"Now that your bottom seems well on the way to true submission, Miss Tilton, I have decided on the shape of the next phase of your training."
To my surprise, Charles delivered this declaration at the mall, where we had gone, ostensibly, because we desperately needed a good trowel (according to Charles, who likes to garden). I had at first resisted the notion of accompanying him on his trowel expedition (our shopping styles are fundamentally incompatible, and I really didn't need anything), but he had given me a meaningful look and said, in his best Domestic Discipline voice, "Sweetheart, I want you to come with me."
At first, I thought he was joking, and I'd laughed, and said, "So what do you want for dinner tonight?" But he had replied, "Emily, are you going to disobey me?"
And I had gotten the look. I have to confess to loving the look, ever since Charles and I worked out the "DD in the bedroom, equal rights in the living-room, unless Emily is naked" rule (never formally ratified, to be sure, but present in our relationship since the winter of 2002).
"No, Sir," I had replied, and gone to get my purse.
Now, when I responded to his declaration with an uncomprehending, "Sir?" he took me gently by the shoulders, and turned me about 120 degrees to the left.
I couldn't help snorting. I was looking at the storefront of a Victoria's Secret. "Sweetie, do you really think I need training in the lingerie department?" escaped me, despite myself.
I could tell he was pleased at the thought, because, I'm sure, images of me in various configurations of lingerie (above all, in various sets of bras and panties--panties, above all) were flashing before his eyes.
"Ah," he said. "I see your point, but I don't believe you've considered very thoroughly, if at all, that your lingerie obsession is an area in which you actually have not submitted to me."
That stopped me in my tracks. He was right. As I've indicated before, lingerie was something I did for me, with reference to a Him who hadn't yet arrived. Charles was playing the role of that Him very effectively, but he'd already proven with the garter-belt uniform that there was some hot ground to cover in the bending of me to acknowledge him, Charles, to be Him, the lord of my lingerie-drawer.
"Alright," I said. "What do you have in mind, Sir?" I couldn't help the tiniest hint of sarcasm in the "Sir." It wasn't easy giving up the idea that lingerie was an area over which I had the final say.
"I'm going to start by taking away your underwear privileges for a week."
"What?" Of course. Of course I knew what he meant, and, well. . . the panties I took off would bear the evidence that the thought moved me greatly.
"I'm pretty sure you can figure it out, Emily. But let me help you by saying, simply, that I want you to go to the ladies' room right now and take off your panties, then come back here and give them to me."
"Sir. . . you know that you're not allowed to try things on there. . ."
"Naked. Yes, I know. You won't be trying anything on, though, because you've just lost your underwear privileges. I have something else in mind, so unless you want a bare-bottom spanking right here in the mall, you had better do as I've asked."
Would he have? I doubt it, but the magic of D/s is sometimes in convincing yourself that your Master would do something that he probably wouldn't do. I went to the ladies' room, and shut myself in a stall. I am incurable: rather than primly removing my panties, I lifted my pink summer dress and put my right hand inside them, while I brought my left forearm across my mouth and gagged myself with it. I just needed to. . . I didn't mean to come, I really didn't.
But when I returned, with my black lace balled up in my fist, and put the fist into Charles' pocket and deposited the panties there, I couldn't meet his eyes. He took my right hand and brought it up to his nose and inhaled. He smiled.
"Look at me, sweetie," he said, without dropping my hand.
I grimaced, and looked up into his eyes. "Were you naughty in the bathroom?"
"Yes, Sir," I whispered.
"We'll discuss this when we get home." He caught my index and middle fingers, the ones he knew well by then are my naughtiest fingers of all, between his lips, and suckled them, gently.
"Oh, Charles," I said, my knees weakening. "Please."
"Please take me home and fuck me," I managed to breathe.
He released the fingers, and let my hand drop, though he still held it. "In due time, Emily."
He led me by the hand towards the store that always seems to beckon to me with the sheer (of course) extremity of its pinkness and goldness.