There’s a box sitting right in the centre of my coffee table. Red. Heart-shaped, with my name written on it in black Sharpie. As I stare at it I feel my heart fluttering in my chest as though I’m in the beginning stages of terror. My entire body is shaking so much I wouldn’t be surprised if the air around me vibrated.
It isn’t fear I’m feeling, though. Well, not entirely. Mostly, what I’m feeling is anticipation, because this isn’t just any old box. My eyes are fixed on the black scrawl. My name, written in spiky, inch high capital letters, but no address. It wasn’t delivered by a courier service, it was hand delivered. Deliberately positioned in the centre of the table where I couldn’t fail to see it as soon as I walked through the front door.
She put it there.
Knowing that has me so excited I feel sick. Understanding that She drove here, let Herself in, that Her feet – oh God Her feet! – touched my carpet, and that She walked across the room with Her usual no-nonsense determination…
After almost fifteen minutes of staring, of knowing, of chewing my lip and trying to ignore how tight my trousers have become, I reach for the box. My fingers visibly tremble. I try to steady them but it’s a waste of time. I have no way to calm myself because I know what I’ll find when I expose what’s inside.
Yes, I know what She’s put in the box.
Behind me the hall clock strikes six and the automatic air freshener on the wall by the door hisses and creaks, sending a cloud of flower-scented droplets through the air. I freeze, fingers hovering above the box, waiting until the sweet-smelling perfume reaches my nose. When it does, I moan. She chose that fragrance for me because it reminds us both of the oil She dabs behind Her ears at the start of every evening we spend together.
I revel in it for a few minutes. Not just because I’m trying to trick my brain into believing that She is in the room with me, but because I’m trying to prolong the agony. I’m teasing myself, making myself wait, the torture of not plunging my hands into the box almost as sweet as the pleasure I’m going to get when I finally let myself sink my fingers into its contents.
I imagine how it’ll feel. Some of them will be silky and soft. My fingertips will glide over them, though I’ll probably get a few static shocks when they all rub together. I’ll brush my knuckles over them, press them into the sides of the box, ignore the way my cock leaks into the lacy knickers She made me abandon my Calvins for so long ago.
Then…oh fuck… then my pinkie finger will snag on a hole. It’ll get trapped and I’ll do nothing to save it. Instead, I’ll push my other fingers forward, wriggling them, slotting them through other holes. I’ll fist my hand, feeling those holes twisting, constricting my blood flow, squeezing so tightly it’ll be easy to imagine blood seeping from papercut thin slices in my skin.
I can see it now. Black webs standing out stark and harsh against the paleness of my palm. Delicate, perforated fabric tunnels just waiting to be slipped over my forearms, over my elbows, up to my shoulders. Raising my fists in the air will bring the curve of fabric that connects the two pieces right to my face. To my nose. I’ll hold my breath for as long as I can, stroking, groping, feeling, waiting until my lungs are burning and my scent receptors have all but forgotten the floral spray that now permeates the room.
Then I’ll open my airways and take a deep, painful breath. The faint hint of Her odour will torment me. Musky. Sweet. The barest scent of Her arousal soaked into the black fibres. I’ll hold it in my lungs and weep because I won’t know which of Her subjects got to see Her wearing the very garment I’ll be holding. I won’t know if She let them bend the knee in front of Her, if She parted Her thighs and let them worship Her cunt.
My stomach crunches and I snap my hand away from the box as if it’s a dangerous creature when I think that maybe – just maybe – whoever he was got to wriggle his cock through one of the tight holes so he could fuck Her until She came all over Her fishnet tights.
I’m afraid now. I almost don’t want to put my hand in the box because then I’ll know. If She let him come, either inside Her or… God forbid… over Her soft lips or… I feel sick… down Her fishnet-clad legs, I’d have the remnants of it – of his orgasm and Her special treatment – in my hands.
I cut my finger on the cardboard when I rip off the lid and get ready to shove my hands into the box. My eyes are scrunched closed, my heart is slamming against my Adam’s apple, my cock is twitching wildly in my knickers, so close to coming I’m almost tempted to release myself and wank furiously into the box so that I can cover Her stockings – or more specifically Her fishnet tights – in my sticky, irrational jealousy.
The metallic rattle of my belt buckle being undone sounds like the rattle of a chained man rejecting his bonds. The shush of the leather whipping through loops a prelude to a dirty little secret. My knickers tear as I release my cock, the meaty slap of hard arousal against my thigh sends a shock wave of defiance through me.
Then my fists slam into the bottom of the box. I swish my hands around, panic rising to my throat to choke me. The box is empty. No stockings. No fishnets. All I have is a sob caught in my chest, an ache in my balls, and a cock that lies, rock hard and twitching yet entirely impotent, against ruined lace.
I hear a snigger. When I turn around, so hesitantly I’m barely moving, I catch sight of my implausibly wide eyes in the mirror. Now I’m terrified. I know that, when I complete the turn, I’ll see Her. I’ll see disappointment and pity. But, worst of all, I’ll see that She wasn’t surprised at all. That’s why the box was empty. She knew what I would do if it wasn’t.
When I finally find the courage to lift my eyes from the carpet I do it quickly. One swift flick of my lids as I raise my head. And I see Her. I see Her standing in the doorway with a metal cock cage glinting in her hand. Every inch of Her is encased in a black fishnet body stocking and, as I look from the hard peaks of Her nipples to the soft black fuzz at the top of Her thighs She dangles the cage on one finger and just stares.
Tears trickle down my face and I cry soundlessly as my cock throbs and spills my shame all over my shoes. She let me have that orgasm because it’s the last one I’ll be having for some time. But that doesn’t matter to me. What matters is, I’ll get to see Her in Her fishnets much more often now. She always proffers what we want when She knows we don’t have the power to take it from Her.
And that’s why I let Her think I was about to spite-wank all over Her stuff. As She busies herself with securing my come-dirtied cock in the cage, I watch my tears splash on Her shoulder and smother a smile before it can make it onto my lips where it might betray me. It might well be Her game we’re playing, but She isn’t the only one who understands the rules.
