. (16)

She snapped open her mobile phone, navigated to the text messages, and re-read the last one in the list. Just to be sure.

“Plain white underwear. Top that shows cleavage. Short skirt. Knee high white socks, black shoes – you know the ones. No make-up – you're pretty without. Hair in plaits will win you bonus points, but aren't compulsory. Looking forward to it x”

She smiled. They'd only been aware of each other's existence on the planet for a couple of weeks, but that fortnight of texting, messaging and calling had formed some kind of connection. And now here they were, meeting for the first time, for lunch. With a list of requirements that she'd followed to the letter. Well, apart from the plaits. She could live without the bonus points for now.

She already felt slightly silly, particularly in the socks. Was this the outfit of a thirty-something professional woman? Probably not – but then, it was a restaurant in a town she didn't know well, and she was unlikely to bump into anyone she knew. And the delicious feeling of control she felt had started with shivers down her spine when she received that text at ten that morning, and had continued as she'd dressed slowly, carefully, savouring the experience. It had been so long since anyone had cared what she wore, and just as long since she'd cared about pleasing someone. Silly, really, how much pleasure she was gaining from the simple act of dressing; she hoped he'd gain just as much when he saw that she'd done as he'd asked.

It was obvious that he did from the look on his face when he spotted her from the far side of the busy restaurant. As she was led over by the waiter she felt a mixture of emotions: nerves, excitement, and also a slight shame at her attire. But really, it wasn't like she was indecent; although her top did show cleavage it was one she occasionally wore for work, and teamed with a trouser suit it was completely acceptable. There was something different about it when worn with a short skirt and knee-high socks, however…

Conversation flowed easily. Hardly surprising – this is how it had been between them up till now, and the face to face contact only increased their ease with each other. He'd made no reference to what she was wearing, apart from an early, “You look nice,” but that was followed by a “Good girl,” which had made her heart soar, her cheeks redden, and her insides clench.

Finally, on the waiter's third visit, they were ready to order. She looked up and started to speak, but before she could open her mouth, her companion took over.

“I'll have the salmon, and my companion here will have the penne con manzo picante, thank you. And a bottle of the Shiraz, and also a large bottle of still mineral water.”

The waiter having checked the order and departed, she looked at her lunch companion quizzically, but he made no move to reply to the unspoken question and instead continued the conversation.

“I didn't know you were left-handed,” he smiled.

“How can you tell?” she asked.

“Because your watch is on your right wrist. Can I look?” And he reached over and took her right hand in his. After a brief pretence at looking at her watch, he returned to look into her eyes and smiled.

“Do you do everything with your left hand?” He raised his eyebrow.

“Most things,” she laughed.

“So you don't use your right hand much?” He was still holding it firmly between both of his hands. She could feel the warmth radiating throughout her body.

Her brow furrowed. Where was he going with this?

“No, not really, I suppose.”

“How strong would you say your grip is? Probably not very, if you don't use it much.”

She smiled. She'd have no idea.

“Try something for me. Grip hold of the table leg. Just underneath the table top.”

She hesitated, then did as he suggested. She wasn't sure what he was up to, but they were having fun, and she wanted to see what this particular party trick was all about. They were sitting at the edge of the restaurant, and the table leg nearest her right hand was pretty close to the wall, but she could get her fingers around it, not all the way, but enough to get a fairly firm grip. To do so she had to drop her shoulder slightly, but it wasn't that uncomfortable.

“Good girl,” he said, and she flushed again. Why were those words so powerful?

“Now, let me just check…” and he tailed off as he ducked under the table.

“What are you doing?” she laughed, as she felt something rough being wrapped around her wrist. It then got tight. Very tight.

“Hey! I…”

“Shhhh,” he said, re-emerging and taking his seat again. “You told me you don't use your right hand. You're going to be my clever girl and show me how you can get through lunch with just your left hand, aren't you? Don't worry, no-one else can see. It's just between us.” And he smiled reassuringly.

“If, if that's what you want?” she asked, quietly, gazing into his eyes.

“Oh, it is. Good girl,” and he gently brushed her fringe out of her eyes.

Conversation somehow resumed, and they chatted about this and that. Their childhoods, their jobs, their ambitions in life. Occasionally she would forget that one wrist was tied underneath the table and she'd go to use her arm, to gesticulate or whatever, but the resultant tug at her shoulder would remind her of her position, of the fact that she'd relinquished control, at least of her right arm, to him. Luckily the furniture was very sturdy and she didn't upset the table, but each time it happened she got a jolt in her stomach to match the jolt in her shoulder, the former being pleasure to match the pain from the latter. And each time he'd notice the stutter in her flow, and smile approvingly, and occasionally murmur, “Good girl,” or some other term of gentle encouragement.

She realised he must have planned her temporary disability when her food arrived; her pasta was remarkably easy to eat with just a fork in her left hand, although it felt awkward every time she wanted to take a sip of wine, as she had to lay down her fork, take a drink, then pick up her fork again to continue. She marvelled to herself how something so simple made her feel so controlled, so at the mercy of another.

And then, after the plates had been removed… She frowned.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Ummm… I need you to untie me.”

“ “I need you to untie me”… what?”

“Er… I need you to untie me please?”

“ “I need you to untie me please”… what?”

She looked at him, not understanding. And then… she remembered their online chats.

“I need you to untie me please, sir,” she whispered.

“I'm sorry, I can't really hear you – a little louder please?”

“I need you to untie me please, sir,” she said, and she was sure she was beetroot red. It was one thing to do it online, to type that word; to say it out loud, in public, even if there was no-one around to hear, was much harder. And hotter.

“You need me to untie you. And why's that?”

“Erm… you know… I… er… need to go.” And she shuffled a little on her chair. Like a child, she thought to herself.

“You need to go? Have you had enough already? I thought we were both enjoying this?” he asked, his eyebrow raised.

“No, I need to… go,” she hissed, urgently.

He looked blankly at her. She realised he knew what she meant, but he wasn't going to let her get out of it quite that easily.

“Please sir,” she said, curling up inside, “I need to go to the toilet.”

“Oh. Well, in that case I'd better untie you then, hadn't I?” he asked, smiling, and he leant under the table and quickly released her hand.

“But, before you go, I need you to do something for me. Seeing as I just did something for you.”

She looked at him, expectantly.

“Whilst you're in there, I'd like you to remove your knickers, and bring them back to me when you've finished. Will you do that for me?”

Her eyes opened wide. But one look at his face told her that she wanted to please this man, so…

“Yes sir,” she replied, and picked up her bag.

“What do you need in your bag?” he asked.

“Umm, nothing really. My brush and lipstick.”

“Well, you don't need those, you're more beautiful than you know. The bag stays here.” He smiled, expecting no disagreement – and receiving none.

She put the bag down and walked across the room to the Ladies'. She felt a bit self-conscious; all the time she'd been sat down she'd forgotten how weird it felt to be dressed the way she was, but now it was brought back home to her. Were people looking? Were they laughing? Did they wonder why she was wearing knee high socks and school shoes to a restaurant for lunch? The embarrassment made her cringe a little; but again she fell back on the sense of pride she felt, knowing that he too was looking at her crossing the busy room and enjoying what he saw.

If she felt awkward on the way there, she felt doubly so on the way back. Partly because underneath her skirt she was bare, and partly because she was convinced that everyone could tell she'd got her knickers bunched up in her hand. If it had been one of her regular lacy thongs in question, she could easily have hidden it in her fist, but she was struggling to hide entirely her larger white cotton briefs. She'd had a few moments of panic in the toilets when she realised her problem, but finally faced the fact that there was nothing she could do about it. At no point did disobeying and returning to the table still clad in her knickers cross her mind.

As she got to her chair and went to sit down, he stopped her.

“Lift your skirt as you sit so that you can feel the seat on your bottom,” he requested. When she sat, complying with his instructions, he smiled.

“Good girl. Now, do you have something for me?”

She nodded, shyly.

“Well, seeing as we're in public you can give them to me under the table. Now, do you have something to tell me?”

She stopped, and thought. Something to tell him? Oh God, what had she forgotten? She looked at him in consternation.

“About your knickers. How were they?”

That wasn't much help, she thought.

“Erm, big and white?” she ventured.

“I know that, stupid girl. Honestly, sometimes you really are a bit silly. No, were they clean? As clean as when you put them on?”

She blushed, and lowered her gaze.

Just then, the waiter reappeared, carrying a large sundae dessert, which he placed before her dining companion.

“Ah, dessert,” he exclaimed. “I took the liberty whilst you were away. Oh, but I'm such an idiot sometimes too. I only got one spoon.” And he tapped her forehead with it. “Still, I'm sure I can be prevailed upon to share.” He paused. “If you tell me about your knickers.” And with that he took a mouthful of the dessert, licked his lips, and smiled at her expectantly.

“They… they were a bit damp. Sir,” she added. She didn't know why. It just felt right.

“Were they? A bit damp? Hmmm.” He took another mouthful of dessert.

“Say, this is lovely. Would you like some?”

She nodded.

“Ask nicely.”

“Yes please, sir.”

“Good girl.” He scooped up some of the cream and icecream, and, leaning over, fed it to her.

“So. A bit damp. Why's that then? Did you not have time to dry them properly before you put them on this morning?”

“No, sir, it's not that.”

“It's not? Oh. Oh well. More dessert?”

She nodded again. He raised his eyebrow quizzically, and she hurriedly said, “Yes please, sir.”

“Good girl.” And again he fed her another spoonful of icecream.

“Well, perhaps you weren't taught how to dry yourself properly. Is that why they were damp?”

She blushed, and shook her head. “No sir.”

“ “No sir, I wasn't taught how to dry myself properly”, or “No sir, that's not why they were damp”?”

She cringed. “No sir, that's not why they were damp,” she whispered.

“Oh, right. Then I don't get it. Why were they damp, silly girl?”

She paused. Getting this out was hard. And he knew it, and she knew he knew it. But it's what he wanted her to say.

“They're damp because I'm turned on, sir,” she whispered.

“Oh again with the volume control! I can't hear you, missy. A bit louder please?”

“They're damp because I'm turned on, sir,” she repeated, a little louder this time. She felt her cheeks were on fire.

“That's my good girl,” he smiled. “You can have more dessert for that, if you'd like.”

“Yes please, sir,” she said, still not able to meet his eye.

“Look at me,” he ordered, in a kindly voice. She took a breath, composed herself, and did as he'd asked. He was smiling.

“I'm so proud of you. Here,” and he fed her another spoonful of dessert.

Conversation returned to normal, interspersed with her being fed occasional mouthfuls of dessert, but only when he offered and she responded with “Yes please, sir.” It was surprising to her how quickly it became a routine – and how quickly it had come to feel right.

Eventually they finished the food. Having passed on coffee and paid the bill, he ushered her outside.

“Coffee back at mine?” he asked. She knew he was asking about more than coffee. About much more than coffee. And she gave the only reply she could.

“Yes please, sir.”