On the outside, Mila looked like she had everything. She had the face of an early-career supermodel and the body of a world class athlete. Though she'd long ago traded the soccer field for a law office, maintaining a toned and lithe physique had proved as much an asset in the latter as in the former.
Probably once a month someone on the Vegas strip mistook her for Barbara Palvin (Sprouse), which didn't bother her. After all they were the same age at 32, but there was one significant difference between them: Mila could not have been further from changing her last name to match a man's. Married exclusively to her work for the last few years, the truth was most men probably assumed, incorrectly, that some guy had already snatched her up.
Her mother told her that she intimidated men, but to Mila that just sounded like a challenge. She'd just have to find the one who could tame her.
Her dark brown hair fell just below her shoulders, and she'd developed a talent for accentuating her 5'7" hourglass with clothes that split the difference of professional and elegant. On any given day, a passerby would be impressed by a gorgeous, intelligent, consummate professional who kept everything in order - but that was only on the outside.
Within, the rat race had numbed Mila. She'd cleared every task given her throughout her life, but none of the accomplishments had ever given her peace. On the contrary, every completed project, every award-of-excellence, only seemed to make the beast within her hungrier. She was growing desperate for some kind of change - a connection to something that could help her lose herself, if only for a moment, but ideally for far longer.
On this fateful Friday, Mila was exhausted. It had been another trying week at her firm, but she had survived. She'd spent the last two hours in a haze at her desk, daydreaming about all the things she was not going to do over the weekend. She was not going to go anywhere, she was not going to buy anything or talk to anyone, she might not even put on clothes or leave her bed if she didn't feel like it. And she definitely, definitely, was not going to respond to any messages from work.
"Am I allowed to set an 'out-of-office' email reply if I plan to vacation between my bedroom and the kitchen?" Mila wondered. Maybe she would just turn her phone off entirely.
The past three months had been a breakneck rush to prepare a brief for an entirely novel legal theory - a legally binding contract designed to protect the participants in BDSM relationships from future litigation. Upon signing, it would make sure both parties agreed that any damages, emotional, psychological or physical (within reason), were consented to and agreed upon.
The sideways glances she'd fielded from coworkers over the past quarter would have been enough to deal with by themselves, but the fact was there was practically zero literature on the subject ("50 Shades of Grey" would not stand up in court). She'd been building the theory herself at the same time as clarifying the rights of her client, and she had genuinely wondered if this work qualified her for a second paycheck. Her work, in its final form, came out as the estranged lovechild of an NDA, an airtight prenup, and the damage waiver you sign before playing paintball.
But now, finally, the work was done and, it seemed, her mysterious client was satisfied.
If the content of the work had been abnormal, it was nothing compared to how strange it was to work without knowing who for, but Mila had learned that sometimes it was better not to know. The work itself was sound, and she had decidedly earned a weekend spent face down in her pillows.
Her phone dinged, itself face down on her desk, and she had to fight the impulse to pick it up and test to see if the 35th floor window could stand up to projectile; iPhone.
She took a deep breath and let out a sigh. If this message was from Veronica, asking for her to put something together over the weekend - the clock reading 4:55pm - she might test herself against the window instead.
She picked up her phone, already crafting a "Sorry, too busy" or "Visiting my folks" message in her mind, but she caught her breath when she saw:
It wasn't Veronica who had texted her.
It was him.
Evan though the name on her phone read, "do not text", the real name of the man on the other end was Ronan.
He was a German/Irishman she'd make a series of mistakes with in London a lifetime ago, but it had been years since they'd spoken. Probably four-and-a-half at least. It was beyond strange to get a text from him today, not just because they'd been out of each other's lives for nearly half a decade, but because Ronan was very, very, into BDSM.
Seeing his name brought memories of satin nightclubs, expensive drinks and a little-black-dress... and soon after his fingers wrapped around her neck and his voice rolling in her ear, "You look so good like this."
Focusing again, Mila read the text. It simply read: "This is great".
Curiosity getting the best of her, Mila texted back, "What is?"
Her heart was beating fast underneath her cream silk blouse, and she was sure that someone walking by would be able to smell the cortisol leaking from every pore.
The text bubbles appeared for a moment, vanished, and then she received a Google Maps link. It was for a hotel bar downtown. It looked nice enough, though she couldn't remember seeing it before.
"Tonight? I want to congratulate you."
All alone at her desk, Mila shook her head. No way. There was NO WAY! Was Ronan the client she'd been working for these past months? Oh lord. It seemed her weekend dreams of drifting in and out of sleep would be the ones to finally throw themselves out the window.
Her thumbs shaking slightly, Mila texted back: "9pm".
He didn't respond, not that she'd really expected him to. Ronan was impossible to know. He made no effort to change his communication style because, at six-four and roguishly handsome with a well-kept swoop of light brown hair, it afforded him some kind of mystery. But through their short, intense time together, Mila had learned that it was a hidden unsureness, not mystery, that kept Ronan at arms-length. The reason he was in her phone as "do not text" wasn't because she hadn't liked him, quite the opposite. He would have been perfect, the kind of man worth changing your last name for, if only he could have grown up.
Mila checked the time on her phone. She was free to leave, but unsure now if she wanted to. As soon as she got up from her chair her next task would be preparing to see Ronan. The thought was giving her whiplash.
"Fuck..." she thought to herself, as the word whiplash reverberated through her mind. The word sounded like the crack of a whip striking against her exposed back. She imagined Ronan's nails tracing the thin red lines it left behind, gently tickling skin now desperate for a rougher touch.
He'd been the first man to introduce her to BDSM, and every other random who'd made it to a 3rd date with her had been a pathetic alternative to his deft hand, guiding her along the bridge between pleasure and pain. Eventually she'd given up trying to encourage other men to explore dominant passion which, she was sure, needed to come from a deeper place than choices do.
She was biting her lip at her desk. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The work never ends.
***
In the shower at 7:15pm, Mila fought the urge to masturbate. It might calm her down ahead of seeing Ronan, but it bothered her knowing that he kept this kind of effect on her. If she didn't give in, she could show up hot and angry and give him a piece of her mind, but that energy too could play right into his hands.
She imagined him, sitting at a table, or at the bar, waiting for her. His swoop of hair crossing above those bright blue eyes. The top two, no three, buttons undone on his maroon oxford. Finely tailored pants accentuating his muscular legs, each item in his ensemble chosen to inspire the viewer with a singular truth - this man had power, and, if you weren't careful, he would use it on you.
She traced her hand across her chest, closing her eyes and imagining him standing in the shower with her. She suddenly felt so small, and something in her had the urge to rush at him, throw all her weight against him, if only just to be proved how slight she was in comparison.
Her hand drifted between her legs as the fantasy grew, imagining him lifting her in the air, pulling her feet out from under her like she was nothing. She would wrap her legs around him and kiss him deeply, feeling the scruff of his well-kept facial hair against her chin and lips as he pushed her small body up against the wall cold shower wall. Locked between Ronan and the unforgiving tiles, she would push against him with her legs, hoping that this would only make him come forward more forcefully.
It would work, it always worked, and his right hand would rise to her neck, pushing her head to one side. His lips would meet her neck at trace along her clavicle, his breath leaving smoke trails along her perfect skin. Steam would rise from the forgotten shower, framing their glistening bodies pressing deeper in need each other. Bite me, she thought. Take me, she whispered. "Fucking do it like you need it."
She squeezed her thighs around the tight V of his abdomen, and he responded in kind by tightening his grip on her neck... putting his thumb in her mouth... she bit down and so he did too, teeth toying with the soft skin of her shoulder and upper breast.
Her hand spun on her clit, her legs barely supporting her shaking frame. Her free hand found her nipple and she squeezed, the pinching clarifying the depth of her desire. She was close now. Her hand found her neck, squeezing tightly, wishing that her delicate fingers were his strong and undeniable ones. She opened her eyes as she came, her orgasm trickling down her thighs and up through her shivering back, staring at the empty space before her where Rowan should rightly be.
But he wasn't there. She was alone. And even across four-and-a-half years, Ronan's memory still held power over her. Her cheeks were flushed pink from a mixture of the arousal and embarrassment at her own desperation.
Mila shut off the shower and grabbed a towel, letting out the remaining tension in her chest with a deep and full sigh. Her legs were still shaking a bit, and her left knee hurt from the bent over position she'd maintained for 10 minutes? How long had it been? 20?
The clock on her phone read 7:31pm. So, she still had plenty of time to get ready, though, she thought to herself, she'd never ever really be ready to see Ronan again.
Mila set her jaw, deciding on her course of action. Ronan wasn't going to get her body tonight, but he was going to get a reminder of what he had been missing.
***
The car taking her through the Vegas strip cut its way through the throngs of tourists and performers. The tinted windows creating a surreal, almost exhibitionist-like scene between her and the crowded sidewalks.
Tourists in brightly colored shirts obsessed over their phone cameras, trying to capture the unique scene around them. No where else, Mila thought, could you see couples dressed for Disney World mixing with showgirls dressed for the stage. It was the strangest city in the world, Mila knew, but it had been her home for the last three years and she'd come to love its off-kilter charm. If you wanted to, you could live your entire life in Vegas in fantasy.
For her part, she preferred to feel superior to all those around her who couldn't hold themselves back from their vices. She usually prided herself on her discipline, her self-control, and there was something exhilarating about sprinting past late-night drunks in her expensive running gear. She knew, she could feel, the men's eyes on her as she passed them, and their gaze only inspired her to run faster. "Catch me, fuckers. I know you can't."
"This you, right?" The driver said over his right shoulder.
Mila looked out the window to see the building they were pulling into. It was the strangest thing, because she knew the strip like the back of her hand, but she couldn't ever recall seeing this specific hotel before. It shone a metallic black, giving the appearance that the entire structure was a single tinted window.
Red letters emblazoned over the entrance stated the building's purpose simply: THE HOTEL.
Mila raised an eyebrow. Ronan had always had eclectic choices, but questions ran through her mind. What was this place? How did she not know about it? And what was Ronan doing in Vegas anyway?
"Five stars, please." The driver said as he stopped the car. Mila gave a slight smile as she exited, "Drive safe."
Even more strange, there was no greeter or valet outside the hotel. In fact, here just on the edge of the bustling strip, there was no one at all. Mila looked around, an eerie feeling crossing up her spine. But she shook her head and dismissed the feeling. He's probably just on a smoke break, she thought.
Taking in the hotel entrance, she noticed that there wasn't any discernable door. The metallic black glass extended across the entirety of the façade, and in the dim 9pm light she couldn't make out any hinges. She stopped there on the sidewalk, shaking her head again and now unable to deny how strange a place this was where Ronan had chosen to meet. She pulled out her phone, thinking she'd text Ronan, and then a panel in the glass before her opened.
A well-dressed man with the large frame of a security guard stepped out, holding the door open behind him.
"Mila, right?"
Mila raised her eyebrow again.
"You are expected in the lounge."
She gave a slight smile back to this man too, but there was no response. He remained, unmoving, his hand holding open the door open to this strange world.
Through the doorway, her black heels clicked on a black marble floor. White veins spread through the stone all the way to the wall where it ended, for a moment, in dark red trim. Then, above, the marble began again, extending up to the 20-foot-tall ceiling which was itself modeled as a stunning night sky. Mila stopped, taking in the constellations above her, indistinguishable from the real naked stars you could only see in the deep desert, far away from the lights of the strip.
A scent hit her nostrils. A mixture of leather, sandalwood, moss and vanilla. She looked around to see where it might be coming from.
The man from the entrance way had stepped past her. It was only then that Mila realized that it was only the two of them in the lobby. There was no one behind either check-in desk. Now this was undeniably weird. She opened her mouth to speak:
"I think... I might have the wrong place."
The guard shook his head. He opened his hand towards some velvet red steps descending from the lobby into another space.
"He has been waiting."
Mila looked at the clock on her phone. It was 9:02pm. For a moment, she considered chastising the man in the suit because it's not like she was actually late. She considered herself punctual, but she also realized that the impulse to attack was due more to the strangeness of the entire situation than something he'd done. All this had knocked her off-balance, for sure, but her curiosity was alive and there was no way she was going to leave before seeing what Ronan wanted, or what the story was with this hotel.
Her heels clicked again past the guard and were silenced as the landed on the velvet steps. Moving closer to the lounge brought the scent of vanilla and leather further into her lungs, and warm light-strips on the steps lit Mila's toned legs as she descended. The knockout outfit she'd put together in full reveal:
Black stockings clung tightly to her legs, disappearing under a white cocktail dress at her mid-thigh. A thin black belt with a gold clasp was sinched across her waist, accentuating the way her hips flowed into the hourglass of the rest of her. Mila prided herself greatly on her body, and she'd chosen this dress specifically because it showed just how well she'd taken care of it. Her breasts, not that they needed it, were supported beneath the soft white fabric by her favorite bra, a purple lace number from Agent. She'd gone back and forth on whether to wear the matching purple panties, and in the end decided to give in. Even though Ronan was not going to see them, she would know, and she wanted to feel like she was dressed for war. The dress ended at her armpits in a sleeveless cut, revealing the tanned skin of her arms. A gold bangle decorated her left wrist, matching the elegant earrings dangling from her ears. She'd opted for her twin sabers, a diamond decorating each hilt, stabbing downwards and practically daring the viewer to ogle at what was below. Her dark brown hair was pinned back in a tight ponytail, captured behind her head in another gold clasp. In every way, she was dressed for a fight.
Reaching the bottom of the red stairs, she entered the battlefield.
Immaculately clean high-top tables and leather chairs, dotted the space, filling in the room between the red velvet booths on one side and the black marble bar on the other. Her heels were soft on the floor here, a delicate black carpet with red, black and gold serpentine shapes spreading and shifting beneath her feet. A single crystal chandelier hung in the center of the room, its dim light barely reaching to the burning candles mounted on each wall.
The room was entirely empty of people, except for him.
Ronan had chosen the booth on the far end of the room, fingering the singular cocktail glass on the bare table in front of him. He didn't look up, though she was sure she'd noticed her. She began crossing the space, feeling how strange it was to have privacy in what so clearly a public space.
He finally looked up as she approached, his bright blue eyes flashing with the same mischievousness she'd learned to associate with him. For a moment, she wondered if he was surprised that she'd come. But she was here, and it was finally time to see what this was all about.
Ronan gestured his jacketed arm towards the seat across from him. He'd clearly dressed for war too. His black oxford, unbuttoned in a casual fashion that only served to underscore his perfect features, rose around his neck before the expensive trim of his burgundy suit jacket took over.
Mila realized she was still standing, slightly overcome by the experience of being in the same room with him after all these years.
Ronan nodded his head slightly and opened his hand again to the other side of the booth, "Please."
She sat, pulling the edge of her dress down around her thighs. The table was tall enough she could cross her stockinged legs comfortably underneath and she did so, taking comfort in the feeling of the soft fabric rubbing against her thighs.
"Did you kill everyone else?" She began with a barb.
Ronan smiled, his mischievous grin revealing the sharpness of his pearly canines.
"It's good to see you." His lilt had not changed. Half seductive whisper half the cautious voice of a man waiting for her to make the first move.
"I'm going to wait until saying whether it's good or not to see you too. What is this about? And what is this place?" Mila couldn't hold her curiosity back any longer.
"This place, first, is my new project. Do you like it?" He seemed like he genuinely wanted to know.
But Mila was confused. "What do you mean?"
"This is my hotel." Ronan responded simply.
They'd never spent much time talking about money during their dance together all those years ago, and the question must have been written across Mila's face.
"I wasn't hiding anything from you. Things changed for me after my father died."
"I'm sorry." She was.
"Thank you, but it's alright. He and I could have gotten along better, but he did make it clear at the end that he believed in me."
"As a hotel owner?" Mila responded incredulously.
"For whatever I might choose to do with it." Ronan said, unmoved.
"And so, you've built this?" She asked, and Ronan met the question with a single nod of his head.
"Do you like it?" He asked again.
Mila took a moment before responding. This entire situation could not have been stranger. But it was happening, and she decided she might as well be honest.
"It seems like the perfect place to bring someone you're trying to fuck."
The widest smile yet spread across Ronan's face. His bright blue eyes flashing an intelligence and charisma that you cannot fake. Wordlessly, he reached to the seat next to him and placed a thick stack of papers onto the table.
Even before he began sliding the document across the table to her, Mila already knew what it was.
Indeed, Ronan had been the mystery client she'd been working for these last few months. She knew this document like the back of her hand and tried to play it cool as he revealed he'd been aware of the situation for a quarter of the year before her. She took the papers and turned them to her, and Ronan gestured to the guard who was still standing at the entrance stairs.
"Christian, a French 75 for my guest?" The guard nodded and made his way behind the bar. Mila tried to get the heat in her cheeks to calm down - after all these years, he remembered her drink order.
"You could have told me that you were my client." Mila said, still looking down at the document pretending there were something in it for her to find.
"I was afraid that might affect the quality of your work. Which, by the way, is excellent." Even though Mila knew this, it was good to hear. "It's pretty impressive to see what you are able to do."
"Thank you. What are you going to use it for? If you're expecting me to sign, you can keep the drink."
Ronan didn't smile this time. He shook his head.
"No, it's part of... all this." He gestured to the room around them. Mila narrowed her eyes.
He continued, "The world is changing. What used to require secrets and dark alleys is out in the open, and beyond the money to be made, there are a lot of people with fantasies that need making into reality, and a lot of people need a safe place to do that for them. You've heard of Only Fans?"
Christian placed an immaculate looking French 75 in a crystal glass in front of her, and Mila gratefully took the opportunity to try it. The bubbles hit her lips before the liquid, and she nodded her thanks to Ronan's guard who was already crossing back to his post at the entrance. Her silence gave the indication to Ronan to continue.
"It's been a wonderful addition to the world of sex-work. Sex-workers are never going back to a time where they feel unsafe or undervalued. They've made it clear to the world just how indispensable they are, though there is one thing missing."
Mila took a second sip of her drink, already putting together the pieces.
"For the brave, virtual sex will never be enough. I imagine you agree - it's a poor imitation of the real thing." He was rolling now. "So, The Hotel." He continued. "When we open on Monday, this will quickly become known as the premiere place in the world to fulfill your deepest fantasies. I want people to bring their partners, married or new, and be given a space to explore what they've always wanted. Or, for the ones on their own, I'll give them whatever they want for the right price. The rules are simple: adults only, and nothing illegal. No drugs, no one underage, everyone who works here is protected by me, by the hotel, and the clients are protected by - you."
He reached across the table and tapped her contract.
Mila was sure that her tanned skin must be beet red by now. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, she had only ever imagined that her contract would be used to a protect a singular individual, probably wealthy, in their BDSM coupling. It was something else to think about her language providing legal coverage for an entire enterprise.
"Well, you have my work." Mila spoke, being very careful about how she proceeded. "And you seem to feel it's enough to satisfy... what you need. So why am I here?"
"Would it be so wrong if I just wanted to see you again?" Once more, that mischievous grin.
"I know you better than that." Mila began to find her ground again.
Ronan nodded. After all, she was right. Did know him better than most, and he did want more than just to see her again.
"I want you to work for me."
"No."
"Wait. Hear me out. I need a lawyer. Someone with an excellent mind to work with me as I find out whatever things I may not have thought of. The first rule of engaging with other people's fantasies is to be sure that they've imagined something you haven't. I don't expect anything from you except for your legal expertise, and I will compensate you accurately for the value of your service to me."
Mila didn't speak, just narrowed her eyes back at him.
He gestured, the last drink of his cocktail rising to his lips, indicating for her to flip the contract over.
She did and saw an impossibly high number scrawled in red pen: $1,200,000.
"A year." Ronan said, lowering the whiskey from his lips. "Guaranteed. Depending on how the work evolves, I could go as far as two."
Mila bit her lip. This was beyond life-changing money for her. She was doing well at the firm, currently making $250,000 a year before her bonus, but it'd be a decade before she might maybe see 400k. And 1. million? She swallowed, knowing that this was not the kind of offer that crosses someone's desk twice in their lifetime.
"I'd like to... I will consider it."
Ronan, his head slightly bowed, looked up at her beneath his brows. All traces of his smile were gone. "We open on Monday."
"I know. But give me a moment to think about it. This is a lot to take in."
Ronan gestured to Christian, asking for a second drink. And as his guard obliged, he nodded his head gently. "I understand". He offered.
"You wouldn't want an impulsive lawyer."
That hungry grin danced across his features again. She knew that he agreed.
"Sunday?"
Mila tensed her jaw. It took a bit of work to come back into thinking about days of the week, and that would give her a day to consider the most outlandish change she'd ever considered making in her life.
"Sunday". She responded.
Christian was delivering another whiskey, and Ronan nodded his thanks before the man turned away. "Will you stay for another?"
"Another time. You've given me a lot to think about." Mila slid the contract back across the table towards him.
As she rose from the table, she could tell from the way he put the whiskey back to his lips she'd left him feeling vulnerable.
She fixed her dress around her legs again and began walking towards Christian and the stairs out of the lounge.
"Mila". His lilt called to her, and she turned back to face him. "I will not offer twice."
She had no doubt this was true. And, giving a slight nod of her head, she responded, "Sunday".
She could feel his eyes behind her as she walked away, and she enjoyed knowing that, at least for tonight, she'd kept him on an even playing field.
Christian began walking behind her at the stairs and through the immaculate lobby space. He opened the door for her once again to the outside, and stepping across the threshold Mila felt she was reentering a changed world. The throngs of people still milled across the lights of the strip, but they felt a million miles away. Christian stepped before her again towards a black Escalade that was parked outside hotel entrance.
He opened the car door for her wordlessly, and then clarified off her look of consternation, "Wherever you'd like to go."
Mila glanced behind her, wondering for a moment if this was a further test that Ronan was putting her through. But he wasn't there, and she was again feeling the creep of the exhaustion from the last few months. She was beyond ready to be home, and she stepped past Christian into the luxurious interior.
She watched The Hotel receding out the tinted windows. A stark reminder of the choice ahead of her. Out of nowhere, it seemed, this had become the most momentous day of her life.
They paused at the stoplight entering onto the strip, and Mila realized she hadn't given the driver her number.
"Oh, can we go to -"
"Your apartment, right Miss?" The driver, a muscular blonde woman with a short bob cut, offered into the space behind her.
Mila swallowed and shook her head. Ronan was one of a kind. "Yes, please. Thank you."
"Of course. Let me know if I can get you anything." The driver returned her focus to the road, bringing the large vehicle gently round towards its destination.
Finally, Mila was going home to her bed. Though, she could feel in her stomach, nothing would ever be the same again.
***
Once insider her apartment, Mila double locked the door behind her.
In a daze, she made her way into the bedroom and, stepping out of her heels, she undid the belt clasped around waist. She let the thin piece of leather fall the floor and then allowed the urge flowing from deep within her to begin to take over.
She picked the thin black belt back up from the floor and tossed it onto her bed. Her breath building in speed, she yanked on the white fabric of her dress and pulled it over her head. It caught on her ponytail clasp, and before it fell from her hands to the floor her fingers were already fumbling with the gold clasp restraining her hair. She could wait no longer.
Not bothering to remove her purple lace bra or panties, she slid into the cool sheets over her bed and started running her hands along her inner thighs and across her chest. She closed her eyes, still smelling the scent pooling out of The Hotel lobby, and off of Ronan's chest, in her nostrils. Her stockings slid wonderfully beneath the high thread count sheets, and her toes curled in pleasure as her hand found the warmth between her thighs. Her panties were soaking wet, and she teased herself for a moment by rubbing her swollen clit and lips through the delicate fabric.
Her breath high in her chest now, she took the thin belt in her hands and wrapped it around her neck, threading the loose end through the strap and pulling it tight. Even though she knew it was dangerous, she trusted herself to manage the break between arousal and injury. She lifted her hips off the bed and pulled her panties down to her feet, letting her ankles pull for a moment against the lace.
The prospects Ronan had offered, a space for clients to give into their every wish, had made her mind go wild. She imagined rooms of toys, ropes and chains, furniture and outfits all designed to inspire lust and desire. She saw glistening bodies wrapped around each other, hands slapping against bare thighs and asses, ropes biting tightly into skin and lips discovering the taste of a stranger's sex.
She reached down to grab her panties with one hand, the other found the loose end of her makeshift leash. She ran wet panties across her succulent lips, enjoying the smell and feel of her own arousal, and feeling so naughty for it. A clear fantasy began to take form in her head, and as the first moan escaped her mouth, she placed the panties she'd been wearing all night into her mouth, letting the vibrations of her vocal arousal reverberate through the soft fabric filling her mouth.
Her hand found her naked clit, pulsing now in its desperation to be touched. She wished so that it was Ronan's hand between her legs and not her own, but the feeling of her other hand pulling the belt tight around her thin neck did the work to make it feel as if he was there, taking her. She imagined she was back in The Hotel with Ronan, christening one of the rooms that were all his.
She saw herself on all fours, thighs and forearms sinched tightly down with thick leather straps, with nothing covering her exposed form except her stockings still clinging to her thin long legs. Instead of the belt around her neck she imagined a tight leather collar, its clasp threaded tightly enough to give her the feeling of Ronan's hand constantly around her neck, constricting her breathing when raised her chin to the ceiling.
Or raised to look at Ronan, who in her fantasy stood at his full height inches away from her. His perfect chest visible under his fully unbuttoned oxford, and the thick bulge in his pants right at her eye level.
Mila took her hand from her clit and slapped the inside of her thigh, and again. And again, loving the sting of her fingers against the soft skin and boundary of the stockings on her legs. The pleasure was undeniable, and the moment of separation between her clit and her fingers only made the sensation more intense when her hand returned to capitalize on her yearning.
She imagined Ronan behind her, his muscles rippling forward as he caressed the outside of her ribs and exposed breasts. She wished it was his hand slapping the inside of her thigh again and on her bare ass, trying to spread her knees in spite of her bindings to give him greater access to her dripping wet pussy. He wrapped his strong arm around her, holding her waist tightly to him as his fingers pressed against her clit. She could practically hear his lilt again in her ear as she had all those years before, "Do you remember what you call me?"
She could never forget. But she didn't want him to know that he had her quite yet.
She didn't speak, but only nodded slightly.
His hand landed hard on her exposed ass, and again, and again. The pain made her bite her lip and arch her back, pushing back a moment later when his hand left her, wishing that he would touch her again.
"What do you call me."
Mila's heart beat fast in her chest. In fantasy in her own bed dreaming of Ronan taking her and making her his own. She tightened the belt around her neck as her manicured fingers trembled on her clit. Her world became tighter and tighter, the pleasure building behind her eyes and between her legs.
She whispered into the panties, soaked with her own excitement filling her delicate mouth: "Master".
Ronan's grin swam in her vision as the orgasm rocketed through her chest and legs, the silk muffling the moan that was coursing through her veins. She gave one final pull on the leash wrapped around her neck, extending the feeling of pleasure flowing through every cell and orifice of her body.
Breathing heavily, Mila loosened the belt from around her neck. The leather came away easily, and she let it rest against her naked skin. After a moment, she reached behind her and finally undid her bra, letting the straps fall off her shoulders and tossing it to one side. She'd take care of all of this later.
Hopefully she hadn't pulled too hard on the belt and left a mark. But, even if she had, the bruise would have two days to go down before Monday. 48 hours for a bruise, she thought... 24 hours for me.
She had a decision to make. Who knows? She might be starting an entirely new life on Monday.
Flipping the pillow onto the cool side, she wondered if her body and the two orgasms the memory of her Master... wait, stop, hold on... of Ronan... had already made the decision for her.