She was nervous when she arrived at the hotel: they had met for lunch a couple of times, but this was to be their first private meeting and although she had some idea what to expect, the cluster of knots that formed in her stomach mixed anticipation, trepidation, and a little bit of uneasiness. She wondered if she had gotten in too deep, gone too far, although she had taken the sensible precaution of telling a trusted friend where she was, and asked her to come looking if she did not get an “all clear” message by 8pm.

She glanced at her watch: 6:57. Shit, she thought, I’m already going to be late by the time I get upstairs. She considered calling her friend and pushing back her 8pm safety call; then thought, a lot can happen in an hour, bad as well as good. She walked through the lobby to the elevators, reciting his instructions to herself: room 525, knock twice and push the door, it will be open to your touch, walk into the room and present yourself without speaking.

On the fifth floor the elevator doors slid silently open and she stepped into the hallway, looking left and then right before turning to the right towards 525. She nervously consulted her watch again — 7:05 — and thought again of her friend, and her safety call; then she remembered the safe word, and figured she could always stop whatever they were doing — again, one way or the other — so she could call her friend. It was, she decided, all perfectly reasonable.

She arrived at the door, off the latch and ajar as promised. She rapped on it twice, smartly, and when she pushed it open and strode into the room she was all false bravado: it was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling, and she could feel not only knots in her stomach but a growing dampness in the lace panties he had specifically ordered her to wear.

The room was in darkness, the curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun. She could make out his form, occupying the club chair as he might a throne, one knee casually over the other and his arms at rest. “You’re late,” was all he said. She couldn’t make out whether it was a rebuke or simply a statement of fact. His voice was even, calm, though there was an edge to it that sliced and stirred the knots for her.

“Yes,” she said, groping for some explanation. “There was…” He cut her off with a gesture.
“Step over here,” he began quietly, in that same even tone. “Let me look at you. Stand there.” He directed her to a position a few feet in front of him, where he could see her in the dim, filtered light. “Turn around, please, and stop. Good. Very good. Keep turning, and face me again.” She did as she was told, still feeling that curious and uncomfortable mixture of anxiety and arousal: the former, a steady background thrum; the latter, increasing with each breath she took and each word he spoke.
He stood then, and walk slowly around her, inspecting her: making sure that she was dressed as he had instructed: hair up, sleeveless top, a sweater, a modest skirt, bare legs. He gently took the sweater from her shoulders and she shivered, more an instinctive reaction than anything because the room was not cold at all, for he had turned up the thermostat in anticipation of her arrival. His hand grazed her shoulder, and as it ran down her arm he could feel the gooseflesh rise to meet his palm. He did it again, standing directly behind her, one hand lightly on each shoulder, tracing her bare arms to her wrists and then back up to her shoulders. “You’re late,” he said again, softly, and directly in her ear.

She began to shiver — not from cold, but from excitement.