Losing control

He had told Cathy to meet him in a mid-town higher-end hotel room in the middle of the day. She had wondered for days whether to agree – in their online chats he had understood her need for submission so completely, so much better than Richard ever could; but she had felt guilty already about their chatting. After all, she been married for over 20 years and she had no doubt did Richard would not do this to her.

Perhaps because of this she had dressed as conservatively as she could recall. She wore a pleated skirt to her knees, a white buttoned blouse, slip, black thigh-high pantihose: nothing flamboyant. She complemented this with light makeup, a reserved pearl necklace. And yet even with this statement of restraint she felt deeply nervous.

Perhaps this was belied by having her hair and nails done, and more secretly the waxing of her private lips. She had always prided herself on the extent to which she had cared for her appearance: she may be a married 40-something, with the slight weight that age and marriage would bring, but catching her appearance in a window almost boosted her confidence. And why should she not find some excitement in a marriage comprised of affection, support and the joy of grandchildren - but replete of the passion that had inspired their first decade together?

Surprisingly, she arrived before he did. Michael had warned her that should this be the case the key would be the hotel reception. Nonetheless, walking to the room she felt almost abandoned. The room itself had a small lounge, an open area with a couch, coffee table and mini-bar to the side. A quick examination of the bar showed that there were the expected refreshments available, as well as a substantial collection of alcoholic beverages. This was clearly not a mid range hotel: she had felt that Michael was a man of some stature in their conversations - even though they had met online and this piqued her curiosity.

Should she even be here? Why was she taking this risk for a man she had never even seen aside from a photograph? And how would he respond to seeing her in the flesh? It was one thing for him to call her a slut online at a safe distance - it was quite another to explore submission to his intentions. And yet wasn't this what she had imagined for decades? This strange desire to submit to the will of a strong man, especially if that man was so much younger. She knew that his youth would make this seem infinitely more submissive: submitting to a younger man would mean relinquishing the authority of age. What would that make her? The truth is she knew what that would make her, and that is why she was here.

She returned to the couch, sitting back straight, holding her handbag in her lap. How long did she wait? 10 minutes perhaps, but each second carried a new fear. 20 times she considered standing up and walking out, until suddenly she heard the click of the key card opening the door and Michael walked in. He was taller, leaner, more athletic than she had anticipated with a slightly cruel curve to his lips; but also more handsome than his photograph had suggested, leaving her self conscious of her age and appearance.

Did she feel like a schoolgirl again? This was not a date. Why had Michael not suggested a meeting for coffee, but immediately organized a liaison? Why had she agreed? How could she have placed herself in this situation?


Michael walked slowly across the room and placed his hand against her cheek. "Are you ready?"

She nodded, with an implacable sense of uncertainty.

Michael: Are you ready?

Cathy nodded

Michael: No. Are you ready?

After a moment she said the word: "Yes"

Michael: Yes who?

There was a long, tangible silence.

Cathy: Yes Sir.

Michael: Better.

Michael sat down on the couch. "Bring me a whiskey. Leave your handbag here"

Cathy knew from their online discussion how demanding he could be. She put her handbag aside and went to the mini bar, pouring a drink, conscious that he had offered her nothing.

When she turned, she realised with a shock that he had her car keys and phone in his hand. She took a step forward in horror, but with the look of disdain he walked across to the hotel room safe and locked them inside. She was unsure how to respond, and ended up doing nothing but holding the whiskey in her hands, realizing that she did not the code to open the safe. Unless Michael gave it to her she would be trapped, Having to explain to Richard why she was in a hotel room registered to a strange man with her possessions locked in a safe.

She was completely nervous now. This was more than she anticipated. she could see the tremble in her hands on the surface of the whisky. For Michaels part, he walked calmly across the room and sat down again, and then turned and said "Bring it to me".

She walked across the room and passed him the drink. He leaned back, taking time, leaving her standing nervously.

Michael: you know you are her slut, don't you?

Cathy: don't make this hard. I agreed to meet

Michael: turn around

She didn't know where this was going, watching his eyes. He twirled one finger, and she once again recognised her predicament, the extent to which she would have to obey his demands. She turned slowly, trying to look back over her shoulders at what he was doing.

Michael: eyes forward, head up

She could feel her heart pounding.

Michael: that's such a conservative skirt. Lift the hem up.

She felt resigned, torn between reluctance, nervousness and knowing that this is what she had felt she needed.

Michael: don’t make me wait

She reached down, found the hem, lifted it above her knees.

Michael: you know that’s not what I want. Higher. Right up. Like a naughty schoolgirl, under your chin.

She could hear her breathing now. She closed her eyes and raised the hem up, aware that he was now seeing all of her legs, the so conservative beige panties, the pantihose.

Michael: for such a slut you are so reserved. This is what you wear to our meeting?

Silence, and she realised he expected an answer.

Michael: is this what you wear? Maybe I should just leave now, and you can explain to Richard why you are in a hotel room paid for by a man

Cathy: I just took whatever was in the drawer. I'm sorry. Maybe we should end this here, before it goes too far.

Michael: does your bra even match the panties? Does it?

Cathy: (humiliated by this demand) don't think so. I'm sorry.

Michael: bend over. Right over. Keep your skirt up. More. More. I said more.

She bent forward as far as she could go, staring haplessly at the floor, her skirt and slip preventing her from seeing anything behind.

Michael was clearly relaxed. She heard him take a sip of whiskey then put the glass down and lean forward.

Michael: your panties stretch so tight when you do that. Not like a young girl at all, are you?

And now she felt one finger running up the back of her leg, from the hollow behind her knee, slowly, slowly climbing.

Michael: How much do you weigh, slut? Is this how you bring yourself here?

She held back the humiliation, saying nothing.

Michael: You heard me. Would you say you are overweight?

Cathy: That's not fair. It's not part of this.

Michael: I decide. I decide. Are you overweight? Tell me.
Cathy swallowed indignation: You know I am. I'm not a girl anymore.

Michael: I do. I do.

The finger had found the leg hem of her panties. It trailed along the hem, drifting to her inner
leg, inches away.

Inches away. All her thoughts were on that finger, breathing laboured by bending forward for so long.

Michael: you should have brought much more erotic underwear. Don't you think?

Cathy: I said I'm sorry.

Michael: Stay bent over, but take them off.

Cathy: This is humiliating!

Michael: Humiliation is what you want, is it not? Are you angry that I would want to see your bottom? Is that not dignified enough?

Cathy: You are deliberately humiliating me! This is more than we agreed!

Michael: If I only do what you want, it's not humiliation is it? You have to relinquish your dignity to truly, truly surrender to this.

She stayed silent, conscious that she had begun pouting in frustration. The pseudo submission of Internet chat was only a shadow of the situation in which she found herself.

Michael: You do as I say or the penalty is very high. You enjoy being controlled. I enjoy humiliating you - on my terms only. Do you understand?

This was followed by a long silence. This was a watershed moment. She sensed it. This was the point of acceptance or rebellion, at the risk of losing everything.

Michael: Do you understand?

Cathy: Yes.

Michael: Don't make this harder than it has to be. We have been through this already. Yes who?

Cathy, subdued: yes sir.

Michael: That's better. Now I want those panties at your knees. No further. Do you hear?

Cathy: I do hear. Sir.

Michael: Then do it. Stop wasting fucking time.

Cathy: If you want it so much then you do it.

Michael: You know I'm not going to back away. You're only making it more difficult.

Clutching her skirt and slip in her left hand, she reached behind, found the top of her panties, tried to push them down; but it was difficult in this position and she found herself tugging, twisting to get the panties over her bottom until suddenly they were loose and almost fell to the floor before she grasped them.

Michael: Don't let them fall. Only to your knees.

Cathy had to open her legs slightly to prevent the panties from sliding down, but was able to capture them.

Michael: You are plump, aren't you? I like it though. You have the arse of a comfortable, married middle-aged wife. I bet you cover it with a sarong or a towel at the beach. It embarrasses you, doesn't it?

Cathy: I prefer to be dignified in public.

Michael: I'm sure you do. Is this humiliating for you? Lowering yourself to this level? Have you ever been this slutty?

Cathy: I told you: you are humiliating me

Michael: You once said to me that you believed women should be sexually obedient. did you not?

Cathy: I may have. Can I stand up now?

Michael: No no. This journey has just begun.

She became aware, again, of him sipping from his whiskey. How could he be so controlled, so disdainful of her discomfort? He was correct, of course: this was a deeper humiliation than anything she could have imagined. For a moment the thought slipped through her head of others seeing her like this. Richard, her father, her friends, her aunts catching her bend forward, her naked bottom even more exposed by her pose, her panties at her knees, her hands still clutching the conservative skirt under her breasts.

Michael: Reach behind with both hands and pull that fat arse open.

The shock of those words caused her to try stand up, but his hand was on her back and he pushed her forward.

Michael: You are shocked with what I want? If you don't want Richard to ever know about me, you're going to give me everything I want. One afternoon of total obedience and you will be free to go. But until then you swallow your pride. You left your dignity outside when you walked through that door. Now show me your anus and your cunt like the obedient married slut you are, or should I tie you and leave you so you show it to the service staff instead of just me?

Michael had been so understanding of her caution when exploring this online. It had appeared so clear that he would protect her anonymity while bringing her to secret obedient orgasms over and over, that she had eventually willingly come here. For the first time she truly experienced would abject obedience could entail. Her hands were trembling. Her breathing was reduced to short gasps. She feared, she knew there was no going back from this point and wondered what further humiliations awaited her.

She had to do as instructed: she could not allow any of this to be known by her personal circle. And so after a long moment of deliberation, while Michael casually sipped from his whiskey she tucked her skirt under her chin and reached both hands back. Resignedly she placed a hand on each of her bottom cheeks and then pulled them open for Michaels gaze. Her cheeks burned in shame and she felt the first hint of tears behind her eyelids, causing her to close her eyes and wait for this embarrassment, this shame to be over.

She heard Michael lean forward in his chair.

Michael: Good girl. I love that moment when a woman gives me her dignity. Whatever happens now you will always remember her ashamed you felt, won't you?

Cathy almost spat out the word: Yes.

Michael: I know you are uncomfortable, but hold it open. And look back at me: I want your face in the photograph.