The Waiting Room – part one

As I check in, my eyes idly scan the book for your name, perhaps the very definition of a futile gesture. No names, ever. One of the rules we wrote.

This hotel was built for anonymity, the globalised designs of carpet and jalousies could be anywhere in the world. As such, they were a blank canvas on which to paint fantasies. An imagined illicit carry-on at the Cap d’Antibes instead of Croydon. A chance to dance and disrupt the dull monotony of modern life. This moment has been 10 months in the making, the culmination of a correspondence, when words are finally made flesh.

The click of the entrycard beckons me into the most neutral of spaces. A purgatory of bare bulbs and hairy carpets, furniture bolted to the extremities and at its heart a pristine bed, supporting a plain-wrapped package. I unpack my overnight bag and affect to soften the edges with personal effects: razor, shaving cream, two glasses, gin, a lemon with paring knife and mixers.

A buzz from the bed reminds me of the parcel I’m ignoring, which is vibrating as though possessed. I slit the end and withdraw a tremoring tumble of rags and a small screen, now insistently serving me messages.

“If you’re reading this, then I guess there is no going back. Like any contract, though, there is a cooling off period. If you’re feeling uncertain, unhappy or reluctant, then now is the time to pack your bags, drink the gin, and leave. No questions asked. No harm, no foul.

“If you’re still reading this, you can open the first message”.

With a handful of thumbs I manage to swipe to the next page. There’s just an image that is hard to make out at first. Then I ‘see’ it. It’s a fist wrapped around a knife, with a single drop of blood making a stalactite from the bottom of the final knuckle. There’s another message.

But first I need some support. I crack the seal on the half bottle of Tanqueray and pop the metal capped tonic. Unconsciously I thumb the blade of the knife, as the bubbles burn my throat.

“Let’s talk about needs. The ones we symbiotically share. The heat that rises in me when you show me scars you made for me. I need to hold you down hard, and for you to need it. My need for your pain is as intense as yours, an interlocking helix of hurt that makes me savagely horny. I will crush you and feed off your delirium as I overpower you with the need to fucking rip you apart, force you into me and grind myself into you until we both bleed.

“Still there?”

I take another drink, to soothe my throat which is now blisteringly dry. This is starting to feel hyperreal – that feeling where something so anticipated is actually happening and it’s too much to take in. The room, the message, the fact that she is somewhere within mere metres of me after all this time. I’m suddenly aware of my own physicality – my heart, now racing at the BPM of a runner, the sweat forming at my temple and my back, the prickly heat that is building all over me, I panic, I have to get out of these clothes.

And as I peel off my shirt and slip out of my trousers I notice the solid feeling in my cock that’s been there since I read that last message. It feels responsive to my touch, and I hold it as much to ground myself as the sensations it sends shooting through me. I stroke it gently, drawing long pulls as I paw at my nipples. Now I’m scratching, I want to gouge away the flesh to expose myself to you – show you the wounds that prove I’m worthy of your arousal. I pinch and claw at my bruised chest as if to get closer to you, and now I’m scared this is not calming me, I’m starting to feel fearful of the power of the feelings that are opening me up to your hunger. I shut my eyes, the sweat rolling and my heart pumping, and imagine your fingers in my mouth, pushing them deep into my throat to load them with spit before you force them inside me elsewhere, and I gasp and seize the edge of the bed to stop shaking.

The screen flickers and the next message catches my eye:

“Get the razor. Shave yourself – balls, cock, perineum. I want you smooth to see every mark I’m going to make.”

This helps. Running the razor with care over the pitted undulations of my balls and the smooth expanse of my body all around them. The clean, cool feel of my now subsided member, is like flesh against leather as each gentle movement brings new sensuous contact between my balls and my thighs…

“Now get dressed.” 

It’s now I notice the rest of the clothes that spilled out of the bag with the tablet, that are gathered in a pile on the bed. I was told all clothing would be provided, so I lift a pair of silk and lace, claret red knickers, bra and stockings & suspenders to match. I find I can fiddle my way through the underwear and have surprising deftness with the stockings, from watching former lovers. The spring and snap of the suspenders raps my thighs lightly when I put them on. I stand up and feel almost bound by you. The sheer clinging figure-hugging fabric presses wonderfully against my renewed cock, and I’m conflicted with feeling, because the submissive in me is making me burst with pride and excitement. I want to run in my Slut Uniform to show the world I’m yours and yet I also want to just kneel and wait your instructions. Sat quietly on the bed, knees together, head bowed, like in a waiting room sweating on a diagnosis.

“What are you waiting for?”

What am I waiting for?
To be continued…


2 thoughts on “The Waiting Room – part one

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