Waiting

She was waiting. She was waiting for him.

She hated waiting for him.

She wasn't normally the type to wear stockings and a garter belt. She was much more of a jeans or leggings kind of girl, but she wanted him to see them and be as turned on as she was. They made her legs look so good, and short of his eyes on her, the soft fabric made her feel very sexy.

He had told her to wait. To wait for him by the door and they would play when he got home.

Play. It was never "have sex" or "make love" or anything cruder. It was always "Play", and she had to admit it was always fun. She liked play because it meant that she was is plaything. His toy to use as he saw fit. It had been so hard to tell him that was her fantasy, that she wanted to be his sex toy. She wanted to be owned and used and... played with; but once she had everything changed for the better.

She told him how much she needed to be spanked. How good it felt when partners had done it in the past. A playful swat would make her wet, but it was never hard enough, it was never long enough. The pain didn't linger, it didn't make her feel owned. She didn't want to be hurt, she wanted to be used. She told him of her fantasy that a man would make her pick up another man... or woman for the night, and that she would do it because he told her to.

Oh god, she thought, is he going to bring someone home? Would he make her serve the other woman, be owned and played with by both of them. Completely at their mercy as he.

No, probably not, but maybe, and that delicious thought made her drip. Actually drip. She was normally wet, but the anticipation was so strong, she was so aroused she had to put a towel down. She felt like she were drooling.

And then there were spankings. He made it clear if she used her words she could get what she wanted. All she had to do was ask... which was a torture in and of itself. That horrible feeling of admitting what she really was and the yawning pit of anxiety that he might reject her request. It was so much easier to hint and hope.

She still couldn't actually ask him if he wanted to use her. Instead she would cuddle up to him, and kiss his neck, and say he smelled nice (and he did!). It made her feel small and vulnerable, but safe because he was right there next to him. It was just that sometimes he deliberately didn't get the hint! He knew that was how she told him. They had talked about it! But he would just sit there with his poker face, and play with her hair and NOT PUSH HER DOWN ON THE COUCH!

It was rude, that's what it was. Sometimes he thought he could out-wait her, and he couldn't; but it drove her mad, which was the point. On those occasions he never seemed to want her until she asked. What kind of jerk did that?

Her Master that's who. The man who was training her to be used. The man who wanted her to admit what kind of dirty little whore she was.

And made her wait. He told her to put everything she wanted to play with in front of her on the ground. It was all things they had picked out together. The new plug she was scared to put in, but she really really wanted to. She would rub it along the opening, gently stretching herself open, and then pulling back. She so wanted to just push it all the way in, but she wanted him to do it. One day she wanted him in there, but she was scared at the thought too.

It was like the fear she felt when he was about to spank her. Just waiting, not allow to look. He knew how to make it sting and sound so loud. How to paint her ass red, but not leave those bruises that scared her. So she put the paddle down directly in front of her. His hand might get tired and he didn't want him to stop.

Finally there was that red rope. Before she met him, before she understood about herself, there had been the rope. She bought it on a whim because it looked pretty. Then she had started binding her hands while she held her toy to her clit. Finally she started learning knots and ties. She knew she was better at it than he ways, but it didn't feel the same as when he tied her down. When he bound her wrists behind her and had his way with her.

Any minute that door would open. He would push her down so her face was against the wood and her ass was in the air. He told her that she had to be so wet that two fingers would slide in without resistance. She was scared she wouldn't be, but now she knew there would be no problem at all.

He would open that door and take her, and use her, and have his way with her. She would be his little toy. She trusted he would only do what she wanted, and that she would be everything he desired.

Finally when he moved over to the couch, he would put a cushion on the floor, and she would know it was time to join him. She would sit on the cushion — her cushion — and cuddle into his legs. They would talk, or watch TV, or just be with each other. It was nearly as good as everything else. He would pet her hair, and say all the little nothings that made her feel warm and owned inside.

"What are you?" he would eventually ask.

"Your kitten Sir" she would say without thinking. A reflex developed though endless repetition, but it was just as true this time as the first. His hand would run along the length of her hair, ending at her jaw and she would press her face into his hand.

"Is there anything better to be?" His blue eyes would be looking into hers, holding the moment.

"No Sir", she would answer. The same answer she gave, because she couldn't imagine a different answer. It made her feel safe, and warm, and tingly inside to know that he owned her — body and soul.

But she had to wait. Wait until the doorknob turned and that damned door would open.

She hated waiting for him...