I grabbed a paper towel and lovingly wiped down my recipe box, the little treasure that sat on my counter like an innocuous piece of housekeeping. Sordid details of my sexual past, neatly alphabetized by scene. It fit right into my home, both the outside and the contents.
I lived in a cute town house on a small cul-de-sac. It looked like all the others, and hopefully the neighbors didn’t care about the sporadic men who, for the past two to three years, had been faithfully letting themselves in at two PM. Except for the last few months.
I couldn’t wait to clean the bedroom. My playroom. My pleasure room.
I had a brushed-metallic motif going on. Polished-silver curtains, with flecks of bronze here and there. A gunmetal gray comforter. A few framed black-and-white photographs on the wall. Pretty stark, actually. The point of minimalist décor was so that the room could transform into anything once a scene had started.
My mind was restless—what did William have planned for me this week? The anticipation was killing me; thank God for obsessive-compulsive cleaning routines. I typically did a thorough scrubbing before any new sub came over, just to calm my anxieties. At least I knew a little about tomorrow.
To say I was excited for our first scene would be a gross understatement. I felt like a romance novel was going to come true in my home. Tomorrow, a dark lover would appear. A lonely vampire who desired domination. I could give him what he wanted. And he, oh yes, would give me what I wanted. I wanted that beautiful face to regard me with reverence. I wanted that lovely mouth to tell me filthy, naughty things. And I wanted that notoriously tight-assed form to pleasure me in a thousand different ways.
Granted, the vampire thing was kinda overly trendy lately, but I was definitely still intrigued.
I ran my hand over the cool silk sheets and imagined what his cool body would feel like. If all that were true, I told myself, he may just run a little colder than others. I shook my head to keep the thoughts away as I moved to my toy chest.
As I removed each piece methodically, as I had done dozens of times, I cleaned it with a wipe and thought about how I’d use it on him.
Riding crop—maybe not tomorrow. I definitely planned on spanking him with it at some point this week, if things went well. I loved to use the riding crop to set our pace. I’d ride him, and when I wanted to go faster, I’d smack him with it. Giddyup!
Flogger—hmm, maybe. I wasn’t planning on pleasuring him tomorrow, but who knows, maybe he’d use it on me. Nah, he probably won’t have the guts yet. Most of my subs are shocked when I tell them that, by permission only, they may use floggers and crops on me. Sometimes that was what the scene dictated. I’d had a few flat-out reject the idea of using anything on me that induces the slightest amount of discomfort. I told them that if I asked for it, I got it. That’s what a Domme does.
Then I dismissed them.
Massage oil—definitely not tomorrow. The smell of it still reminded me of that unpleasant night. The scent of the almond oil and red wine still wouldn’t come out of my drapes. The bottoms were still slightly stained from when the glasses smashed and the cabernet went everywhere. There was one part of the hardwood floor that was more maroon than the rest. I put a rug over it.
I think that is enough cleaning for today.
On to happier subjects: He was coming tomorrow.
On several levels, I hoped.
“Dismissed.”
The bell had rung, but I typically punctuated the sound with my own permission to leave. Kids filed out of class frantically, desperate to get to lunch.
But, as always, one or two stragglers remained. It was like this wherever I went.
The punk kids adored me.