Ecstasy in the White Room. Portia Da Costa

      This is a gorgeous room. So white and tranquil and glamorous, like something from a thirties movie set. I half expect Fred Astaire to come dancing out of the en suite bathroom, dressed in white tie and tails, and almost floating on air, ready to charm me.

      Instead it’s Simon who emerges; not quite Fred, but a nifty mover all the same and, to my eyes, infinitely more handsome. He’s not in evening dress, but he is wearing an achingly good suit. It’s charcoal-gray, with just a faint sheen of midnight, and it makes his eyes gleam and flash like a pair of polished sapphires and the rest of him just look like a sex god.

      I feel as if I’m in a movie too. At a pivotal moment, with a thousand eyes watching me. They’re waiting for the drama to begin, and the men are admiring my body. Maybe the women are, too? Perched on the upholstered dressing table stool, I add a little more tint to my lips, leaning forward toward the mirror and self-consciously graceful, both for the unseen audience and Simon’s intent gaze.

      Those eyes of his narrow, noting my studied elegance. Or it could be the fact that I’m not actually ready yet, and thus presenting him with exactly the excuse he needs—if he ever needs one—to initiate one of our special games. The ones we learned from a certain book of naughty Victorian photographs, the Blue Book we once discovered while on holiday.

      Simon doesn’t castigate me though. He doesn’t need to. He just gives me the look that makes me melt and fall to pieces in helpless lust.

      Everything flutters inside me. Everything’s agitated and needy. I’m chaos incarnate in this calm sea of white. The setting is cool and exquisite, but I’m all hot and excited. My cheeks flush with a pink to rival my lip tint, and I’m glad I didn’t apply my blusher now. My throat and chest color up too, and that dizzy, revealing pink, combined with the dramatic chic of my black lace underwear, makes me into a creature of contrasts, stark and vivid in our snowy, creamy suite.

      “I...I’m sorry, I was daydreaming.” I glance toward my black velvet evening gown, hanging against the front of the fitted wardrobe. It’s a slender, formfitting tube, a style I’d never even have contemplated at one time, but seeing as how I’ve been a star once already today, and I’d been dieting to get into quite a different dress, I might as well show my figure while at its most svelte. Simon flicks a look at the dress too, and quirks his sandy eyebrows in a significant gesture I know all too well. “It won’t take me but a moment to slip my dress on...sorry,” I twitter on, too keyed up, and roused up, to think straight.

      “Oh, there’s plenty of time, my love,” he drawls. He’s affecting nonchalance, just as sophisticated Fred might have done, but I know him. He’s as excited as I am, and I can plainly see it, even though he’s become a past master at masking his emotions. Strolling toward me, he draws out a length of narrow black satin ribbon from his pocket, and when he reaches where I sit, at the white painted dressing table, he slips the dark band around my throat and ties it in a soft bow at the back of my neck. I feel a finger, then another, slip between the ribbon and my skin, testing my comfort. Simon’s always thoughtful in little touches like that, even though other things he does to me are far from comfortable.

      I snatch a look at myself in the mirror. My hair’s up, so the bow is an eloquent symbol around my neck, perfectly clear to those who would recognize it for what it is. My heart thuds, and desire rolls slowly in the pit of my belly, acknowledging the significance.

      If all those eyes were really watching us, they’d know this is the moment.

      “But I do think we ought to remind you of the virtues of punctuality, perhaps? This’s the second time you’ve been late today, isn’t it?” He gives a little tug on the ribbon, urging me to my feet. He’s not rough; it’s just a minute increase of 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,