I'll set the scene: My partner and I work a lot; we are always pulling overtime and doubles. I commute, and he works from home. Now we have the whole weekend off with our roommates out of town, and I'm so jittery at work this week.

I keep watching the clock Friday afternoon- 3 p.m.- and off to the sex shop to buy some new lingerie to surprise my partner with. I really enjoy showing off for him; at this point, the store clerk knows me by name. I think I get some sort of endorphins just being there.

My lingerie collection is something I'm quite proud of, but blue is a color I can say I consistently overlook. I see her hanging there, a 3-piece bra, thong, and garter set, sexy, rose lace, black and dark blue. I can tell the bra will make my chest look amazing, and it's on sale. Score! I can feel the warmth rising inside me, but I quickly steel myself to continue browsing the store... I pay and leave filled with anticipation and satisfaction.

I pull in, but I don't see his car in the driveway. I can't help but be a little pathetic and feel sad that I have to wait extra time to see him, though it's not long before he comes in with Chinese. I really love when an easy night just starts to come together. After dinner, we take a walk around the neighborhood; we always do this to share our fantasies for the night. Afterward, we take a shower together.

Cutting to the chase, the sex this night was particularly amazing for me.

As he preps our room, I get into my outfit. In my head, I'm hoping he'll take my recommendation and wear one of his dress suits tonight. I put on my high heels, and boy, I'm turned on; I can feel it tingling through my body. I must be taking a while, or he's impatient tonight because he comes to get me from the bathroom.

"You coming, doll? I have everything set up for us."

He's wearing a dress suit, navy blue, tight in all the right places, a little askew at the top where he's left the tie unnecessarily loose. The way he looks at me is enough on its own to get me ready; I could combust just from the attention he's giving my body. I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I can already feel the wetness of my thong.

He leads me to our room, and I take a deep breath, prepping myself for what's to come.

I can see the toys he's chosen for tonight, though I try not to spoil myself. He loves to neatly lay out the toys like a doctor about to perform surgery; I've always been so obsessed with how he approaches domming, like it's his profession. Maybe it's the sexy businessman suits I beg him to wear, or the way he's so matter-of-fact and professional about everything.

"You'll put these on," he says, gesturing to my set of ankle and wrist cuffs as he sits on the bed. "You going to be a good girl for me?"

I nod and obey his commands.

"Now come here."

I approach, and he slides his hands up my hips, then lower back, pulling me onto his lap."You look incredible," he whispers in my ear, then touches his lips to my throat. I tip my head back, letting myself slip in.

The fullness of his cock is pressing through the fabric of his pants and into the thin lace between my thighs. I whimper, partly at the friction, partly because his hand is wrapped so decisively around my jaw, thumb at my lips. He pushes his thumb into my mouth; I suck, obedient, and he rewards me with a slow, deep kiss to my neck.

His other hand explores with a slow touch that wets me like nothing else. He is patient and precise, taking time to trace his fingers up and down my sides, measuring my response, his lips still caressing. It's the kind of attention that makes the world feel small, like there is no one else and nothing else but his hands and my skin.

He leans back to look me in the eyes, his thumb now grazing my cheek. "You ready?" he asks, and I nod, but he doesn't move yet. He wants me to say it, so I do, just above a whisper: "Yes, sir."

He smiles, but it's not kind or sweet; it's the cold, sharp smile that means he's shifting gears, taking us somewhere new.

He adjusts himself, then picks me up and lays me onto the bed. His hands are fast but never hurried as he fastens the cuffs, then checks for snugness and comfort with silent professionalism. My heart thuds: the feeling of the leather and rope stretching me, the click of the metal, his practiced gestures. It isn't just service, but genuine care. I'm his job, his project for the night.

I want to say all the lines I've practiced in the car or the shower, but all that comes out is a desperate little "Please," so breathless and girlish I blush.

He leans over me. "We've barely started, and you're already begging me; you must be excited"

My arms bound above my head, He drags one finger from the hollow of my throat down the center of my chest, slow enough that I shiver all over. He traces the mesh and lace of the bra; presses his thumb and index against my nipple and squeezes until it stiffens, and I gasp. Then he cups my breast firmly and squeezes.

"You like the suit," he asks, as if it wasn't already obvious from the way I stare at him, breathless.

"You know I do," I say, but it comes out a whimper.

He smiles, and His gaze sharpens, a man with an agenda.

He reaches down to the side of the bed and picks up the first toy, a leather paddle. He rests it on my belly, letting me feel its weight. "I want you to count," he says, and I nod, too entranced to do anything but agree. He brings the paddle up, lets it linger, and then, just as I start to anticipate, brings it down- a sharp, clean hit on my thigh that brings a stinging heat that spreads.

"One," I let out, voice just above a whimper.

He delivers another, a little higher, and I count again.

The rhythm of the paddle warms me, my head swimming in the deliberate discipline of it.

He increases the pace slowly, always waiting for my shuddering breath before the next. At seven, I lose track, but he continues, and my legs tremble. I am grateful that the cuffs around my ankles keep my legs from clamping shut with anticipation. The sting is sweet ecstasy. Each impact leaves a new patch of heat lifting me into that place we both crave.

The paddle is set aside, and for a moment he gazes at me, his hand running soothingly over the imprint left on my skin. "You did well," he says, gentle but matter-of-fact. He peels the thong aside, inspecting what is his.

He opens a bottle, pours out a drop of lube, then slips a finger between the delicate lips and slides it slowly inside me. He is careful and intentional, and it draws a moan out of my mouth that's louder than I anticipated. I can see how much he likes the sound, that hard smirk returning as he slides a second finger in, scissoring them to stretch me.

"Look at me," he says, low, almost a growl, and I do, because there is no choice. His steady gaze pins me against the bed as He's working me open with those tender fingers, and my body arches, but I'm held by my bonds, no escape. Steady and deep, now he presses in another finger, and I can't keep quiet; with every breath come little whimpers and "please" without meaning. He doesn't let up, not for a second.

"Take it!" he says, when my hips jerk, and I let out another broken moan. He kisses my cheek, not tender but claiming, then his mouth migrates to my jaw, then my ear, breath hot and fingers slick inside me.

He presses them in just enough to make it ache, and I arch up against the restraints, desperate for more friction or release or both. He keeps me pinned, though, never moving quite how I want, giving enough so I squirm and whine but not enough to finish the job. His hand is so steady, and I'm squirming shamelessly now, hips trying to chase every small motion. He laughs, low, dark, satisfied, and withdraws his hand. I almost cry out at the emptiness, but he leans down, mouth so close I can feel his breath on my ear. "You're so needy tonight," he says. "I might just keep you here all weekend. Have you thought of that?" I moan, a wordless plea.

There is something about being laid out and curated for his pleasure, the whole weekend free for us, hours upon hours of serving him.

I shudder and gasp, and he just grins down at me. I want to reach for him, sink my lips into him, or run my fingers through his hair, but the cuffs hold me, and all I can do is arch, offering up my body for whatever's next.

He pulls away, only to unbutton the suit jacket with deliberate slowness, then loosens it off his shoulders. He knows it drives me mad, how he stays perfectly composed, never letting on that he's as hungry as I am. He wears the authority so easily; it's not just a game, it's him.