Stripped

"Strip," he commands.

He is sitting, fully clothed and patient, on the edge of the bed. The paddle is next to him, holding a silent promise.

I freeze, not out of defiance, but to absorb the effects of this moment that passes between us -- the shifting dynamic as palpable as the tremor of a train making its way down the tracks, my surging heart rate suddenly overcoming the sounds of the ticking clock until all that is left is a dim roar inside my head.

With trepidation, my fingers find their way to the button and then the zipper of my pants and I wriggle out of them, dipping my head, allowing my hair to momentarily cover my face.

I can feel his eyes assessing my revealed legs but when I look at him, he is staring at my lips which I have unconsciously licked and pulled between my teeth.

"Keep going," he says, his amusement at my hesitation clearly evident.

He has seen me naked before, both for pleasure and for punishment. This scene is not new -- he watching as I shed each article of clothing in a shy strip tease, his legs slightly spread, feet planted firmly, waiting -- but each time I am sharply reminded of our arrangement.

And, so, like his good, albeit tremulous, girl, I continue as instructed: unbuttoning my shirt and letting it slip from my shoulders to fall to the floor; reaching behind to unhook my bra which loosely cups my breasts before joining the collection of garments on the heap. I then turn from him to lower my panties, treating him to the unveiled sight as I bend and then busy my hands in the folding of my discarded clothing.

In all of this, his only movement is the flickering of his eyes, the smoothing of his hands over his denim-clad knees, the almost indiscernible rise of his chest under his long-sleeve tee, a twitch of his lips in recognition.

I am now naked. He's seen me this way hundreds of times, and yet I have never felt more exposed than standing here with my fingernails digging into the outsides of my thighs as I try to hold still while he, fully clothed, examines me.

He starts with my hair in its wild tumble of curls, continues to my sweeping collarbone which he will later kiss. I know he sees the full curves and erect nipples of the breasts he will grab and pinch, the swell of my belly encased by hip bones. He pauses as he assesses the closeness of my shave and continues down my long legs to finish at my freshly polished toes.

It is in these moments that I find myself wondering how it is possible to feel so small and yet so significant in his quiet appraisal. I no longer belong to myself; I am his.

He instructs me to come closer, to stand between his legs. I feel the soft cotton on his arms caress me as his hands assuredly cup my bottom, his hair tickling the undersides of my breasts as he holds me there, breathing in my scent.

My fate is sealed with the next three words.

"You've been naughty."