Free Ecstasy in the White Room by Portia Da Costa Page A

pressure, but oh so exciting. He’s right about the
lateness too, even though he’s punished me for that already, in a stolen moment
in the midst of the festivities.
    “Yes...I’m sorry.” My voice is tiny. He tugs again, drawing me
into the open, away from the minimal safety of the dressing table.
    “There’s no need to speak.” His voice is quiet too, but it
seems to resonate around the white expanse as if we were in a cathedral,
bouncing off the walls and rebounding against me. “I think that chair will
do...for a start.” He gestures imperiously to a leather upholstered armchair,
also in white.
    Chairs, leather-covered chairs, so good for our games. I think
fondly of our pair of lovely Victorian chairs at home, with their gleaming red
leather upholstery and their polished walnut frames. I purchased the first one
from an antique store in a fit of extravagance, precisely because it would be
perfect for spanking—either with me draped across the back of it, or over
Simon’s knee when he was seated. I also knew it was the very thing to initiate a
ritual, just like tonight. I got my wish, of course, and received various
stringent spankings, as well as a reward in the form of the second chair, bought
by Simon. This white chair is okay, but not nearly as characterful and full of
risqué history as our Victorian beauties. It’s good for purpose though, just the
right height. I make a move toward it, head up and controlling my nerves.
    “Not just yet. You’re not prepared. Stand still.”
    Obedient, I freeze. Well, as much as I can when every bit of me
is trembling. In a ruthless gesture, he hooks a finger into the elastic of my
black silk thong, and drags it down over hip and thigh, working his way around
and then leaving it at half-mast, nestling against the tops of my hold-up
stockings. For his purposes, we could have left the thing in place. It doesn’t
hide my buttocks. But pulled-down knickers make much more of a statement. They
make “bare” even more bare, and they enforce and reinforce my submission.
    Simon prowls around me, perusing my pale belly and the flossy
darker triangle of my bush, his blue eyes assessing, judging, noting. After a
second or two, he reaches back into his pocket and brings out a pair of light
handcuffs. They’re toys really, but strong in symbolism, and, taking me by the
wrists, he secures them together behind my back. Destabilized, I sway, wishing I
hadn’t already put on my high heels. It feels very precarious to be teetering on
them and not able to reach out and support myself when lust makes me giddy and
light-headed.
    Simon’s strong arm at my elbow steadies me, and from the point
of contact a sense of inner power flows. You might think that I shouldn’t need
or want to feel powerful in this situation, but I do, believe me, I do. He’s as
much in thrall to me as I am to him.
    “Come along then.” I can hear the smile in his voice, as if
he’s read my thought. “We’ve a lot to do before dinner, so we’d better get on
with it.”
    Firmly, he leads me to the chair and drapes me over the back of
it, dressing my position meticulously. Legs apart, as far as they’ll go within
the limits of my pushed-down thong, in order to reveal me to him. Bottom well
up, presented at the best angle for punishment.
    He fusses with my thong, the tops of my stockings. He’s being
very particular. What is he going to use on me, I wonder? This hotel is far from
a normal hotel—that’s why we chose it, from a recommendation—and our greeting
gift was a well-stocked basket of complimentary sex toys and discipline items.
High-end examples, just as one would expect from the equally high-end price of
the accommodation here. But we’ve brought our own goodies from home, too, so it
could be something familiar, or something brand-new.
    Or maybe it’ll just be his hand.
    In spite of his talk of haste, Simon takes his time. His
finicky handling of me seems to involve a lot of accidental