I am naked. I have arranged the things I need on the floor beside me. I sit pretty on the floor and pick up the collar. Breathe a little, calm myself, think of you, think of earning your affection. I put on my collar and tighten the strap to the next to last hole. I have a slender neck. I take the small butt plug you call "the jewel", because it's not very large and there is a piece of crystal at the visible end of it, and oil it up with the lubricant that has "pheromones" added to it and therefore smells vaguely of musk. I press it between my buttocks with slow, constant pressure. It glides in softly and pops into place. I pick up the gag from the floor and edge it into my mouth. I tighten the straps at the back and suck a little on the rubber. I will not be able to swallow properly for a long time. 

I take a short leather strap and pull it through the collar at the nape of my neck and fasten both ends to the chain linking the two open rings of my handcuffs. The handcuffs are a little piece of vanity studded with rhinestone. I splurged on them with the excuse that I'm allergic to nickel and an exclusive model is the only nickel-free one on the market. 

For the time being, I let the handcuffs hang freely from the back of my collar. With every movement I make they bounce firmly against my back. I cherish the feeling of weight against my muscles. I extend my legs semi-mermaid style and tie my ankles together with a short hemp rope. I lean heavily on my extended arms and hop up into standing, swaying, with the last accessory in my hand, a leather leash. I attach the leash to the ring at the front of my collar. Standing on tiptoe, I sling the handle end of the leash across the hook in the ceiling. 

The keys to the handcuffs are on the chest of drawers by the door. Pretty little keys with swirly design. Looking at them, I bring my right hand up on my back and lock it in place with one of the rings of the handcuffs. I bring up my left hand and with some difficulty I lock it into place too with the cuffed hand. At this point I have rendered myself helpless. I feel a churning in my stomach at what I've done and the risk I'm taking for you because fainting is dangerous, yes lethal, in this position. But you should be home shortly; you only went out to buy tobacco. Yes, you like to chat with the salesman and whoever else happens to be in the store. But surely you're not going to exchange life stories, are you? 

The churning in my stomach grows. And I realise that with no way of shifting the balance on my feet, my legs will tire extraordinarily quickly. I hope beyond hope that you will be back soon. A dull ache towards the outside of my footpads starts thumping through to the bone underneath. I start shifting my balance back and forth and towards the inside of my feet but it is too late to stop the pain. My wrists are feeling the edges of the handcuffs too, digging into the flesh. I arch my back to change the distribution of weight and rub my calves against each other to relieve the tingling sensation that is starting to spread from the ankles upwards. 
There are footsteps in the stairwell. Going up? Going down? A rattle of keys. You or the neighbour? I hear the lock. Thank you, thank you! It is you, it is YOU, so I am safe. 

I hear you in the hallway and the kitchen, taking your time. I hear you approaching through the corridor towards the bedroom. I then see you in the door. Your dear face with the soft mouth and the very sharp eyes. You see me. I feel ridiculous. I feel childish. But I do know that you love this. Dumbly, I try to send my humility and my offering of me across the room to you in the doorway. You raise your eyebrows a little and walk on into the bathroom, where you shut the door. 

I wait. My legs are tingling and hurting and the bones on the outside front of my feet feel like they are exposed directly to the floor. But I know that I am safe, now you have come. You will not allow me to faint. You are in control. 

You are a long time in the bathroom. I am starting to feel sick to the stomach. I try to breathe deeply, but I have to be careful. The spit collecting towards the back of my mouth bubbles with every breath. I have to be careful not to breathe it in. 

The bathroom door closes. You look at me as you pass the doorway. I can hear you walk down the corridor. You are in the kitchen or living room now. I listen attentively but you are very quiet. Perhaps you are on the phone or on your computer. I can hear the scraping of one of the heavy-set chairs. My legs are pounding now with every heartbeat. I can hardly feel my feet. I try to stand on tiptoe. Tiring as it is, at least it is a change for my strained and failing muscles. 
And then you are in the doorway. You walk up to me and your face is all soft. Relieved, I know I did the right thing. You were not too stressed, or tired, or fed up with me. You like this. And you thoroughly enjoyed letting me wait. You knew exactly how my legs were doing. You are the most meticulous person I have ever met. Nothing escapes your attention. You lift your hand and my instinctive reaction is to dodge my head a little - although I don't get far with the strain of the leash leading from the ring in my collar to the ceiling. You are fond of slapping my face hard since I foolishly admitted a fantasy of it. You say you are "practicing" to make them look good so we can do it in public some day, at an S/M club or in a country where wife-slapping is approved of. 

But your hand touches my cheek softly. You cup my cheek with those soft, slim fingers and lean in to kiss the edge leather of the gag. You kiss it all over and rub your nose across it, I know you love the smell. You smile. Then you reach up and with some difficulty tread the leash from off the hook in the ceiling. You take me by the shoulders and turn me to face the double bed and then you give my back a push. I fall head first onto the bed. As I fall, I cannot help taking a sharp breath so that a little spit ends up in my windpipe. I cough desperately through the gag and a little spit trickles down my chin. You ignore me, grab me by the legs and pull me backwards. You then ease my legs down on the floor so that my hips fold across the edge of the bed, prayer style. My legs pound worse than before from the rush of blood returning from the upper part of my body. I turn my head to the side and relish the rest. You are standing directly behind me. I can hear your belt, the glorious beautiful sound of your belt buckle clinking, then the leather rushing against its constrainers as you pull the belt out of them. Will you use it? The smooth, broad leather touches my right buttock. You bring it away and slap me lightly with it, but you are apparently not in the mood for spanking. Instead, I can hear you undressing. Then you are behind me. My legs are closed but my sex is tilted upwards and exposed. I can feel the edge of your cock against my wet lips. You slide in so easily. I am so wet, too wet, there is no resistance whatsoever. Still I moan as loudly as possible through the gag at the glory of feeling your long, slim cock hit the bottom of me. And you grunt with pleasure and satisfaction. You start fucking me swiftly and deeply. I yell my muffled call and moan and cough and you come within minutes. You lean over me, lie heavily across my back with your mouth against my neck. Your head is turned to the right, like mine. All is peace and wonder in the world. 

You then undo the gag. You remove it slowly and I do my best to suck in and swallow all the gathered spit. You put the gag to the side. "Now what do you say?" you wonder. "Thank you." I whisper and there can be no doubt as to the sincerity of my happiness. "Thank you." "That's right," you say, "good girl. You are very, very lucky." "I know." You lean down on me again, and we lie there cheek to cheek. Yes, yes, yes I am lucky.