Return to Room 1220…

I am sitting in the waiting room outside my Supervisors* office.

I am trembling with nerves.

The door opens and he greets me with a smile, “Finally! The good Dr. shows herself!”

Once inside we sit opposite each other and he raises his eyebrow. No words are needed, I know he is asking why I have not been keeping my appointments.

“I’ve, um, I’ve been… having some issues lately…” I stumble. I can feel the blush rising up my throat to my cheeks.

I hate that I have to admit my gross unprofessionalism to someone I respect and admire.

“Tell me.”

“I’ve, well, I’ve met someone.”

His eyebrows lift again.

“And? Is that why you haven’t been keeping our appointments?”

I sigh…

“I guess… Yes. Yes it is.”

I feel shame. How do I explain what has been happening to me over the past few weeks?

He says nothing. He knows that I know I need to talk. He waits me out.

“He’s… different.”

“In what way?”

And so I begin…

“You did well today. I know that was not easy for you to discuss,” we stand and walk to the door, “but you of all people know how important it is to talk about these things. It’s too easy to slip back into old patterns that no longer serve you.”

I nod, thinking of all that lies ahead of me. All the thinking I need to do. The changes I am going to have to make. I know in my head that it is for the best, but my heart, and my groin think differently.

Back at my counseling room, I scan my diary and am relieved to see a rare empty day ahead of me. A couple of my clients have rescheduled for next week, and a vague worry crosses my mind that my lack of presence during their sessions could be the cause.

Another reminder that I need to look at my recent behavior.

On a spur of the moment I decide I need to do something different. Something to regain a sense of ME.

I pick up the phone.

Two days pass and I hear nothing from him.

Although I am driven mad with worry and longing, a part of me is relieved. This break could be my chance to pull myself together.

I am just home from a day at work.

There is a knock on the door.

I open it. It’s him.

My heart soars. I am so pleased to see him!

But his face is cold. He does not look happy.

He marches in to my hallway and turns to look at me.

“What the fuck have you done to yourself?” his voice icy.

I freeze on the spot.

My hand reaches up to my newly highlighted hair. I feel dismay.

“You were perfect. Just perfect.” He shakes his head and turns.

Like that he is gone. I stare, openmouthed, at the front door as it slams shut.

Like a child, I start to cry.

Friday…

A small parcel is couriered to my office. An oblong white box, tied with gold ribbon.

It must be from him.

Inside is a key card for the hotel we visited before, a note and a fat bundle of €100 notes.

The card : Buy some fuck me lingerie, a dress and heels. Be in Room 1220, 7pm, tomorrow. And fix your fucking hair.

I smile…

Wearing the very expensive lingerie and dress, I stand, hesitating, outside Room 1220.

What does this latest development actually mean?

Am I being ‘paid’ now? Is this a gift?

The incredibly extravagant amount of money in the parcel made me feel uncomfortable, but I knew he would be disappointed if I didn’t use it as he had asked.

“Fuck it, I want this,” and I enter the room.

The room is empty.

On the massive bed lies another white oblong box tied with gold ribbon.

I sit on the bed and open it.

Inside, a card : Put this on. Wait.

I finger the deep purple silk eye-mask inside the box and feel a tingle between my legs.

Obediently, I wrap the mask around my eyes and secure it behind my head.

I sit and wait.

After a time, I do not know how long, I hear the door click open and close again.

Footsteps across the floor.

Breathing.

His scent filling the room.

The sound of some chairs or tables being moved around.

The rustle of someone sitting down.

“Hi baby girl. Lets begin.”

The sorrowful chords of Jeff Buckley playing Hallelujah fill the room.

I catch my breath at the sound of his voice and the music, and immediately feel throbbing between my legs.

“Undress for me. Slowly.”

I go to kick off my skyscraper heels.

“Leave the shoes on.”

I can see a tiny bit from the bottom of the eye mask, so I can just about see my feet.

I stand slowly, taking care not to fall over, and unzip my new silk, deep green dress at the side. Pushing it off my shoulders I allow it to drop to the floor.

“Nice.”

I stand before him, blindfolded, wearing the Agent Provocateur pieces I had bought earlier.

My emerald green translucent lace bra is cut low on my breasts, barely covering my nipples, the matching briefs have cut outs at the front of the hips, and at the centre around the back, tied with a tiny green silk ribbon at the base of my spine.

Taking great care not to trip, I slowly turn around to allow him to admire the back view.

“Mmmm.”

I turn back around to him and slowly reach around to unclasp my bra and let it fall to the floor.

My chest is rising and lowering fast. It is hard to regulate my breathing.

I hook my thumbs into my pants and pull them down over my hips and thighs.

I have to sit down to remove them completely and stay seated, naked except for my heels, waiting for what he wants next.

“That’s good, baby girl. Open your legs. I want to watch you touch yourself.”

Underneath the blindfold, I close my eyes. Breathing fast, I lick my lips, bite my bottom lip.

My hand caresses my throat and my fingers trace the line down along between my breasts and sweep across to graze my left nipple. I play with it and throw my head back, enjoying my own touch and the feeling that he is watching me.

I bring my other hand down over my stomach and between my legs, feeling how wet I am. My fingers slip inside me and then begin to massage my clitoris the way I like it, as I pull on my nipple with my other hand. My hips start to rock against my hand and I open my legs further. Small groans are doing from my throat.

I am now in a state of near oblivion and am only vaguely aware of his presence. I am writhing on the edge of the bed and need to lie down to really please myself. I lean back and stretch myself on the bed, pushing myself further up. The extra movement tips me over the edge and I cry out a long low groan of pleasure as my orgasm takes over my body completely.

I am lying, breathing hard and still feeling aftershocks when I feel his heat close by. The mattress sags as he lies next to me. He takes my hands and kisses each of my palms, sucks on my fingers. He unties my blindfold and kisses me sweetly.

His scent fills my nose, making me dizzy.

“That was beautiful baby girl, just beautiful.”

He takes my hands over my head and I’m surprised to see he is naked and has my discarded bra in his hands.

He uses it to tie my wrists together over my head, moves on top of me, opening my legs more, and he very deliberately, very slowly, enters me, pushing in deep and pulling out almost entirely.

His eyes never leave mine, his jaw set rigid. The friction from his slow deep movements against me are sending currents of electricity from my clitoris, up to my stomach and through my entire body.

I lift my legs up and press the sharp heels of my shoes down onto his calves, eliciting a groan from his throat.

I like hearing that. I like feeling my power.

I raise my feet higher and push the heels into his buttocks, making him buck faster and faster into me.

His hand that isn’t holding my wrists reaches around and grabs my shoe, digging it in deeper as he cries out a hoarse growl from deep inside his chest.

With his final pounding thrust into me I feel it coming again.

My second orgasm leaves me shaking and trembling in his arms.

He undoes my wrists but stays on top of me for a minute, looking down at me.

“You fixed your hair. Good girl.”

Then he lifts himself off the bed and walks down to the dresser beside the seat he had been sitting in.

I lift my head and watch as he picks up the HD camera and closes the lens cap.

He was recording me?

 

*In therapy terms, Clinical Supervision, means that a counsellor or psychotherapist uses the services of another counsellor or psychotherapist to review their work with clients, their professional development, and often their personal development as well. Supervision is a professional service, rather than a managerial role. The supervisor acts not as a ‘boss’, but as a consultant.

 

Copyright 2014 by MsT  secretgarden. All rights reserved.

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