Fantasy Fiction: The surprise party, part 1

Although Mr. Stanley has given me a few writing assignments in the past week, what I'm going to share today completes an unofficial request he made some time ago to become better acquainted with my fantasies.

I spent the last 45 minutes "researching" in our bedroom with my favorite glass toy, and I think I've got the particulars figured out. Here goes!

The Surprise Party

Mister has insomnia again, and I wake throughout the night, distressed to find myself still in bed alone. By 9am I have succeeded in reaching a deep sleep, and I barely stir before my lover is leaning over my ear, showered and dressed, kissing me goodbye for the day. Disgruntled that we've lost the night, I grimace and pout. Mister strokes my hair, and leaves an envelope on the nightstand. 

"Something I put together last night, Beast. Take a look when you get up." He pats my rump, plants one last kiss, and heads out. 

I really, really hate sleeping alone when Mr. S is in the next room. I feel quite entitled to his warmth, but when the man can't sleep, he can't sleep. I snag the envelope and shake out its contents. 

Mister's bank card and a single sheet of loose-leaf paper. I feel a little better already. 

Dearest Beast, 

I've left you the car today to prepare for an evening I have planned. I've made an appointment for you at the salon on 13th street, next to that little breakfast cafe we go to. Be there at 11am - they know what I want done. Then find yourself a slinky black dress and some whorish heels to go with it. Be fresh and ready to go at 6pm - clean shaven, skip the panties, and don't forget the make-up and the earrings I've laid out on the dresser. Nothing more, nothing less. 

I love you. 

Mr. Stanley

p.s. Eat well - we'll be skipping dinner. 

And with that, my blues are blown away. I jump out of bed and get started on breakfast. Lucky, lucky me!

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By 6pm I am perfect. Perched on our couch in a sleek mini-dress and platform stilettos, I am immaculately groomed as per my instructions - bald of body hair, sporting a French manicure, blown-out highlights and and a dose of jittery adolescent anticipation. If I don't say so myself, I look dyn-o-mite.

At 6:30, I'm still waiting. It takes everything I have not chew my lipstick off. I check it in my compact, then return to my crossword puzzle. Finally, I hear the door. 

Mr. Stanley smiles big when he sees me, and extends his hand to help me up and spin me around for the 360 view. He runs his hands over every curve from my ankles to my jaw, pausing over my protruding belly, which holds our son. 

"Mmm, absolutely gorgeous, Patty. But you forgot perfume. Go put some on and come back."

I do as I'm told. I should have thought of it anyway. 

When I return, Mister is holding my collar open in front of him. "Time to suit up," he says. 

A wide grin springs to my face. Of course I assumed that's where we were headed with this, but the confirmation is always exciting. I walk into his hands and he closes the leather around my neck, snapping the tiny lock into place. He takes a moment to fondle me, clasping my neck above the collar with one hand and snaking the other up the back of my dress to check for panties. He slips a finger between my lips, then holds it to my mouth to clean. I eagerly comply. 

"Good girl. That's my good girl."

I earn a soft kiss on the temple. He takes my hand and leads me out the back door to where the car is parked in the alley, helping me totter through the yard in my heels. But then he holds open the rear door, gesturing for me to get into the seat behind his. I climb in, nerves alight, and he pulls a blindfold from the door compartment. Once it is gingerly arranged over my eyes, he pulls my hands behind my back, ropes them together, then tenderly leans me over to lie on my side. Once all three seat belts are buckled around my body, the engine ignites, and we're off. 

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We are off for a while. I really can't say how much time has passed; Mr. Stanley hasn't spoken a word. He's got our typical "playtime" soundtrack of classical music on, which hardly helps with estimating elapsed time. After what must be a few hours, the car slows, turns and stops. I simply cannot imagine what the fuck he has in store for us. 

The door opens and a gust of hot summer air rushes in. Mister's hands release the seat belts and haul me to a seated position. "How do you feel?" he asks. 

"Scared," I say. 

"But the ride was okay? You're not sore anywhere?" 

"No, Sir. My legs are a little stiff, but I'm fine."

"Do you trust me, Pet?"

"Yes, Sir." 

"Do you love me, Pet?"

"Very much, Sir."

"Are you prepared to do whatever I ask, and trust me to take care of us?"

Fuck, this is getting pretty intense. What is he going to have me do? Yet, this is what I signed up for. This is precisely the type of play we've aspired to, with a real element of risk. 

"Yes, my Master. I love and trust you completely."

"Well, we're about to find out. Let's go."

And with that, without taking off my blindfold or unbinding my hands, he takes my arm and helps me out of the car, shielding my head the way you see cops do with criminals. I am terrified - I'm on a street, I have no idea where, in a collar and blindfold with no panties and my arms tied behind my back. What the fuck! Already this far surpasses any public foray we've ever embarked upon. 

I hear footsteps, several pair, walk by a few feet away. And then, it's unmistakable - a snigger. No doubt about it. "Nice slut you've got there," murmurs a voice I've never heard. A woman's. 

"Thank you," says Mister. Something snaps onto the front of my collar, and I feel a tug. A leash? We don't have a leash. "Of course, I've only got one. That's quite a collection."

"Mmmm," her voice drips like warm molasses. "I've worked very hard to acquire them. We have a lot of fun together, don't we, darlings?" A small chorus of "Yes, Mistress," chimes back, male and female. 

Mistress? A for-real dominatrix? With multiple slaves? All I can think is how unprepared I am for whatever this is. I am clueless. Am I standing correctly? Am I making him look bad? Where the fuck are we, a club? A party? Some sort of fetish fest?

"Shall we?" oozes the Domme. 

"After you," replies Mister, and a million emotions rush through my veins as I prepare for motion. The exchange of their voices sends pulses through my pussy, and at the same time red flags are popping up all over my brain erecting defenses: "Watch her. Keep your distance. Occupy Mr. Stanley." But I can't do any of that, this is completely out of my hands. All I can do right now is try not to trip as I walk blindly into blackness.

Too timid to touch Mister, I grab onto my own leash as I lurch forward. Mister takes my hand and places it on the back of his tricep, the way you're supposed to lead blind people. He doesn't take my hand, but I'm too scared to be hurt. I relish the one sliver of contact I have with his body; and I cherish this feeling of utter helplessness and dependence on him. He is my keeper, my owner, and we are here for everyone to see that. Wherever we are.

Continue to Part 2 ...