Stripping for Master Nick

I took a long time choosing this outfit.

All of it, from the swinging helm of my buff-coloured city-mac to the smart charcoal-grey skirt-suit underneath, the plain stockings (with lacy tops of course) and the demure black camisole. The red heels though, a little too high and a little too shiny, give a clue as to what lies beneath, the only part of my outfit that Nick is even going to see, the underwear he sent me. The parcel arrived just yesterday and I had hardly anytime to go out and get the lipstick that precisely matches the shade of red he has chosen for me. Luckily I had the shoes already, five-inches high and pointy-toed . . . my sex-shoes . . . I feel amazing in them and I just hope he'll like them too.

So, I click up the steps to his apartment block in the city, expensive and understated. I have my instructions and I hardly believe I am going to do this, but I am, I have no choice. I am entirely consumed by the desire to please this man, to do all I can with my soft body and my pliable mind to make him happy, make him like me, make him instruct me further, let him take me.

Under my classy skirt I can feel the garters he sent tickling my thighs. Stockings, scarlet suspenders and garters too, so like a man to send something that serves no purpose but to thrill and excite him. A thing like me, I have no other purpose than these garters, my reason for being is to thrill and excite this man . . . that is what I am for. The frills on the arse of the knickers he sent seem to conspire with the garters to rustle and I am sure they are advertising precisely who and what I am to anyone close enough to hear. Pretty soon everyone will know anyway. I have rung the bell and he has buzzed me in and I have called the lift and once I have stepped inside it I will no longer be the sophisticated PA with the slightly slutty shoes . . . I will be revealed as what I am.

The journey to Nick's penthouse is about 45 seconds long and I just manage to strip down to the scarlet underwear, frilly knickers, close and semi-transparent bra, slim (and slightly troublesome) suspenders (the clip keeps popping off) and of course the garters, two of them, like some courtesan intent on earning a living or snaring a patron. The heels too, click, click, click . . .#

Just time, I strip off my mac, suit, slip and camisole and stuff them into my big Mulberry bag, some things stick out but it is what it is . . . I hope Nick won't think me slovenly. I then kick the bag to one side, ring the doorbell and pose as instructed, back to the door, looking back over my shoulder, hair a little dishevelled and fixing that damned suspender clip . . .

I wait what seems like a full hour, trembling with my leg tilted just so (Nick tells me it was barely two minutes) and praying nobody else should come along until . . . the door opens.

'Leanne . . .?'

'Yes Sir.'

'Come in . . . '

His voice is deep and forceful and his smell wafts my way, man smell, fresh and strong, clean and powerful. I grab the bag and walk in behind him, he hardly seems to have noticed me, I sway and click those heels, drop the bag in the hall and follow him.

He walks ahead along a long hall where the wooden floors let me make the most of the sonic possibilities of my sex shoes. He pushes open a door into a huge, dim room with one leather arm-chair in the middle, facing the door. Somehow I know to stop a few yards from the chair. Nick turns, faces me, locks his eyes onto mine and sits, casually crossing his legs, foot on knee, like a man, and gives the tiniest of nods, lordly and commanding. I hold his gaze for just a few seconds before looking demurely down at the floor and then, after a pause, up at him again through the screen of my blonde hair (had it done just this morning, just for this).

I begin with the garter on my left leg, I slip one finger underneath and snap the elastic against my leg. The sharp crack is very clear in the dim silence. I run mu finger around under the garter, loosening and slipping it down whilst I hold Nick's gaze and put a red-tipped finger to my mouth, biting gently . . . I smile coyly and let the garter slip down my leg under its own weight, it comes to rest on my ankle, where my handcuff anklet gleams silver under my stocking. I slip the garter to the tip of my toe and delicately flick it at Nick. I practiced this at home, it pays off in the shot, it lands right in his lap. He gives it the merest glance before looking back at me and raising one eyebrow almost imperceptibly . . .

I turn on my toes and bend over before him, displaying the backs of my nyloned thighs and the lace covered arse of my knickers . . . I run my scarlet nails up the backs of those stockings, the soft hiss audible over Nick's measured breathing and my own, slightly gasping, excited breath . . . can he hear what doing this for him is doing to me . . .

I take the concealed pair of tiny nail-scissors (in a case) from the side of my bra and snip through the second garter, as it parts and slips down my leg I take it in two hands and turn to face Nick again, I pull the garter tight across my mouth as if it were a gag and look Nick straight in the eyes . . . I see them glimmer and I am glad to have touched him a little at last . . . I grip the garter in my teeth and shake it like a little puppy with a toy, a little giggle and I am entirely pliable and girly again . . . ready for the next step, stepping out of my stockings . . . I don't want to, for me my nylons are my protection, with them on I feel like a woman, with bare legs I feel like a little girl . . . and, and, and . . . Nick looks at me expectantly, he knows what he wants and I know what he wants and I know I will give it to him and he knows I will give it to him. Why wait?

I look in his eyes again and, with almost perfect timing, the suspender clip pops off again, the same one, the front one on my right leg. With no hesitation I undo the remaining three and unbuckle the suspender-belt. I just let it drop, I kick it and it slides away across the varnished floor, I send the scissors sliding swiftly after it . . .

The tension goes from my stockings and I hope he doesn't see on my face that it has taken root in my stomach.

I turn so that I am side-on to Nick and I look at him from behind my hair again. Very slowly I begin to roll down the stocking on my left leg, revealing the pale, soft skin beneath the sheer, dark nylon. I feel truly naked, more and more naked, I shake and I hope it doesn't show, I look at Nick the whole time and try to see if his eyes flick to my leg as it is revealed . . . they do, I am thrilled and I feel my lips slowly part and my breathing step up another note . . . surely he can hear it now . . .

As the rolled stocking gets closer to my ankle I slow down and slip it gently past the silver anklet, now plain against my skin, free of the enveiling nylon . . . the tiny silver handcuffs glint and I see the glint reflected in Nick's eyes and I see those seemingly impassive eyes widen slightly and I know I am having some effect . . . and I have made my confession, he knows what this anklet means, what it means he can do to me . . .

I slip my nyloned foot out of my towering heel and roll the stocking off of my toes and onto the floor, I flick it away into the shadows and put my foot straight back into my still warm and so welcoming shoe . . . I can't let my feet touch the floor, it would ruin the feeling I have, like I'm walking on air or like I'm propped up, tense as an antelope eying the lion that wants to consume her, but she doesn't run away, she wants to be consumed, mauled . . . Nick sees and Nick knows and still, he waits . . .

There is one stocking left, I see a straight-backed dining chair, one of a set of four around a table on the other side of the room. I click across the walnut floor and drag the chair back to centre-stage. Like Sally Bowles in Cabaret I perch my bottom on the very edge of the seat and arch my back until the back of my neck almost touches the back of the chair . . . I push out my small breasts and give them the tiniest of shakes, letting my dangling hair do most of the work.

I cross my right leg over my left and do a little shoe-dangling, slipping my silken heel out of my scarlet shoe and letting it swing gently from my toes for a second or two, before I straighten my leg and raise it in the air, up above the level of my head and I look up at it, using my eyes to draw Nick's eyes to the dangling shoe before I flex my toes and fit it back to my foot for a moment.

I lower my leg, feeling Nick's eyes follow that red sex symbol all the way to the floor. As the heel gently kisses the boards I fling my hair and lean down over my own extended right leg and carefully remove my high high heel, leaving it stood there on the floor, a place for my foot to voyage out from and to return safely to afterwards. I grasp the toe of my stocking between my red finger nails and pause for a moment, using my eyes to ask Nick to look at the matching polish on my carefully cared for toes too. He looks, his breathing catches a little. I allow myself one little glance at the place where his thighs meet under his slim, black trousers as he finally uncrosses his legs and relaxes into his chair, thighs spreading in confidence and dominance. In the shadows it is impossible to see shapes in the black of his clothing, I can only hope.

I look back at Nick, right in his eyes and try to hold them but he can't not look at my emerging leg and foot as I pull on the toe of my stocking. Keeping my leg high and pulling the stocking back towards my face in the classic burlesque move . . . the soft, pure nylon pulls free of my foot and drifts back into my lap. Looking at Nick the whole time I see his eyes come back to mine before I draw the soft hosiery between my hands, draw it across my face like a veil and then drape it around my neck like a soft, chiffon scarf . . . I leave it there and I put a nail to my lips like the little coquette I have become before lowering my foot back into my shoe and standing up, jutting out my red satin and lace sheathed arse and rocking my hips left to right.

I take the dining chair back to where it came from and I parade left and right across Nick's field of vision once, twice, three times. I look into his eyes the entire time and I see them go left with my bottom, right with my breasts and left again with my heels, focusing on that confessional anklet, until they rise back to my face. I stop, and turn on the spot one last time, pushing out my arse as I go and then I stop and stand, facing him, feet at the quarter-to-midnight and my right toe, the hour hand, pointing directly at Nick's heart of darkness.

Then I wait . . .