Still, Tracy waited another month before she decided to 'take the plunge.' She liked working with Guy. He treated her tellers with respect and always behaved like a complete gentleman at work. He continued to invite her to lunch occasionally, where he would tell her, in increasingly graphic detail, what he would do to her if they ever got together.
"I've got a lot of toys," he informed her. "Fun stuff like paddles and riding crops and whips and chains. We'd start out slow, of course. I'd just take you to the level you could handle. Maybe just a teeny tiny bit further." Tracy always shivered when he said this. She realized it was a matter of time before she said yes, and agreed to meet him.
Earlier in the week she had finally agreed to a rendezvous that Friday afternoon, when the rest of the 'gang' were at happy hour. Tracy hadn't told anyone else where she was going. It was fine for Paul to advise that, but who in the world could she tell? Tracy realized sadly that she really didn't have any close girlfriends. Her focus for so many years had been Kyle, and only Kyle. She had considered it romantic that they were all they needed. Not that it was his fault, but there it was.
Guy passed by her desk and laid his loan folder on it, telling her in a professional tone that the papers she needed were all inside. After he'd walked away, she opened the folder and saw the little envelope, which contained a key. The key to the motel they had agreed upon a few miles from the bank, which she could reach from her bus stop.
Slipping the little envelope into her lap, Tracy gripped it in her hot palm. She could feel the sweat breaking under her arms as she stared down at it, her face at once hot and cold as she contemplated what she had at last agreed to.
Guy told her at lunch that if she changed her mind at the last minute, if she stayed on the bus and rode home, it would be ok. He'd just kick back in the room and watch the game. No big deal. No pressure. As he said these comforting words, his eyes penetrated hers and she felt him commanding her.
She wanted what he offered.
Fingers shaking, Tracy finally managed to unlock the motel door. She told herself for the thousandth time, she couldn't believe she was doing this. Yet here she was, breaking her wedding vows, and walking into a situation she knew could be potentially dangerous, and all with her eyes wide open.
Guy had given her specific instructions, and she had tried to follow them to the letter. She wanted this to be 'real' – as real as she could get with a coworker who didn't particularly appeal to her, except for their shared interest in BDSM.
As she opened the door she took in the room. The slightly mildewed smell of motel air conditioning filled the air. A polyester spread with a nondescript pattern covered the king size bed, which dominated the room. A cheap reprint of a beach scene in various shades of beige, painted with a palette knife, in broad strokes against the canvas, covered one dingy wall. Then she saw them on the long low bureau that sat against the wall, below the picture.
Handcuffs. Real, metal cuffs with a little key set beside them, along with a neatly folded piece of paper. For a moment, Tracy felt a surge of panic.
What in God's name had she signed up for here? Tracy's thoughts turned to Paul. He knew what she was doing, but he didn't know what motel she was at, or when precisely she was meeting Guy. He didn't even know where she lived, except she was somewhere in the big, sprawling city of Houston.
What was Paul feeling tonight, knowing that Tracy was going to explore her fantasies, not with him, but with another man? Shit, now she had two men to feel guilty about. It wasn't fair!
As far as Kyle and the rest of the world knew, she was going shopping for shoes at the mall. She had even purchased a pair in advance at lunchtime to make the story believable, and not a living soul, except the man she was meeting, knew exactly where she was.
Tracy stood irresolute for a moment, debating whether she should stay or go. It was a silly detail that made her decide to stay. She noticed the ice bucket with two Dr. Peppers nestled in it. She smiled slightly, thinking that if Guy was going to kill her, he wouldn't have thoughtfully provided her favorite soda.
Tracy picked up the note and read it, recognizing Guy's precise, cramped script."Take off your clothes and hang them in the closet. Put on the outfit I have purchased for you. You'll find it in the drawer. Wait for me at the foot of the bed. Don't sit on the bed; kneel on the floor next to it. I will be there at precisely 5:30. I have my own key."
Tracy's heart began to thump wildly, as she thought about stripping for another man. It had been so long. Would he find her attractive? She opened the drawer and took out the flimsy little garment Guy had put there for her. It was a bustier type of thing, with attached garters, and there was a pair of black stockings and high heels in her size. My God, he had thought of everything, hadn't he?
She felt slightly ridiculous as she hung up her clothes and then tried to step into the garment, pulling it awkwardly up over her hips and breasts. Her 36C breasts were too large for the bust of the skimpy outfit, and they spilled over the edges, forced together, creating a deep cleavage. Tracy looked over at the small plastic clock by the bedside. The little red digital numbers showed 5:21. She panicked slightly as she tried to get the stockings on and attach the stubborn little clasps, which were still stiff from never having been used.
Finally, she got them on and slipped the impossibly high shoes onto her feet. She felt like a total slut; a cheap whore. But instead of this making her ashamed, she had to admit to an excitement building deep in her belly. She was achingly nervous, but determined to carry on, come what may. She had spent too many years running from her desires. Tonight she was going to face them head on.
The little clock blinked to 5:28. Thank goodness he had instructed her to kneel and not stand! She didn't think she could stand very long in these heels. She spent the next few moments wetting her lips and drying them again, and adjusting her outfit, hoping it didn't make her look fat. Her eyes strayed again between the door and the shiny cuffs on the bureau.
At precisely 5:30 she heard the key grate in the lock and watched in fascinated, edgy anticipation as the door opened. Guy came in, still in his finely tailored dark blue suit, his shirt white against it, his red 'power' tie neatly knotted at his throat. He had a duffel bag with him, which he set down on the bureau next to the cuffs.
He was looking at Tracy, his eyes narrowed, his expression inscrutable. He didn't say a word and neither did she, but she felt a warm flush against her neck and throat and knew she was flushing and blotching in that ridiculous way she had when she was really nervous.
Guy undid his tie and hung up his suit jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, revealing a pale blue t-shirt of heavy cotton beneath it. Tracy realized she had never seen him in anything other than his 'banker outfits.' He looked softer, more accessible, in the t-shirt and she relaxed slightly. He hadn't said a word, but finally ordered her, "Stay there. I'm going to the bathroom."
He took his duffel bag into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Tracy realized she had to pee, but had been too nervous up to that moment to think about it. She wondered whether she should use the bathroom after him, and if she should ask permission. She knew she would feel stupid asking permission, but he had been very clear about that at lunch.
"When we get together, you will be my slave for that time. What that means is you will do exactly as I tell you, at all times. You will not say no to me, and you will not do anything without asking me first."
At the time it had sounded very exciting. After all, this was just Guy talking – paunchy, old bald Guy. If it got too 'intense' she would tell him to cut it out. It wasn't as if she wouldreally be his slave. But now, at this moment, in her tiny outfit with her garters and high heels, kneeling in a motel room waiting for him to come out, she felt vulnerable and uncertain.
Guy opened the bathroom door and went over to the lamp, which he turned off, leaving only the light from the fading evening, and from the fluorescent bulb left on in the bathroom. Tracy was grateful in a way; things seemed easier in the semi-darkness.
She saw that Guy had put on jeans, which made him look even less threatening to her, and she calmed down again, almost smiling at him. Guy didn't smile back. "Stand up," he said, his voice harsh.
Tracy stood somewhat awkwardly, trying to balance gracefully on the heels. Guy let out a low whistle that made Tracy blush. She hugged herself self-consciously until Guy said, "Drop your hands. Let me see you. Don't you dare cover yourself in front of me. Ever. Understand?" His voice was rough and deep, and had less of a Texas twang than when he was in the office. She could barely recognize easygoing good ol' boy Guy Gray in the man standing in front of her.
As much to put off what he was asking as because she really did have to go, Tracy blurted out, "Um, Guy, I have to, um, go to the bathroom."
She saw his eyes flicker with amusement for a second, but he adopted a stern expression as he said, "You should have thought of that before."
"Please, really," she stammered. Now that he was denying her, the pressure in her bladder suddenly seemed acute.
"Oh, ok, go ahead," he said, grinning, unable to keep up the 'stern master' persona he had been adopting.
Tracy sighed with relief and wobbled toward the small bathroom just off the front entrance of the room. She shut the door, clicking the lock into place. When she was done, she opened the door to a room that was now totally dark.
A strong hand seized her wrist and she was jerked roughly into the room. "Don't youever lock a door on me, do you hear! You will never close any door to me. Period." Guy's voice was low and he sounded really angry. His grasp on her wrist hurt and Tracy squirmed and struggled against him.
She realized she couldn't get her breath and felt dizzy. Guy pressed her roughly against a wall and slammed his body against hers. Standing in her high heels they were eye to eye, and he pressed his face close against hers, forcing her mouth open with his. He was kissing her roughly, still holding her wrists, which he had pinned against the wall.
His breath smelled like beer and she realized he'd probably had a drink on the way over. Maybe he was scared too? He was married, after all, and she doubted he made a habit of meeting coworkers after hours for illicit sex. Though who knew?
Thoughts flew out of her brain as his mouth mashed against hers. Her body was reacting to the rough stolen kiss, to the grip on her wrists and to his body, surprisingly strong, pressed hard against hers. She felt herself responding to him, and for a moment the chatter in her brain was silenced as feelings of desire, fear and lust, melded into a heat that left her weak.
He pulled away suddenly and Tracy sagged against the wall, her lipstick smeared, her breasts heaving. "You look like a slut," Guy hissed, his voice hard, the slow drawl now completely absent.
"Stand up and put your wrists behind your back. Do it. Now."
His tone brooked no resistance, and slowly Tracy stood up from the wall, still trying to catch her breath. She lowered her arms, feeling her heart thudding against her ribs like a caged bird.
"Put your hands behind your back," he repeated, "wrists together." Guy walked over to retrieve those shiny cuffs from the bureau. It was happening. She felt almost as if she were in a dream as she clasped her wrists behind her and waited to feel the cold metal. Even though she was expecting it, still she gasped as she felt the steel against her flesh.
There was a grating sound as he pressed the bracelets together, ratcheting them tightly against her wrists. He half led, half pushed her toward the end of the bed, where he pressed her to kneel once again, her face now resting against the spread, ass displayed. Guy rummaged for a few minutes in his duffel bag and came back, waving something in front of the still kneeling Tracy. It was a whip! A huge black bullwhip. With a braying laugh, Guy flicked it sharply near her face, making the lash whistle in the still air.
Tracy jerked up, screaming with fear and indignation. "Get that thing away from me! What the fuck are you doing!" In that moment she had become convinced Guy was crazy, and was going to kill her. It was an irrational fear, and one that was quickly reabsorbed in the crazy kaleidoscope of feelings she was experiencing. He stepped back, looking nonplussed, and lowered the whip.
In agreeing to meet Guy at the motel, Tracy had mistakenly thought he knew what he was doing, and could handle all protests and run the show, so to speak, without breaking his stride. Despite his rather confident talk at their little lunches, what she didn't realize was, while his fantasies were much better developed and acknowledged than her own, his actual experience with any real bondage and discipline was quite limited. The only real experience he had with whips was one time in college with a girl he used to tie to a tree on their camping trips, and lightly whipped with a little flogger before he let her down and fucked her.
He had purchased this present, rather forbidding looking whip a few years ago, in a seedy adult boutique while on a business trip. He kept it, and a slowly growing collection of bondage paraphernalia, hidden in the garage under his fishing tackle, safe from the prying eyes of his prudish, repressed wife.
He was so excited now by the sight of his coworker, almost naked, her sexy curves stuffed into the little slut outfit he had gotten fromFrederick's of Hollywood and had had delivered to a secret P.O. box, that he had pulled out the whip with some vague notion of using it, though he hadn't a clue.
Tracy's protest jerked him out of the role he was playing, the tough guy Dom, to her cowering submissive. Neither one realized they couldn't just leap into a ready-made Dom-sub relationship, complete with the trust and love which should accompany such a relationship. For both of them, it was still a game, albeit a very exciting one.
Now he dropped the whip, murmuring, "Ok, ok, I wasn't really going to use it. Chill."
"Take these off me!" she ordered, confused and flustered by the changed atmosphere in the room. Guy dutifully obeyed, taking the little key from the bureau. Tracy massaged her wrists for a moment. There were red marks where the metal had bitten into her skin. How would she explain those marks if they didn't disappear?
At least he had put down that horrible whip! Tracy calmed down, relieved, but also, what? She felt, paradoxically, disappointed. He had backed down so easily. He hadn't 'forced' her to 'submit'. Instead of the rough 'master' telling her she had no choice in the matter, the Guy she knew from work, the passive, easygoing Mr. Gray, had dropped the whip and given in.
While Guy himself wasn't so articulate in his own mind as to what had gone wrong, he knew something had, and the momentum was momentarily lost. His aching cock wasn't about to let things die down, and without thinking further, Guy sat in a chair behind Tracy and commanded, "Come here. Now."
Tracy got up, slowly, her heart no longer pounding with the same fierce excitement, but still aroused. Guy was still fully dressed, and Tracy was aware that he was self-conscious about his extra weight. It made him less threatening to the also self-conscious Tracy, who hadn't been with another man for nine years. It also was sexier, in a way, imagining herself the naked slave girl to her fully clothed master.
"You need a spanking for refusing me," he said. "Get over here."
Hesitantly, but wanting it, Tracy draped herself over his knees, feeling his rock hard erection pressing into her thigh as he shifted, pulling her across his lap. Her pulse was racing again, beating a tattoo against her throat and ribs. She felt Guy pull aside the silky fabric to reveal her naked bottom. She blushed, her face against the soft denim of his leg, glad he couldn't see her.
Guy stroked her flesh for a moment, and she heard his own rapid breathing. He let his hand fall against one cheek. Spanking was something Guy had some experience with, and he felt confident, back in control.
At first it didn't hurt, and Tracy stayed still, waiting. Then he smacked her harder and she flinched slightly. Perhaps taking courage from her stillness, and its implied permission to continue, Guy became emboldened, and slapped her ass harder, making Tracy gasp a little, and jump against his lap.
He continued to smack her bottom, the sound of his hard palm against her ass rang out in the room, accompanied by the whirring and snuffling of the window unit air conditioner. Tracy began to breathe hard and fast, and felt dizzy with her head down at Guys knees.
As he continued to spank her, the sting and heat flowed to Tracy's pussy, making her wriggle as much with lust as a desire to avoid the hard, smacking hands raining down on her tender bottom.
Tracy kept expecting Guy to stop and flip her onto the bed and make love to her. Instead he kept on, spanking her in a hard, steady rhythm, until the lovely stinging heat began to shift to actual pain that made her jerk and cry out for him to stop.
He didn't stop. He was so on fire with lust that he didn't care about, or barely noticed her protestations. When she reached back to try and cover herself, he grabbed her hands and caught them between his knees, imprisoning her between his strong thighs. Tracy slipped from erotic pain and excitement to real fear, and began thrashing in earnest against Guy, close to panic.
At last her protests penetrated his concentration and abruptly he released her hands and let her roll from his lap to a disheveled heap on the floor. One breast had popped out of the confining little outfit and Tracy's hair was wild and covered half her face. Guy didn't see Tracy, the quiet little bank teller, and he certainly wasn't Mr. Gray, the genial loan officer and church-going family man at that moment.
He was the swashbuckling conqueror, and she was his whore, as he scooped her up and threw her on the bed, ripping the flimsy outfit from her, baring her breasts completely, plunging his hand down to press greedy fingers into her sex.
Tracy moaned. The cool slick polyester of the spread felt good against her hot ass, and Guy's fingers opened her, making her ready for what was surely to come. After a moment, Guy stood and opened his pants, pulling them and his underwear down just enough to reveal his small, but very erect cock. Tracy stared at it, aware he fully intended to fuck her, aware, too, on some level that she would never, ever have chosen Guy as the man with whom to break her wedding vows, if whips and cuffs hadn't been involved.
She was still very aroused from the spanking, and willingly spread her legs for him as Guy grunted and let himself down onto her, to take her quickly, missionary style, coming after only a few minutes. As he lay there, panting and sweating on top of her, Tracy waited, her pussy still pulsing with need, to see what was next.
Guy rolled off her, looked over at the clock and said, "Holy shit, it's 6:30! I have to go!" Before she knew it, he was up, pulling his clothes on, tucking in the shirt, re-buckling his belt. Tracy lay still, feeling a thin trickle of sticky semen on her thigh, semen from a man who was not her husband, who was not even her lover, but a fellow she worked with, and now would have to see tomorrow, at the bank.
"Listen," he called out from the bathroom, where water was running, "Take your time. I've already paid for the room. Just leave when you're ready." Tracy sat up slowly, feeling totally deflated. Guy came bustling out of the bathroom, hair slicked back over his balding pate, round face shiny, the scent of his cologne permeating the air.
Efficiently he collected his various 'toys' from around the room, while Tracy still sat on the edge of the bed, silently watching him. Guy leaned down to her, fully in command again. There was no evidence he had just spanked and fucked a woman who was not his wife, in a seedy motel near downtown, where, she realized, he had probably met other women who were not his wife, for similar clandestine adventures.
He kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, "You were great." Taking one of the Dr. Peppers from the melting ice, he thought to ask, "You ok?"
Tracy nodded, smiling slightly at him, knowing she wanted something, but also knowing it wasn't him. She let him go, sighing as the door clicked behind him.
She fell back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, which had a large water stain in one corner. Gingerly she touched her ass, which was sore. Slowly, she stood and pulled off the now tattered and ruined little outfit, pulling the stockings off too, one of which had a sizable run along the calf.
Bundling it up, she hurled it toward the little trashcan. "Two points," she half whispered, as it landed squarely in the can. Walking to the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, she examined her sore bottom, and saw to her fascinated horror that it was not only red, as she had imagined it would be, but was mottled with little blue and purple bruises. He had marked her. Oh my God, how will I explain that the Kyle? She would have to make sure he didn't see her ass, or her wrists for that matter, which bore little red marks in a circle where the metal cuffs had been too tightly placed.
She was angry for a moment, thinking about how careless it was of Guy to mark her skin, both her wrists and her bottom, but a secret part of her was also thrilled. She had been marked. Like a true slave girl, marked by her master. Like the stories she had read as a teenager, where the slave girls are 'marked' every day with the whip by their lords and masters, as a constant reminder of their 'place.'
But Guy certainly wasn't her master. No indeed. He was nothing like 'Sir Stephen', like Paul, who was so eloquent and certain. If only she could meethim! But that was a dream. How easily he had let her go to Guy. How little he asked about her marriage and her 'real life.' He lived thousands of miles away, and whatever they had, it was a fantasy. She knew that now.
Wearily she dressed, the need of an orgasm receding as she pulled on her work clothes, wishing she had thought to bring jeans and a t-shirt, as Guy had. Still, one thing was for sure – she had loved the spanking. She had thrilled to the cuffs, to being restrained, to being told she mustnever close a door to her master, to having him rip her clothes off and fuck her with such fury. It wasn't just a fantasy anymore. She had tasted submission, tasted the masochistic thrill of being spanked, and found that pleasure and pain had combined in a combustible pattern that left her weak with desire, and the need to experience more.