Waiting

Dinner

We enter the restaurant, what looks like a normal, vanilla couple. You look fantastic, nice dress and hair styled and very presentable, me in a sharp suit, crisp white shirt and plain red tie, shoes so polished I could shave in their reflection.

All very normal.

But your Sir knows what you really desire: not the drabness of vanilla but the red rage of being Owned and all that brings with it.

The edge tonight is that you have been given permission to go out and buy a matching set of bra and panties which I have not yet seen: you know my standards are very high and you also know that if your choice displeases me then there will be consequences, serious consequences.

Enjoy your Dinner and hope, with vigour, that your selection pleases me.