need, listening to his voice. Being calmed by his confidence. And of course, all of this talk about sex and orgasms. 
But he has different plans. 
“Penelope, please believe me that I would love nothing more than to have you on your knees for me at this very moment, however given that this is your first foray, we ought to go slowly. There’s a lot of ground to cover. You must learn to walk before you can run.” 
“Baby steps,” I confirm.
“Precisely. I have a proposal.”
The word makes me gasp and I ask, “A what?” There’s no way I want to get married right now, if ever. 
“A proposition, rather,” he corrects. “Some homework for you this week.” 
I almost laugh when he says he’s giving me homework, but then I think better of it. I think about the research and realize that was like homework and it helped me wrap my head around many things. Maybe what he has in mind now will help as well. 
“Okay.”
“Give me a bit. I will send you a list of limits. Things you are open to, things you are not. You will mark each item that you’ve either done it before, or have not. And, on a scale of one to five, indicate your level of openness to such acts. I will also fill out the same. After you send yours, I will reply with mine within seconds. That way you will know that I haven’t created my list to reflect yours in any way. Send it back by six tomorrow. We will use both of our lists for further discussion and to draw up a contract to protect the both of us.” Of course, he would want a contract, I think to myself. He’s a lawyer. “And Penelope,” he continues, “Take your time. Respond carefully. Thoughtfully. Consider every element. Some are far more pleasurable than first blush. You may research any of the acts on the list, but do so sensibly.”
I hum my reply, already blushing madly.
“Sorry?” he begs sharply.
My belly flips and for whatever reason I answer, “Oui, monsieur.” 
He hums with approval. “I have a very good feeling about this, Penelope.”
“Moi aussi, monsieur,” I answer in agreement. 
A sharp breath comes down the line. “We might have to put some restrictions on the French, ma belle,” he says, a playful lilt to his words. 


The list William sends me is both shocking and scintillating with questions about my sex life and sexuality, followed by more than 150 limits, or possible things a relationship or scene could involve. I laugh as I remember the PerfectMate commercials touting they match couples on “more than 200 levels.” I wonder if any of their questions touch upon anything this list does! 
There are a few columns for each ‘activity’. The first column is to indicate my experience with the limit and I’m to mark each with either NONE, SOME, or EXTENSIVE. The next column is to give each limit a rating of Xor 0 to 5 as to how much I would enjoy that ‘activity.’ 
X is for things I deem a ‘hard limit’ that I won’t under any circumstances. 0 for ‘Positively no desire to do that activity, but would if the Dom demanded it,’ and willingness increasing to 5 being ‘no limit’ meaning I find it to be ‘a turn on and enjoy it very much and would like to do it often in any way possible.’ And there’s a final column for me to enter in questions, concerns, or otherwise.  
It actually takes me several sessions to sit and complete the assignment. There are things I rule out immediately, no research or consideration needed. Asphyxiation, face slapping, anything about rape, anything about forced, anything about blood or might result in blood, or any other bodily fluid. I might have been alarmed at those things and be running the other way, but I have every reason to believe that William and I will be on the same page with those limits. 
When I send him my list with half an hour to spare on the deadline, true to his word, not even one minute after I send him my list, his is in my email inbox. Beyond curious, I open his and read it immediately. 
I’m not sure why, but I’m surprised as I scan down the list of “Experience.” It seems he’s experienced most everything. On both the submissive and dominant sides.
I’m beyond relieved that he feels the same as I do on my automatic NOs. 
Some of his ‘5s’ don’t surprise me since he’s already alluded to them like watching and being watched, edging, and Shibari. But there are also many things he gave a ‘5’ to, things he enjoys and wants to do often, that I’m kind of uncomfortable with or I’m not familiar with at all. Anal sex, spreader bars, fellatio and cunnilingus. 
My cell phone rings. I don’t even have to look at the screen to know it’s William even though I haven’t even changed his ringtone to be specifically assigned. 
I’m feeling overwhelmed, but I know I have to answer it. 
“Hello, Monsieur,”
William hums appreciatively.
“I’ve looked over your list,” he says. I can’t decide if it sounds like he’s happy or upset. “I like seeing that we are aligned on many terms.” 
“I was happy to see those things, too.” 
“I hope to persuade you to try some of your zeros, ones and twos.” I should have expected that. “But all in due time. Those things take trust.” I’m wondering which ones he’s talking about since I had many zeros, ones and twos. “And really? Pardon my shock, and there’s no reason to feel embarrassed, but you’ve never even been lightly restrained? Or even blindfolded?” 
“Never,” I tell him. 
“You are quite the vanilla wonder. And I mean that with the utmost respect and admiration.”
We fall silent a moment and then he says, “I bet you’re wondering about your next assignment?”
“I am,” I confess.
“Thank you for your patience.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum back.
“I’m assuming you’ve not left your home this afternoon then?”
“Um, no.” 
“Well, you should get out more often. Being holed up in your home isn’t recommended. Walks outside, getting sunlight and processing vitamin D, all good things.”
“I, um, I did go out earlier today. Had to get the grocery shopping done and stuff,” I explain, feeling way lamer than what I’d just said. 
“Not exactly the same thing, but groceries are important. I hope you made healthy choices.”
“I did,” I tell him, eager for a little praise.
“And dessert?”
“I did buy some ice cream,” I confess. 
“And what’s your favorite kind?”
“Ben and Jerry’s Pfish Food.”
“Excellent choice. But back to your ventures past your front door.”
“Oh, right,” I answer, completely confused. 
“Penelope. Go open your front door.” 
My heart beating in my throat, I get up and do as I’ve been told. I undo the dead bolt and pull the door open. Sitting on the small table next to the chair on the porch is a white, medium-sized box with a pale blue ribbon tied into a perfect bow.
“What is this?” I ask, snatching up the package and heading back inside.
He doesn’t answer and I wonder if I’m allowed to open it.
“May I open the box?” I ask, nerves coursing through my body. 
“You may,” he answers. 
I set the phone down carefully and tap the screen to turn the speaker phone on before giving the satin ribbon a tug and releasing the bow. Inside the box, I find a short, neatly handwritten note on rich linen paper. It reads:


Darling, Penelope, 
Enclosed are your next six homework assignments. 
You are to open each only on their corresponding day, and not beforehand.
Inside you will find detailed instructions. 
I look forward to getting to know you.
Yours,
William


I run my fingers over the words, marveling at the penmanship. The paper is unlined yet the lines are all straight and evenly spaced. The letters are mostly the same height. The style isn’t girlish, not by a long shot. No, it’s definitely masculine, but so pristine. A horrified thought crosses my mind. “Is this your handwriting?” I ask, my cheeks heating, suddenly wondering if he’s had someone else write this. And then someone else would have some sort of knowing. 
A soft chuckle escapes his lips. “It is.” 
“Wow. I’ve never known a guy to have such nice penmanship.”
“It’s…one of my control things.” It sounds like a confession. A gift. 
I take a breath and let it out, and then look in the box. As the note stated, indeed I find six more envelopes of the same expensive stationary, and on the front of each envelope, more tidy handwriting. Each with a day of the week starting with Sunday. 
“I’m trusting you to open only the one for that day. Am I clear?”
His tone is stern and I wonder if he means to say that if I open them before I’m supposed to, like if I were to open them all right now—something I’m on the verge of doing because I’m so curious—would he… punish me? And what would that punishment look like? Feel like? But how would he know?
“Penelope?” he asks, again his tone is firm and unyielding. And comforting.
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“I love hearing you say that, ma belle.”
A small giggle of delight escapes my throat. 
What is going on with me? I’m not typically a giggler. And why does everything he says sound so…sexy? Why does it arouse me so much? 
“Your first assignment is due by tomorrow night at seven p.m.” 
With those words, a naughty thought comes to mind, perhaps inspired by the ‘role playing’ part of the limits list I’d just sent to him, and I answer, “Yes, Professor.” 
“Ooo. We might have to play that some time.”
I let out a shaky breath with an image of William dressed in tweed and wearing glasses, me in a plaid skirt and a crisp white shirt, my hair in pig tails. Would he? Would he want to play naughty scenes out like that? 
More over, would I want to do that?
I decide swiftly that I absolutely would. 
Remembering that I’d wanted to ask him something yesterday, but was overwhelmed with all the talk about my research and the anticipation of the list of limits, I’d forgotten. 
“So, I have this thing Monday night. A restaurant preview. I designed the dining room. It’s in an historical building downtown, and, well, would you like to go with me?”
I hear him take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I would like that very much, however, as much as it pains me to do so, I must decline the invitation.”
“Oh,” I answer, more than a little crestfallen and beyond confused. I ws so sure he’d want to go. Maybe even tell me what to wear, and I wondered if he would have had me dress without panties. But now none of that will be happening. But the big question is Why not?
As if reading my mind he continues. “I think it’s best that go through this week with the distance of not seeing one another. I, for one, felt more than overwhelmed with being in your presence. The sexual energy at the table the other night nearly did me in. As it was, I pulled a move I wouldn’t normally without a confirmed arrangement. I’m afraid I would step over even more boundaries before you are ready.”
His words take me by surprise. All of them. That he doesn’t want to see me? All week? And that he felt overwhelmed by being with me Thursday night. And that he wants to push boundaries. I can’t even imagine what other boundaries he would try to push at a public restaurant when he’d already had me take off my underwear right at the table there other night.
“Was I alone?” William asks, sounding for the first time, a little unsure. 
“No,” I tell him quickly, not even taking a moment to meter my response, as though I needed him to know so desperately. “I felt it too.” Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have given you my panties, I add silently. 
A pleasurable hum passes through the line and I feel it in my belly. 
“I will see you on Friday,” he says—which is news to me, and makes my heart skip a beat. “But please. Don’t let this keep you from the event. You should see your work shine. Undoubtedly the space is brilliant. I want to hear all about it. And you and I will go another time.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I answer, bitting my lip and fighting off tears while wishing we were done with all the homework assignments and I could see him. Wishing it was Friday already and wondering what he has planned.


Sunday


Curled up on my bed, my skin still heated from my soaking, as instructed in the Homework Envelope for today, I tapped the screen to call William. 
The Homework Assignment had been very interesting and kind with a hint of naughtiness.


Penelope, 
I declare today to be Self-Care Sunday for you.
Today, you will take a luxurious bath and before your skin has cooled, and before you’re dressed, call me and tell me all about it.
Affectionately, 
William


At first, I thought it was a very bizarre request, but as I considered it, I recalled that one of the things William confessed to liking—both our conversation the other night and as indicated in his Limits List—he has an affinity for voyeurism, both visual and auditory. 
To satisfy the homework mandates, I pick up my phone and tap the screen to call William, then quickly take a sip of wine to fortify myself for the task ahead of me, as I’m sure this assignment is more than meets the eye.
“Ma belle,” he says, picking up the call on the second ring.
“Monseiur,” I answer feeling breathy. 
“How was your bath?” 
“Wonderful,” I answer simply. “Thank you.” 
“You’re most welcome. Is your skin still warm?” 
“It is.”
I hear him take in a breath. 
“What scent did you choose to bathe in?” I love his voice. His accent.
“Jasmine. I bought a small box of those fizzy bath bombs with essential oils.”
“Sounds lovely,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “I’ll bet your skin is soft and smells amazing.”
I inhaled and yes, I smell divine. I rubbed my hand over the top of my chest and shoulder and delighted in the silkiness. 
“So tell me all about your bath, Penelope. And don’t leave out a single detail,” he growls with that hungry tone in his voice, and the arousal I’d felt earlier in the bath returns. He then adds, “I won’t interrupt. I won’t ask questions. You may begin.”
With a breath, and a quick mental pep talk, I start.
“The bathtub in my bathroom is one of those large clawfoot types. It’s white with chrome feet. One end of the tub is higher than the other. The fixtures are also vintage. Chrome with separate taps and a hand sprayer. As the hot water ran and the room filled with steam, I started up some streaming music that plays traditional French songs, lit a few candles, and put my hair up in a loose twist so it wouldn’t get wet.”
I listen for William to say something, or make a comment, but he doesn’t. I do hear him breathing though, so I know the line hasn’t dropped. 
“When the tub was most of the way filled, I tossed in the bath bomb. It fizzed and released its scent filling the bathroom with the delicate jasmine aroma. I folded a fluffy white towel and draped it over the high back of the tub and dropped my bathrobe over the nearby towel rack. And then I carefully stepped in, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I reminded myself a little of a Degas painting, from his series of women bathing.” 
I listen carefully to William’s breathing on the other end of the line. I wish I knew if he was happy with how I’m telling things or not. 
“I sunk down into the water and settled in with my head against the towel. I lay there for a moment or two, letting the warm water relax my muscles and feeling the bath bomb fizzing down near my feet. When I ran my fingers over my arms, I could feel the water was already feeling a little slippery with the oils in the bomb. Then I ran my hands over my belly… and then up over my breasts,” I say, my voice shaky and small, my nerves climbing with every word. 
I almost tell William I can’t do this, that I can’t tell him all of what I did in that bath. But then I notice William’s breathing has picked up a little, so I take another sip of wine and continue. 
“I ran little circles around my nipples and they grew into little pebbles.” I hear a small growl and smile to myself, and realize my nipples have hardened again and I want to touch myself, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to. William didn’t say I couldn’t, but I had to do something to relieve the ache building anew between my legs. So, I slip a hand into my robe gently sliding the pad of my finger across the turgid nub of sensitive skin. “I imagined it was you doing that to me, Monsieur. And doing that sent a shiver right down between my legs.” 
A feral-like groan is my reward and I smile to myself. 
“I let my hands drift to cup and squeeze my breasts before skating them down over my belly again, but I don’t touch myself between my legs. Not yet. I ran my hands over my thighs enjoying the silkiness then bring them up the outsides of my thighs and back down toward my knees before letting my hands slide toward my inner thighs.”
Before I continue I hear a soft zip sound and a rustle of fabric. Is he taking himself out? Is he going to, as the Brits say, wank off? I squeeze my thighs together with the thrill that my words have turned him on so much. I wonder what else I’ll get to hear as I retell about my bath. 
With renewed confidence, I continue. “Then I curled my fingers slightly and dragged my fingernails lightly up the insides of my thighs enjoying the light rasp in the hot water. But I still didn’t touch myself, not there anyway,” I tell him coyly. 
Heaving breaths sound down the line sending a shiver down my spine and somehow I know he’s stroking himself.
“I ran my finger tips through the curls at my mound and then back to my inner thighs, again dragging my nails down then back up, this time coming all the way back up to my breasts.” 
My own skin is tingling with the memory and I’m definitely wet between my legs. 
I’m certain, when I strain my ear, that I hear the soft whoosh of skin on skin and I imagine watching him shuttle his hand up and down his shaft. I’d never openly watched a man touch himself. Most everything I’d done with my ex had been in the dark and under the covers. I’d never even really thought I’d want to see something like that, but now I’m finding that I do. That I definitely do. 
“Go on,” I hear him whisper urgently, and I realize I’d stopped talking. 
“Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, my breasts. I ran my fingers over and around them. I rolled my nipples between my fingers, enjoying a little zing that traveled through me. Then with one hand still on a breast, my left hand slid back down to my inner thighs. And this time I let a finger ghost over my folds and slide between them. When I reached the top, a twinkling of electricity tingled through me. The whole time I was imagining you doing the touching.” 
“Jeezus,” he grunts quietly. 
Trepidation again fills my gut, but I continue. “Then I turned on the hand sprayer and pulled the unit down under the water and first ran it over my breasts, the tiny little sprays with water warmer than the bath ran over my skin and I brought it down between my legs.”
“Yesss,” he hissed. 
“It felt so wonderful.” 
I sat back, my story complete, and I finished the last sip of wine.
Finally, William breaks the silence, his voice strained, “And then what? Did you come?” 
With my cheeks way hotter than the water, I answer honestly. “No.” 
“No?” he practically barks. “Wh—why not?”
I swallow the lump of humiliation in my throat and fight to find the words. 
“I—I, um, just… well, I don’t do that? Good girls don’t do that, right?” I’d not grown up in a religious home. It wasn’t like that. I don’t know where the notion came from, but it was something that felt permanent? “And also, I didn’t know I was allowed to? I’d read on the blogs… and well… I’m sor—”
Perhaps sensing my sincere fluster, he speaks up, cutting me off. “It’s okay, ma belle.” He takes a deep breath and I hear some shifting of clothing. “I’m glad you shared with me. Honestly.”
“I’m sorry,” I tried again, but again, he didn’t let me finish.
“You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. This was fantastic. You created some wonderful images for me. I look forward to watching things blossom. You did very well.”
I worry that I’ve completely failed him. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to…complete. I just…couldn’t.
“I wish I were there to hug you and let you know that everything is fine. More than fine.” 
Something in his tone is very comforting. I absolutely believe what he says. I love that he just tells me he wants to hug me. Not do things to me. “Me too,” I reply.
“Tonight, Sweet Penelope,” he says and my heart leaps into my throat at his gentle words, not at all prepared for his next words. “I want you to touch yourself. More. I want you to know what you like. Stroke your clit. Slide your fingers inside yourself. Pretend it’s me, if you need to. Make yourself come.” 
My heart was now thundering in my ears. Could I do that?


Monday


I didn’t get much sleep last night. As per my ‘new homework,’ I did some touching and exploring. I didn’t orgasm, but I got close. 
With a combination of nerves and excitement, while I sip my morning coffee, I open the envelope for today. 


Penelope, 
I hope you have a wonderful day today.
Email me by 9pm with 10 things you like about yourself, but only 3 that you do not. 
I hold you in my thoughts,
William


At first I’m surprised that the assignment isn’t sexual in nature. Immediately followed by relief. 
In fact, the assignment is quite thoughtful. I think it should be no problem to do this one, but yet, I find myself able to quickly come up with a few things I like, and I find it far easier to come up with things I do not. 
Why is it we do that to ourselves? I wonder.
Determined to take this assignment seriously, and not rush forward, I head up to get dressed and decide to take the day to come up with a well thought out list.


That night, I have the restaurant preview at ALT. I almost don’t go, the idea of sitting alone for dinner very unappealing at the least. But I go because I said I would, and I’m always a woman of my word. And I support my friends, and the restaurant owner, Carlo, has become a friend. 
When I arrive, Carlo is sad that I’m a party of one, but he does make sure everyone in the restaurant, staff and guests, know I was the vision behind the dining room, and I make a few connections for potential work in the future. And, the food is phenomenal. 
I get home around eight and realize I have only an hour to get my list written and sent to William. After about forty-five minutes of brainstorming ideas, a list that generates way more dislikes than likes, I choose the ten and three, and sit down to complete the assignment.


Hello Monsieur William, 
I hope you had a good day. 
I will admit, this assignment wasn’t as easy as it looked. But I’ve given a lot of consideration to the task, and as requested, my lists: 


10 things I like about myself.
1. I’m kind
2. I’m careful
3. I’m generous
4. I’m loyal
5. I’m a good cook
6. I’m good at my job
7. I’m open-minded
8. I love learning new things
9. I love my name
10. I like the way I look


3 Things I don’t like about myself
1. I wish I could let go of the past
2. I wish I were more confident/didn’t care so much what other people think
3. I wish I weren’t so indecisive


I pause when I get to the closing of the email. How should I sign it? I want to be respectful and let him know how much I appreciate him. I don’t want to be to formal and stuffy, nor too needy or clingy. 
But I can’t deny the connection I’m already feeling. Perhaps in haste, especially given that there are only three more minutes for me to get my homework submitted, I type: 


Yours, 
Penelope


With a huge breath, I hit send and swiftly get up to refill my wine glass. 
I take a big gulp of wine and try to calm my racing heart, wishing I’d read over my list one more time before I hit send. Or given more thought to how I signed the note. Has William gotten my email yet? If he did, what is he thinking? And if he hasn’t, where is he? What is he doing? 
I try and distract myself from my email by turning my attention to work especially making sure I have everything ready for meeting the Clarkes tomorrow and previewing their 1894 home, and reviewing my lesson plan for teaching tomorrow afternoon.
However, I’m not allowed but a few minutes before a notification pops up on my computer alerting me that I have a new email in my inbox. 
One from Brandt, William.


“I think it was. I believe you missed several things though.”
“Oh?” 
“I’d like to send you my own list.”
He has a list? Of 10 things he likes about me and 3 things he doesn’t? I don’t know how I feel about that. Do I want to see his list? Again, my thoughts go to Peter. I’d bet that like me, it would have been easier for him to come up with 10 things he doesn’t like. Maybe not even 3 things he does. 
“Penelope. Where did you go?” William asks. 
“I’m sorry. Um, sure. I guess I’d like to see your list.” 
“I’ll send it momentarily,” he tells me. “And I’d love to talk more, but I have a mountain of work I need to finish before tomorrow. And I can’t wait to talk to you tomorrow.”
We say goodnight, and I anxiously wait for his email. I don’t know if it’s good or bad that he doesn’t make me wait long. It’s only been three minutes when my phone pings with an alert of an incoming email. 




Penelope,
I had a good day today, thank you. 
Although I’m still stuck at the offices, going over a case with the partners. 
I had hoped to be home by now, but—such is the nature of the job.
I hope yours was peaceful and productive.


Thank you for your list. It’s a good, but you missed some things. And so, if I may: 


I stop reading a minute to gain my bearings. For starters that it seems I won’t be talking to him today. But also—and maybe alarmingly--he has list about me?
I take a breath, and read on. 


10 Things I Like about you
1. Your eyes are like windows into your soul. I can see you quietly clearly.
2. There’s nothing about you that doesn’t exude sensuality. 
3. I love how you blush easily.
4. Your voice is like a melody.
5. I admire your honesty.
6. I like how patient you are.
7. I like your sense of adventure and openness to new things. (Like all of these homework assignments) 
8. You’re incredibly sweet.
9. You’re very considerate.
10. I love how I feel I can be myself with you.


3 Things I don’t like
Well, there’s nothing I don’t like, so let me say this… 
1. I don’t like how you’re trapped in the past. I want to help you let go.
2. I see a very confident person. I hope to help you see it for yourself.
3. Indecisiveness isn’t a bad thing, but a good Dominant will help you with that. 


I’m very much looking forward to tomorrow’s assignment. 
And with a chance to speak with you again instead of email. 
Yours, 
William 


P.S. You didn’t mention how things went at the restaurant. Was it good? I don’t have to ask about how the feedback was on the interior as I’m sure it was wonderfully received. 
P.P.S. Tomorrow is your big meeting with the potential historical restoration, correct? Sending you the best wishes. I hope you have fun and connect well with the owners. 


I feel tingly and special all over. I wish I saw myself the way he does. And the 3 Things… They give me hope. 


Tuesday - 


I pull the hand chain and can just barely make out the tinkling of bells on the other side of the custom twelve-foot tall, four-foot wide front door. Everything about this home is amazing and has my heart pounding with an eagerness to land this project—a massive home of more then 9,000 square feet on eleven idyllic acres. It has seen better days and it’s clear that some original features have been altered which is an absolute shame, but the idea of putting everything to right and bringing the property back to it’s glory excites in such an intense way, but I’m having a hard time focusing after reading my homework assignment this morning. 


Tease Me Tuesday, Penelope, 
Write up a fantasy of yours. Not a new one. Tell me one that has been in your thoughts for a while now. A go-to fantasy that you use to get yourself off when you’re alone. 
Please turn in your homework by 8pm.
Yours,
William 


It’s clear he wrote the assignments up before I made my confession yesterday—that I don’t masturbate. 
That said, I do have new fantasies. Things based on what I’ve seen. Learned. 
But an old one? 
I think to my married days. Days when I wish Peter would desire me. But I didn’t fantasize about anything. I just desperately wanted him to want me. Before I’d had sex with Peter that first time, I had my stupid little fantasy of what my first time would be like, and of course that was a colossal joke. Damn film industry. 
The massive door opens and I’m yanked from my very non-interior designing thoughts. 
“You must be Penelope,” a beautiful woman with long chestnut brown hair says, her eyes kind and smile warm. She’s stylishly dressed and exudes a confidence in a way that says she says could do anything if she only gave the barest effort. 
“I am,” I say with a smile of my own. “And you must be Mrs. Clarke.” I extend my hand to shake hers, which she takes. 
Gently wrapping her other hand around mine, she says, “Please. Call me Alaina.”
She leads me into the foyer and calls toward the back, “Ian! Penelope is here!” She turns back to me and brushes her long hair over her shoulder casually. “So…  
We dive in and she gives me a tour of the six bedroom, nine bathroom home which takes nearly an hour, and all along, I snap photos of the spaces (with their permission) and take down notes, both tasks helping to keep me focused on work and not fantasies. The home had been very poorly maintained and haphazardly outfitted with atrocities like the paint covering the mahogany paneled rooms, wall-to-wall, olive green shag carpeting that probably looked good in 1968, if I had to guess a date of installation, but is completely inappropriate for an 1894 home. And the saddest part is the kitchen which had been done very recently with extremely modern appliances and materials.
“And the secret speakeasy?” I ask when the tour winds down. 
“Sorry?” Alaina asks, blinking blankly. 
“My research said that there’s a cellar under the carriage house that had been converted to a secret bar during the Prohibition days. There was a major bust one night with several arrests,” I tell her, pulling out my tablet to show her the article I’d gotten from the historical society.
“This is incredible,” Ian said, scanning the document. “We had no idea! You’ve really done your homework,” he says, sounding impressed. 
But hearing Ian use the word homework does all sorts of things to my belly and my thoughts are immediately back on William and this fantasy assignment I’d been given. 
Fortunately, the Clarkes can’t read my thoughts and suddenly we’re off in search of the cellar. It takes us a while going through the carriage house looking for any indication of an entrance, but I finally find it—a secret panel at the back of a closet, the only indication of which was a grimy spot where what looked like a plain wall had been pushed on repeatedly. The stairwell is narrow and dark, and while we find switches, nothing lights up. So, with our phones all lit with the built in flashlights, we head down into the cobwebby depths. 
The footprint is as large as the carriage house above, but the ceilings are only about six-feet high, and poor Ian has to hunch. “Guess people weren’t six-four back in the day, huh?” he jokes. 
But otherwise, the space is, more or less, in tact. Beautiful lighting fixtures, a gorgeous heavy wood bar surrounded by stools and glasses still sitting on the counter top. Mirrors behind the bar. Shelves with bottles of alcohol, a couple dozen chairs and bar stools, four tables. 
The Clarkes are all for refurbishing the space and we collectively hope to get the speakeasy into the historical registry in town. 
“So, does this mean…” I start to ask, my hopes at an all time high.
“Absolutely. You’re hired!” Alaina says, her husband nodding. 
The thrill from landing the Clarke job carries me through the day, straight through the class I teach at the community college. I nail the lesson and am feeling invincible. Until my drive home and I realize I have only two hours to turn in my homework.  
Wracking my brain, I have to go all the way back to the very start of my sophomore year of high school. From before I started dating Peter. And there was one scenario I do remember conjuring about Joe Owens, the JV football quarterback.
At home, I throw together a quick dinner of pasta primavera, and then curl up to put my thoughts down.  
Staring at the blinking cursor on the screen, I take a deep breath. 


In high school, I was a cheerleader. This was my fantasy then.
It’s football season. The team had just won. As was the tradition, there was a party to celebrate, only the football team and cheerleaders, along with significant others. We all took turns hosting the party and it was my week to host. My parents were cool about it, and we all pretty much hung out in the back yard on the deck and patio. And then I feel one of the football players behind me. He tells me I’m the best cheerleader on the squad. And that I look the best of all the other girls in my uniform. 
He tells me that seeing my panties when I was up on the top of the pyramid made him hot and he drags me into the house and we start making out. He’s a really good kisser. Not sloppy like the other guys. Not that I had kissed many, but I had kissed enough. 
But I don’t want my parents to find us, so I sneak him up to my bedroom. There we kiss more and he takes off my top. He tells me he likes my breast. That they’re the perfect size. 
He takes off his clothes except for his shorts and starts kissing me again, feeling my boobs. He takes off my panties, but leaves my cheer skirt on. He tells me he likes it. 
We climb onto my bed and he starts kissing me everywhere. I must grip his back too tightly, because he makes me hold onto my wrought iron headboard. He tells me that he can’t have scratch marks on his back or people will ask him questions and he doesn’t want to have to tell them that it was me who gave them to him. I don’t want people to know either, so I hold onto the bars above my head. 
In turn, I tell him we have to be super quiet. My parents are just down the hall. 
Whispering, he asks me if I’ve had sex before. 
I’m honest and tell him I have not. 
He smiles. 
Suddenly, his shorts are gone and he’s rolling a condom onto himself. 
He lines himself up with me and then quickly is inside of me. 
We rock like that for a while and then I’m ready. And so is he. We come together. 
Silently. 
And then it’s over. 
He’s nice. He doesn’t just get up and leave. 
But soon I hear my friends calling for me. 
We get dressed in a snap and head out, me first, him a few minutes later and we rejoin the party with no one the wiser. 
He moves a week later and I never see him again. 


When I finish, I’m squirming in my seat and ready to delete the whole thing. I feel ridiculous, but also so turned on remembering those days. I remember being so naughty thinking those thoughts. And then I started dating Peter, and I had different fantasies.
Will he think it’s silly? I mean, it’s from high school. And not super detailed. 
I consider dropping in a bunch of “Notes” like:
~ The parties were real. The events above were not. In fact, the time I hosted, one guy broke into the liquor cabinet and my parents tried to make me quit the cheerleading team. I did not, but I wasn’t allowed to host the after parties any longer. 
~ We didn’t cheer with just panties under our skirts. We wore cheer shorts over our panties.
~ I was never very confident. I always felt scrawny next to my curvier teammates. 
~ I’ve never been super happy with my bra size. 
~ I was a virgin until I was seventeen. I married the guy. He’s the only guy I had been with.
~ I never touched myself with those thoughts. 
But I decide against all that. After all, he’d asked for a fantasy, not a psych evaluation of my teenager fantasies. 
I glance at the clock and see that I have just ten minutes left to get the piece to him, so I hold my breath and just click send. What’s the worst that can happen? As of yet, he’s been nothing but understanding and supportive. 
Fifteen minutes later, I get a call.
With a lump in my throat, I answer it. “Hello, monsieur.” 
“Penelope, ma belle. How was your day? How did the meeting go with the potential client?”
Really? He’s asking about my day? Not mentioning the email? “It was…great,” I tell him. “I, um, got the job.”
“That’s my girl,” he says, pride in his voice. I don’t know how I know, but it’s not a pride for him. Peter might have said something similar, but he would somehow claim my achievements as a reflection on him. No. William sounds proud for me.
“Thank you. I’m really looking forward to the challenge. It will be a lot of work, but it will be equally rewarding.” 
“I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“How was your day?” I ask, throwing small talk back his way—also ignoring the email I’d just sent.
I hear him take a breath. “Much better after getting your email.” Okay, so we’re not ignoring the assignment after all. “That was a lovely little fantasy. Thank you for trusting me enough to share.” The way he says it is like liquid chocolate, rich and thick. 
“You’re welcome.” 
“Maybe one day we can make it come true, if you’re feeling comfortable living it out that is.” 
My pulse races and I feel like I can’t breathe. Sex? With me dressed in a cheer costume. With my parents down the hall? Or some measure of getting discovered? Would he cuddle me afterward? Would he leave and I’d never see him again?
As if reading my mind he says, “Everything but the moving away. I hope to see you again and again. And quiet sex can be fun, but so can really loud sex,” he adds, a definite growl in his voice. 
I swallow hard imagining the kind of sex that would make me scream out loud. 
I want to ask him to share a fantasy of his. Would he? Or would that be out of the boundaries of being a submissive? 
“What is it, ma belle?” he asks, as though he knows I’m grappling with so many questions.
“I—I was just wondering if you might share one of yours with me.”
“A fantasy?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Oh, I have many. I hope to live them out with you. But yes. I will share a quick one. How about I email it, and maybe you can use it with that supplemental assignment I gave you Sunday night.”
My body tingles with excitement and anticipation. I feel so naughty. That he is about to send me a fantasy of his… one I’m supposed to “enjoy,” his intention perfectly clear. I tell him, “I would like that, Monsieur.” 
“Please give me a little time. I need to finish writing up this prospectus for a shareholders meeting tomorrow. Go relax, eat some supper, and watch a little Netflix. I’ll text you once I’ve sent it.” 
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
“My… no… our pleasure.” 
It’s difficult to eat or concentrate on the show I’d been binging while I wait for his email, my ear is acutely attuned in anticipation of an alert from my phone. Eventually I head to my office and throw myself into drafting and sketching out some ideas for the Clarke’s house.
Finally, around nine my phone pings and I nearly jump out of my skin. His text is simple. I’ve sent a quick fantasy. Enjoy. Play. Sleep well. 
Nervously, yet eagerly, I tap my phone and open up his email. 


Penelope,
I have many fantasies. Some have been in my thoughts for quite some time. Many are newer. I hope to live out a few of them with you soon. 
Perhaps this one. 
We’re in a darkened room. Well, mostly dark. I’m in a sturdy armchair in the corner. In the dark. You are bare… On the bed which is dressed in black sheets which I imagine would be quite a stark contrast to your oh-so-pale skin. Above the bed is a light. It’s directional. Shining straight down on the bed.
You are the star of the show. 
I’ve started some music, it’s a low, sensual, wordless tune with an undulating, driving beat. 
“Touch yourself,” I tell you.
“Where?” you ask.
I ask you to feel anywhere and tell me how soft your skin is.


At present, my skin is nearly on fire reading this. I slip my hand under my tank top and across my belly and yes, my skin is super soft. 


I tell you to touch your breasts. Your nipples. I ask you if they’re sensitive. You tell me they are. And I can see them. They respond eagerly to your touch.


I think back to the text message where he’d told me to Enjoy. And play. So I run around my house, turn off all the lights and lock the doors before running back upstairs and snuggling into bed. Naked. And I start reading the fantasy again, my free hand at my breast as if by command. Playing with my nipples. I feel so bawdy. And I love it!
I return to his email and, as per his fantasy, I play with my nipples and continue reading, beat by beat, following his commands including gentle touches, rough touches, sliding my fingers inside of me…playing with my clit. I’m panting and a thin sheen of perspiration is coating my skin as I climb higher and higher toward a climax.
Even in his fantasy he can see how worked up I’m getting and he tells me to stop. As I read those words, I respond as if they’re a spoken command. I’m breathless as I read the next parts where he watches for my breath to level out before I can touch myself again. And when he allows it in the written fantasy, my fingers eagerly return to their task.
He describes my breathing. He describes seeing my pulse in my ‘slender neck.’ He talks about my blushing—not just my cheeks, but my chest and how my pussy goes from pink to red, swollen and juicy. 
And I’m all those things. I don’t need his words anymore. I finish the job. Imagining William, his bright blue eyes watching me from the dark. With a satisfying explosion starting in my center, I feel myself quake and quiver. And it’s magnificent!
I can’t help but wonder… Maybe I have a touch of exhibitionist in me to balance his voyeuristic bend. 
But I don’t think about it much. I’m worn out. 
I quickly drift off to sleep.


Wednesday


I wake up after the soundest sleep I can recall in some time. 
And a wicked little smile pulls on my lips as I remember the evening I had with myself. I never would have imagined doing what I did, all the while imagining William directing me exactly what to do. Watching me. 
Usually my first thought in the morning is how much I need my coffee. 
Not this morning. No. I dash downstairs and head straight for the box with the assignments, not even giving a sideways glance to the kitchen and the coffeemaker, my morning elixir already brewed—ready and waiting.
I practically tear open the envelope to find out what my assignment is today. I say practically because I am doing my best to keep everything in as best a condition as possible…for posterity. One day—if things work out or they don’t, either way I’m going to come back and revisit these messages. 


Penelope,
Tonight will be Game Night. 
The game: Would You Rather — #WouldYouRatherWednesday.
(I hope you’re familiar with the game.)
Today, come up with 3 “Would You Rather” questions for me, and I will come up with 3 for you. 
One caveat. The questions must be naughty in nature. Kinky even.
Like the earlier assignments, we’re getting to know one another.
I will call you at 9 tonight, and we will play. 
You’ll be in my thoughts,
William
 
I know the game. I used to play with friends back in college. The questions always started out philosophically like, Would you rather be deaf or blind? Or Would you rather be short and have a perfect body or tall and be unfit? And eventually the questions would devolve into more naughty like Would you rather accidentally send a naughty text to your boss or your dad? Or Would you rather have a one night stand with a perfect stranger or a close friend? The questions never really got too naughty. Or too kinky. 
I have no idea where to start. 
As the day goes along my mind is consumed with coming up with questions. Some of the questions that come to mind, I’m not really sure are naughty enough. Some questions, well, I’m not really sure I want to know the answer. 


As usual, I’m the first one to arrive at our weekly Happy Hour. Sipping a glass of chardonnay, I stare at my phone’s Notes app and try and come up with a third question.
“Texting with William?” Shannon says, startling me. 
I quickly put my phone down and turn to her. “No. Just typing up some notes.” And so she doesn’t push for more information about William, I fib and tell her they’re notes for the Clarke’s renovation; that I got the job.
We chat about that for a few minutes, and then I continue to distract her with questions about her flight down to visit Nate’s parents, and how all of that went. I listen, sincerely thrilled for her, with each detail and bit of news.
Finally Laura joins us, her phone glued to her ear and rolling her eyes. “Okay, I gotta go. We’ll talk later,” she says and ends the call and dramatically drops her phone in her purse. “He’s driving me crazy!” she says, leaning in for a hug with me and then with Shannon. 
“Who?” I ask,
“Renato,” she answers. That’s a new name. “I met him at the club on Friday, and excuse me, Penn, you totally should have been there. The band was awesome. And a lot of really hot guys there.” I just shake my head and smile at her. “Anyway. I met Rrrrenatooo,” she says, rolling the r and drawing out the o. “He’s Brazilian and, holy shit, the man is built and sexy and has the stamina of a GOD! Must be all the samba and lambada dances he grew up mastering in Brazil. I wish Alexander could watch what Renato does. He might learn a thing or two.” 
Shannon and I both laugh remembering how Laura lusted after Alexander, this guy who owns the specialty foods shop a few doors down from her bakery, for weeks. But when he finally asked her out, he turned out to be a dud in bed. “A two-pump chump,” she’d called him.
But her comment gets me thinking…And I suddenly have my third question for William tonight. 
“But,” Laura continues. “I might have to send him packing.” 
“Why? What did he do?” I ask. I would like to be shocked at the fact that this guy didn’t even last a week. 
“I just wish he would say what he means, mean what he says, and do what he says he’s going to do. Is that too much to ask?”
“For most men, yes,” Shannon confirms. 
But I can’t help think about William. That’s exactly who William is. He’s says exactly what he means. He seems to mean everything he says. And so far he’s done what he’s said he would do. And it’s ridiculously sexy, I add to myself.
“What about you?” Shannon asks, turning her attention on me, a curious glint in her eye.
Does she know? Had William told Nate everything? And then Nate told Shannon? 
“What do you mean?” I ask, my heart pounding. “What about me?”
Without missing a beat, Shannon rests her chin in her hand, and says, “I’m just wondering how things went with William. You’ve been very quiet. All week. I mean, we talked on Friday, but you’d only said you probably would have a second date with him. I haven’t heard anything since. Any sparks? Anything on the calendar for that second date? Come on, you can’t leave me hanging.”
“And if not,” Laura says, chiming in, “my offer still stands to bring you to the clubs. You can find your own Rrrrenatooo. For the sex part anyway.”
I laugh at Laura as Shannon swats at her arm. “Give her a chance to tell us about how things went with William first.” 
I decide to give Shannon a little crumb of hope, and get Laura and her clubbing off my back a little. It might end up being nothing, but it feels wrong to not tell them anything. The are my best friends. I’m not about to tell them about the assignments, but I do tell them, “William and I’ve made plans for Friday,” even though I don’t fully know what to expect on Friday. I may show up and run the other way in the first five minutes. 
Shannon squeals and claps her hands. “I knew it! I just knew it! I knew you two would hit it off! We’re going to have so much fun hanging together at the company holiday parties!”
I want to tell her to hold her horses before she buys a dress to wear to our wedding or start naming our kids. It’s only going to be a second date. But after this week of assignments, a part of me is in agreement with Shannon. That indeed William and I have ‘hit it off.’ 
With both Shannon and Laura satisfied that I’m at least in the game a little, conversation turns to Shannon’s pregnancy and more of our regular chit chat. 


When 9:00pm rolls around and my phone rings, I my three questions written down so I don’t have to look at my phone. I’m rather looking forward to asking them, even if I am a little fearful of the questions William may have come up with for me. 
“Bon soir, monsieur,” I say answering the call, feeling bold and cheeky. 
“Well, bon soir, ma belle. You sound like you’ve had a good day.” 
“I have, yes. Thank you. And yourself? How was your day?” 
Without violating confidentialities, he tells me a little about a client of his who has found himself in some corporate hot water and the mountain of work he’s facing over the next couple of weeks, but then his tone changes. 
“But, I didn’t call to talk about work,” he says. “We are scheduled to play a game. Would You Rather… Are you ready?”
“Oui, monsieur. I am.”
“Would you like to ask first or answer first?”
Suddenly I’m feeling a little chicken about my questions. “I’ll answer,” I tell him, but then wonder if that was a good move. 
“Very well. Would you rather always be surprised in bed or always know what’s coming next?”
I’m a planner by nature. I like to know what’s coming. I need it. But somehow…with this question? In this context? I’m conflicted. These past few days have been full of surprises. And I’ve thoroughly enjoyed them. “Surprised,” I answer. 
“Mmmm,” he moans. “Your turn.” 
With my belly full of butterflies, and grateful William can’t see my, assuredly, bright red cheeks, I take a deep breath in, and slowly release it. Then, focusing on the paper in front of me,  I clear my throat for my first question. “Would you rather have me walk around all the time without panties on,” I start, clearly referencing our first date, “and not be able to touch any part of me? Or have me fully dressed and touch me when ever you want?”
“Well that is a very exciting question indeed,” he says sounding impressed. “Now, part of the fun with you being knickerless is that I would have easier access to you…with my fingers…my mouth…or my cock.” His voice is possessive and almost feral sounding. “Would I be able to look at you in your lingerie?”
I wasn’t aware that asking questions was a part of this game, but I decide to play along. “Sure,” I answer. 
“And would I be able to slip my fingers into your panties and feel your soft, wet lips? Or shift the crotch to the side for my tongue to lick you? And bury my cock inside of you?”
This man sure does know how to get a woman’s blood pumping! And boy is it coursing through me with wicked abandon and anticipation, heating and sensitizing me everywhere. I swallow, and slowly release my breath. “I suppose, yes, you could.” 
“Then fully dressed it is,” he decides triumphantly. ”Now, my turn. Let’s see…” he says. “Okay, ma belle. Would you rather have me whisper dirty things to you in a crowded room with your friends nearby or find a dark hallway and have my way with you where someone might discover us?”
My mind spins wildly. I know full well that if he whispered anything suggestive while my friends were near by, I’d be crimson and flustered. My friends would know something would be up. They’d have an ear open for sure. “The darkened hallway,” I say, my voice trembling. The very thought of being made love to, or whatever his plans might be, where we might be caught—but not exactly a given—is a bit thrilling. I can’t help but think about the fantasy I’d sent him yesterday, and the part about needing to be quiet so my parents being down the hall. At least he hadn’t suggested public sex in front of strangers.
“Lovely,” he growls. “What’s your next question?”
“Okay.” Clearing my throat, I look over my other two questions. I decide to go with the one inspired by Laura, as it also leans into one of his self-admitted pleasure. “Would you rather have your ex watch you with me, or my ex watch us?” I ask.
He lets out a whoosh of air. “Wow. That’s a good one.” He hums with thought and then answers, “I think I would like to prove to your husband that he lost the best thing in the world.”
The best thing in the world? How can he be so certain of that when we haven’t even kissed yet? Oh my god! I think to myself, realizing that, indeed, we haven’t kissed. He’s kissed the back of my hand. He kissed my cheek when we said goodnight after the blind date dinner at The Stanton. I haven’t even seen him since. We’ve had incredibly frank discussions about sex and sexual acts. I’m feeling definitely overwhelmed that a high bar has been set for me. 
But then I think of Peter watching…Learning. And knowing that he will never ever touch me again. I don’t want him to ever be good in bed. Although it’s not nice, I hope he will always be a terrible lover. And I definitely don’t even want his eyes on me. I just hope that William isn’t disappointed when we finally get together.
“My turn,” he says, graciously not acknowledging my silence. “How about…would you rather…have a threesome in private or the best orgasm of your life in public.” 
Well, so much for sex acts in public, I think to myself, recalling my earlier thought about the dark hallway. But the current question. If I’m honest, the answer is neither, but that’s not the game. I have to choose one. But which one? I mean, who wouldn’t want the best orgasm of her life, but in public? I don’t think I could get off in any public setting. And as for a third person? I guess I have questions. “Is the third person a man or a woman? ” I ask, and then quickly tack on my second question. “And who is the third person for? You or me?”
“Very astute questions,” he asks, delight in his tone. “I’m really open to anything, but for the purposes oof this game…how about another man…for you.”
Oh! My mouth goes dry wondering what his thoughts are with this setup. 
“Imagine it, Penelope. Four hands on your body…” he says with a groan. “Two mouths…” My belly clenches imagining the very notion. “Two cocks…” he adds. 
My heart thunders so loudly in my ears, I don’t think I could hear an air horn right now.
Would I have to service both…cocks? And how would I need to do that, exactly? Or would the purpose of the third person be strictly for my pleasure? William has said several times that his greatest thrill is giving pleasure…So, in what way should I be getting pleasure from that second cock? 
I want to ask my questions, but I can’t seem to find the wherewithal to do so. With my cheeks burning, I answer, “The threesome in private.”
I swear he pants on the other end of the call. Does the thought really excite him? Does it excite me? The way my lady bits are clenching, I…I think it does.  
 “Okay. Your question,” he says, snapping me out of my dizzying thoughts. “And I believe this brings us to our final question of the game,” he adds. 
I look over my last question trying to decide if I should ask it. I’m not sure I want to know the answer. It might mean the end of the road for William and me. But I don’t have any other questions to pose. And my brain is just stuck to come up with anything else. So, with a deep breath in and a slow release, I ask my final question. “Um, would you rather only have kinky sex forever but be mediocre? Or only vanilla sex forever but be really good at it?” 
He’s quiet. Uncomfortably so. Have I insulted him with this question? “Before I answer, can I ask a question?” I’m taken aback. He’s not asked if he could ask questions before. He sounds…nervous. Uneasy. 
“Yes,” I manage, my voice barely a squeak. 
“Are you nervous about experimenting with…kinky sex?” 
My heart thunders in my ears. I take a breath. And then another. “A little,” I answer honestly. 
“Penelope, I promise. With all that I am, I will never push you too far.”
I believe him. 
“I want to try…I want to expand my boundaries,” I tell him. 
“And I take that trust very seriously. My vow to you.” 
“Thank you,” I tell him feeling comforted. 
“Okay, ma belle. It’s late. You should get some sleep. I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” he says, a wicked little lilt to his British accent. 
“Good night, monsieur.” 
It’s only after I set my phone down, do I realize he didn’t answer the question.



Thursday 


Thursday’s assignment feels a little disappointing when I open it. It simply reads:


Penelope,
Tomorrow is the day. Date night. 
Hopefully more. 
Tonight, call me. 
10 PM. 
Make sure your phone’s battery is charged.
Yours, 
William


It’s not really an assignment, and not at all sexy, aside from the reference to tomorrow, so I’m a little confused. 
And all day, I’m more than distracted with this thought. This assignment that isn’t. 
Once I’m at home, I do everything I can to keep my thoughts on what William has in mind for tonight. I make myself dinner then lock up the house, take a shower and get dressed for bed. In my room, I try and watch TV but I’m not really paying attention to any of it. And when my phone chimes at five minutes to ten, an alert I’d set up so I wouldn’t be late calling him, my body erupts with nerves. 
Yet precisely at 10PM, I hit that little green call button. 
The phone rings. And then rings again. I pick up the letter and read it again, making sure it said PM not AM. That I hadn’t missed some morning call, but no. Definitely says PM. 
“Hello,” he says smoothly, finally picking up the call on the fourth ring. 
Relief floods my body at the sound of his voice. “Hi,” I answer, sounding both breathy and shy.
“Did you have a good day?”
“I did. Kind of distracted.”
“Oh?” he asks. 
“I mean, not like yesterday. Coming up with those questions for you…and anticipating your questions…and answers,” I explain. 
He clears his throat, “Yes,” he says. “And, I must apologize for not answering your final question.” 
I had already decided that his comment about not pushing me too far was his answer—that he wants, or needs, the kinky sex dynamic. I hold my breath as I wait for him to continue. 
“I have to say, that at this point, having gotten to know you the way that I have, I want to be with you. And if that means a vanilla life, I would try—since I’d get to be really good at it.” 
The last part is issued with a groan—like a promise, an incredibly sexy promise—and the breath I’m holding leaves my lungs, my heart racing.
“I also wanted to tell you, you’ve been very good all week long with your assignments.”
“Thank you,” I say, my body flushing all over.
“And what are you up to now?” 
“Just in bed in my P.J.s,” I tell him, and then giggle a bit, but I don’t know why.
“And what does my sweet Penelope wear to bed?”
“Just a t-shirt and lounge pants.”
“Panties under the lounge pants?”
“Noooo,” I answer, drawing out the o, as it dawns on me what the assignment tonight is. Maybe why he’s arranged this call so late in the day. He’s planning on phone sex. The mere talking about fantasies other night was difficult enough, how am I going to handle this?
“I’ve been thinking about you, thinking about this, all day,” he says. It makes my heart skip a beat. “Let’s play,” he says. 
Suddenly, there’s a ringing on my phone. I look at the screen to see that William is requesting to have a FaceTime call. My pulse hammers in my fingers as I grip the phone tightly, rapidly debating what I’m about to do. A video call?
Yet, before my internal debate has even begun, I tap the screen to convert the audio call to FaceTime, and suddenly, the screen comes alive with William’s face. Almost immediately, his worried expression turns to one of joy. A smile breaks out on his face and I find myself wondering, Did his lips look so inviting last week?  
“There you are,” he says. 
My eyes snap to his—and his blue eyes, which seem bluer than I remember, sparkle. 
“Hi,” I answer, then catch the side of my lower lip in my teeth to keep from grinning like a loon. 
We both fall quiet a moment and I take in the gorgeous image in front of me. 
His hair isn’t as styled as it was last time and my fingers itch to run through the strands. It looks softer, without product. Like he’d also taken a shower after work. 
He doesn’t have a shirt on. His broad shoulders and chest are bare, all the way down to the bottom of the screen. Across his shoulders, the skin, also golden, the same as I remembered his hands being, smooth and stretched over sinewy muscle. His chest—hard planes with a light layer of sandy blond curls which catch the soft light from a side table lamp or something. His arms are also lean and well defined. He’s not gym-rat muscular, but without a doubt, he works out regularly.
And he’s half naked—video calling me. Then the thought, Or maybe he’s fully naked, streaks through my thoughts. My heart starts beating a bit faster and my breath quickens.
“And good God almighty. How is it that you’ve gotten more beautiful?” he asks, his voice thick with admiration.
It then occurs to me, I’ve already showered too. I thought we were only having a phone call so I didn’t do my makeup, not even the bare minimum of mascara or lip gloss. My hair is only air dried, not styled. Nervously, I run my hand through my hair to give it a little more volume, more order.
“Penelope,” he says, his tone dialed to a stern level and his eyes peering at me eerily from the phone—driving his intention through. “You. Are. Beautiful.”
I give a small nod and say, “Thank you.”
“You do believe me, don’t you?” 
“Sure,” I answer.
His eyes narrow. “You don’t need to have your hair and makeup done to impress me. Your natural beauty is beyond beguiling. Just looking at you right now has made my cock so hard.”
My cheeks immediatly heat with his bold, naughty compliment.
“I love how you blush so easily.” 
I bring a hand up to feel my hot cheek.
“Let me see those pyjamas,” he says pronouncing it peeejahmas and I swear I’ll never call them puhjamas again. But all the same,  I look down to remind myself of what I’m wearing. If I had known he was going to video call, I might have chosen something a bit sexier. Something other than the vintage Iowa University shirt I have on. “Set your phone against something, and far enough away so that I can see more of you. And your hands really should be free for this.” 
It’s then I realize, his image isn’t moving. He’s not holding his phone. It’s steady as though it’s set on a prop of some kind. And his right arm is moving, slowly and rhythmically…and angled so his hand is in his lap. 
Is he…? 
He is…He totally is. 
He’s touching himself.
My already faster beating heart, starts to thunder. While a couple minutes ago, I thought he’d had his sights on phone sex, now I have the distinct notion that he still has a sex call on the mind, but via video. 
I don’t know what to say or do. It’s like I’m suddenly paralyzed. Is it the words? The notion? I can’t think straight enough to know.
Realizing I’ve not done anything, or said anything, he speaks again. “Penelope. The most rewarding part of being a submissive is that you don’t have to think. You don’t have to choose. Not really. I won’t ask you to do anything you don’t really want to do. A dominant helps his submissive with instructions for pleasure so that she doesn’t need to self judge or moderate. He helps her safely explore her desires. If you don’t want to do something, I won’t force you, but I have been listening to you this week. Studying you. What I’m asking you to do isn’t about making you, a natural rule follower, follow commands. I wish to help you with your innermost self. The one from the bath. The one in the fantasy. And what pleases you, pleases me.”
It’s all about pleasure, I remind myself. And my body is now screaming for whatever pleasures William has in mind.
“O—okay,” I answer. My heart racing out of control. 
“Okay, what?” he asks sharply.
“Yes, monsieur. Oui, monsieur.”
“That’s my girl.” 
I scan things near by and snatch up a pillow as well as the charging stand for my phone and set it in front of me on the bed. With the phone on the stand, I sit back and check the framing. Like his set up, my image shows from my waist upward.
His eyes rake over me from the screen and it’s a heady feeling.
“Your nipples are amazing,” he growls and I notice his arm moving a bit faster. 
Oh my God! I don’t know what is making me hotter, his words about my breasts, or the fact that he’s touching himself! 
”Now just sit back. You’re going to do everything I tell you,” he says, his voice buttery and yet still firm. “I’m going to turn you into a desperate mess.” My body starts to sing with anticipation and I can barely catch my breath. 
“Slide your hand under your shirt. Cup your breast, ma belle.” 
Like a puppet on a string, I do as I’m told. My skin is hot and, I don’t know if it’s because his eyes are on me, but everything is way more sensitive right now. 
 “And slide your thumb over that pert nipple of yours.” My body shudders at the touch and a tingle grows between my legs.
“Take off your shirt. I want to see you.” he says, his words even and calm. 
I almost don’t do what he’s asked, but his earlier words about not needing to think echoes in my thoughts. And also about pleasing myself and pleasing him. And besides, he’s clearly not wearing anything. 
I sit up slightly so my back is off the pillows and headboard and reach for the hem of my shirt. 
“Slowly,” he warns.  
So, slowly I pull up the cotton watching his reaction. His attention is glued to the lower portion of the screen as I reveal my torso, inch by inch and then the under-swell of my breasts. On the screen I notice his arm moving a bit faster. 
For a moment, I can’t see him as the cotton blocks my view, but my ears absolutely hear him hiss with appreciation. 
“Your body is fucking amazing,” he half-groans, half-whispers. 
I toss the shirt aside and shake my hair into place before I settle myself back against the headboard. Again, his eyes trail all over his screen…all over me. 
“Imagine I’m there…next to you. Running my fingers over your body.”
My thoughts flip to his graceful hands. Hands I haven’t seen since a week ago. But all the same, I bring my hands up to my shoulders, curling my fingers slightly and slowly dragging the backs of them down over my chest and between my breasts, showing myself off to him.
“God, yes. Just like that, baby. All the way down, over your belly and then back up to cup your breasts.” 
I imagine it and do it and watch William’s eyes heat. The groan from the speaker tells me I’m doing just right. 
“I’d roll those nipples between my fingers…lightly pinch and tug on them.” I do exactly those things and my body shudders in response, a gasp and pant escape my lips. I squeeze my thighs together to sooth the growing ache. 
“I want to bite those nipples,” he says and my body thrills at the suggestion. I pinch a little harder, imagining his teeth. His lips on one breast, his hand on the other.
“Yes, ma belle. Just like that.” His other arm moves and I can only imagine what he’s doing below the image filling my screen. “I want to kiss your neck. Nip at the pale skin.”
I want him to kiss my neck too. I roll my head to give him a view of where I’d like him to kiss and draw a small circle there…just below my ear. 
He bites his lower lip and groans, his bicep still flexing as he strokes himself.
“And imagine my hand between your legs, tracing lines up your inner thigh to your stomach…to your breasts…”
My other hand, out of view of the camera does what he’d suggested and I can almost imagine it’s his hand. And even over the soft worn cotton of my Hawkeyes lounge pants, the touch is hot. I cup my mound and my hips rock into my hand.
“I want to kiss down your neck and your chest,” he continues and I lightly trail the fingers from my hand at my neck down to my breast. “I want to take your breast into my mouth, circle my tongue on that nipple as my other hand runs over your slit.”
I circle the nipple of my breast and then squeeze, while my lower hand tightens its grip on my center. Almost embarrassed, I notice the damp spot on the fabric.
“Take off your pants, Penelope. I want you to touch yourself. I want you to imagine it’s me touching you.” 
I shimmy the fabric over my hips, keeping my nether region from the camera’s view, and then work my legs to push the fabric lower.
“Now spread those legs,” he groans. I willingly oblige and although he can’t see me down there, he whispers, “That’s it. I want to kiss the milky insides of your thighs and run my fingernails lightly over the skin,” he groans, and my skin tingles as if he’s doing just that. “Do it, Penelope. Touch your inner thighs, but don’t touch your pussy just yet.” 
Good god, this man’s mouth! I swear I’m about to come the next time he says something so dirty. I have no idea who I am anymore, but I don’t care. 
I push my hands down between my legs and lightly drag my nails up and down the tender skin and I have to clench my thighs together, a shaky breath leaving my mouth which is hanging open.
“Next I’d run my finger through your slit careful not to touch your clit.”
I moan at the suggestion, feeling oh so brazen, touching myself in front of him, even if he can’t see everything, I slowly push my finger through my folds, careful not to touch that sensitive nub that is begging for attention. God it feels so good. I repeat the move, again and again. I can’t help the hitch in my breath. Everything is so quick to respond. Every touch sends thrills of excitement through me. I desperately want to rub my clit, but somehow I know he would know.
“Now curl those fingers into your sex. Slip them inside of you.” He lets out a low moan. “I’ll bet it’s hot and slick and tight in there,” he adds through gritted teeth, and I notice he’s not stroking himself right now, but his arm muscles are engaged, like he’s gripping his dick to keep from coming. The realization has me holding my breath. 
“How wet are you, ma belle?” he asks.
“Very wet, monsieur,” I pant in reply when I can find my words.
“Show me. Show me your fingers. Show me how wet you are.” 
I look at my fingers, glossy and slick. With my cheeks burning, I bring my trembling hand up and hold it a few inches from the camera for him to see.
“Yesss,” he whispers, then lets out a soft groan. “I would suck those fingers straight into my mouth. Swirl my tongue all around them, cleaning them off. God, I wish I could taste you right now,” he says, his words making me shudder with desire. “Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow I will make a meal out of you.”
A whimper comes from my throat as I bite my lip to keep from crying out at his suggestion. 
“You’re going to make me come with noises like those,” he teases. 
I give him an extra moan, just because.
“Take those slick fingers and circle your clit, baby.”
I do as he says and I’m quivering. The sensation is positively electrifying. I can barely catch my breath. And I notice his arm is moving again. Faster now. 
I match his speed and it’s too much. I shut my eyes, blocking out everything other than his voice. His breath. My touch. I’m gasping for air as I follow his instructions.
I let out an “Ahh” as I slip my fingers back inside trying to scratch that itch. To trigger the orgasm that is right there.
“God you’re so beautiful right now. I love those sounds.” He lets out a near feral growl. “How close are you to coming?” His voice is tight. It sounds like he’s as on the edge as much as I am.
“So close,” I confess, squeezing my eyes tighter. My head is fuzzy and every nerve in my body on fire.
“Press your fingers firmly over that clit, Penelope.”
I do and my body starts to practically vibrate. 
A couple panting mewls reach my ears.
“Hands in the air, ma belle. Stop touching yourself.” 
“What?!” I shriek, my hands freezing in place. He can’t be serious.
My eyes fly open and catch his eyes, so dark they’re no longer blue. I focus on his arm. It’s no longer moving. Again, muscles flexed and rigid.
“Hands off. In the air. And. Do. Not. Come.” His tone is firm. Loud even. 
I do as he says, raising my hands in surrender, and my body ignites, crying out for my hands to return. The fingers of my left hand shamefully wet, catching the cool air and only making me hotter. I clench my thighs together, but it’s of no help.
“Penelope. Your orgasms are mine. You will not come tonight. But I promise. If you’re good tomorrow, you will have the most unbelievable orgasms.”
Did he say orgasms? As in plural?
“If it helps, I stopped myself too. I won’t come tonight either. I’m saving my orgasms for you.” 
Holy whoa! His words almost cause an orgasm to thunder through me.
“Now, you may go and take a shower if you need to, but do not play with yourself anymore. And then off to dreamland with you.”
I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say. How could he do that to me? Get me so close and then not let me come? And he expects me to not finish myself off? Just go to sleep?
“Belle?” he croons.
I find his eyes on the screen and nod. “Yeah,” I answer, my brain still fuzzy and trying to make heads or tails out of what’s all going down. 
“Anticipation will make everything sweeter. I promise. I will make it soooo worth your while. Okay?” 
“Okay,” I answer, although I’ve already determined that if he doesn’t make this ‘worth it’ tomorrow, I will go mad! And I may never talk to Shannon ever again. How dare she set me up with someone so vicious? 
“Sweet dreams, ma belle.” 
“Good night, monsieur.”
He blows a kiss, and the screen goes dark. 
I’m so unbalanced right now. It’s so tempting to ignore his last command. To take things into my own hands. How would he know, anyway?
But his promise lingers in my thoughts. Multiple orgasms. 


Friday


Friday morning I wake up feeling like it’s Christmas morning. 
I’d tossed and turned all night, but it doesn’t matter because tonight (hopefully) I’ll get what I’ve been wanting. Needing.
I race downstairs and open the final envelope. Before I do, I again savor the rich texture of the paper, and the fine penmanship on the envelope. In a strange way I’m going to miss these assignments, and briefly wonder if William would do these for me even beyond this week. 
Carefully I open it and pull out the page. 


Penelope, 
Work swiftly today and then ready yourself. 
At 6:00 pm, a car will be waiting for you in your carpark. 
The driver, Seth, will take you to a small boutique. There you will meet a good friend of mine, Becca. 
Becca will assist you with some purchases. These purchases are my gift to you. 
Then Seth will drive you to my home where we will have an evening of, I pray, mutual satisfaction.
Yours,
William


My mind whirls. 
Purchases? What kind? I saw a lot of photos when I was filling out the Limits list. (Was that really less than a week ago?) 
And who is this Becca person? In what way is she a ‘good friend’ to William? I feel unkind prickles of jealousy, but quickly tell myself that I’m being silly. For starters, I’m not committed to William. Not yet anyway. He’s not to me. And if she was a past relationship of his, I guess it’s really nice that they’re still friends. 
It’s super difficult to make it through the day of clients and speaking to my marble supplier for a quote for the Elsmore’s lake house project, should I get the approval, and then it’s off to to check in with John at the Sanderson’s. The fireplace was supposed to have been finished yesterday, but I was assured it would be complete today, and that the contractor was hoping to get a start on the shiplap in the family room. I’m hoping that all is going smoothly so I can head home and get ready for the night. One I hope will be worth the week of assignments and challenges. 
Inside the Sanderson’s home I follow the sounds of an air compressor firing nails into a wall. Reaching the family room, I find the fireplace finished, and the shiplap is more than half up. “Hey, Penelope. What do you think?” John says, when he spots me admiring the vision all coming together.
“The fireplace looks incredible and I can’t believe the progress you made today.” 
“Yeah, well. Needed to keep on schedule and I have to cut out early today.” 
“Hot date?” I ask, my own hot date the only thing on my mind.
He laughs gently and shakes his head. “No, just chaperoning my son’s freshman formal tonight.” 
“Wait, I thought your son was younger than high school.”
“Nope. Where does the time go, right? How about you? Any fun plans tonight?” 
As soon as he asks the question, my cheeks heat. I can only imagine what John would think if he knew what I’d been up to all week and what my plans for tonight were. Heck, I don’t even know what tonight’s plans look like. Not exactly anyway. 
“Just dinner with, um, a new guy. It’s just our second date,” I tell him, even though it’s not really, is it?
I can hardly wrap my head around this past week. 
John and I finish briefing about the project and I head to my downtown office for one last meeting I have with the Ms. DaSilva who is supposed to be returning fabric samples she’d borrowed for her living room decor project and firm up some dates. 
I hurry though the meeting, and thankfully she was in a hurry, too, but as I’m leaving through the back door, there just has to be a dog walking out of the veterinarian’s office. He barks and jumps on me. The owner was very apologetic, but I find that I couldn’t care less. I just want to get home and shower and ‘ready’ myself for my date tonight. 
Making it home with an hour and half to shower, shave, lotion, do my makeup, get dressed in something I hope is sexy enough, although looking in the mirror I’m afraid it’s a bit dowdy. All the while, my mind is spinning wondering what kind of purchases William has in mind? Why was his assignment so secretive? And why is this so much fun? Even if I am terrified the shopping expedition is for sex toys and leather and leashes. 
When I look out the window at five minutes to six, there’s a beautiful silver Rolls-Royce sitting in my driveway! 
Holy crap! 
No time to change into anything more suited for a ride in a Rolls, I blow out as many nerves as I can with some yoga breaths, and head out. 
A man in a suit wearing sunglasses and gloves hops out of the car and bows slightly at me. “Ms. Pierce,” he greets and then opens the back door.
I slip into the backseat and sink into the butter-soft leather and I can’t help but wonder if more leather is in my immediate future.
As we pull out into the street, I catch my neighbor, Mrs. Hale, peering out her window. I can only imagine what the neighborhood gossip will be. 
“Excuse me, Seth?” I ask.
“Yes, Miss,” he replies professionally.
“Where are we going?” 
“Shopping, Miss.”
“Right, but…what kind of shopping?” I press.
I note a small smile form on his lips. “Fear not. It’s a clothier. Beautiful things.”
Clothes shopping? Well, that makes me feel a little better. 
It’s not a long drive and before I know it, Seth is opening the door for me and helping me out. 
“Miss?” Seth says politely and gestures toward a black door with an awning overhead. Both read B & R Play Atelier in an elegant gold script, and on the door also reads “Shopping by Appointment Only.”
I’m now well and truly feeling the jitters wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. What kind of clothing shop is by appointment only? What’s behind the black door?
Seth opens the door and some of my nerves subside as the store looks positively…normal.
Stepping inside I look around and take in the sophisticated lighting, gleaming marble floors, shelves and racks of clothes. Everything looking quite high end. Light and airy, even. I don’t see any fierce or scary looking attire. No studs. No latex body suits.
“You must be Penelope,” a statuesque woman says, emerging from the back.
“Hello,” I reply. 
Elegantly dressed in a pair of wide legged trousers in a sumptuous camel color and an ivory lace bustier on top that looks like it should be under a shirt rather than being worn as a shirt like she is, she exudes confidence and power. I could absolutely imagine her on a runway in New York City or something, especially as she effortlessly strides directly my way in a pair of high heeled shoes, which, coupled with her natural height of nearly six feet already, she’s intimidatingly tall, towering over me by nearly a foot.
“I’m Becca,” she confirms as she nears, then with a European flair, leans in and places a neat kiss on each cheek. 
The B of B & R? 
She looks me up and down, an approving smile forms on her face.
“Well, William did not over nor understate your beauty.”
I’m a little shocked by her comment and boldness, but I also note that she’s much like William in that regard. No wonder they’re friends. How much had William told her about me, his flattering comments on my appearance, aside?
“So, you are heer for a new tanue,” she says.
“Excuse me?” I ask, not knowing the word she spoke. It wasn’t anything I’d seen on any of the websites or blogs.
“Tanue. French for outfit,” she explains quickly. She then l adds, “William loves French. I recommend learning some.” 
Her counsel is delivered in a very kind way and I’m appreciative, but I still feel a little need to lay some claim here. Raising my chin in a display of confidence I don’t exactly feel, I tell her, “I’m aware of his affinity for French. I just haven’t had time to—“
“Sweetheart,” she soothes. “It’s okay. I was just offering some friendly advice. And you needn’t worry about me. I am not your competition.” She winks at me and offers me a warm smile and immediately I feel like an idiot for assuming anything untoward.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to suggest—or assume—I—“
“It’s all quite new to you, I know. William told me. And it’s quite alright,” she assures me. “Full disclosure, okay? I want you to be comfortable here. It’s a safe place. And you’re safe with me. Like our friend William, I’m a Domme. And I have my own pet, Rita. Does that help?”
I nod, and absorb all of what she said, and it dawns on me, that not only isn’t she interested in William because of her dominant bend, she’s also not interested in men. 
“It does help. Thank you,” I tell her, relaxing some.
“My pleasure.”
“Now. Let’s get started,” she says, looping an arm with mine, and we start toward the back of the shop. “William is expecting you at seven-thirty, correct?” 
I look up at her swiftly in surprise and nod as my cheeks heat with embarrassment. I mean, of course she would know I was headed over to William’s. She probably knows full well what is about to happen tonight. For the millionth time this week, I feel like my name should be Alice and that I’ve well and truly fallen down the rabbit hole into a mysterious land where things don’t quite make sense.
A small groan comes from Becca. “Such a lovely blush,” she comments. “William is a very lucky man. Let’s make him insane with you in the perfect ensemble. This way,” she says and turns swiftly on her heels. “William has selected a few things for you to try.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, surprised that I don’t get to look for myself, and follow Becca.
The further we walk into the shop, the “darker” the clothing gets, both in color and nature. Strappy leather things. “Barely there” things. Perverse and painful looking shoes. Floggers and whips and ball gags—things I wouldn’t have been able to identify a week ago. 
The absurdity of this past week hits me again. That before meeting William eight days ago I was so…innocent. So ‘vanilla.’ 
At the back of the boutique, there’s a small, black velvet tufted couch under a crystal chandelier. “Glass of wine?” she offers, opening a small refrigerator.
“Oh, yes please.”
She pours some ice cold chardonnay into a wine glass and I take a sip, stealing myself for the most unusual experience I’ve had to date. Which, no doubt, will only be bested by what’s to happen later tonight.
“So, William has selected a few items he would like to see you in. However, he’s smart enough to know that what looks good on a manequin,” she says gesturing at a mannequin donned in a jumpsuit that is shoulder to foot lace and sparkling with beads and sequins, the form’s nipples not the least bit disguised, “doesn’t always look good on a living breathing woman. And don’t worry, my love. This isn’t one of the pieces he’s selected for you to try.” 
I breathe a sigh of relief and take another sip. 
“Now,” she continues. “Let me go get the pieces he did select for you in the appropriate size. Feel free to sit or look around,” she offers and slips away. 
I’m a little unsure of what to do. Would I look like a bad sub if I didn’t sit and wait? But I’m sure couldn’t sit patiently at the moment, so I take her up on her latter offer to look around.
In the section next to the sofa, there are dozens of corsets. Beautiful corsets. Lace and stays and ribbons, some with zippers. All elegant and refined.
I take one on a hanger down and note the impeccable craftsmanship. It’s fuchsia satin with a gold scrolling pattern embroidered into it. Down the front are metal closures, and stiff stays create a cage around the body of the wearer. The top and bottom are trimmed with black lace and down the back is a criss-crossing of black ribbon.  
“William would adore seeing you in that.” 
Hastily and with a shaking hand I slip the hanger back onto the rod and turn to Becca. “Maybe next time,” I say with a timid laugh and smile. 
“Oh, I like you,” she coos. “Okay, come. The dressing rooms are this way.”
Nervously I follow wondering what kind of clothes William chose for me to try on. The room is large and comfortable. Seven sides, each with a mirror that takes up almost the entire wall—I presume so one can get a good view of any angle, and in the center is a velvet tufted ottoman. 
Becca shows me three garments and with parting words of, “William has asked for me to see you in each one. Don’t worry though, the choice is yours. Breathe, dear.” 
“Any recommendation on which I should try on first?” 
Becca contemplates each dress and says, “Let’s start with this one,” she says holding up a satin number in a blush pink. 
I nod and try to breathe and Becca leaves softly closing the door behind her. 
I take off my clothes and fold them neatly on the ottoman and slip into the dress Becca suggested. It’s kind of like an oversized satin blazer that has been drastically altered with the mid-section fashioned like a corset. The lapels of the garment creates a plunging neckline that goes all the way down to the corset, leaving my cleavage—and bra—very much on display. The hemline, which is only a few inches below my butt, is asymmetrical with a slit that runs up my right thigh. 
I slip back on my heels and peek out of the dressing room where I find Becca tapping on her phone. I wonder if she’s messaging William. And if she’s going to be taking photos of me in the garments. 
Quietly, I clear my throat to get her attention. She looks up and slips her phone into her pocket and I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m not about to be photographed. “Oh, let’s see.” 
I step out and stand awkwardly. 
“Hmm. I’m not so sure about this one. What do you think?”
“I think my bra detracts from the look.”
She chuckles. “Well, yes, but you won’t be wearing a bra,” she tells me. 
I’m not sure how I feel about that. It’s not like I have a generous chest requiring a bra, but they do give a layer of modesty to the wearer. Besides. I thought men liked looking at women in lacy lingerie? 
“But otherwise?” she asks, working the lapels wider and flatter to my shoulders. 
“I think it looks more like a business suit, not a date night dress.” 
Her eyes snap to mine and she nods. “You’re quite right. But, imagine the business dealings!” she says, her eyes gleaming. 
“Okay. Off with that one. How about giving the black one a try.” 
Dutifully I head back in and take off the pink satin number. 
The black dress is something altogether different. Very much a date night kind of dress. I wiggle into the skin tight sheath and futz with the zippers, one that runs from my right hip down to the (again) very short hem, and the other zipper which runs from the right shoulder, down across my body and clean down to the hem on the left side of the dress. However, this dress does create a bit more modesty in that the neckline runs from shoulder to shoulder, and no cleavage is visible. Unless the crossbody zipper is undone, of course.
I step back out into the waiting area and Becca looks up. 
“Oh, now this one…” She walks up to me and raises the zipper on the lower right, and brings down the zipper from the shoulder until it rests between my breasts, then steps back and takes a look. “How do you feel in it?” 
“I feel like I’m going to become unzipped?” 
“Oh, you are so adorable!” she grits out, a twinkle in her eye and a note of excitement in her tone. “Let’s see this one with some proper footwear,” she says and dashes around the corner. 
I look down at my 2-inch kitten heeled shoes and gently toe them off. 
“Are you a six?” she calls from around the corner, “or six-and-a-half?”
“Six-and-a-half,” I answer. 
A second later Becca is kneeling in front of me and slipping a pair of black velvet pumps onto my feet. 
I feel terribly unstable in the heels that have to be at least three, maybe four inches high. And if the height were just from the heels, I might have been fine, but there’s an additional inch or two from the platform under the toes. “Quite the view from up here,” I joke.
“You’ll get used to it,” Becca assures me with a wink, and steps back to take in the full effect. She strokes her chin thoughtfully and shakes her head. “I don’t know. The garter will show for sure.” Her eyes come back to mine and she finds my eyes wide. “And I don’t think you would be comfortable with that. Not yet anyway.”
I give a small shake of my head. 
“Go slip into the blue one. I have a good feeling about that one. And…take your bra off, sweetie.”
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, but nod and duck back into the dressing room.
Carefully, I put the black zippered dress back on the hanger and then trembling, remove my bra. As quickly as I can, so I’m not standing around naked and staring at my boobs in the surrounding mirrors, slip into the last dress. The fabric is a sumptuous brushed cotton, almost velvety. When I look in the mirror, I gasp. 
The dress is gorgeous. It makes my skin look more like porcelain, my eyes bluer, and offsets my blonde hair nicely. The cute flutter sleeves are more my speed as well. The plunging neckline to the empire waist where the six buttons start is still shocking, as is the short skirt, but all in all, the dress is perfect. It’s more me than the other two. 
I step out and Becca’s face breaks out into a grin. “Yes! Hands down. Clear winner!”
“I like it too,” I tell her. 
“I can tell. But also, the shape is just perfect. Here. The shoes.” 
She holds up a pair of nude colored, peep-toe pumps, these without the added height under the toe.
The shoes are a good fit. When I look in the mirror the effect is quite stunning. My legs look amazing, even longer because of the shoe color. 
“And now these,” Becca says, holding up a small hanger with a garter with a package of hose and panties, “and you are good to go.” 
Tentatively I take the items from her and confess, “I’ve never worn a garter.” 
“I can help you with them,” she says. 
I nod and head back into the dressing room to work on the last items.


Sitting in the back of the limousine, my heart pounds in my throat. I’m feeling so many things, and wearing an outfit I never would have chosen for myself, I can barely think straight. Not to mention the week of so many assignments focused on sex. I’m so tightly wound I feel I might come if the driver hits so much as a small rock in the road. 
For every reason I come up with that I shouldn’t be doing this...mindlessly following Williams requests, I come up with a reason I should. 
It feels good. 
I feel powerful. 
Nothing feels the way it did with Peter. I never felt any of this excitement or anticipation with him, not after that first time anyway. 
The limo stops and the driver politely says, “We’re here, Ms. Pierce.” 
A fresh crop of nerves blooms in my belly. I fidget with the dress and do what I can to make sure that I’m not hanging out anywhere. As I shift in the seat, the elastics of the garter belt brush on my thighs and across my rear creating an erotic sensation on top of the silkiest hose I’ve ever worn, and I’m suddenly quite aware of the wetness that has grown between my legs. The panties are not a normal panty. They’re white, super sheer chiffon with chiffon sashes at the hips to tie and secure the ‘fabric’ to the wearer. They’re clearly not for regular wear. There’s not even the cotton liner at the center. Everything is on display. Everything. And I desperately hope I’m not making a spot on the back of the skirt sitting there
“Breathe, Penelope. Just breathe…” 
I take a breath, and then another and then the door is opened and once again, Seth is offering me his gloved hand to assist me out of the seat. Gratefully, I accept his assistance since I’m wobbly and shaky and I fear I may fall over, and it’s not entirely due to the shoes. 
“Have a good night, Miss,” Seth says with a slight bow, releasing my hand. “I’ll be at the ready should you need me. Just have Mr. Brandt send me a message.”
My mind is reeling with what’s about to happen. 
I look up at the apartment building and I realize we’re at The Pointe. I remember these condos being built a few years ago. I’d had yet to see the inside of any of the luxury units and I’m momentarily distracted because I’ve desperately wanted to see the insides of this much lauded address.
The car quietly drives away and I’m left with nothing more to do than proceed. As I reach the front door, a man with weathered cheeks and a shock of white hair on top of his head, sporting a simple uniform, pushes the door open. I nod and quietly thank him as I step into the grand lobby with soaring fifteen-foot ceilings, marble floors, silk curtains, and a few seating areas to one side.
“You’re most welcome,” the man replies, his tone cheery with an accent. “And who are we here to see this evening?” he asks, kindly keeping his eyes on mine, not my exposed chest. 
“William Brandt,” I tell him. 
He looks a little surprised at William’s name. “Oh, Mr. Brandt. Yes,” he says, with a big smile then adds, “Nice to see he’s having company.” Immediately, his eyes widen as he’s realized he probably said more than he should have. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s quite alright,” I assure him, feeling a little better with the unexpected confirmation that I’m not just one of a parade of women that visits William every weekend. “I won’t tell Mr. Brandt.” 
The man smiles and says, “I thank you for that. I just worry about some of these workaholics. All work and no fun. So, yes…And who may I say is calling?” 
“Penelope Pierce.” 
“Very well. Just a moment please.” He picks up a phone, presses a couple buttons and then after a few seconds, says, “Yes, Mr. Brandt. There’s a Miss Penelope Pierce here to see you. Excellent, sir. I will in deed.” He sets down the phone and picks up a plastic card and we head toward the elevators. He presses the button and immediately the doors open, and he steps inside. I wonder if he’s been mandated to escort me to William’s condo, but he says, “I just need to enter the passcode, and…” He slips the card he’d grabbed into a slot and punches in a couple of buttons, then steps out, holding the door for me to step into the car. “You’re all set. Mr. Brandt’s door will be to your right upon arrival.”
“Thank you,” I say, and the door is released. The doorman tips his head as the doors close and in a flash, the elevator starts its upward climb, my heart beating and making its own climb into my throat. 
I watch the display above the control panel as the floors tick by…7… 8… 9… PH. 
The car stops. 
Oh. The penthouse level.
The door open and I steps out looking to the left, force of habit, I guess when crossing roads. But there’s only one door and it’s closed. 
As I look to my right, there stands William in an open door waiting, and he literally takes my breath away. 
Tall, and powerful. Yet comfortable and relaxed. He’s wearing simple light tan colored linen slacks and an unassuming, untucked white button-down shirt with a naru collar. The top buttons are undone and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The thing that does weird things to me are his naked feet. He has simply beautiful feet. 
“I’ve been counting the minutes,” he says, his voice as rich as ever. Deep. Dark. Accented. Magical. 
My belly is suddenly full of those butterflies from that very first time we’d met. Was it really only a week ago?
Unabashedly, his gaze rakes over my body. The swath of skin between my breasts. The short hemline. All the way down to my feet in the three-inch heels. And just as slowly his eyes work their way back up to my face. 
“I love the dress you chose.”
“Thank you… For the dress… And other things. It was very generous.”
He clicks his tongue and shakes his head slightly. “It’s my pleasure. You should have everything you desire.” He extends a hand my way and simply commands, “Now, come.”
His voice has that ‘Take off your panties and give them to me,’ tone and it makes my knees wobble. 
Almost unawares, I find my feet moving in his direction. I don’t even really notice that I’m walking. I feel like I’m floating. Like all of this is a dream. When I’m but a couple feet from him, my pale blue eyes meeting his vibrant blue ones, I inhale and take in his warm, spicy, woodsy, manly scent, the one I was desperately trying to recall just the other night. The night I had my fingers between my legs, I recall and my cheeks burn with the memory. 
“The way your skin blooms…” he says almost as if a sigh, and he brushes the back of his fingers along my cheek sending sparks through my entire body. 
He leans in and gently presses his lips to my cheek. I’m practically swooning, feeling as though I might not be able to stand any longer, and as if he senses that, his arm slips around my waist and he says, “Please, come in,” and he swiftly guides me into his home. 
I gasp as I take in the view before me. The space is wide open, sweeping from a sunken living room with a massive black marble fireplace as its focus, to the impressive dining room table for ten, and at the far right, a glimpse of a kitchen that promises to be as impressive as everything else. But the most breathtaking thing is the view from the floor to ceiling sliding doors that open onto a significant balcony and beyond that, the Long Island Sound and the lighthouse, a symbol of the town. And with the sun just beginning to set, the clear skies turning from pale blue to a purple, the fiery orange sun casting shimmers of gold onto the waters competing with the stars just starting to emerge. 
I’m nearly lost in the view. 
“So beautiful,” I say, watching the calm waters and the glinting sunlight and twinkling stars.
“I agree,” William says next to me. 
I turn to look up at him, but he’s not admiring the open waters. No, his attention is one hundred percent on me. The look on his face is one of pure adoration and once again, I feel myself falling under his spell. 
Our eyes lock and I can barely catch my breath. He lifts a hand, his eyes following as he brushes my blonde hair from my face and back over my shoulder before he cups my jaw. Gently, almost mesmerized, he swipes his thumb at my chin. “I can’t believe you’re finally here.” 
“Me too,” I whisper. 
“I was thinking just this morning about how close to you I already feel, yet, I’ve not even kissed you. May I?”
He’s right. It’s so surreal. 
“Mm-hmm,” I hum and nod.
“I prefer, Oui Monsieur, but Mm-hmm will do. This time,” and then his lips softly meet mine. 
He starts to pull back, his intention, apparently, just a chaste kiss, but I’m not ready for the kiss to end. 
I need more. I lean in, my arms encircling his waist, and I don’t let him get away. 
His response is to slide his hand behind my head, his fingers threaded in my hair and the kiss deepens. 
Like a match being struck on the strike-plate of a matchbook cover, our mouths open, tongues probe. Suddenly, I find myself pinned to the back of the door by this wall of a man who has consumed my every thought over the past seven days, claiming me with his lips. And tongue. And even his teeth as he gently takes my lower lip into his bite. The man is a powerhouse. A beast. A force that I find I want to be wrapped up in. 
Roughly, he pulls away, leaving me gasping for air, his forehead resting on mine. 
I vaguely become aware of a high pitched beeping. 
“That’s dinner,” he grumbles as if reading my mind. 
I hadn’t even realized, but now that he’s mentioned it, I do smell the delicious aroma of roast chicken. 
“Here,” he says, offering to take my purse. I hand it to him and he sets it on the table next to the door. He then offers me an elbow and we proceed toward the kitchen. 
I stop and make to take off my shoes, force of habit—shoes worn in a home being a major pet peeve of mine. And after all, William is barefooted.
“Leave them on,” he says. “You’ve not done enough walking around to sully them. And besides, as if your legs didn’t look good enough already, right now…” He steps back, not letting go of my hand, and looks down at my lower legs. He bites his lower lip and shakes his head, humming with approval. 
“Come on,” he says, his eyes coming back to mine and we head toward the kitchen once again.
“Wine?” he asks as we step into the clean space of granite, stainless steel, and custom cabinetry. 
I nod and he pours me a glass of chardonnay before he sets about pulling a roasting pan from the oven. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t cook it. It’s a service that pre-cooks things, and delivers it. I only reheated it as per the instructions.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious.”
In no time at all, we’re seated at the dining room table and eating the delectable roast chicken and vegetables, sipping more wine, and most wonderfully, we simply talk about our week, things other than the assignments. It’s just a dinner, but I can’t help but watch his mouth as he chews—his full pink lips. His hands as he manipulates his knife and fork. I also notice that his gaze often sweeps between my breasts. He watches my mouth intently. But he also converses. Pays attention to what I talk about—from fabric swatches to marble samples and the exciting project before me with the historical renovation. 
If this is being a submissive, I could totally get used to this. 
Our dishes both emptied, and a pause in the conversation, I stand and take the plates and head to the kitchen. After a quick rinse, I peek in the dishwasher and finding several other dirty dishes inside, settle our dishes there as well, moving around a couple of plates to better organize things. Satisfied, I hesitantly grab the hand towel, one that looks as though it’s never been used, and make sure my hands are dried. 
When I look up I find him watching me, a pleasant little smile on his lips.
“Simply remarkable.”
“It’s just dishes,” I tell him despite the bloom of praise I feel. 
“Come,” he commands simply and again without hesitation I find myself drawn toward him. 
Holding my hand, he leads us to the sunken living room and as we near the first steps he says, “Low lights” with authority, and soft lighting gently illuminates the space. I’m impressed at the voice command lighting and wonder what other high-end technology graces his home.
He invites me to take the end seat of the leather sofa. The cool leather hits the back of my thighs, and I only feel cooler when he lets go of my hand, and takes the spot on the opposite end of the oversized piece of furniture, leaving the two center cushions between us open. He shifts in the seat so he’s facing me, leaning back casually on the arm, one leg drawn up, and an arm draped along the back. I sort of mirror his position, turning my body so that I’m facing him, tucking my legs up on the cushion, doing my best to keep my knees together and tucked under the skirt of the dress.
I’m breathless when he pins me with those intense blues of his and I feel like I’m vibrating. There’s a definite change in his demeanor, but not in a bad way… Just different. Thinking back to that night at The Stanton, I vaguely recollect a similar shift in his mood. The shift from casual to sexual. 
He regards me carefully as he brings his hand up to his mouth and runs his thumb back and forth along his lower lip. The lower lip I very much would like to kiss again. 
When he speaks, his voice is deeper, more sensual than it had been at the dining table. It does magical things to my belly and the throbbing between my legs.
“I’m very impressed with all of your hard work this week, ma belle. The assignments. Couldn’t have been altogether easy given what I’ve come to learn about you after writing up the tasks.”
I swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat, yet I fall right into line. “Oui, Monsieur. The assignments were challenging, yet at the same time, eye opening. They were helpful.”
My cheeks heat anew. Saying these things via text or email, or even over the phone were much easier than in person…Sitting here…him just inches away…His tanned skin. His perfectly styled hair. His confident mannerisms that seem to take up all of the space in the room. So much more difficult. But my reward is also greater when William smiles.
“Which assignment was your favorite?” 
My brain is instantly awash with the week, and I struggle to make a choice. Ultimately, it’s a toss up. Either Tuesday, the night we each shared a fantasy, or Thursday, last night, the night we had FaceTime almost-sex. 
“Th-Thursday,” I confess. 
He takes a couple of measured breaths, his eyes roving from my face to between my breasts to my lips. Unabashedly, he adjusts himself and I get my first indication at how big William might be. I find it oddly arousing. Empowering. He’s getting hard and he’s only looked at me. My belly coils with need. 
Finally his focus is back on my eyes. He wets his lower lip and says, “Your comfort limits. I’ve reviewed the list again in preparation for tonight.”
My mind runs through the list and my anxiety clicks up a notch wondering what his intentions are tonight. Will he push me? Challenge me? Or will tonight simply be a mutually pleasurable thing?
“As a reminder, we’re both aligned on many activities. Some we’re quite opposite.” My thoughts go right to the items he had marked as 5—would love to do as often as possible, and those I marked with an X or a 0, like the public things or the back door stuff. “While we won’t go there tonight, I hope we can revisit the list in the future.” 
I don’t know what to say, I simply nod. 
He raises an eyebrow as he cocks his head to the side, and I realize my mistake. “Oui, Monsieur.” His smile, his dashing smile, is my reward. 
He reaches over to the end table and slides open a shallow drawer and pulls out a folder. 
“But before we can get to any of that, and this isn’t very sexy, but as I mentioned, I’ve drawn up a contract.” Right. How could I have forgotten that he intended to do that? “This is to protect you as well as me.”
I nod, unable to say anything. And I’m grateful that he doesn’t make me say anything. 
“It’s important that we enter into this relationship in a safe, sane and consensual way. While contracts like these aren’t generally admissible in court, as the state doesn’t wish to entangle itself in matters of the bedroom, it’s more a vehicle for clear communication and understanding between you and me.” 
He leans forward and hands me the folder. “Take a look and feel free to ask any questions, and we can make changes if you wish.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” I say and take the folder. 
I open it and start to read. 
Thankfully, it’s a simple contract with minimal legalese. 
He has himself named as the Dominant and me as the submissive as the parties of note. There are two blank spaces to be filled in with the date that the contract will begin, as well as when it will end. 
It states that the purpose of the relation ship is to provide a safe space to explore our sexuality. He has listed that his responsibility is to provide a safe environment for said exploration, to provide training for me, the submissive, and to keep me happy in any way that I, the submissive, request. That my responsibilities are to listen to his instructions, that I am to dress in a way to please him and let him purchase said wardrobe, to be available to him at the times in the schedule below, and use the safe words, also noted below, whenever I feel the need. That we both bear the responsibility to be honest and open, and respect the limits of the other.
The schedule is stated that I’m to be with him Friday evening through Sunday evening. That I’m to be available via text, phone, or video call any time after 7PM.
The safe words during play or scenes will follow the traffic light system with ‘Green,’ meaning everything is good, ‘Yellow,’ meaning slow down, and ‘Red,’ in which case everything will stop immediately without question or hesitation. 
Any scene will be discussed between the two of us before play, and that I have the power, and responsibility, to say ’No’ to any of it.
That we will be monogamous. That he would like me to wear a collar during the term of our agreement. That he will disclose his medical history, and asks that I provide the same. That neither one of us are to discuss the BDSM nature of our relationship to others. 
Feeling heated and dizzy, I look up at him when I finish reading all of the simple clauses. “So, the only blank on the contract is the length of time.”
“I would like at least two weeks. And we can further refine the contract after then and redraft a new one. Are you comfortable with that?” 
I nod, then add, “Oui, monsieur.” He smiles and I hand the folder to him with his waiting pen. He fills in the dates. 
“Anything else you would like to adjust?”
“I think everything is spelled out there, but I’m curious about the collar.” I tried to sound confident and unaffected, but I’m certain I failed.
Yet he smiles, kindly; his eyes soft. He turns and, from the same drawer, produces a slim, turquoise-colored box tied closed with a white satin ribbon. He hands it to me and I take it, immediately noting the Tiffany’s imprint on the top of the box. “Go ahead. Open it,” he urges. 
Images of thick leather collars, some studded with spikes, others with a loop for ‘pet play’ I had seen during my research disappear from my thoughts. Tiffany’s wouldn’t make something like that, would they? I slide off the bow and lift the lid. Inside is a beautiful, sleek silver chain with a small silver heart on it. 
“And I would hold the key.” He holds up a small silver key and scoots one cushion closer to me. With a quick flick, he unlocks the mechanism, and asks, “Would you wear this? Please?” 
It feels so…absolute. So permanent. 
“Ca—Can I answer later?” I ask, fear replacing my earlier arousal.
“Of course, ma belle. As I have said, and as the contract states, you have the authority to say no to anything.”
He sets the key back on the side table and then with his pen, draws a line, presumably, through the clause about me wearing a collar.
And then—we sign our names. Everything feeling very official, and knowing that it’s in writing that I can say no to anything at anytime actually causes me to relax. 
“No notary to witness our signatures?” I ask, needing to lighten the heaviness of the moment, even if only a little.
“Oh, aren’t you cheeky?” he asks, reaching over and tapping my nose playfully.
I just shoot him a smile, glad that my comment wasn’t taken poorly.
“I will be asking for your consent as we move along tonight. The more we get to know each other, trust one another, I may not be asking so often. Along those lines…safe words. Very important. They are for the both of us—an easy way to communicate. Again, you have the power, ma belle.”
I nod and answer, “Oui, Monsieur.” 
“Are you ready?”
Again, I answer, with a oui, Monsieur, and I watch as his breath hitches, his nostrils flare. He’s rather like a prized horse in a starting gate before a race. Charged. Anxious. Yet he’s under absolute control. Self-control. 
He pulls out a piece of folded paper from his shirt pocket. It can’t be the contract. We just covered that. Besides, this paper looks as though it had been handled a million times—folded and re-folded, edges looking ragged. The light shines through and I recognize the paper as being…my Limits list. Or at least a Limits list. 
“I’m sure you noticed how aligned we are on many boundaries,” he says, “And some areas, not so much.” It is my list. A thrill courses through me as I contemplate that he’s handled the list--my list—so often as to have it look as ragged as it does. He’s studies me.
“We will refrain from anything too extreme early on. Until we get to know each other better. Until that trust is stronger.” I’m acutely aware as he enunciates, his British accent so much more pronounced. 
“Thank you, monsieur.” 
He glances up at me and smiles. 
“But I will push some of your boundaries. A little.” My heart pounds at that. Which boundaries? How hard will he push? His eyes skate over the paper again and he says, “Tonight I’d like to explore some bondage. Some edging. Some cunnilingus and fellatio.” 
I almost laugh. It’s like he’s reading off a menu of sex acts. I guess in a way it is. Ultimately, I suppose this is that part of the contract where scenes are to be discussed and agreed upon before we ‘play.’ And I can say no to any of it.
My thoughts instantly go to last night with our video call. Him getting me all worked up, being brought to the edge of an orgasm and then denied. But this time, there’s not a screen between us. We are live and in person. How would that play out?
“Remember. It’s all about pleasure. Yours. And mine.” 
As he says the word pleasure, the way his lips form the word, my body reacts. My nipples tighten, my lady bits grow wetter. 
“And I hope you remember how much I like to watch,” he says.
“I do, monsieur,” last night, I’m sure was only a precursor. 
His gaze travels down my center again. Practically touching my exposed cleavage. I can feel his gaze. 
And then, his eyes settle on my lap. 
“Open,” he commands, as he runs a finger under his lower lip as if in deep contemplation. 
Returning to the trance he so easily triggers in me, like that first demand of my panties, I shift. I move my leg that was resting on my other knee and set my foot on the floor. Then bring my other knee up to rest on the back of the couch. William doesn’t miss a single movement, and, I’m sure it wasn’t his hope, but the skirt falls between the space covering my nether-region. I breathe a shaky sigh of relief even at the thin veil of modesty, although I’m practically panting with want, regardless.
This is so far beyond who I am, and I muse that supposedly I’m the one with all the control here, yet all I do is follow William’s orders. I’m at the beck and call of one William Brandt. 
“Let me see,” he directs.
With my heart pounding in my chest, I slowly pull the fabric of the skirt up until the tops of the stockings are revealed. The hem is mere inches from my panty covered mound. 
“More,” he orders, his tone taking on a near savage tone. 
And again, I’m at the mercy of his words on account of my own desires. I pull the skirt up higher revealing the gleaming white satin of the garter belt and the delicate sheer fabric of the panties and their wide sashes tied in a bow at each hip. Were they not sheer, they would be like the string bikinis Laura proudly wears at the beach. 
William bites down on his lower lip and grunts. Shamelessly, he reaches down and adjusts himself in his trousers. 
I can’t help but notice he’s extremely endowed. And I’m feeling pleased that I’ve aroused him. Suddenly, I realize that there’s no way he could be wearing underwear. The outline of his manhood is distinct, as is the shape of the tip of him. 
“I’ll bet you’re wet,” he says, his voice thick and gravelly, his eyes roving to my inner thighs. I am soaking, or at least I feel like I am and I wouldn’t be surprised one bit if he sees evidence. There’s not even a cotton strip of fabric where there typically would be. “Show me,” he says, and then adds, “Slip your fingers inside your knickers.” 
He must be joking, I think to myself as I watch him, his eyes glued to between my legs. I think about the fantasy that he’d shared. That he wants to sit and watch me get myself off. I think of our video call last night. Can I do that? Just a couple of feet in front of him? Everything showing? No creative framing of a camera lens?
And the biggest question of all, am I sexy enough for this? Confident enough? Can I pull it off? 
Suddenly those eyes snap up to my face. “You’re hesitating. Where are you? What color?” he asks. 
“I—um—” I stammer, unsure how to answer. Am I green? Or yellow? 
“Do you want to do this? Do you want to be here?” he asks me, his eyes, stone cold serious, leaning forward and bracing himself with an elbow on the leg that’s pulled up on the cushion.
A flash of fear courses through me. Not that I’m in any danger. No. The fear is that he’ll take all of this away. That he won’t give me the instruction. That, maybe, he’d even send me home. That things wouldn’t go beyond the lovely dinner we just had. No more assignments. No nothing. 
No. I can’t let that happen. I want this. And I absolutely want to be here.
 I find my strength, and answer, “Oui, Monsieur. I want to be here. I’m at green, but a little yellow.” 
A flash of what I can only describe as relief washes over William’s features. He nods then sits back. “When you’re ready. Take your time.”
With a cleansing breath, and a pounding heart, I let go of the dress’s skirt with one hand. To give him the best show, I run my fingers down my thigh, then slowly up my inner thigh, toward my sex. I carefully watch him and his eyes, riveted to my hand. His breath quickens and his eyes heat. 
Then, as he bade, I slip my fingers under the edge of the panty, right there at my very wet core. 
William bites his lower lip, his breath hitching, his eyes widen.
I almost lose it. I’m quite wet. Sopping wet even. And extremely sensitive. I fight the urge to do more. I know he’s going to tell me what to do. I’m putting myself in his capable hands. Wait, it’s my hand right now. Whatever. 
“Give a few strokes and tell me how wet you are.”
I don’t have to even stroke myself to tell him, but at least I now have permission. Slowly I push my fingers down then pull them upward. I’ve barely touched my clit and a small spasm rips through me. I watch William intently, his eyes fixed on my panties and fingers. He’s not even really seeing anything and I can tell he’s super into it.
“Stop. Show me your fingers.”
I lift my hand and hold it palm out for him to see. 
“Come over here. Careful with that hand, I want to taste you.”
I swivel my legs to under me and lean over the middle cushion. With my hand held out for him, I hold my breath.
He leans forward and greedily opens his mouth, taking my fingers in, sucking them, swirling his tongue around them and humming with appreciation all the while. Just as he said he wanted to do last night. 
“You taste amazing. And like I promised last night, I can’t wait to make a meal out of you.”
A shiver of delight runs down my spine. 
“Now stand.” 
I do as he says and stand with my legs shaking as I await my next instruction. 
“I want to see more of you. Unbutton your dress.”
With a breath and holding my head high. You can do this, I tell myself. 
Slowly, again for show, trying to make this as exciting for William as for me, I unbutton the six discs. His eyes are preciously fixed to my fingers. It’s a very powerful and heady feeling. To have his eyes on me so intently. I pull the dress open and slip the fabric back over my shoulders, catching it behind me.
As the cool air hits my breasts, my nipples already pebbled from the arousal of the moment, firm up, almost painfully. They’re so hard I could probably cut glass with them. 
But just as I toss the fabric onto the couch next to him, he says, “I didn’t say you could remove the dress.” His tone firm and dark, his eyes boring into mine. 
Quickly I utter an, “I’m sorry, Monsieur.”
“I should bend you over my knee for that.”
I’m panting, a surge of…something coursing through me. Something I don’t recognize. It’s not exactly fear. Is it excitement? 
“You’ll learn,” he assures me as his eyes glide over my silk stocking covered thighs.
I find it fascinating that my breasts are completely exposed. Yet his attention is solely focused on the silk hose held up by a garter.
“Would you turn please? I would like to see the back,” he says, twirling his index finger in a circle.
Oh yes. The back of these panties… Or knickers. Like the front, all sheer. 
This man and his underwear obsession makes me giggle. 
But I don’t laugh. I just turn.
I’m about to keep turning to make a full rotation, but he says, “Stop,” when my back is fully toward him. 
I hear him release a breath, and then he whispers, “Sensational,” followed by more sounds of shifting fabric. I wonder what he’s doing and I want to turn and look.
“May I touch you?” he asks, his voice just inches behind me. That’s what the sound of shifting fabric was.
I gasp at his nearness. The request. The words. The desperation in his tone. The power he gives me. 
“Oui, monsieur,” I answer without hesitation. 
He lifts my hair and sets it over my shoulder. Then with the lightest of touches, his finger sweeps across the top of my back from one shoulder to the other then back to the center and slowly down my spine. Down…down…down. Reaching the top of the garter belt his touch is interrupted, however he doesn’t stop. Rather he rubs the satin and then his hands slide over my butt, and he gently kneads each globe in his large, capable hands. 
I feel him lean in, his lips just millimeters from my ear, and he whispers, “Your body is exquisite. Has anyone told you that before?”
The goosebumps now have goosebumps. Yet, my body is flushed and heating at the same time. 
Tears prick at the back of my eyes.
I’m unable to speak.
I can only shake my head.
He clicks his tongue a few times to show his dismay. 
“My sweet, Penelope, that breaks my heart. But let me assure you…everything I see is simply divine. All that dreams are made of.”
My body vibrates with his praise.
His hands leave my butt and slide up slowly over my hips…slowly over my stomach…then up, cupping my breasts. A low groan comes from him as his thumbs strum over my nipples and my body quakes with delight.
“God, I could stand here all day and play with these,” he says, sending another shiver through my body. And then he steps closer, closing the gap and pressing his body to mine. At the small of my back, his hot erection is unmistakable, only the thin layer of linen between him and me. He presses his hips into me, then says, “Maybe not all day.” 
I laugh softly. 
“And now…this pussy of yours…” he says, one hand dropping from my breasts. Again, his fingers explore my skin as they lightly skate down my stomach, but then come to rest over my mound. His grip confident and possessive. “Soaking wet,” he mutters and I would swear that I can feel his penis swell and throb into my back. 
So many feelings. I feel cherished. I feel sexy. I’m turned on beyond measure. I have never, I mean never wanted to be touched so desperately. Never wanted sex so badly. 
I wiggle my derrière slightly against him and then curl my hips into his grip. Silently begging for more.
“Someone is being a little greedy, hmm?” 
“Yes, monsieur,” I whisper, my voice shaky. 
“Well, it’s a good thing that I want more just as much as you apparently would,” and he slides his hand into my panties. He toys with my pubic hair and asks, “Have you ever thought about shaving this all off?”
“No,” I answer honestly. 
He holds his hand away from my body and instantly I miss his touch. 
“Would you? Shave it all? For me?” he asks.
I release a quick puff of air, “Yes, monsieur. For you I would.” 
He groans and I’m rewarded with his hand cupping me swiftly, his fingers curling ever so slightly at my folds. 
“So, after our call last night, did you wank yourself to orgasm?” he asks. 
It takes me a moment to figure out what he means with his British slang, but I put it together and I answer, “No.”
“Did you want to?”
“Yes.”
Yet, he rewards me with a deliberate stroke of his fingers through my slit, skillfully avoiding my clit. It leaves me trembling. 
“Do you want to come now?”
If he weren’t holding me fast to his body, I may have crumpled at those words. His words and his finger still slowly stroking through my slick folds. And I have no idea how he’s doing it, but every time his finger nears my clit, he avoids contact. Contact I desperately want. Need.
“Yes.” My affirmation is barely over a whisper. 
“Yes, what?” 
“Yes, monsieur. Oui, monsieur.” I’m practically begging now.
My plea is met with a hungry growl. “I love when you speak French,” he says, a finger curling and swirling an inch or so into me. 
Burrowing. Tunneling. 
Deeper and deeper. My hips curl into his touch and the palm of his hand presses against my clit which is now throbbing. 
With an excruciatingly measured pace, he retracts his finger and then presses inside of me again. He repeats the movement a few times and I’m almost ready to scream. 
A thought occurs to me. He likes French. I wrack my brain. Digging for anything else to surface from high school French class. A task made significantly more difficult with his finger expertly toying with my sex. 
But a phrase hits my thoughts. In my best French accent, I utter, “Bon appetite.”
“Mmm, mais oui, ma soumise,” he whispers. “Faisons de toi un repas.”
I have no idea what he said, but I’m suddenly swept up in his arms and he’s marching toward the windows. I’m reverently laid on the dining room table, my head toward the middle and my feet at an end. 
I watch as William devours me with his eyes. I guess this is what I get for saying Bon appetite. I’m laid out before him like a seven course meal. 
I’m really going to have to learn French.
Thankfully, the table is made of wood and not some super cold material like glass or granite, but it’s cold enough causing me to arch my back from the contact. And I don’t know what to do with my feet still tucked into the heeled shoes, so I’m holding them up, crossed at the ankles, knees bent. 
And all of this in front of the windows overlooking the sound. Anyone out on the waters with high powered binoculars could see me laid out here. Well, probably not, but still, the idea is there.
“Arms overhead,” he says, drawing me from my thoughts. “Crossed at the wrists. Feet down. Flat on the table. Wide. Knees spread.” His commands are simple enough, but…
“My shoes? On the table?” I ask, seemingly the only part of all of what’s going on that gives me pause.
His eyes lock onto mine. “The table can be cleaned. Now. Do as you are told or I’ll have you arse up and spanked for being a bad girl.” 
I gasp. Do I want that? Do I want to know what that would feel like? Not sure I’m ready for a spanking, I raise my arms and position them as instructed. 
His eyes study every line of my shape. I feel like artwork. Live artwork. He brushes the back of his fingers from the side of my breast and follows the curve until he reaches my nipple. Stiff and aching. He drags a fingertip gingerly around the dusty pink skin. His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip and then bites down on the flesh and his finger trails to between my breasts and down the center of my chest until his touch is gone.
I’m breathless. Panting. Wishing I could know what is going on behind those piercing blue eyes. 
As if reading my mind, he says, “The feet.”
Okay, maybe that wasn’t what I was hoping his thoughts were. I want to know what he thinks of my body, but I oblige and lower my feet, doing my best to set them flat on the table. It’s not an easy task. 
Not taking his eyes off me, he walks toward the head of the table. Well, at my feet. 
“Feet wider, ma belle. Knees open.”
I shimmy my feet, widening the ‘stance’ and keeping my knees open, expose myself to him.
Having my knees open offers me the advantage of watching him. Watching him look at me. I think I can feel his eyes all over my skin. Skimming my inner thighs. Raking over my panty covered sex. Combing across my belly. Exploring my breasts. And then he locks eyes with me.
“Breathtaking,” he whispers.
He starts to walk again. As he moves…no…prowls….his eyes fixed on my body, he licks at his lower lip. Bites that lip. His jaw ticks as he clenches it. I can’t see his hands. They’re clasped behind his back. 
“How are you doing?” he finally asks.
“Hmm?” I ask.
“Green?” 
Oh. Right. I nod, and then answer, “Oui, monsieur. Green.” 
His eyes flit closed a moment and he releases a breath. 
He reaches forward and I expect to feel his fingers on my skin…my breasts…somewhere…but I feel a tug at my hip. He pulls and the bow is released. Without touching my skin, he next loosens the knot and then that hip is free. 
With measured steps he rounds the table up by my hands, still obediently crossed at the wrists, and is at my other side. Like a ritual, he repeats the untying of the bow at my hip. 
“Lift.” 
Praying my feet don’t slip out from under me, I push up slightly and he slowly pulls the scrap of fabric away leaving me in just the garter and hose and heels. I lower my hips as I watch William stalk back to stand at my feet. He pulls out the chair and sits, eyes glued to my center. 
“Bon appetite indeed,” he says, and wraps his hands behind my calves and pulls me toward him until my butt is at the edge of the table. He places my legs over his shoulders and leans into my knee, nuzzling the silk stockings a moment before he turns his face and places a tender kiss inside my knee. And then another higher up my leg. And another. 
It’s excruciating. So slow. His hot breath and soft lips and the silk stockings barely a barrier. And then there’s not the silk between his lips and my skin. He’s reached to just above the stockings. He’s almost at my center.
I want to look down. I want to see his face. But I shut my eyes tight and gasp when suddenly I feel his hot tongue pressed against the sensitive pink skin that had moments earlier been covered. Slowly he draws his tongue up, but he stops just before reaching the nub of nerves still crying out for contact. 
“You taste like heaven.” 
He dives back in and licks, this time his tongue dipping further in and I’m writhing under his mouth. Moments pass with ultimate pleasure and he finally licks my clit. I start trembling, an orgasm--right there, but my legs start to close and William’s hands are on my knees, pressing them open. 
“Keep them wide,” he warns, but without warning he slips a finger inside of me.
Desperation rips through me. I have to keep my knees open but his attentions to my sex, the finger and his mouth on my clit… I’m muttering words. Begging, I think. 
A second finger joins the first. He twists his hand or something and there’s a most incredible pressure inside of me. I’m climbing. Almost floating. Definitely trembling. 
I hear a muffled, “Come, Penelope.” 
With an almost violent shudder, his fingers working inside of me, his mouth working on me, I explode. I fall apart into a million pieces of light and color. 
As I start to reassemble, I realize his mouth is still on me, but less intense. Gently lapping at me. 
“Fuck that was amazing,” he says in a low voice thick with satisfaction. 
I’m quivering, after shocks surging through my body. 
Slowly he stands and is at my side. Lovingly he scoops me up from the table and cradles me close to his chest. “You were incredible,” he says. 
If I had the strength, I would have laughed. I didn’t do anything. I just did what he told me and he was the one who made me feel good. He hasn’t gotten off. At least not to my knowledge. 
“How are you?” 
“Wrung out?” I start. “Energized. Satisfied. Wanting more.” I add, meaning every single word.
“Can I take you to my bed?” he asks. 
My belly floods with warmth again. I nod and another piece of French returns to my senses. “S’il vous plaît.” 
“Can you walk?” he asks.
I think about it, and while I’m not really sure, I nod.
Carefully he lowers my legs and I stand, the heels still throwing me off, but I have to admit, I do feel wildly sexy in them. 
“I’d like to follow you. Watch you.” 
My belly clenches. Right. He likes to watch, I recall.
He nods his head toward the curved staircase and I stand taller, and do my best to walk gracefully, hoping my legs don’t give out underneath me. 
Quietly I hear him follow. Reaching the stairs, I glance behind and see that he’s a good ten feet or so behind me. His eyes gleam, dark and hooded as he watches my backside and legs… and the heels as I climb the first couple of stairs.
Another surge of power courses through me. A surge of pride. A surge of confidence. 
Here I am, naked—for all intents and purposes—parading around a man’s home. A man I’d only met a week ago. Communicated with every day for the past week. Gotten to know him, and shared some of my most intimate thoughts with him, and let him just perform oral sex on me while I laid on his dining room table. And somehow, this all feels so natural. So right.
His eyes flick to mine and he issues me a small smirk with couple tuts of his tongue clicking and shaking of the head. 
Realizing that I probably shouldn’t be watching him, I turn and focus on the rest of the staircase. Reaching the top of the stairs, I don’t know which way to turn.
“Right,” he answers. 
I should have guessed. That would put the view from the master suite toward the sound. 
He follows me down the hall, maintaining his distance. I reach the door that’s slightly ajar and step inside. The room is dark and with the far side of the room being floor to ceiling glass overlooking the sound, the only light is the quarter moon hanging in the sky. 
Behind me, William says, “Bedroom. Low lights,” and like magic, the room blooms with dim lighting from recessed cans in the ceiling.
Like the rest of the home, the furnishings are modern, the colors are nautical with crisp whites, deep blues, and neutralizing tans. On one wall is a California king sized bed, and opposite the bed, a massive mirror.
“Stop,” William commands when I reach the center of the room. 
Like a puppet on a string, I do. With my breath ragged, I await his next instruction. 
“Would you like some music?” he asks, his voice low and sultry. 
Would I? With music I could get a little lost in it. It might hide the thump-thump-thumping of my heart. But with music, I might miss hearing something. Something important. 
I shake my head and answer, “No. I want to hear everything going on.” 
“Hmm,” he hums back curiously. “Alright then.” 
I hear some rustling behind me. A drawer opening and then closing. I want to look behind me, but I don’t. With music on, I might have missed that sound. Maybe I would be better off with the noise?
His voice is suddenly inches behind me, his breath washing over my shoulder. “Hands behind your back.” 
There’s a loud rip of Velcro coming undone and then his hand is at my arm, slowly, tenderly sliding down. His thumb brushes over the inside of my wrist. And then that wrist is encircled in a cuff of some sort. It feels like fabric, and the Velcro is secured, the cuff rigid. “Wiggle your fingers.” I do. “Okay?” he asks. 
I nod.
“I asked, Okay?” he says again.
“Oui, monsieur.” 
“Good.” 
The sounds and actions are repeated, and then my hands are bound together at the wrists, secured behind me. Like this, my chest is pushed forward. 
“We’re starting with cuffs, but I hope to move up to some Shibari with you soon…” He lets out a soft groan as a finger trails up and then down my arm. “I can just see it now…Some pink satin cording…” his breathing picks up and I have to admit, I’m curious as to what that would look and feel like.
He walks around to my front and he wets his lower lip as his eyes trail down my body leaving a trail of scorched skin. When his eyes come back up to mine, he lightly caresses my shoulders and asks, “Are you okay?” 
I nod and answer, “Yes, I think so.”
“How do you feel about having your hands restrained?” 
His eyes study mine as I struggle too come up with an answer. “I like that I won’t have to wonder what to do with my hands,” I tell him honestly. 
He lets out a laugh and smiles endearingly at me. “You are full of surprises.” 
“Lights up to medium,” he calls out to the IT whatever in the home, and the lights softly come up a bit brighter, illuminating more of the room. 
He pins his eyes on mine as his hands go to the top secured button of his shirt. One by one. My eyes keep flitting between his fingers and his eyes. I don’t know where my eyes should be. Should I keep them on his? Or should I not look at him at all? Am I allowed to watch as he takes off his shirt?
Reading my mind, he says, his voice thick and gravelly, “By all means. Watch me.” 
Permission granted, my eyes glue themselves to his hands to the very last button. When he pulls the fabric back revealing a body that is clearly the results of hours in the gym. Broad sculpted shoulders from which perfectly moulded arms hang. His chest and abs are planes and chords of muscle. Across his pecs there’s the dusting of blond hairs that catch the light, the same as I had noticed last night. His washboard abs feature a thin trail of blond, although darker blond, which starts at his navel and shoots straight down into his trousers which hang low on his hips. Also directing my attention into his lower half, his oblique muscles creating a V, like an arrow, and nearly forcing ones attention to what lies below the waist of the pants. 
I also realize that the untucked shirt he’s been wearing has done quite the job of hiding an impressive erection.
His strong, graceful hands come down to the drawstring of the linen pants. With a quick tug, the half bow is released. William slides his hands into the waistband and I pant with baited breath as he works the linen over his butt and then finally over his (excuse me) very nice penis. Not too long or thick. Not too short or skinny. I almost laugh feeling a little like Goldilocks as I study the proud member jutting from his hips. With a curious excitement, I note he’s not exactly straight. There is a slight bend to the right which for some reason I find very exciting. 
He kicks the cotton to the side and with a ragged breath he asks, “Would you like to see more?”
My eyes shoot to his and he’s not kidding. In fact, I note that he rather enjoyed being ogled. And I recall that along with his voyeuristic kink, he also marked the exhibitionist elements as a 5 on the Limits list. 
So I nod. Not just for his desire to show off, but also because I’m dying to see his back. 
He leans in and drops a sweet kiss on my forehead then walks away.
His back is broad and smooth and there are muscles everywhere. The V from the front is echoed here as his body goes from his wide shoulders to his narrow hips, and Heaven help me! his derrière. Round and taut, like the derrière of an underwear model. 
He opens a drawer, grabs something, and turns around. In his hands he holds a bright red satin pillow. And he’s not hiding his hard length with it, which almost seems to be pointing the way…toward me. 
Stopping about a foot and a half in front of me, he drops the pillow which makes a soft ploofph sound at my feet.
“On your knees, please,” he says. He said please, his tone is stern and demanding—and although I cannot explain it, it’s….comforting. There’s nothing tentative about what he wanted. And he gave me a soft place for my knees instead of a hard floor.
But what he wants isn’t something I’m very excited about. In fact, I’m kind of terrified. And pretty sure it was low on my list of things I wanted to do. Even if he did give me warning that fellatio was on the ‘menu’ for tonight.
When I don’t drop to my knees, he asks, “Was I unclear?”
“No, monsieur,” I answer, trying to be the best submissive I can, but…
“Knees.”
He places a gentle hand at my elbow, presumably to help lower me to kneel on the pillow, because, yeah—getting onto your knees with your hands secured behind your back and in heels isn’t an easy move—but that’s not my reason for the hesitation.
Alas, I make myself as comfortable as I can. I also try to calm my breathing. I know it’s a little erratic. 
“What are you thinking?” he asks. Like he could read my apprehension.
“I’m—um…I don’t—ugh!”
“Out with it, Penelope.”
With a final humiliating humpf, I blurt, “I’m not really good at…that,” I finally manage with a nod toward his dick which is a couple of feet from my face. 
“Says who?”
My cheeks on fire, I say, “My ex.” 
“I’ve already told you I think he’s a fool.”
That withstanding, I would think Peter knew the difference between a good blowjob and a bad one. It had been only the third one I had given him. It was the holiday break of our freshman years at college. He told me that I “didn’t have to do that any more.” I didn’t feel obligated since he didn’t go down on me, and it never resurfaced as a part of our sex life. 
William takes another step toward me, his dick now inches from my face. He firmly takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look up at him. “I want you to forget everything that arsehole ever told you. He’s made you feel like shitte, when, in fact, he’s the cause of all the problems. He should have communicated. Apparently he didn’t. He expected you to be a mind reader. That was wrong of him.” I don’t know why but I suddenly want to cry. Not that he called my ex an asshole and spoke ill of him. Maybe it’s the sincerity and care and concern in his eyes. William brushes his thumb across my lower lip and softens his tone before continuing. “You will never be left wondering with me, ma belle. You will always know where I stand. What I like. What I want. And I will also work tirelessly to learn everything there is about you.” 
His vow hangs heavy in the air, his eyes searching mine. 
“Are you good to continue? Where are you?” 
I nod with an urgency that surprises me. “Oui, monsieur. I’m good. I’m green. I want to do this. Please. Tell me what to do.”
He releases a shaky breath and nods with a smile on his face. 
My heart swells that I’ve made him happy. 
“I’ll tell you exactly what to do. I’ll correct you if I need to. Gently. And I won’t come in your mouth. It would give me the greatest pleasure to come all over your tits, okay?” 
I don’t know why, but it sounds like the sexiest thing ever. 
“Stick out your tongue, baby.”
I open my mouth and extend my tongue and as I do, I notice a bead of clear liquid at the tip of him. “That’s just pre-cum. You have plenty of time,” he tells me. 
Somewhere in my thoughts I feel that I shouldn’t have to be told this, but I also find it a little reassuring. That he’s not going to release any second. And that he cares enough to communicate. 
“Now. Tongue.” 
I stick my tongue out and open my mouth wide. 
William steps closer and says, “Lick just the underside to start with.”
With a broad, flattened tongue, I lean forward and I lick him from the base, all the way to the tip. Overhead I hear William hiss his delight. 
His voice low and gravelly, he says, “Now swirl your tongue around the tip there.” 
As I do, I look up and he’s looking down at me, lust and bewilderment clouding his eyes. 
“Kiss along the shaft,” he suggests, and hums his satisfaction when I do, and threads his fingers through my hair.
I feel very seductive with all of Williams little noises. He has me switch back and forth between licks and kisses. He tells me that my mouth and tongue are perfect. It’s so freeing to follow his instruction and not think.
As I’m tonguing his length, I flick my tongue on the spot just behind the crown where it meets the shaft and he trembles with a throaty groan says, “Do that again.” I do and he shudders. “Oh god yeah, that spot right there.” 
Through gritted teeth he asks, “Are you ready to take me into your mouth?”
“Mm-mmm,” I hum on the head of his cock which, to my delight, makes it twitch and jump again.
With his hands cradling my head, and a long forgotten echo from my ex about being careful with my teeth, William slowly pushes himself into my mouth. “Oh fuuu…” he groans, holding himself still a moment. His fingers clench on my scalp, lightly pulling at my hair. I love it because I know it’s because he’s holding himself back. Restraining himself. 
“Holy hell your mouth is amazing,” he mutters, pulling back a little and gently driving back in, and thankfully not going too deep. There are still a few inches until my nose would be pressed into his dark blond curls. 
One day, I tell myself, a promise that I’ll get better at this and one day take all of him in.
“Mmmmm, yeah…Now suck lightly…hollow out your cheeks…Oh god, yesss…Perfect rhythm…Perfect mouth…Perfect Penelope…” he hisses. I can feel his heartbeat in the shaft on my tongue. The power I feel is exhilarating. 
More muttered curses, and his breath picks up. I continue to take him in, sucking and using my tongue in any way that I can, wishing my hands were free so I could hold him, touch him. 
Suddenly, he pushes my head back with one hand, pulling himself out of my mouth and grabs his dick with his other hand, furiously bumping until he lets out a rugged, primal groan. Hot semen spurts out of that plump, purple crown and lands on my chest. 
“Oh fuck, of fuck, oh fuuuck!” he continues as spurt after spurt lands on my breasts and neck and shoulder. “You’re simply amazing. Sensational.” 
A thrill, an insane rush, courses through me that I’d done that to him. I’d gotten him crazed. And now he’s marked me with his spunk. 
He sinks to his knees and with both hands, cradles my face, still panting from his release, a look of awe and admiration in his eyes. Softly, he presses his lips to swollen lips, then rests his forehead on mine a moment. He makes quick work to release my hands and then massages my shoulders, hands, and wrists, asking me how each part feels. Next, he slips the shoes off my feet as well as the stockings and garter.
“Come. Let’s clean up.”
He stands and pulls me up with him, and he leads us into his en suite bathroom. He turns the shower on and almost immediately the room starts to fill with steam. He rummages through a drawer and pulls out a bandana. “To hold your hair up. Don’t want you to have wet hair for the rest of the night.” I smile at his thoughtfulness. My hair secured out of the way, he ushers me into the massive showers stall. 
With a soft rag and a citrusy body wash, he lathers up my chest, neck, and shoulders. Slick and soapy, his hands feel amazing on my breast. He teases my nipples and I swear I’m about to come. And as though he realizes this, he stops, dropping his mouth to my ear. “Not yet, ma belle.” 
Next, his hand skates down over my hips. He lifts one of my legs and, instinctively, I hook it around his hip. His other hand slips down to between my legs and in record time with is expert touch, I’m panting and on the edge of release again. But again, he senses how close I am and he stops, leaving me like a live wire. 
He turns off the shower and wraps me in the fluffiest towel I’ve ever felt. Carefully he pats my skin dry, clearly avoiding any friction on my nipples or between my legs, he then slips his bathrobe onto my arms, releases my hair and fluffs it over my shoulder. I watch, mesermcized as he then sets about drying himself off. 
I breathe in the scent from the soft cotton he’s wrapped me in. It smells so much like him, and I start to feel myself grow wet between my legs yet again. 
Both of us dry, we head back into the bedroom. 
“Come,” he commands, and lovingly removes the robe, caressing my breasts and settles me onto the bed. He arranges my hair on the pillow, his gaze taking everything in with admiration and lust. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, his accent making the swear word sound so hot. 
He drags a finger down my jawline and continues down my neck and over my breasts, drawing lazy lines and circles all over my mounds and belly. His eyes track his finger as his tongue slides back and forth across his lower lip. He returns to my breasts and gives my nipples a little tweak. It sends a bolt of lightening to between my legs and I shudder. 
“You like that?” he asks. 
“I do.”
“Shall I do it again?”
So proper. I swear just his words could make me come right about now. “Yes,” I answer. 
He rolls my other nipple between his  fingers and the squeezes firmly.
A squeak escapes my lips, but it’s replaced by a gasp when a finger slides down between my folds. 
“You’re already wet,” he tells me. He slowly strokes my slit avoiding the nub begging for attention.  
I want to beg for him to touch me there, but also, I don’t think I could speak if I had to. 
And then he slips that finger into me. Involuntarily I clench around the digit.  
“Oh this pussy of yours. I think it’ll be my undoing.” He looks up at me with a sly smile as his finger slides in and out of me. He adds in a second finger and my body trembles, my hips curl. I’m so needy. He swirls is fingers…explores…tests…A third finger joins the first two and his thumb circles my clit making my legs quiver.
“Please,” I beg. 
“Please what?” he asks. “I want to hear you tell me what you want.”
My cheeks heat. Is he really going to make me say it? 
“I want you.”
“You want me to do what?” he growls, his voice thick and rugged. “Remember, ma belle, I like to listen to things. I want to hear it.”
“Oui, monsieur,” I confirm and then decide to just out with it. “I want you inside of me. I want your…cock…in my…pussy.” 
He lets out a groan and I note that his erection has twitched. He grips the base of it as he takes a deep breath.  “That was very good, ma belle.”
He presses a sweet kiss to my lips and reaches over to the side table and grabs a condom.
“Roll it on me,” he says handing me the rolled latex and straddling my waist, his cock jutting out right over my breasts. 
My hand shaking, I take it with one hand and hold his dick with the other. I run my hand up the smooth, hard length, noting how dark the head has become. He thrusts a little in my hand and I love it. 
“We can play later, but, ma belle, I need to fuck you. Then you can play.” 
I don’t know why hearing him swear sounds so good. It’s such a crass word, but I’m so desperate to come right now that it sounds perfect.
So, I oblige and start to put the condom on. I roll it down his shaft and the way his dick pulses in my hand it’s amazing. 
He positions himself between my legs and holds them up and wide behind my knees. He lines himself up to my entrance and, with his eyes glued to my center, presses in. I gasp as I feel him stretch me. 
He’s only just entered, but he stops and breathes in slowly through his nose and releases the breath out his mouth, meditatively—like it’s yoga for him.
And for me, the sensation is beyond. I clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.
“Don’t,” he commands, his tone as fierce as the look in his eye. “I want to hear every noise you make. Every. Single. Sound,” he says, punctuating each word with a light thrust. 
I take my hand away and he smiles, pulling back a little and then thrusting in again. 
“Ahh!”
“Yeah,” he urges. “Like that.” He repeats the move and hisses with his eyes watching where we are joined. “I love how your pussy grips my dick. And, belle, the way I’m stretching you…” he groans as he works himself further into me.
All the while, I’m panting and letting out sighs and gasps, not even remotely trying to be quiet.
“Are you ready for all of me?” he asks, his eyes flicking up to mine, heated and hungry. 
“Oui, monsieur,” I manage. 
“I want to hear you,” he says, and then, his eyes locked with mine, with one thrust, he plunges all the way in to me.
“Ahhhhh!” I practically scream, my eyes flying open wide. 
I feel as though electricity is racing through my body. Like I’m electrified.
“I’m sorry, baby. You okay?” he asks through gritted teeth as he holds himself deep inside of me, letting me adjust. And I can feel his dick pulse and twitch. It’s the strangest thing.
“I’m okay. I’m better than okay,” I assure him.
He circles his hips which presses against my clit.
“Yes,” I plead, wanting more.
And he does. A few times. And then he goes back to ‘playing’…slowly withdrawing and then pushing back in a few times, occasionally a sharp thrust, making me cry out.  
He watches me constantly. My face. My sex where he’s plundering me. My breasts, occasionally reaching up to tweak my nipples.  
I both want to come and I want this to never stop. 
He’s thrusting into me, his thumb passes over my super sensitive nub and he says
Suddenly, he pulls out of me. I look at him, confused. He didn’t come. I didn’t come. I thought finally for sure he was going to let me orgasm. I was so close. I want to cry.
“I want you on top. I want you to mount me….ride me. I want to watch you come.” 
I want to protest, but with the look in William’s eye—wild and hungry and sincere—I couldn’t possibly say no. 
And yet, the one time I was on top was horrible. Peter told me I’d done it all wrong. 
“Penelope,” William says, as if reading my thoughts. “Forget your entire sex life before tonight. It’s just you. And me. There’s no room for anyone else here.”
I nod and am rewarded when he leans down over me and kisses me deeply.
And then, in a swift move, he slides his hands under my back and rolls, pulling me with him. 
I find myself straddling his hips and take a deep breath—the view very different from up here. 
His latex covered cock is straight up in front of me. I’m kind of shocked noting how deep it’ll be into me and I shudder with excitement. Suddenly eager for this, I tilt to one knee and hold his dick to line him up with my sex. I wish the latex wasn’t covering him. I wish I could feel his bare rod in my hand. To feel his raw heat at my sex. 
“God, that’s hot,” he hisses. “Watching you. Feeling your hand on my cock. Your hot pussy kissing the head. Fuck.” 
His words are like a spell. Dirty and appreciative and empowering. 
“Take me, ma belle. All of me.”
Part consumed with need, and part accepting his challenge, I quickly impale myself on his shaft, then still appreciating the way it feels so different. 
“Uuuuuuuhhhhh,” he groans loudly. “So good,” he tells me, taking my hands in his and lacing our fingers together. 
A slowly roll my hips and a small ripple courses through me, a warning shot…a pre-orgasm. This is not going to take long. Not at all. 
With William’s urging, his hips rolling and his hands still holding mine, I quickly find a rhythm. The way I’m able to grind on his pubic bone, creating a friction on my clit, I quicken my pace and then the wonderful wave of the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had crashes over me.
And William thrusts up sharply with his own release, our cries combining and making the most beautiful sound. I curl up and fall onto William’s chest, still vibrating with the orgasm. 
His arms around me, I listen to his heartbeat and his voice through his chest, his whispers of praise and adoration. 






I must have drifted off to sleep or passed out or something, because I wake up and find the lights have been turned off, and William sleeping next to me, the both of us under the covers. 
I study him quietly. His eyelashes brushing on his cheeks. His mouth which can be so sweet and so dirty. His muscular shoulder and all the strength he’s shown me.
And what’s more, all the care and concern and security I’ve felt. That I feel. 
Quietly I slip out of the bed and pad downstairs as quickly as I can, naked as the day I was born and not caring one bit. 
In the living room, I have only just grabbed what I’d come down for when William’s voice sounds through the space, stopping me in my tracks.
“Penelope? What are you doing? Where are you going?” he asks. I turn and find him, gloriously bare, an amazing specimen of a man, his eyebrows knit tightly together. 
His eyes lock with mine and I can see fear and confusion in his blue eyes. 
“I—um—“ I stammer back, not knowing how to say what had been so clear in my thoughts a moment ago. 
Words failing me, I slowly walk up to him and show him what was in my hands. 
His eyes stare at my upturned palms. 
“Yes? You’re sure?” he asks, his voice a little uneven as he takes my hands in his.
“For the time being, yes.” 
He takes the silver key in my right hand and unlocks the heart on the necklace. I hold up my hair for him as he wraps the silver chain around my neck and then secures the lock. 
He traces the ornament gingerly. “I’m beyond honored. I promise to never violate your trust in me.” 
“I know,” I tell him.
William scoops me up in his arms and carries me back to his bed. I have never felt more cared for. 
What I don’t know is where things will go from here. Or how long this arrangement might last. If this lifestyle is something I can do for longer than two weeks. But for now, I’m excited to learn. And grow. 


The End.

(actually - if you click here, you can get a Bonus Penelope and William scene.) 

But otherwise...
Where would Penelope be if she made other choices? 
What if Penelope hadn't experimented with William?
Or what if she hadn't given William her panties?
What if she hadn't even gone on the blind date at all, but went to the club with Laura instead? 

Click on the cover and get your copy of PENELOPE'S PATHS now! Read all the paths.
Read all of her HEAs - and even a few of the paths that don't exactly end up so well. 💖