On the way to her bedroom she pauses at the wall where she will stand. Briefly, she places her elbows against the plaster and casts a look behind her. Like this? she wonders. Will he make me stand like this?

Sighing, she leaves the wall to stare at the bed. Another indulgence — placing the pillows in the center, she positions herself over them. With her bottom high and back arched, she eases her hands in the waistband of her pants and slips them down. Cool air whispers over her cheeks. I suppose it will be like this.

Her skirt hangs from the armoire, waiting to be filled. But there is time, she thinks, as she curves against her finger. The stockings are in their drawer, limp silk yearning to be stroked. She strokes harder.

She pictures him, then, standing and watching her while unbuckling his belt. Through her breathing, she thinks she hears a buckle chime. It won’t be like this, she concludes, but keeps on going.

No, it won’t be like this.

Where there is emptiness in her room, there will be his presence: a firm, astonishing grip on her back, a hand against her bottom, a paddle.

She will be spanked standing. She will be spanked over his knee. She will be spanked over the foot of the bed. She will be spanked over the pillows that now prop her hips and absorb her climax.

She will be spanked. She is certain.

The chair must be in the center of the room, the implements to be laid out in front, meticulously queued for his use. She must face the wall, bottom out, back arched, legs together, and lips sealed.

The punishment, dutifully chronicled in her spiral notebook, was shakily penned days before: hand spanking, paddling, strapping, finished by another hand spanking. Strokes to be determined; additional measures may be taken.

She left blanks by each entry, for later notes.

Infringement: Reckless Behavior

It would be a spanking she would feel, he promised. Long overdue, he stated with a clucking of his tongue. What you need, he said.

“Here are your rules,” he instructed as her insides quaked. “Write them down.”

Rules, she repeated, feeling the delicate roundness of the word in her mouth, learning its new definition. Until this hour, a rule had been a challenge: how could she twist it to her own liking without the rule-maker noticing — or caring?

His rules were soldiers marching across the page, in full gear and brandishing consequences. Neatly numbered and aligned, these rules stood guard against her frivolity. They were mathematical by nature — if, then statements — and held only one answer. Obey.

In the margins of the page, she wanted to tell each numbered soldier how she felt. But how does one enunciate the stillness that comes with certainty? How does one express quietude and peace married with anxiety and anticipation?

As it was not instructed, she did not attempt to write her thoughts in the margin of the page. Not even in pencil. Instead she took those thoughts to bed and prepared herself to face the wall: bottom out, back arched, feet together, and lips sealed to await her Disciplinarian.

She does not turn red, she insisted. She glowed fuschia on the rare occasions she’d reached her limit, but never the deep red as seen in videos or photographs. And to make her that red…well, it was a scary, if not impossible, endeavor.

“You’ll see,” he said last night, over the phone. “I’ll make you red. A nice, ready red.”

Disbelieving, she still shivered at his confidence.

“And what will I be ready for?” She purred. “Ready to stop? Or ready to fuck?”

“You won’t want to stop,” he laughed. “And I’m not going to lie. You will want to fuck.”

Oh yes. He had that right. The last time they met in private — outside of work — he pushed her up against the wall, rocked his hips between her denim-clad legs and worked wonders over her clothing. He teased her ear with descriptions of how he would spank her and then take her. His teeth grazed her neck, his hands pulled at her buttons but didn’t unsnap them. It was dry-humping at its finest, a whole body hump that made her wet for days.

“What makes you think you possess the magical redness powers? Why are you so darned special?” She teased, but if anyone had such powers, she’d lay odds that it was he.

“When you’re on your knees on the bed, and I’m using my hand — just my hand — you won’t doubt me…” he began.

“Just your hand?” The skeptic asked.

“Let me finish…do you ever let a man finish?”

“You’ll finish,” she promised.

“Naughty, naughty girl,” he said, catching her dirty drift. “My hand won’t make you red. But I bet my leather paddle will.”

“Leather doesn’t make me red,” she interjected as she was, if nothing else, an expert on implements and their effect on her fair bottom.

“Well it’ll be a good thing that I packed some wood, then, won’t it? And no innuendos. My paddle. My wooden paddle,” he laughed.

“Uh-huh. We’ll see,” she retorted, biting back her joke. “That’ll definitely make me ready for something. But I’m not sure it’ll be red.”

“Challenge, accepted,” he said before saying goodnight.

She lost the temptation to crawl out from beneath the cocoon of covers, cross over to her full-length mirror and examine her bright, white bottom. So white they were almost blue, these cheeks would certainly pose a challenge for him tomorrow.

Red? Probably never. But she was ready to try.

Someone else entered the kitchen. Black boots. That’s what she saw as she lie splayed on the table with her arms tied to the corners. A tilt of her head and she saw the stranger’s groin beneath her blindfold, which lent her no clues beyond worn denim.

Black Boots maneuvered around her, tracing a finger down her side before his whole hand roughly claimed her ass. Who was he to take possession of her nakedness like this? And where were the stockinged feet belonging to her lover?

“Who are you?” She asked, sure that she was breaking some as-yet-unspoken rule by breaking her silence.

“Shh…,” was all he said.

“Where is Dan? He should be here,” she whispered as she felt the stranger push her feet apart with his boots.

A firm smack landed on her butt; her head snapped back in surprise.

“Shh…,” he said again.

There was silence in the kitchen. She counted the seconds in breaths, her mind scurrying along with her racing heart. They had talked about this: acquiring a “second opinion” during one of their play sessions. But nothing had been agreed upon, no third party had yet been chosen. And never had they discussed a surprise visit — but she guessed that that would defeat the purpose.

Her thoughts and breathing stopped when she heard a belt rushing out of loops. Where is Dan? He should be here, she thought but didn’t say.

Earlier, Dan had warmed her over his knee, and briefly at the table after restraining her with a solemness she hadn’t understood. Despite the lengthy warm-up, she could feel the glow ebbing. This black-booted stranger was about to revive it.

Leather kissed her cheeks, making its intent known before it struck. Her bare foot kicked a response just as another stroke landed. Black Boots was unrelenting, giving no pause except to change sides. Her breasts pressed against the oak table as she squirmed; her wrists began to feel the pain of the unmoving restraints as she struggled against them. She called out for her lover, but there was no sign of Dan, only the shuffle of boots behind her.

And then it stopped. His hand was there, probing, spreading, assessing. Despite her predicament, she felt her hips rise to meet it — this felt too good to deny herself the comfort. If it weren’t for the restraints, she would have jumped when she felt his tongue draw a path from her cleft to her clit. She could do nothing but allow it as he sunk deeper, his tongue running circles while his hand squeezed her freshly assaulted cheeks.

Her climax was quiet as opposed to the uninhibited expressions she shared with Dan. It embarrassed her, to be rocked this way by a strange man. Despite Dan’s complicity in the delivery of it, to verbally enjoy the orgasm elicited by Black Boots might be perceived as betrayal.

So she bit her lip and stiffened her legs as she contracted around the stranger’s tongue.

When she was finished, he was gone. The front door clicked closed; a lock was flipped and moments later, white socks emerged in her line of sight: Dan.

“Where were you?” She said, trying not to sound accusatory, but maybe she did.

“I was in the other room, listening,” he answered as he freed her from the blindfold. Blinking against the brightness, she was relieved to read arousal on his face. “You enjoyed yourself,” he stated.

“I’m sorry that I did,” she said, feeling suddenly guilty as she remembered her orgasm.

“No, you’re not. You shouldn’t be, anyway. I arranged it. I liked listening,” his fingers raised her chin so she could see the cotton-clad bulge of his arousal.

“I see,” she licked her lips and smiled up at him. He quickly unbound her wrists and helped her from the table. A not-too-soft pat to her bottom had her scurrying for the bedroom where he would receive her gratitude for the gift of the stranger.

Morning sun broke through the blinds and she turned lazily away. With her head hanging off of the mattress, she remembered the events of the previous night and gently rubbed her bottom — still sore.

Beneath the bed, hidden, stood a pair of discarded, well-worn black boots.