It was five minutes until six o' clock. Or rather, five minutes until the rest of her life. That's how it felt at times, that she was only alive when He came and made her feel... something. Her Master was so very good at that. Everything was ready, the toys laid out where they should be, the carpet seething with a fresh dusting of nanotechs to chew up inevitable stains. She had the maid dress her before dismissing her for the rest of the night. It was all going to be perfect.
Shallow bowls of oil with lazily floating wicks. Master loved fire, He was a purist in that respect. She is kneeling before the apartment's front door waiting for him to enter, knowing how he loved to be late enough to worry her. Knowing how, even so, he could tell if she was ever tardy herself. She looks down at the smooth joint of bone and flesh where her wrists meet and smiles with a deep and profound satisfaction. Her Master had paid for this, He loved her enough to give her only the best. Handcuffs would chafe, he said, and this meant so much more. He still kept her hands; in a jar of formaldehyde on the nightstand. The junction itched, but that was a good sign, a sign of healing. Her whole body itched, healing and lusting in all the right places. She was numb where He felt sensation wasn't needed. He had paid for that too.
She craned her neck to suck and gnaw at her wounds, soothing for the time being. But irritating after a while, she could never really solve the problem of that itch, her teeth were the first to go. All thirty-two neatly tied to a door, one at a time, with wire and he made her kick it shut. Yes, He was a purist. But nothing squandered, nothing wasted... Master loved her too much to do that, see. He explained it all patiently that very night... Her hands tied and a mouth full of bloody gauze, watching Him through tears as He found each tooth and crazy-glued it to the ends of His whip. But that was long ago, crude and primal methods that the poor will employ when nothing else is available. Master has since become more refined... And yet, the whip is there on the bed side by side with all the shiny new tools as well. Sentimentality is His weakness.
The locks tumble quietly, well lubricated and precisely forged. She doesn't even notice Him standing in the open doorway, tall as God and wearing a shadow, until He speaks.
"I do apologize for interrupting, but I see now that the jaw will have to go."
She makes a frightened sound, spitting out her fused wrists like poison. Eyes dart to the clock on the wall. He was early by at least 3 minutes! She had known Him to arrive early before; He would just stand there, outside her threshold, where she could plainly see His shadow beneath the door, and just stand there, knowing He was stirring up maelstrom emotion inside her. She was caught. She was bad. The itch was a known irritation; He had forbidden her many times not to ease it.
And the slave sobs and whimpers and grovels most shamelessly. Yes yes, what a surprise, what a nasty surprise, what a terribly naughty thing you've become...
But the show must go on and appointments are made with the appropriate people for sometime next Monday, say two-ish?