by D. Katarina

To start a piece of writing with the effects or manifestations of winter season seems at this moment presumptuous. My short preface presents a shift from an outdoor to an indoor activity, perfect for this time of a year or another, to avoid cliché. Leather trench coat, hook of the elegant umbrella handle, inspiring awe and second thoughts, held by black leather gloved fingers, shiny and tight, and knee high leather boots.

I meet you at the nearby cafe—through the glass I see that you’re already there. I come in with a plan to have a cup of hot tea and then, warmed up, leave the dim lounge dim and take you to a well-lit shopping centre. My tea forms ringlets as your shaky hand places it in front of me. You don’t look up any higher than my red lips, from where your gaze slides down and almost helps unbutton my coat. White blouse reveals red bra—dark soul. My plan is to take you to Agent Provocateur and get myself a couple of sexy seductive panties. You’ll help me pay. Well—just the half: the other half is happily funded by my ‘panty and bra slave’, who, despite his deepest wish, cannot be physically present at this moment. I will later torture him with a picture I’ll stage for him wearing my new lingerie. Someone else’s camera lens can touch my bare skin: my panty and bra slave, however, must kneel down and bow to the iconic image of me once it reaches his inbox. You will be a bit luckier as you will get to see me in those panties and—bonus!—you will get to suffer for all the masochists, fetishists, submissives and sissies who crave my attention and can’t ever have it: they rub me wrong way!

Later the same day, I will enter my apartment all set up for a lesson, with you—obediently holding various paper bags stuffed with lacy satin undergarments wrapped in silk tissue—behind me. I give you the chance to look at my leather backside thoroughly and once I feel it’s enough I will blindfold you. And maybe I’ll just torture and provoke you with the sight of me in boots and lingerie, until you confess your dirtiest secret fantasy. But everything in order: you put the bags on the counter, I lock the door, you undress fully, even the socks, and devoid of the burden of time you wait, kneeling. I take off my trench coat, throw it in the corner, it doesn’t collapse folding onto the laminate floor but keeps its shape like armour. I put one leg, then the other in front of you to first kiss and then clean the mud off of my boots. I keep them on. You can now watch me strip more layers—first the blouse and then the pencil skirt I step out of. Walking toward my sexy ‘coat hanger’ where all the leather straps, torture and discipline tools wait to be used, I turn back only to find you with a hand on your hard-on without my permission. It offends my authority, and as I’m reaching for the collar, at the last second I change my mind, grab the long strip flogger. and smack your guilty right hand in an instant.

“Get to work you lazy little wimp! Over there, in the corner, you see? Bring the piece here and unfold it! Make sure not to scratch the floor or damage the piece!”—I dictate, while observing his obvious curiousness. It is written on his face that he is trying to identify the folded piece of furniture, but at the same time he instinctively knows how to open it up. From its central inner part he unscrews necessary parts, I tell him which piece goes where and then the final touch—the top cushion roll. The solid oak, elegant, sturdy, spanking bench with softest black leather cushioning and straps stands in front of his surprised look, yet, before he asks any question whatsoever I twist his arm from behind his back, pull his hair and exclaim that I want him “on the bench, right now!” Without thinking he climbs on it—as there is only one way to do so with the uttermost practicality. I tighten all the belts and straps: he is mine to do with what I want. I am his to adore as I stand, with those panties I left on at the AP store—the back string cutting in, little red lace just above my butt cheeks, wrapping around, accentuating my hips, low rise skimpy mesh copying the mound of Venus—right before his eyes he can now touch me with.