You’ve come all this way. Let’s see if little Miss Steele is as appealing as youremember. Showtime, Grey. I climb out of the car and stroll across the lot to the front door. A bell chimes a flat electronic note as I walk in.
The store is much bigger than it looks from the outside, and although it is almost lunchtime the place is quiet, for a Saturday. There are aisles and aisles of the usual crap you’d expect. I’d forgotten the possibilities that a hardware store could present to someone like me. I mainly shop online for my needs, but while I’m here, maybe I’ll stock up on a few items . . . Velcro, split rings— Yeah. I’ll find the delectable Miss Steele and have some fun.
It takes me all of three seconds to spot her. She’s hunched over the counter, staring intently at a computer screen and picking at her lunch—a bagel. Unthinking, she wipes a crumb from the corner of her lips and into her mouth and sucks on her finger. My cock twitches in response. Fuck! What am I, fourteen? My reaction is fucking irritating. Maybe this adolescent response will stop if I fetter, fuck, and flog her . . . and not necessarily in that order. Yeah. That’s what I need.
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She is thoroughly absorbed in her task, and it gives me an opportunity to study her. Salacious thoughts aside, she is attractive, seriously attractive. I’ve remembered her well.
She glances up and freezes, pinning me with intelligent, discerning eyes—the bluest of blue that seem to see right through me. It’s as unnerving as the first time I met her. She just stares, shocked I think, and I don’t know if this is a good response or a bad response.
“Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Mr. Grey,” she whispers, breathy and flustered. Ah . . . a good response.
“I was in the area. I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” A real pleasure. She’s dressed in tight T-shirt and jeans, not the shapeless shit she was wearing earlier this week. She’s all long legs, small waist, and perfect tits. She continues to gape, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and tip her chin up to close her mouth. I’ve flown from Seattle just to see you, and the way you look right now, it was worth the journey.
“Ana. My name’s Ana. What can I help you with, Mr. Grey?” She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders like she did in the interview, and gives me a fake smile that I’m sure she reserves for customers.
Game on, Miss Steele.
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties.” Her lips part as she inhales sharply.
You’d be amazed what I can do with a few cable ties, Miss Steele.
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?”
“Please. Lead the way, Miss Steele.”
She steps out from behind the counter and gestures toward one of the aisles.
She’s wearing chucks. Idly I wonder what she’d look like in skyscraper heels.
Laboutins . . . nothing but Laboutins.
“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” Her voice wavers and she blushes . . . again.
She is affected by me. Hope blooms in my chest. Not gay then. I smirk.
“After you,” I murmur, holding my hand out for her to lead the way. Letting her walk ahead gives me the space and time to admire her fantastic ass. She really is the whole package: sweet, polite, and beautiful with all the physical attributes I value in a submissive. But the million-dollar question is, could she be a 545/551
submissive? She probably knows nothing of the lifestyle—my lifestyle—but I very much want to introduce her to it. You are getting way ahead of yourself on this deal, Grey.
“Are you in Portland on business?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts. Her voice is high, trying to feign disinterest. It makes me want to laugh, which is refreshing. Women rarely make me laugh.
“I was visiting the WSU farming division based in Vancouver.” I lie. Actually I’m here to see you, Miss Steele.
She flushes, and I feel like a shit.
“I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science.” That, at least, is true.
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” Her lips shift to a half-smile.
“Something like that.” I mutter. Is she laughing at me? Oh I’d love to put a stop to that if she is. But how to start? Maybe with dinner, rather than the usual interview . . . now that would be novel; taking a prospect out to dinner.
We arrive at the cable ties, which are arranged in an assortment of lengths and colors. Absentmindedly my fingers trace over the packets. I could just ask her out for dinner. Like on a date? Would she come? When I glance at her she’s examining her knotted fingers. She can’t look at me . . . this is promising. I select the longer ties. They are more flexible after all—they can accommodate two ankles and two wrists at once.
“These will do,” I murmur, and she blushes, again.
“Is there anything else?” she says quickly—either she’s being super attentive or she wants to get me out of the store, I don’t know which.
“I’d like some masking tape.”
“Are you redecorating?”
I suppress my snort. “No, not redecorating.” I haven’t held a paintbrush in a long time. The thought makes me smile, I have people to do all that shit.
“This way,” she murmurs, looking chagrined. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”
Come on Grey. You don’t have long. Engage her in some conversation.
“Have you worked here long?” Of course, I already know the answer. Unlike some people, I do my research. She blushes once more—Christ, this girl is shy. I don’t have a hope in hell. She turns quickly and walks down the aisle toward the section labeled DECORATING. I follow her eagerly. What am I, a fucking puppy?
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“Four years,” she mumbles as we reach the masking tape. She bends down and grasps two rolls, each a different width.
“I’ll take that one,” I say. The wider tape is much more effective as a gag. As she passes it to me, the tips of our fingers touch, briefly. It resonates in my groin.
Fuck!
She pales. “Anything else?” Her voice is soft and husky.
Christ, I’m having the same effect on her that she has on me. Maybe . . .
“Some rope, I think.”
“This way.” She quickly scoots up the aisle, giving me another chance to appreciate her fine ass.
“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope . . .
twine . . . cable cord . . .”
Shit—stop. I groan inwardly, trying to chase away the image of her suspended from the ceiling in my playroom.
“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope, please.” It’s coarser and chafes more if you struggle against it . . . my rope of choice.