Author’s note: Soon after finishing Under the Rose my muse insisted on a sequel, so I wrote one from the viewpoint of one of the female characters in the previous story.

I was looking out an upstairs window when his car pulled up in front of the house. I’m really nervous, I thought to myself. Samantha told me what he said and did with her the other night on the plane and during their drive to my house, but she doesn’t know my ex and I were in the lifestyle while we were married. I never let on, never told my little sister anything about that, but we obviously share some submissive genes. Now this man is here, and I know he’s a Dom, and from what Sam told me he’s a knowledgeable and considerate one. But it’s been a long time since I played, over a year because of the period of separation and then the divorce with its emotional aftermath.

I turned and headed for the staircase, walking carefully in my brand new and very high heels. That’s another thing I haven’t done for a while, I reflected as I started down the steps. I used to wear stilettos all the time, and I really liked how they made me look and the admiring looks I attracted. My breasts bounced a bit as I descended, reminding me that I was dressed as he’d specified, without any undergarments. But they’re still perky, my C-cups, I told myself, still firm with only a little sag despite all the play they endured. The memories of those scenes, mostly good ones, flooded back into my brain, and I could feel a bit of moisture form in my pussy.

The doorbell rang as I reached the bottom of the stairs, but my sister got to the door first. She was dressed much as I was, both of us driven by his preferences for a button-front blouse, a knee-length pleated skirt, and our highest heels. She opened the door and invited him in; he was wearing a black suit with a deep red dress shirt open at the collar.

He took a couple of steps into the foyer and stopped; my sister closed the door behind him, walked around to face him, put her arms around him, and kissed him passionately. He put his arms around her in turn, held the kiss for perhaps 20 seconds, then released her.

“I haven’t been introduced to your sister, Samantha.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I was just happy to see you again. Please meet my sister, Gillian; she goes by Jill.”

The man took a step to the side so he had a clear view of me, then slowly looked me up and down before saying, “Hello, Jill, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m happy to meet you also,” I said, “but I don’t know your name.”

“Samantha doesn’t know it either, but since I’ve spanked her and you invited me to spank you, for now both of you may address me as Sir.”

My heart skipped a beat when he said that. “Thank you, Sir, may I offer you a drink?”

“No, thank you, I’m taking you and Samantha out and we’ll have wine with dinner.” He held out his hand and made a come-here gesture; I walked to stand next to him, as Sam was, and I was pleased to find that he was three inches taller than I even in my five-inch heels. It had been a long time since I was with someone I knew was a dominant man, but I was always most comfortable when I had to look up to one.

He was, as Samantha had described and predicted, a complete gentleman, escorting us to his car, helping us get settled with me in front and Sam in the back seat, and driving to our destination, a popular steak house near my home. As we moved smoothly through the early-evening traffic he inquired how Samantha was enjoying her visit, and in response to his questions I told him I’d been living in my house for several years and it became solely mine in the divorce settlement. When we’d parked at the restaurant he assisted us out of the car and offered an arm to each of us for the short walk inside. He gave his name to the hostess and we were led through the dining room to a table near the far wall where Sam and I were seated across from each other. We looked over the menus and discussed the choices, and when the server arrived he ordered a red wine and we each stated our desires. But then he changed the game.

“From what I’ve seen, it appears that you are both right-handed. Each of you is to put your right hand under your thigh and keep it there.”

His assertion of control brought back old reflexes and I automatically complied without question, but I was unsurprised that Samantha objected. “How can we eat with only one hand?” she asked.

“Do you still trust me?” he asked in response.

“Yes, of course, but...”

“Then consider this just another new experience. You are free to disobey me, we have no commitment between us. But I hope you’ll go along for this new ride.”

Samantha blushed when she heard that; I knew she had vivid memories of the first ride she took with him. “Yes, Sir,” she said demurely, eyes downcast, and I saw her move her hand as I had done.

The wine was served, followed quickly by our first course. We started our meals with mixed salads, and the results were almost comical. Sam and I both giggled as bits of lettuce dropped back onto our plates; we weren’t accustomed to holding our left hands steady enough and our forks gyrated as we lifted them. When our entrees arrived, he reached over and cut the steaks into small pieces for each of us, and it turned out that the salad practice had been helpful. Our initial awkwardness gradually faded, and by the end of the meal we were almost casually putting our forks down to sip our wine between bites and feeding ourselves fairly adroitly.

On the drive home he asserted more control, fastening the safety belts of each of us as he had done with Samantha before their drive from the airport. He spent enough time securing her into the back seat that I was sure he was kissing her, and I silently debated with myself about overtly demonstrating my interest the way she had done. I definitely was interested in him, but I knew he was in a long-term relationship and I wondered whether just playing with him was the right thing for me to do at this stage of my post-divorce life.

When the moment of opportunity came, I chose to make my reawakening desires clear, and his immediate strong response took my breath away and made my juices flow. He held my hands in my lap with one of his, put his other hand behind my head, and kissed me intensely; I parted my legs and pulled his hand tight against the skirt over my damp pussy.

When we arrived back at my house, he turned in his seat and told Samantha, “When I release you, go in the house, go upstairs to the bedroom you’ve been using, and wait for me. I’m going to collect on my rain check, but I want a few minutes with Jill first. Do you understand my instructions? This is your chance to back out if you want to.”

“I understand, Sir, and I will comply,” she answered. He went around and opened her door, unlatched her belt, and offered her his hand. She took it, rose out of the car, stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek, and strode to the front door, reaching into her purse for her key as she went. By the time she was inside, he was back in his driving position. The car started moving, and I knew what was coming.

“I watched your reactions earlier this evening, Jill, and of course I enjoyed your kiss. You don’t really want just a spanking and a quick orgasm, do you?”

“No, Sir, I want ... no, I want and I need more than that.”

“Unlike your sister, you’ve been in the lifestyle, haven’t you? Was it with your ex-husband?”

“Yes, Sir, it was. But I’ve been away from it for over a year, what with the divorce and all, and I haven’t figured out how to get safely back into it, especially as a single person.”

“You know I’m in a long-term relationship, right? That’s not going to change.”

“Yes, Sir, I know, and I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that. But Sam told me you’re able to play with other people, and obviously you did with her and again a little with us earlier this evening. Like Samantha, I believe I trust you, and I’m hoping maybe you could help me ease my way back.”

“You want to ease back into the scene community, maybe find a long-term partner, but you don’t want to ease back into play, do you?”

“No, Sir, I think I’m ready to go in scenes. I know I’m ready mentally; the only question in my mind is how ready my body is for that kind of stress.”

“What does ready to go mean to you, Jill? Different people have different limits.”

“My ex-husband and I were fairly serious players with the floggers and other kinds of toys he used,” I told him, “and I was somewhat of a pain-slut. I may not be ready for quite as much at this moment, but I want to get back to that level of play as quickly as I can.”

“Okay, that tells me a lot about SM stuff,” he said, “and I suppose we’re negotiating now. What about other aspects of play?”

“I rule out the usual big squicks, scenes with children, animals, blood, and scat. Incidental cuts and enemas are okay, but nothing beyond that in those areas. Sexually, there’s probably nothing else I haven’t done, including the occasional threesome and more-some; the deeper I am into it, the more you can demand of me.”

“All right,” he said, “we’ll see how things go. But I want to reach closure with Samantha first, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for your first scene with me.”

“I understand, Sir,” I replied as he braked smoothly to a stop back at my house. “I’m anxious, and I’m eager, and I’m envious because I have a pretty good idea of how you’ll treat Samantha even though you’ll be gentle with her. But I know that withholding or delaying my pleasure is part of the head game, so go have fun with her, and I’ll be more than ready tomorrow evening.”

“Send her out to a movie or something,” he told me. “We’ll be making all kinds of sounds, and we don’t want to scare her out of her wits.”

The next day was Saturday, and it seemed to drag on forever. I spent hours wondering what toys he would bring and how he would use them. I alternated kinky fantasies with worries about what he might demand of me sexually and how I might respond, since I hadn’t had any sexual release from anything but my vibrator for many months. As the day wore on, I debated with myself endlessly over what I should wear to greet him, thinking that whatever I wore would probably come off soon after he arrived, except possibly my heels.

At five o’clock I ran a bath and soaked for 20 minutes. Then I drained the tub, turned on the shower, washed my hair, and shaved everywhere. As I dried my hair, I finally decided on a bustier top that laced up the back and a plain skirt; Sam pulled the laces tight, accentuating my waist and pushing my breasts up. We sat down for a light supper, and then she was gone, out for the evening. I slipped into my heels and sat on the edge of the living room couch, biting my lip and oscillating between nervousness and anticipation.

It seemed like a long wait, but only about ten minutes had gone by when the doorbell rang. Here we go, I thought, and I pushed myself up and went to the door. I opened it and said, “Good evening, Sir,” as I waved him in; he was wearing black jeans, a black polo, and deck shoes, and he was carrying a big duffel bag.

“Hello, Jill,” he replied. “You look terrific.”

“Thank you, Sir. Please follow me; I think you’ll want to see my basement.” Part of the legacy of my past lifestyle activities was a well-padded area rug on the floor, a pair of heavy-duty hooks set into the visible beam that crossed the middle of the basement ceiling, and a queen-size sofa-bed at the far end of the space that I had opened out and prepared earlier in the day. I led him to the doorway, flipped on the stairwell light, and preceded him down the stairs. When I got to the bottom, I hit the dimmer switch and turned the track lights down about halfway. He looked around and nodded in appreciation.

“This will do fine,” he said. “I’d wondered what we might have available for a play space.” He set his duffel down, then reached into it and pulled out a two-foot-long one-inch dowel with eye bolts in the ends and two lengths of quarter-inch nylon rope. Then he used the ropes to suspend the bar between the eye bolts and the ceiling hooks and attached suspension cuffs to the bolts with quick-release snap-toggles. When he was done, the cuffs were at a good height for my hands and wrists; I could be put into them with my elbows comfortably bent. I’m impressed, I thought to myself; I’d hoped he really knows what he’s doing, and this sure looks promising.