They arrived at her house, and, when she turned to him to say goodbye, he stopped the engine.

She continued, not grasping the significance of his action. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later...”

As she turned away to open the door, she felt his hand grasp her wrist firmly.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked, his voice low and dark.

She turned back toward him. “What?”

“We discussed this. I have decided that it will happen today. Now. So I ask again, aren’t you going to invite me in?”

She felt a sudden flush, and her breath quickened. Over the last few months, discussions of sexuality had turned into discussions of sex, so he knew of her submissive tendencies, and they had agreed that someday they might act on their mutual attraction. Could this indeed be the time? Her eyes dropped away from his, as she quietly spoke. “Would you like to come in?”

“I would; thank you.” As he unbuckled his seat belt, he felt relief that she had welcomed his overture, and that he had, if her slight gasp had been any indication, struck the right level of dominance to excite her. He rounded the front of the vehicle, opening the door and helping her out, then reaching behind the seat to remove a small duffel bag. After locking the door, he turned to her. “Shall we?”

As she stood meekly beside the car, her head bowed, she felt her pulse race. He had barely touched her, yet her arousal quickly banished the thought that it might be a dream. How had he known just how to take control without words or actions that were uncharacteristic? Seeing the duffel, she realized he had planned this, not acting impulsively as she had thought. She had also thought that they would have planned something in advance, but he hadn’t mentioned anything to her, keeping himself in complete control of the situation. The realization aroused her further, for she could see that he had taken care to indulge her fetish despite his usual preference for explicit consensus. As they turned toward the house, she felt him gently grasp her elbow, subtly and gently reinforcing his dominance. Without speaking, she let them in and guided him down the stairs to her bedroom, feeling as though he were directing her with his touch.

She had changed subtly, he thought as they entered her room. Her brazen, worldly demeanor faded, leaving her quiet and meek. An almost innocent air surrounded her as she dropped her handbag and went to stand near the double bed that occupied one corner of the space. The walls were dark, and the low light gave the room an aura of sensuality. He took a moment to look at her, carefully examining the lightweight navy blue dress that covered her slender figure.

She could feel his gaze travel along her body, almost giving her the impression he could see through her clothing. Her face flushed as she realized that her undergarments were somewhat staid - plain cotton panties, albeit purple ones, and a simple bra, neither of which went with her dress. “He’ll be angry,” whispered a voice in her mind. “You’ll need to be punished.” Fully in submissive mode, she simply accepted that this was so, though the masochist in her surged with the thought of punishment, sending a fresh rush of arousal through her already charged body.

How to proceed, he wondered. He knew she was waiting for his instructions, and would need to give him pleasure before he would be able to evoke the most intense sensations within her. As he debated between taking forceful action himself and firmly ordering her into the role of servant, she spoke.

“Sir?” she asked, her voice soft and hesitant from the war between her desire to please him and her craving for punishment.

“Yes?”

“I fear that I have already failed to fully serve you. My undergarments are ... they were not chosen with regard for your pleasure. I wished to inform you of my failing so that you are not surprised at their disappointing appearance, and will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”

He remained silent for a few seconds as he processed her statement. Punishment? For underwear? But, then, she was submissive, and had apparently entered a servile mindset. If they were not as sexy as they might be, she might naturally expect him to be displeased, despite having no warning of his intentions. At least this solved the question of how to proceed, but it introduced the new quandary of devising a suitable “punishment” for her. She enjoyed spankings, he remembered, and noticed a paddle which he could use. Not particularly appropriate to the ‘offense,’ but a safe, generic choice. Then an idea occurred to him.

“Have you a sharp knife?”

Her breath caught, and she swallowed. Surely he wouldn’t ... But as quickly as her outrage surfaced, she suppressed it. No, he wouldn’t truly hurt her; she knew him to be an inherently gentle man, one who felt a genuine affection for her. Likely he was just trying to scare her into a more intense passion. The part of her that exulted at the prospect of pain pointed out that it was certainly working; her nerves were on fire. No, if she didn’t trust him, she wouldn’t have allowed this to even begin, and even her deepest subconscious was certain that he would stop immediately if she asked it. Calming herself, she quietly said “I can get one from the kitchen.”

He heard her voice tremble, and his resolve faltered. He could play at being her master, but could he actually handle inspiring fear in her? Forcing authority into his voice, he spoke two words: “Do so.”

She walked past him, re-closing the door after passing through it. He heard her quiet steps on the stairs just outside the end wall, and wondered at her willingness to accept his request for a knife. He never questioned his self-control, which he had wrung from an unwilling mind in his youth. Well, at least not of his anger; aside from his iron grip on that emotion, his attempt to dredge up enough hardness to act sufficiently convincing for her was failing miserably, but he would probably lose control of his lust later in the evening. Not that he wouldn’t be willing to let that go, for she was passionate and far too sexy for her own good. The thought of slipping inside her brought a smile to his face, which he quickly schooled into a stern expression as she returned with the knife, wordlessly offering it to him. Handle out, he noted, his lips curving up slightly at her proper handling of the instrument. Their eyes met as he grasped the knife and quietly thanked her, signalling that she could safely release her grip.

Letting go of the blade, she felt the fear that had mounted as she returned from the kitchen dissipate. His eyes -- despite the cliche, they truly were windows to his soul, and she had seen everything in that brief moment before she bowed her head: the assumed dominance and pretended ownership, the genuine passion and lust, the caring and tenderness, and the devilish glint that said he was playing with her, stoking her fires, just as she had wanted him to do. Reminded of the inner man whose very presence aroused her, that she had wanted to come to her, that she trusted implicitly, she let the last little shred of will wither away, fully releasing her mind and body to her arousal -- and to him.

She knew. He saw in her eyes that she understood that he was doing everything for their -- especially her -- pleasure. He felt better for that moment of contact between equals, then stared in surprise as he felt her strength and confidence disappear, leaving only desire, passion, and obedience. He froze momentarily, wondering why she had never told him about this, then realizing that she had not -- could not have -- known she would trust him so completely at this moment. He felt a flicker of fear, a surge of protectiveness, and then lust ripped through his body, focused and enhanced by the power he now held.

Stepping toward her, he began to speak, his voice low and husky. “You knew I would have you someday, but you chose not to be ready for me.” He caressed her face with the back of his hand, knowing that he would never harm her, even as he was further aroused by the way she flinched and whimpered at his touch. “You should always be prepared for your master.” Her fear was palpable now. “You have failed me.” Part of him couldn’t believe how he was reacting; what he was doing. “And failure requires punishment, does it not?” Still, he exulted in her fear, smelling the desire it aroused within her, soaking her panties.

His touch seared her skin. The part of her that trusted him enough to let him do this to her was ecstatic, reveling in the sensations and making her crave her eventual punishment as much as she feared it. His question finally penetrated to her consciousness, forcing her to reply: a whispered “Yes.”