The Autumn Weekend free porn video

A FRIDAY IN AUTUMN It is Friday evening. I arrive home just after 7 o'clock, a little later than usual. I can tell from the lights in the windows that you are already home, and as I open the door I call your name. There is no reply and the house remains silent. I open the living room door. The lights are subdued and it takes my eyes a moment or two to get used to the gloom. You are not there, but I notice a black leather trench coat thrown over the back of one of the red velvet armchairs. The coat is lying there as if thrown carelessly, but I know that you never leave behind signs of yourself without careful thought. I recall that you were wearing a different coat when we left for work this morning. The sight unsettles me a little although I do not quite know why. I return to the hallway and hang up my coat. As I climb the stairs I can hear muffled music coming from behind our bedroom door. We have an understanding that when one of us closes the bedroom door, it is a signal not to be disturbed, and so I do not go in. I knock on the door and say hello. "I thought we might go out tonight," you say in reply to my implied question. "I'm just getting ready." Your voice is rich, warm, enticing: there is a hint of mischief about it. I feel a familiar mixture of excitement and apprehension. Then I laugh at my own nervousness. Whatever you have in mind will be designed to be pleasurable. (Beneath my clothes, my penis twitches and stiffens slightly.) But it does sometimes need a little courage to fit in with your plans. I enquire gently where you are thinking of going. You do not reply directly to my question. "I'll be a few minutes yet. In the meantime, why don't you take a bath?" "OK," I say. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the taps, pouring some bath foam into the water, and then go to the room next to our bedroom which we use as a dressing room. There is a door into it from the landing, and another from the bedroom which is shut. As I enter, I hear you moving around the bedroom. The dressing room is comfortable and satisfying, with a thick soft carpet and velvet curtains, the atmosphere soothing and quite unlike the deliberately austere bedroom. It is large and well furnished, with a wardrobe, easy chair, and full-length mirror. You have left a pair of blue denim jeans on the chair, and your boots lie on the floor next to it. I hang up the jeans, sit down for a few moments and think, and then start to take off my work clothes. My suit is beautifully cut, in soft cashmere cloth. It is tan colour, with a salmon silk lining. My lavender shirt and dark tie provide a pleasing contrast, and the whole outfit provides just the right mix of formality and panache for the world of advertising, where I work. I hang up my suit and tie in the wardrobe, which contains a mixture of male and female garments, and throw the shirt and pants in the washing basket. My rich brown brogues I leave on the floor. My hair has been tied in a pony tail for the working day, and I now untie it. It falls loosely just below my jaw line. There is a black silk kimono hung up on the door of the room. I slip it on, feeling the cool material slide over my body. It is mildly erotic, and I shiver slightly. I sit down at the dressing table and brush my hair so that it is smooth and glossy, and then get up and slide my feet into a pair of black velvet slippers, and walk towards the bathroom. The slippers have a slight wedge heel and open toes. I kick them off in the bathroom and remove the kimono, before stepping into the deep bath, and sliding my body below the warm soapy water. I lie back in a sea of bubbles and close my eyes, breathing in the scented steam rising from the bath, and willing the tensions of the day out of my body. Fifteen minutes or so pass and then I hear a soft knock on the door. You tell me that you have finished getting ready and that you have left some clothes out for me. I find myself swallowing a little nervously. "What clothes?" I ask, but you do not reply. I hear you walking down the stairs. As you reach the bottom, I hear the click of high heels on the wooden floor in the hall. I wallow in the warm water for a little longer, and then start to wash myself. I shave closely and carefully (a guilty luxury to be able to do this in the bath), and examine myself minutely for signs of body hair. I have depilated that morning in the shower, so do not expect to find any. I step out of the bath carefully, dry myself with a thick warm towel, and apply cologne and talcum powder. Once more I slip on the kimono, and walk into the bedroom. The bedroom has a wooden floor, painted black. There is a double bed with a black metal bedstead, and a black magogany dressing table with a mirror, also framed in black wood. There is a seat - a stool really - in front of the dressing table which is wooden and not upholstered. Two full-length cheval glasses stand at either side of the bed. The curtains are dark and drawn, and the walls plain painted and also quite dark. From a sturdy nail on the wall opposite the bed hang two short chains with metal cuffs attached to them. There is a dressing table and a wooden chest against one long wall. A black sheepskin rug, lying on the floor, seems to be the only concession to comfort. Two small wall lamps throw out a soft light, but the ceiling light is not switched on. The music is no longer playing. On the bed lie a leather dress and a pair of knee-length boots with a four-inch heel. There is also a melange of silky underwear and a pair of stockings. So this is what you have prepared. The dress is short, with long sleeves, and zipped at the front, the zip biased to the left, with a biker style collar. There are zips at the sleeves, and false pockets on the torso and right breast. I stroke the soft leather with my fingertips. It is impossible to explain to a man who has not done so the sheer erotic charge of wearing a dress like that. I could describe to you the thrill that shivers through my body as I unzip the dress and slip into the sleeves, the feeling of delicious constraint as I zip it up again, the fabric clingimg to me in a way that men's clothes simply don't; the special way that the leather, mediated by its silky lining, slips and slides against me. I could talk about the visual impact of the dress reflected in the mirror, the dull sheen of the leather glowing quietly in the dim light and the contrast of its darkness against my pale skin. But unless you have felt and appreciated those sensations yourself the words will mean nothing to you. First I must go through the faintly mechanical process of donning the foundation garments and applying the other items that will change the shape of my body. Afterwards I slip on a black camisole, and then slowly and sensuously draw on the dress, gasping slightly at the sensation. Then I pull on and zip up the boots, before sitting down in front of the dressing table. In the mirror, I see a smooth face with fine jawbones, a firm chin, and full lips. The nose is straight and well-formed and the eyebrows are plucked. The hair is long, and blonde, and glossy. On this canvass, I start to apply my palette of make-up. I first darken my face slightly with an evening foundation, then deep red lipstick, golden-green eye-shadow with a contrasting translucent sheen highlighting the arch of the eye, mascara, and eye-liner. It takes me a little time before I am satisfied with the effect, which is striking. I reflect, as I study my image in the mirror, that the look you have chosen for me this evening is not designed to make me fade into the background, and I feel apprehensive although a little excited at the attention I will inevitably attract. I wonder what you will be wearing. It has taken some time to perfect my look and I worry that you will have become impatient. I unhook a soft leather shoulder bag that is hanging behind the bedroom door, and check to see whether there is nail varnish in it. Perhaps you will apply it for me before we go out. I walk down the stairs. My dress rides up as I descend each step, and I shiver a little at the sensation. The leather is at the same time soft and constricting. I walk carefully. This is the first time I have worn the boots and the soles are still smooth; the heels are also very high. I concentrate hard to avoid slipping on the stair carpet. The door to the living room is ajar, and from within you call my name - not my real name, but the nom de guerre you have chosen for me to use when dressed - and I push it open and walk in. In contrast to the austere and frankly confrontational bedroom, the living room is furnished with timeless elegance. Two large easy chairs and a sofa are furnished in plush burgundy velvet, and arranged around a low dark wooden table. The carpet is rich, deep, and dark, with a discreet pattern that the eye keeps returning to. The restful cream walls are punctuated by swaths of deep golden fabric, tied back in the day, which have now been released to conceal the windows. Wall and table lamps glow gently. The adjacent dining area is still in darkness. Through the door into it, I sense rather than see the dining table - of unambiguously modern design in contrast to the living room furnishings - on which you have sometimes lain, and the hard, stiff-backed chairs which might have been designed for the attachment of straps and shackles. The already-mentioned leather coat remains on one of the two easy chairs, and you are draped over the other. You are holding a champagne flute between your long smooth fingers, and the red glow reflected from your varnished nails contrasts with the golden sparkle of the liquid in the glass. I draw in breath as I take in your appearance. Like me you are wearing a leather dress and boots, but the boots are longer and the dress shorter. It is round-necked and sleeveless, with the zip at the back. I sight a little as I look at you. Like an exotic reptile, your glistening body deceptively supple under the hard carapace of your dress, you stand up in one fluid movement, pick up the bottle of champagne, and seem to slither towards me. You calculate your body movements with care so that your dress wrinkles and stretches over your curves to maximum advantage. Your gentle smile tells me that you are aware of the effect that this has on me. I shift, in slight discomfort, in my seat. You pour me a glass of champagne, and at the same time I take the nail varnish out of my bag and wave it in your direction with a silent question. You nod slightly, take the bottle from me, and unscrew it. You take my left hand in your cool fingers, and with your right hand carefully apply two rich red coats to each nail. Concentrating carefully, you then varnish the nails on my right hand. At last, satisfied with your brushwork, you close the bottle, stand up, and take a sip of champagne. With a mischievous look, you lean towards me and kiss me hard on the lips. The sudden movement unbalances the champagne glass in your hand, and a few drops spill on to my hair. I pout in irritation, but with wet nails, I am in no position to fend you off. You just grin and walk back to your chair and sit down, crossing your booted legs. We discuss what we are to do next, and you suggest walking through the park to a bar we know near the river, and then on for something to eat. The restaurant you suggest is some distance away, and I am deliciously apprehensive about such long public exposure in the outfit you have chosen for me. I voice a tentative objection. You brush it aside. What is the worst thing that can happen, you ask rhetorically. And, as if the decision is made, you take a long pair of gloves from your bag which is on the floor beside you and start to draw them on, smoothing the leather over your fingers and wrists. These must be a new purchase; I have not seen them before and I compliment you on them. They reach over your elbow, and I realise why you have chosen to wear a sleeveless dress. You get up and walk over to me, moving deliberately and provocatively. The dress clings to your curves. I notice the play of light and shade, with the lights in the room reflected gently off the not quite matt material, and I notice the way that the fabric buckles and stretches around your waist and hips as you walk. You sit on my knee, and put a gloved arm around my shoulders, and then lean towards me and once more kiss me on the mouth, softly at first and then more insistently. I place a hand on your thigh, and slide an exploratory finger under your hemline. Like me you are wearing stockings and suspenders. I return your kisses with growing force, and my penis protests against its imprisonment. At length you sit up and study my face. "You will have to refresh your make-up," you say. "So will you," I respond. We stand up as one, and go into the hall, where there is a full-length mirror. We do what is necessary to restore perfection to our faces, and you slip into the trench coat that you have brought with you from the living room. As you do up the belt, I select my long leather coat from the hall cupboard and pull it on. We pose before the mirror, admiring our appearance. "Are we not two foxy ladies?" you ask with a low chuckle. I smile back at you, and in unison we pirouette towards the door. We leave the house and the door closes firmly behind us. I shiver slightly: I am committed. It is half past seven, and the early evening air is cool. The light is beginning to fade, and the streetlights have come on. A car with four young men in it catches us in its headlights, and sounds its horn as it passes. A back seat passenger gives an unashamed leer as he passes. I feel a mixture of ecstasy and sheer delicious terror. Terror at what, I cannot really explain. As you say, we have never encountered any difficulty or hostility when out together, but there is that indefinable something lurking in the back of my mind, the possibility of discovery, exposure, notoriety, gossip, shame. But the streets are quiet: we are passed by no neighbours who might recognise you and stop you and ask how you are while wondering who your unfamiliar companion might be. Nobody lurches out at us from the doorway of one of the neighbourhood shops. There is no policeman on the beat or drunk to give us unwelcome attention. I relax slightly. Our heels click on the pavement in near unison. We enter the park half an hour before it is due to close, and walk along the carriage drive. It is dusk. A mother and her young son are feeding the ducks on the lack and we stand behind them for a moment and watch. The mother turns round and you smile. She returns your smile and makes a remark about the weather and the number of ducks in the park at this time of year. You say something back to her, but I look away, avoiding eye contact. I give a discreet tug at your arm, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation. "We have to go," you say to her. The boy looks disappointed. I suppress a niggle of irritation. But we walk along amicably enough. I put my hands into my pockets, and shrug myself more deeply into my coat, and you put a gloved hand through my right arm. We bump against each other gently, and our coats rub together, the leather creaking gently. We carry on walking. There are still a few people around: young couples walking arm in arm, two women laden with bags apparently containing purchases of clothes and boots, a middle aged man who gives us a frankly admiring look but turns away when you return his stare. "Don't", I say, "he might come over and talk to us." But you laugh gently and say again, "What's the worst that could happen?" I shrug. "It would be a pity to spoil the evening by calling attention to ourselves." You give me a sardonic look that plainly says that we have called attention to ourselves by our choice of outfit. It's true. But in my mind's eye there is a picture of that man pointing at us and sniggering, perhaps calling to other people that I am not what I seem, a figure to be made fun of, to be ridiculed, and I cast a mute appeal in your direction. "Shh," you say. And then for the third time, "What's the worst that could happen?" And then you lean towards me and kiss me gently on the lips, and suddenly I have forgotten my fear as I become again aroused. I feel like pulling you towards me in a fierce embrace and kissing you long and hard and passionately, but with a slight shiver I contain myself, instead placing a gloved hand on your arm and caressing it gently. As if by agreement, we turn together towards the park exit, and cross the road, walking towards the bar we have agreed to visit, our heels clicking and clattering on the pavement. Occasionally, a car passes, illuminating us in its headlights. The leather you are wearing glows and glimmers for a moment. We enter the bar, a wave of sound buffeting us as the swing doors open and then close behind us. The bar area is brightly lit and unexpectedly crowded. It is modern, with low glass tables and leather sofas, and a black tiled floor. There are alcoves, more dimly lit and discreet, and we settle in one of them; you shrug off your coat and walk towards the bar. Male eyes follow you, and some turn to me, as I unbutton my own coat, and cross my booted legs. A middle aged man drinking by himself half rises, but I give him a discouraging look and he sits down again. The barman has placed two tall glasses in front of you and has taken your money, but you do not return immediately, as two men have engaged you in conversation. As in a dream, I know what will happen next. The three of you walk over to our table. "This is Clifford," you say, nodding to the taller of the two, "and this is Dominic. They are going to a club and asked if we wanted to come with them, but I explained that we had other plans. They wanted to see whether you could be persuaded to agree to change them. I said you wouldn't." There is laughter in your eyes: this is one of your favourite games. You call it Risk and the object is to see if we can conduct a conversation without the nature of my true self being identified. More often than not we "win", but the terrifying excitement is wearing. I am sometimes up for the challenge, and take pleasure in stringing men along for a good part of an evening, before gently disengaging. On good evenings, we collapse afterwards in giggles recounting the conversation in the warm glow of sexual excitement. But at other times I think it is too dangerous for the transient fun. I have never been subjected to personal abuse, still less to physical attack, but there has been embarrassment and irritation, and confused and shame-faced withdrawal as we have been detected or as we have admitted our true nature. Tonight, I do not feel like playing But this evening I recognise that I am committed, and I adopt the gentle and modulated tone of voice I use when passing as a woman in public. "Too bad guys, we're expected elsewhere," I say. Clifford, who is dark and saturnine, sits next to you on a sofa. Dominic, a shorter blonde with pink cheeks and startling blue eyes, makes to sit next to me, but in whilst you were talking, I have shifted position on my own sofa, and placed my coat so that there is not an easy way for a second person to sit down. Dominic shrugs and sits down opposite me on a low stool. There is then a gentle tussle as the two boys try to make us change our minds, and we gently but firmly insist that we can't. I leave you to do most of the talking. Clifford looks directly at you, half turning towards you on the sofa, and finds ways of touching you first on the arm and then on the knee as he speaks. You carefully do not respond to this, quietly discouraging further contact. Dominic clumsily asks me for my mobile number. I smile and say I can't remember, which he plainly does not believe. There are further questions and proposals for a while, but we give the boys no encouragement and the conversation peters out. Clifford offers to buy us a drink before they leave, but you refuse, and eventually they walk out looking a little crestfallen. I sink back into my chair with relief. I am nervous and strained by the effort of keeping up the act. How would a girl reply to that question? Should I lean forward and listen to what he is saying, or lean back and ignore him? If I lean back and cross my legs, will I look too slutty? Is my lipstick smeared? Should I go to the loo and redo it? You have meanwhile gone to the bar to buy another drink, and when you come back I almost snatch it from you. This is partly because I need more alcohol to calm me down, but it is also partly because I choose to be angry that you have decided to play your game without warning me first. When I say that to you, however, you assert that it is not your fault: they took the initiative in talking to you, you tried to discourage them, but they insisted on following you to our table. I give you a look which says that I do not believe you, and sit back and sulk. You pout. We sit in pointed silence for a while. The mood is temporarily broken by Helen, a friend of yours who also knows me, who has been observing us with some amusement from a stool by the bar. A few moments after the boys leave, she detaches herself from her group of friends and comes over to talk. "You two look hot tonight," she says. "You both have special dates?" This is an old joke, but we go along with it. "Only with each other," you say, and the three of us laugh quietly together. Helen asks if we want to join her friends, but we shake our heads. "I thought we'd go out for dinner," you say. Helen smiles. "Obsessed with each other as usual," she says. "You two are so lucky to have found each other." One wall of the bar is mirrored, and our table is placed so that we can see ourselves reflected in the glass. I now glance over to it to take in our look. You are sitting back on your sofa, at 90 degrees to me, stretching elegantly and languorously, an arm carelessly extended in my direction. Your eyes are smiling. I am sitting forward leaning on the arm of the sofa, so that my right arm is a few centimetres from your outstretched hand, and I know that in a few minutes you will reach out and touch me gently. My dress can be seen gently shining in the dim light of the bar. Helen is sitting on a stool looking intently at us - does she fancy one of us and if so which one? - with a smile still on her lips. She is wearing black jeans and boots, and a black blouson, and is carelessly and effortlessly sexy. I have always found her attractive, and the sight reawakens the sense of anticipation I felt earlier in the evening, and an idea begins to form in my head. I will need to find a pretext - a way of creating a suitable atmosphere. We continue to chat for a few minutes, and then Helen walks back to her friends, and you smile at me. I sip my drink, and pointedly do not return your smile. You look at me. "Is there anything wrong," you say. "I'm still cross at you for bringing those two boys across," I say. "We've been through that," you say, frowning. I say nothing. The silence hangs for a few moments. Your expression changes. I wonder if you have begun to sense what I am thinking. I stand up abruptly. "I think we should go home," I say. I pick up my coat and turn towards the door. "Wait a minute," you say, downing your drink and hurriedly struggling into your coat. "Are you sure you want to go home?" Your expression is doubtful, worried. You look pleadingly at me, as if in hope that I will change my mind. You walk towards me and put your hand on my arm. I shake it off, buttoning up my coat and tying the belt. I walk through the swing doors into the night air, which is now chilly and you follow me, visibly reluctant. You are looking apprehensive and worried and pleading, but I wonder whether I detect a note of excitement in your expression. Perhaps you have understood what I have in mind. "I don't want to go home," you say, "not when we're both dressed so nicely. Can't we do something else?" You are starting to fall nervously into your role. I arrange my features into an expression of mild disdain, and then give you look which I try to make openly hostile. I must have succeeded, because you quail visibly. There is what seems to be real fear in your eyes. "You need to be taught a lesson," I say. "We're going straight home." "Please," you wail, "don't punish me." But I notice that you do not use the word we have agreed on if you really don't want to be punished. It is always in your power to stop the game if you choose. We are standing in the outdoor area of the pub where there are tables and chairs. There are a few groups of customers sitting down, but they are intent on their own conversations, their own lives. The light is gloomy now, and the patio lamps illuminate the area only dimly. I slip my bag off my shoulder and put it down on an empty table, unzip it, and pull out a pair of handcuffs. "No, please..." you say. But again, you do not use your safe word. I grab your right arm quite roughly. You try to shake me off, but you dare not struggle too hard or cry out because of the onlookers and your attempt to escape is ineffective. I tighten my grip and fasten a cuff around your gloved wrist and you shudder slightly at the sound of the metallic click that signals the end of your freedom. I fasten the other cuff around my left wrist and take hold of your hand tightly so that, to the casual observer, the fact that you are handcuffed is not obvious. I turn towards the front gate, sharply pulling you after me. You stumble and fall against me. There is the sound of leather on leather as our coats rub against each other. For a moment, you turn your face towards me, your lips slightly apart as if to kiss me, perhaps hoping to appease my anger, but I pull away. You give a little whimper, but fall in step as I turn on to the street. Then we walk on in silence, our heels clicking on the pavement. As we get closer to home, you adopt a posture of reluctance, and you start to dawdle. I have to pull you forward, and a passer by gives us a worried look. You smile at him as if to say that it's all right really, there's nothing to worry about. But your eyes glisten with real, but unshed tears. We reach the front door of the house. I fumble a little awkwardly with my right hand in my bag, which I have had to carry on my right shoulder, looking for my keys. This takes a few seconds, but eventually my fingers close around the keys and I open the door. You hesitate. "Please don't punish me," you say again. "I...I promise not to do it again." "It's too late for that," I say, "and in any case I don't believe you. You are far too fond of trying to embarrass me in public." "No," you say, despair in your voice. I give you a look and you shiver a little, but then walk through the front door. Inside, I take the cuff off my wrist, leaving it on yours, and tell you to take off your coat. "But leave your gloves on," I say. We hang our coats in the hall and you hesitate for a moment, wondering what I shall make you do next. "Upstairs," I say. You give me a last imploring look but then turn around reluctantly and walk slowly up the stairs and towards our bedroom. I notice as I follow that your thin, very high heels have left temporary indentations in the stair carpet. You are now standing a little uncertainly by the bed. I turn off the overhead light, leaving only the wall lights on. The soft light is soaked up by the dark covers of the walls and floor, and the room has a rich, mysterious atmosphere that is at the same time stimulating and oppressive. The soft, satin bed-cover glistens softly in the gloom. We see images of ourselves reflected in the full-length cheval glasses. You shiver slightly. When we first met you told me that one of your fantasies was to be undressed by somebody wearing similar clothes to yours. I wonder, as I unzip your leather dress, whether you thought then that that would be the prelude to punishment. Underneath the dress you are wearing a leather basque with suspenders, which I decide to leave on. I remove your pants, however, leaving you wearing basque, boots, stockings, and gloves, and then handcuff your right wrist to the iron bedstead. I have taken a second pair of handcuffs out of my bag, and now move to put them around your left wrist. You cry out and half heartedly try to fend me off with your left hand, but I seize it and cuff it, too, to the bed. You look at me meekly with your lips apart; they tremble a little. I give you a stern look and leave you like that while I go downstairs to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of champagne. Then I sip it for a few minutes before returning to the bedroom. You give me a reproachful look as you see the single glass, which I put down on the dressing table. I open a drawer, in which is contained a selection of implements. Rummaging for a moment longer than necessary, I eventually pull out a short riding crop with a leather tip. I walk over again to examine my image in the full-length mirror to the left of the bed. Still wearing my leather dress and boots, holding the crop in my gloved right hand, I pose carefully, the image of the beautiful, cruel, mistress. I slap the riding crop against my right boot, as if testing it, and I see your reflection shudder slightly. "No," you breathe, as I walk towards you. But I do not relent. I stand on your left, and take careful aim, striking you sharply on the buttocks. You take an inward breath, and I see a tear in the corner of your eye. "Please stop," you say. "I promise not to do it again." But my only reply is a cruel smile, as I strike you a second time. You wince, and then straighten your back. You have accepted that your punishment is inevitable, and you will endure it defiantly. I strike you a further ten times, and you are silent through the ordeal. But when I have finished your shoulders drop, and you gasp slightly as the pain starts to register. A tear rolls down your cheek, and you bite your lower lip. I put down the riding crop and put an arm round your shoulders. Now that you have been punished, I am solicitous. You lean your head on my shoulder. I unfasten the handcuff from your left wrist, leaving it dangling from the bedstead. The right cuff I undo from the bedstead, but leave attached to your right wrist. I lead you gently around the bed, and sit you down on the edge of the bed. You grimace slightly at the pain this causes you. I fasten the remaining handcuff to the bed head and you look at me questioningly. "I am going to get changed for bed," I say. "While I am doing that, you need to repair your make-up." I put some make-up removers, a vanity mirror, and a lipstick and some other things on the bed-side table next to you, and leave you to it. As I walk into the dressing room, I smile at the thought of you struggling to make yourself up with a single gloved hand. Then I unzip and slip off my dress, which I hang up in a wardrobe, and take off the foundation garments from the lower part of my body. I think for a moment. I decide to exchange my boots for a longer pair, matching yours, and to put on my perfecto -a biker jacket in soft, black leather - which I fasten up over my bra so that the collar falls into a v-neckline. I imagine you listening to the zips on the boots and the jacket, and wondering what I have chosen to wear. I repair my own make-up (the dressing room is generously equipped for the purpose) and examine my reflection - the doors of the wardrobes are in the form of sliding mirrors and cover three of the four walls so that I see multiple images of myself -a female figure wearing a leather jacket and long boots, with a very visible, very erect penis amongst the suspenders holding up my stockings. I draw on my gloves, which I had temporarily removed while dressing. The door to the dressing room is on the right hand side of the bed, so I emerge behind you. You are now lying down, and you attempt to look at me over your shoulder, but the cuff on your wrist prevents you from turning over and getting a full view. I walk slowly around the bed, and lie down on my left side, propping myself up on my elbow. I look at you and smile. You try to struggle towards me, and I hear the leather of your boots creak slightly as they struggle for purchase on the satin bed cover. I relent and move closer to you, and you press your body against mine, and kiss me, gently at first, and then, as I respond, more insistently. You stroke the sleeve of my jacket with your free left hand, and then gently rub my penis with your gloved hand. You moan slightly as I caress you in turn. We exchange pain for pleasure, and then we exchange pleasure between us. Afterwards, you lay your head on my shoulder and look at me. "Am I forgiven?" you ask. "Of course," I say, relaxed and calm and satisfied now. I smile gently at you. "Until the next time," you say quietly. I can not tell from your voice whether this thought excites or frightens you. "Until the next time," I agree. Gradually, your breathing becomes more rhythmic and you fall asleep. I bask for a while in the afterglow of sex, and then carefully pull myself from underneath you. I go into the dressing room again and undress completely this time. Returning to the bedroom, I unfasten your wrist so that you are not so stiff and sore when you wake up. Although you are still asleep, something in you registers what I have done and you curl up gratefully in a more comfortable position. I gently unzip and remove your boots, but leave on your stockings and gloves because I cannot see a way of taking them off without waking you up. I lie down next to you and contentedly fall asleep. The night passes. When I wake, early morning light is starting to be visible behind the curtains. Taking care not to wake you, I get out of bed and once more go into the dressing room. It is a new day and it is a weekend, and it is now my turn to decide how we shall spend the coming hours. There is a lot of wardrobe space in the dressing room. Each of us has myriad outfits, from business suits to costumes so extreme that they can really only be worn in a nightclub. I observe multiple versions of a naked me reflected successively in the mirrored doors of the wardrobes; I move my arm and each of the reflections moves in unison, like a disciplined army. I sit in the easy chair and think. Perhaps today is a day for comfortable jeans, a deliberate lowering of the key from the frenetic atmosphere of last night, so that we can recover and prepare ourselves mentally for the next bout of ostentatious display. But even as the thought forms in my mind, I know that I do not want that: I am still too stimulated by the memory of the last few hours. I cautiously open the door of one of the wardrobes and take out a shortish leather skirt, which I hold against me. I remember that we recently bought you a striking leather jumpsuit that you have been oddly reluctant to wear. There is a pair of soft leather gauntlets in a contrasting colour that would set it off perfectly, and a matching belt. Maybe a day at Camden Lock or Portobello Road? Followed by a club in the evening? I smile to myself. I reach a decision: the weekend is going to be a memorable one.