She is radiant underneath the crystal chandeliers.

Her admirers form a tight circle around her, lavishing her with compliments. Women line up to shake her hand. A few beg for the indulgence of a picture with her.

I watch from afar, and notice her eyes searching for me through the crowd.  

A waiter drifts by with a tray and I snatch two champagne glasses. I make my way over, moving past tuxedoed CEO's and their middle-aged wives. Appearing at her side, I hand her a glass; she squeezes my arm in silent thanks, smiles while idle chatter resumes around us. She wears a black satin gown, classic and tasteful, perfect for such a solemn occasion. Someone around us jokes that I ought to be jealous of all the attention she is getting; my hand traces the curve of her back and I hold her close.

Nonsense, I tell them. This is her special night.

Later comes the lengthy introduction from the night's speaker, followed by summons to the podium where she is given the coveted award. Wealthy philanthropists break out in unrestrained applause. Every woman is on her feet, saluting her dedication, her devotion to the cause they all cherish. She thanks them for the recognition and makes an impassioned speech, calling for renewed efforts in the months and years ahead.

We spend another hour at the party before finally retiring to our hotel suite. Alone in the elevator, we can finally breathe easy. She cradles the bronze award in the crook of her arm, rests a tired head on my shoulder. She is exhausted, happy, in love.

We enter our suite. As I close the door behind us, she sets down the award on a table, slips off her heels and panties in silence, and goes down on her knees. I walk to the side of the bed, pull open a drawer, reach for the implements of discipline.  

I bind her wrists tight with a strip of leather and fasten the slave-collar around her neck. She moans approvingly as I run my hand through her long auburn hair; I grip it tightly, and yank her back on her feet. I shove her to the bedpost, rope her wrists around it so she can't move. She trembles with lust while my hand traces the curve of her back; this time I reach underneath; my fingers thrust hard into her wetness.

She moans and begs to be fucked but I do not answer her. I reach for the flogger, pull up her dress to expose her ass. I begin to whip her, hard. The leather strips kiss her flesh and leave red marks. Her agony is pure bliss.

In a quivering voice, she thanks me for every stroke. Again she begs me to fuck her. To use her.  

Of course I will.