Claire Thompson - Tracy in chains

Earlier in the week she had finally agreed to a rendezvous that Friday afternoon, when the rest of the 'gang' were at happy hour. Tracy hadn't told anyone else where she was going. It was fine for Paul to advise that, but who in the world could she tell? Tracy realized sadly that she really didn't have any close girlfriends. Her focus for so many years had been Kyle, and only Kyle. She had considered it romantic that they were all they needed. Not that it was his fault, but there it was.

Guy passed by her desk and laid his loan folder on it, telling her in a professional tone that the papers she needed were all inside. After he'd walked away, she opened the folder and saw the little envelope, which contained a key. The key to the motel they had agreed upon a few miles from the bank, which she could reach from her bus stop.

Slipping the little envelope into her lap, Tracy gripped it in her hot palm. She could feel the sweat breaking under her arms as she stared down at it, her face at once hot and cold as she contemplated what she had at last agreed to.

Guy told her at lunch that if she changed her mind at the last minute, if she stayed on the bus and rode home, it would be ok. He'd just kick back in the room and watch the game. No big deal. No pressure. As he said these comforting words, his eyes penetrated hers and she felt him commanding her.

She wanted what he offered.

Fingers shaking, Tracy finally managed to unlock the motel door. She told herself for the thousandth time, she couldn't believe she was doing this. Yet here she was, breaking her wedding vows, and walking into a situation she knew could be potentially dangerous, and all with her eyes wide open.

Guy had given her specific instructions, and she had tried to follow them to the letter. She wanted this to be 'real' – as real as she could get with a coworker who didn't particularly appeal to her, except for their shared interest in BDSM.

As she opened the door she took in the room. The slightly mildewed smell of motel air conditioning filled the air. A polyester spread with a nondescript pattern covered the king size bed, which dominated the room. A cheap reprint of a beach scene in various shades of beige, painted with a palette knife, in broad strokes against the canvas, covered one dingy wall. Then she saw them on the long low bureau that sat against the wall, below the picture.

Handcuffs. Real, metal cuffs with a little key set beside them, along with a neatly folded piece of paper. For a moment, Tracy felt a surge of panic.

What in God's name had she signed up for here? Tracy's thoughts turned to Paul. He knew what she was doing, but he didn't know what motel she was at, or when precisely she was meeting Guy. He didn't even know where she lived, except she was somewhere in the big, sprawling city of Houston.

What was Paul feeling tonight, knowing that Tracy was going to explore her fantasies, not with him, but with another man? Shit, now she had two men to feel guilty about. It wasn't fair!

As far as Kyle and the rest of the world knew, she was going shopping for shoes at the mall. She had even purchased a pair in advance at lunchtime to make the story believable, and not a living soul, except the man she was meeting, knew exactly where she was.

Tracy stood irresolute for a moment, debating whether she should stay or go. It was a silly detail that made her decide to stay. She noticed the ice bucket with two Dr. Peppers nestled in it. She smiled slightly, thinking that if Guy was going to kill her, he wouldn't have thoughtfully provided her favorite soda.

Tracy picked up the note and read it, recognizing Guy's precise, cramped script."Take off your clothes and hang them in the closet. Put on the outfit I have purchased for you. You'll find it in the drawer. Wait for me at the foot of the bed. Don't sit on the bed; kneel on the floor next to it. I will be there at precisely 5:30. I have my own key."

Tracy's heart began to thump wildly, as she thought about stripping for another man. It had been so long. Would he find her attractive? She opened the drawer and took out the flimsy little garment Guy had put there for her. It was a bustier type of thing, with attached garters, and there was a pair of black stockings and high heels in her size. My God, he had thought of everything, hadn't he?

She felt slightly ridiculous as she hung up her clothes and then tried to step into the garment, pulling it awkwardly up over her hips and breasts. Her 36C breasts were too large for the bust of the skimpy outfit, and they spilled over the edges, forced together, creating a deep cleavage. Tracy looked over at the small plastic clock by the bedside. The little red digital numbers showed 5:21. She panicked slightly as she tried to get the stockings on and attach the stubborn little clasps, which were still stiff from never having been used.

Finally, she got them on and slipped the impossibly high shoes onto her feet. She felt like a total slut; a cheap whore. But instead of this making her ashamed, she had to admit to an excitement building deep in her belly. She was achingly nervous, but determined to carry on, come what may. She had spent too many years running from her desires. Tonight she was going to face them head on.

The little clock blinked to 5:28. Thank goodness he had instructed her to kneel and not stand! She didn't think she could stand very long in these heels. She spent the next few moments wetting her lips and drying them again, and adjusting her outfit, hoping it didn't make her look fat. Her eyes strayed again between the door and the shiny cuffs on the bureau.

At precisely 5:30 she heard the key grate in the lock and watched in fascinated, edgy anticipation as the door opened. Guy came in, still in his finely tailored dark blue suit, his shirt white against it, his red 'power' tie neatly knotted at his throat. He had a duffel bag with him, which he set down on the bureau next to the cuffs.

He was looking at Tracy, his eyes narrowed, his expression inscrutable. He didn't say a word and neither did she, but she felt a warm flush against her neck and throat and knew she was flushing and blotching in that ridiculous way she had when she was really nervous.

Guy undid his tie and hung up his suit jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, revealing a pale blue t-shirt of heavy cotton beneath it. Tracy realized she had never seen him in anything other than his 'banker outfits.' He looked softer, more accessible, in the t-shirt and she relaxed slightly. He hadn't said a word, but finally ordered her, "Stay there. I'm going to the bathroom."

He took his duffel bag into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Tracy realized she had to pee, but had been too nervous up to that moment to think about it. She wondered whether she should use the bathroom after him, and if she should ask permission. She knew she would feel stupid asking permission, but he had been very clear about that at lunch.

"When we get together, you will be my slave for that time. What that means is you will do exactly as I tell you, at all times. You will not say no to me, and you will not do anything without asking me first."

At the time it had sounded very exciting. After all, this was just Guy talking – paunchy, old bald Guy. If it got too 'intense' she would tell him to cut it out. It wasn't as if she wouldreally be his slave. But now, at this moment, in her tiny outfit with her garters and high heels, kneeling in a motel room waiting for him to come out, she felt vulnerable and uncertain.

Guy opened the bathroom door and went over to the lamp, which he turned off, leaving only the light from the fading evening, and from the fluorescent bulb left on in the bathroom. Tracy was grateful in a way; things seemed easier in the semi-darkness.

She saw that Guy had put on jeans, which made him look even less threatening to her, and she calmed down again, almost smiling at him. Guy didn't smile back. "Stand up," he said, his voice harsh.