So this is what he meant by a challenge of submission.
I’m standing in this cage. In the centre of a fetish club dance floor. In a leopard-skin corselet. It could look like I planned this, but I didn’t. It’s my first time here, my first play session with this dark-suited Dom, after several intense online interactions. The decisive click of his handcuffs securing the cage door. Ensnaring me in his scene of submission. Arms folded, smiling at my indignation.
“Dance for me.”
I look around at the club full of diversely dressed and undressed people. Bodies poured into and spilling out of latex, leather and fishnets. Unexpected revelations of flesh, piercings and tattoos. Some have stopped their conversations or caresses, or are looking over their drinks, surveying my predicament with interest.
“Please me, and I shall ensure your … release … in more ways than one.”
Cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, I try to focus on the music, washing over me in waves. Try to focus on his beguiling promise of release. The effect this has on my body. This slow burn, beginning already in my clitoris.
I look around at the club full of diversely dressed and undressed people. Bodies poured into and spilling out of latex, leather and fishnets. Unexpected revelations of flesh, piercings and tattoos.
“Disappoint me, and I might make you spend the evening in there.” He kisses my hand, wound around the elegantly-crafted iron bars, and closer to me, whispers: “But I doubt you’ll disappoint.” He steps back, swirls his scotch, withdraws to a velvet couch at the dance floor’s edge. Best seat in the house, I think.
I feel too exposed, like a naked mannequin in a shop window. But my hips are swaying in spite of myself. Vulnerability and arousal pair in a double trapeze act, somersaulting through my stomach. Eyes closed, I begin to breathe in the seductive trance-like music, weaving my body into the melody. Flashes of memory and fantasy flicker through my mind.
Nineteen. My fantasy of being a striptease dancer at a men’s club. Twenty-four. Memories of dancing on a podium at a nightclub, feisty-hipped and pouty-lipped. Twenty-eight. Burlesque dance classes, learning the art of tease. And as the lights strobe through my eyelids, flash-images of the numerous men I had smoothly seduced from dance-floor to bedroom – via a lewdly-named cocktail or four. To create some cock tales of my own…
I can do this.
So I commit to my role. This cage is my stage. This leopard-skin corselet hugging every curve of me, my costume. Like a courtesan from another era, I must dance for the pleasure of my Dom. Dance for his pleasure and his favour.
Eyes on him, I move my hands down the sides of my body, watching him take in my long legs in dark stockings, suspenders accentuating my thighs. I realize he’s never seen me this exposed. The music courses through me as I widen my legs in a defiant stance, then writhe down into a feline crouch, feeling his eyes on my breasts, cupped firmly by the corselet. I prowl back up the bars, holding his eyes with mine, and cat-hiss at him, scarlet-nailed, clawing through the bars. I do it again.
No longer reclining back in the couch, he’s leaning forward. Glass empty, he’s drinking me in.
* * *
Adrea Kore © July 2014
(Full story is published on Brightdesire.com 2014 – in the subscribed Members section)
To read more about the inspiration behind Dance for Me – step this way …