My Master's Rainbow

My Master’s Rainbow

I walk up to the door retrieving my key from beneath my left breast. My fingertips like ice from the December air cut a chilling path along my skin. Nothing in this world ever feels as solid as this particular key. I break out in goose flesh as I place the key in the lock. My breath catches as I set my bag down in the snow.

It is the same every time. Key in the door, but do not turn the lock, place the bag on the ground next to me. Take down my hair and place the clips in the bag, then my jewelry. Watch first, wedding ring, bracelet, ear rings, and necklace, always in this order. Next comes my jacket, my blouse, my skirt, and I’m left in my underclothes standing in heels in the snow, on the front stoop of his house.

My master’s rainbow has four colors, today’s color is pink. Pink is the color of innocence. My bra is chaste, cotton of this hue with a delicate lace trim, as are the partnering cotton briefs and thigh high stockings. I am to change my shoes, heels aren’t allowed today, patent leather flats will do. The steam from my skin fades as the weather steals the heat from my flesh.

Finished changing now, I stand, arms at my sides, the count is one hundred and twenty. Slowly I am to mouth the names of the numbers as I think them, a count down and zero matters. I am not allowed to react to the weather, although a desperate need to rub my arms with my hands is distracting. My nails are biting into my palms by the time I reach seventy five, I take a deep breath to calm myself into keeping the pace. By forty five my nipples harden to pebbles and the soft cotton of my bra feels like rough concrete against them. I fight to keep my jaw from chattering, the last ten are always the hardest, and at zero I am to take three deep breaths before reaching for the key in the door to turn the lock.

The harsh clicks of the tumblers followed by the hiss of the air being pulled through the opening door are sounds that, even in memories, quicken my pulse and send blood surging through my labia. I step in, leaving my things on the stoop for the duration, leaving that world in the cold as I am baptized in the wash of warm air that welcomes me, once more, to this place.

The laws state that I must step only on the black tiles to move through the hall. There are no electric lights here only a series of six foot candelabras placed every five feet or so to light the path. The third door on the left is the finishing room; before I enter I have to kneel, knees spread, at the threshold. The count is only thirty here, but I must place my right palm against my pussy and my left must twist behind my back and lay with fingers flat, first and pinky placed to touch each shoulder blade. These laws are in place whatever the color; it is always the same with this. I’ve grown to love the pull in my bicep as it stretches.

Entering the room and taking my place at the vanity I use the silver handled brush on the table. This too has a count, one hundred. Because today is pink I must use those hundred strokes to part my hair into low pig-tails and have them tied off with the fluffy hair ties he has set in my box. Pink isn’t allowed make up, I use the removing wipes provided. I must now stare into the mirror and watch myself say aloud, “I am unworthy of my master’s gifts, and he forgives me for asking.” I must say this 5 times, before I move to the costuming rack.

He has chosen for me a simple dress, a white jersey baby doll with large pink balloons. As always the dress is too small, it doesn’t matter, slipping it on I imagine the cold metal of the scissors against my skin as he splits the fabric against the blades.

Finished changing, again I must kneel at the threshold, once more my knees are open, this time my hands must find my ankles, I am to remain this way until I hear his voice on the PA one word will caress my ears ‘continue’.