She kept her eyes on the book in front of her. It was safer that way. She didn't have to look across the aisle to see what she already knew reflected in the face of the woman across from her. She could feel the contempt from here.

The bus bumped and she gasped softly. Her body was still tender from the "scene" yesterday... and the day before. She was grateful for the dark stockings that hid the marks he and his friends had left on her body. She was tired of feeling slutty and used.

The bus jolted to a stop and the offended woman across from her got up and left. She was replaced by someone else. Something made her look up. She almost dropped her book. What was he doing on the bus?

He grinned at her like a feral cat sighting a flightless bird. The bus lurched back into traffic, horns honking in irritation. He pointed to her briefcase and made a motion for her to open it.

She undid the latch and looked inside. Nestled among her papers for work was a cucumber. She glanced back up at him nervously. He just looked at her. She looked at it again. There was also a note.

"Stick the cucumber in your cunt now and keep it there until you get to work."

She looked at the cucumber and then at him. He knew she had no underwear on. He knew that for the past six years she had obeyed him - sometimes faster than other times, but she had always obeyed.

The bus almost skidded to a halt, people shifting position like a sliding puzzle. Master ended up next to her.

"Obey me, Slave. Stand up and I'll put it inside you."

She took out the cucumber, no one around her caring or noticing, holding it, looking at it.

Six years ago she had knelt on the cold basement floor, naked and fearful and felt the collar around her neck. There had been so much pleasure then - for both of them. When had it stopped?

She thought of the weekend. He had called it her biggest gang-bang yet. She wasn't sure how many cocks she had sucked or how many had been pushed inside her. They hadn't been men, but cocks. There had been orgasms for her, but not true pleasure. Where had the intimacy gone that they once had? What had happened to the limits they had set.

The bus lurched off again.

"Stand up, Slave." The words were almost a hiss.

Mutual consent. Consent. Consensual. The words played in her head and she looked at him.

"Pickles. Cucumbers become pickles."

He knew what she meant and a darkness covered his face, "Don't pull that safe word crap on me, Slave. Stand up. You have double punishment now."

She knew, as she had probably known for some time. She licked the cucumber, looking him directly in the eye, seeing the anger soften as he thought she was lubricating it. The bus shuddered to a halt at the next stop. With a sweet smile she bit off the end of the cucumber, dropped the castrated cucumber in his lap and disembarked.

Numbers on the Clock

(Author's note - This is another three word writing challenge. 1)bedroom 2)knife 3)loneliness, rejection, self-hatred.)

The digital clock glowed a red 3:27 am. Silently it changed to 28 and a minute later 29. He did not move from his place at the window. Outside the winter storms tossed the bare branches of the tree back and forth like a parent shaking their child in a rage. He saw none of it. 32... 33.... 34....The seasonal lights mixed sickeningly with the blue and red and gold lights that danced against the homes.

He felt all of it. He could feel the pain soaked into the room like the blood in the carpet. If he stood here long enough, he would hear her sobbing or hear her whispering. He could feel her ache, her despair.

He did not have to turn to see the room. He knew it as if he had lived in it all his life. 47... 48.... 49....It was not what was here that gave the answers, it was in what was not here. There were no ribbons of achievement, there were no photos pinned to the walls or taped to the mirror of friends laughing on some distant summer day, there were no mementos of dates or dances.

There was no note. Usually there was something, but in cases like this, what was there to say? Why document the failure, the rejection, the agony? Who was there to blame? Why tonight and not tomorrow? What had happened today or not happened that made her go to the kitchen and get the knife? 03... 04... 05....

"Sir," a hand touched his shoulder.

He turned to the young and earnest officer, faceless in the dark of the room, "Yes?"

"We're done here, Chief. Is there anything I can get you...." he trailed off awkwardly.

"No, there is nothing," he walked heavily to the door and glanced again at his daughter's room, "nothing."

And the clock silently changed numbers again.

The Reference Question

(Author's Note - Yet another three word writing challenge 1)Library 2)Pen 3)Nervousness)

Wednesday’s were slowest night of the week at the library. Kendra knew this. She had been in the library as often as she could every night it was open. For over a month now, she had been trying to get up the courage to approach him.

There he sat at the reference desk, looking so normal, so everyday. Once again she was torn with conflict. Perhaps she was mistaken. She had only been once to the club, but she knew him then, and unless he had a twin brother…. A long shot, but still. No, what decided her mind was the pen. At the club he had taken out a pen to write something down. It was a beautiful pen of black wood. That pen was in his shirt pocket right now.

She had to make up her mind. How hard could it be to talk to him? What was she supposed to say, “Hi, I think you a Dom and I want you to tie me up?” Yeah, right. This was always so much easier in the books.

Kendra glanced at the clock, 30 minutes until closing. She couldn’t take another night of going home, not knowing…going home alone. She stood and walked to the reference desk. Part of her mind screamed for her to go back and just leave.

“Can I help you?” his voice was warm and firm.

She looked up at his brown eyes and then back down. She couldn’t do this. Her fingers tightened around the paper in her hand, crumpling it.

“You need help finding something?” his tone had shifted just slightly, changing it from a question to a statement.

Kendra was too scared now to run, she glanced up again and nodded wordlessly, pushing the crumpled paper toward him. She could feel her face burning bright red.

His warm fingers touched her hand as he took the paper and smoothed it out. He smiled to himself. He had watched her when he was here. A whole month she had waited. He had seen her at the club. He had been there often enough that a new person caught his eye. She was beautiful, half-Asian, tiny and delicate. Her shyness aroused him more than he cared to be. He could imagine her at his feet, her almond-shaped eyes looking up pleadingly over a gag. Oh yes, he could imagine a lot with her.

Her paper had once sentence in neat script, “I am seeking information on the balance of power in a Dominant/submissive relationship.”

“Have you been through the books in our collection,” he asked professionally.

Kendra nodded, daring another glance up, only to find her gaze trapped in his.

“A direct question should get a direct answer,” his reprimand was soft, almost playful.

She trembled, almost bolting back to her seat, “Yes, Sir. I have read the books here.”

Her voice was like honey, he thought as he continued, “Then I would suggest some web sites and perhaps contact with someone in the area that could answer any questions you have.” He pushed the paper back towards her.

Kendra took a few shallow breaths and jumped in feet first, “Please, Sir…”

“Yes?”

She could feel the power in his tone and felt her body respond to it, “Please, could you recommend someone to me…”

He smiled at her, trying to reassure her, “Yes, I know just the person. He could see you tonight in fact. If that is amiable to you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He took the paper back and slid the black pen from his pocket and wrote an address on the paper, “He will be able to show you everything you have ever wanted to know on this topic. He should be home in about 30 minutes. Best not to keep him waiting.”

Kendra took the paper and looked at the scrawl of an address, “I will be there, Sir. Thank you.”

He smiled as she hurried back to her papers and gathered her books. Carefully he put his pen back in his pocket and smiled. It was going to be a good night.

The Worn Collar

(Author's note - another three item writing challenge. 1) Home to a D/s couple 2) a worn down collar 3) Respect)

Shelly got out of the shower, grabbing the well worn and ratty blue towel nearest to her. Towels. Next time she went to the mall, she should pick up some more towels. She looked at herself in the mirror with dissatisfaction. At twenty she had been trim and perky. Three kids and fifteen years later there wasn’t a lot of perky going around. She turned away from the mirror, not wanting to look.

Wrapping the towel around her she headed into the bedroom, noticing the one wall in the hallway needed cleaning. With a small sigh, she added it to her mental list. The month the kids were at camp would probably be spent doing chores around the house. Tom would do his part; he always did. Good, old, faithful Tom.

She finished drying off and opened the dresser drawer to select her underwear. She frowned looking at the serviceable and dull white panties. When had the pretty sexy things been replaced with these? What did it really matter anymore? She pulled out a pair and her fingers brushed something in the drawer. Worn leather.

Shelly took it out and sat naked on the bed, holding it. She hadn’t worn the collar since…. was it last summer or the summer before? She didn’t remember it being so worn, dark with age.

She ran her fingers over the edge, feeling tears in her eyes. She could still remember the feel of it the first time he had put it around her neck. They had been so young, nothing seemed impossible.

Hesitantly, she put the collar around her neck, latching it, feeling the leather still snug around her. She began to cry softly as she remembered last summer.

Tom had leaned into the kitchen, “Hey, Honey, the kids are gone. Wanna rekindle old times? I can get your collar?”

“Can we do it some other time? I had plans to meet Alice and Kendra. You don’t mind do you?”

He had given a small laugh, “No, Honey. No problem. Let me know when you are ready.”

But she never brought it up, nor did he. He had too much respect for her. The realization sunk deeply into her soul as she realized that somewhere, somehow she had let her respect for him dwindle into nothing. When was the last time she had done anything for him that was not convenient for her? How often had she just said no? How many times lately had she made some snide remark to her friends about Tom? Was there still a chance for them?

* * *

Tom sat for a moment in the car looking at the house. Maybe he should have said yes to Kim. She had practically begged him to come home with her. Shelly probably wouldn’t have even noticed him coming home late. He had often imagined what Kim would look like on her knees. If she asked again, he could lay the ground work for a business trip or something now.

Grabbing his briefcase, he walked into the house, “Hey, Shell. I’m home.”

Silence.

She was probably out with those bitchy friends. He should have taken Kim up on the offer.

Then he noticed the note. Go to the bedroom.

He blinked a few times and shrugged. Whatever. He walked to the bedroom, half-expecting to see some new piece of furniture. The bed was neatly made. That hadn’t happened in several years. On the bed lay a white pirate shirt and black slacks. Next to the bed were his black leather boots. His eyes widened, all thoughts of Kim leaving his mind.

He picked up the handwritten note.

Master, I realized today that I have not been what I promised I would be all those years back. I beg you to give me another chance and to teach me to love and respect you as I should. I am in the basement. Shelly.

Tom looked at the clothes and the note and felt a surge of hope. Maybe there was still a chance for them after all.