"Your Floor, My Altar" The tie on the hotel room floor was a reminder of the charade I'd lived all day. The man in control. The leader. A lie. My reflection in the dark windowpane stared back at me, pathetic. And then I saw her. In the building across the street, her silhouette was a promise against the soft light of the curtain. Her back was to me, her hand on the nape of her neck, the lace fabric hugging her shoulders and the long, dark skirt falling to the floor. A high slit climbed up her thigh, a sensual wound in the fabric. My body reacted before my mind. A pang of desire and shame. She was the kind of woman who would never look at me. Then she turned. Her face in the shadows, but her eyes fixed on mine. A predator who has just found its prey. My heart pounded, a mixture of panic and excitement that made me hard. She knew I was looking. And she liked it. With torturous slowness, her hand moved down my neck, and then she closed the curtains. The show was over. It was over. The invitation had been made. Reason screamed. Desire roared. Desire won. The door to her room was ajar. I pushed it open and the world outside vanished. The air was thick, fragrant. She stood in the center of the room, exactly as in my fantasy, her bare feet firmly planted on the dark wood. The silence was heavy, laden with power. Her power. I didn't know what to do. My body trembled, the anxiety of performance gnawing at me. To fail here would be worse than death. Her eyes lowered, a silent and devastating command, to the floor in front of her. My pride, my mask of "successful man," all shattered. The humiliation was like liquid fire, but the idea of submitting to it was the only thing that mattered. My knees hit the wood with a dull thud. Kneeling. Broken. Exposed. And free. I raised my face. She looked down at me, a goddess before a mortal. The shame I felt was the most intense prelude I had ever known. Her A low, husky voice cut through the silence. “I knew you’d come.” She took a step, the slit in her skirt opening. Her hand came to my face, her fingers firm on my chin, forcing me to look at her. “You’ve spent all day pretending to be in control,” she whispered, and each word was a nail in the coffin of my old life. “But you and I know the truth, don’t we? You don’t want to control anything.” Her other hand landed on the nape of my neck, her fingers intertwining in my hair, pulling hard enough to make me gasp. “You want to obey.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. The truth. Kneeling there, my body ablaze and my mind blank, I was finally home. “Yes,” the word escaped my lips, a groan of pure surrender. A dark, satisfied smile finally appeared on her lips. “Good boy. Now, begin.” And, on the floor of that room, which had become my altar, I began to worship her. #fetish