I get ready as usual in the clothes that we have agreed I will wear. I see that on the counter, he has set out my play collar and cuffs. It is not unusual to see them because often a hotel stay will include some heavier play and I know that he likes to see me in things which mark me out as his. I wonder what he feels. I wonder what he thinks. We are so close and yet, so much remains a mystery. I know what he likes and I know how he likes me to be, but still I can worry and fret and feel uncertain.
This time I am pretty certain he will like the dress on me. He bought it for me and was happy when I suggested wearing it. But there is that part of me which doubts, not him but myself. I am not sure I look as he imagined I would. I doubt whether or not I look good enough. I feel sort of sexy but also self-conscious. I feel as if I am being seen for the very first time, despite the fact that he saw me many years ago and all of the thousands of days since. It is like I am new in someway. Waiting. Wondering.
All of this taps into my own insecurities and pushes me further into a submissive state. I am doing this for him. It becomes not about me and how I look, but about what he feels and thinks about me. In the same way that I have dressed for years wondering what others will think, at this point it matters only about him. When he comes into the room I can tell straight away and I slowly I release the breath that I didn’t know I was holding. I feel myself physically starting to relax when it comes.
It hits me without warning which seems odd considering. I wonder if he is joking, but I look at his face and it is serious. Implacable. I don’t have to consider any further as I see him striding purposefully towards the table where his collar and cuffs sit. The terminology of possession strikes me as odd but at this moment they shift from being the collar and cuffs to his collar and cuffs. And then it happens, the first realisation that soon they will be seen as mine. Not by me or by him, but by others. Surely he wouldn’t. Not here. Not now.
And yet I know that this will happen. I can see it in his movement and I have heard it in his voice. Such a small thing really, and yet so big. To do this here. To do this today. It is not the first time I have worn these items out, but it is the first time in this sort of setting. I think then about all of the things I have written, of all of the things I have said and I want to grasp desperately at them, clutching and grabbing to pull them all back in, take them all back so that I am able to wriggle out of this situation I have got myself into.
It doesn’t happen of course. I am demure and compliant. I wonder if he sees the defiance and disbelief in my eyes. I wonder what he thinks and if he worries at all what others will say, about me but about him too. What sort of man …..? But if any of that crosses his mind it does not show as he fastens the clasps around my wrists and my neck. He smiles when he bends to tell me I look fucking hot and he sounds sexy when he says, see what you do to me? and presses my hand onto the bulge in his jeans.
And it almost feels normal and acceptable as we make our way to the restaurant. In the corridor I laugh, and in the lift I am drawn into him as he pushes me back against the mirror and kisses me hard. I am lost in the bubble that he creates around us and I feel as if it has always been meant to be this way and what do I care what the fuck people think. Until the server says good evening and asks if we have a booking, and her eyes move slowly to my collar taking it all in; I see her face change.
I feel my face flush in response and I tighten my hold on his hand. He doesn’t tremble. His voice is clear as he says who we are and he follows her, leading us to the table. My eyes are cast down but I can feel the change as people see us. A sort of hush ensues as we walk by and then I am sure that I hear whispers, barely discernible. They fade to the edges like a lens blur and all that I see and think is him. I push them away, and they push me into a place where I am what I am, and what I need to be.
It all becomes easier once we are seated and I look at him and forget everything and everyone else. I am swimming,treading water in the sea of my feelings and it is hard to describe. We talk for a bit and I calm down, relaxing a little into the occasion until the waiter appears and hands him the menu. I sit quietly and feel as though I am not really apparent, hidden as I am by his presence. I am caught off-guard, therefore, when he hands me a menu and then notices my collar and wrist cuffs and it all starts again.
By the time the meal has been ordered and served, I feel that everyone has become acclimatised to the way things are with us. They no longer look at me directly, or ask me questions. They deal with him, and he deals with me. They seem content to allow us to create our own rules around ourselves and they alter their etiquette to suit. I wonder again what he thinks and how he feels. He doesn’t bat an eye as he stands up to leave and offers me his arm. I take it, gladly and go with him, leaving the onlookers to wonder and whisper and take their thoughts home.