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I was uncomfortable with, even unintentionally.
        “Is it okay to touch your hair, or is that off-limits too?”
        “That’s okay, thank you. I like having my hair touched, actually. It relaxes me.” He went back to running his fingers over the surface of my hair, sometimes brushing it back a little from my face, but mostly just stroking the length of it the way my Aunt Sue used to do when I was little. I started to feel not exactly drowsy, but not entirely alert either.
        After what seemed like a couple of minutes, he walked away. I could hear him doing things, but with my eyes still closed I couldn’t make out what he was up to. It occurred to me how nice it was not to be worried about it. After the first time I’d met my former dominant partner, T, in person, all pauses and preparations were cause for anxiety, and justifiably so, most of the time.
        “I’d like you to get up now. You may open your eyes,” he told me.
        I did, and he offered a hand to help me up off the floor. Standing, I was about a head shorter than he. I watched his chest rise and fall as his fingers went to the straps of my dress and pushed them off my shoulders. Using the lowered straps as handles, he pulled the top part of my dress down to my waist, where it rested snugly over my hips. He reached around as if to hug me, found the clasp of my bra with his hands, and let my padded, pushup C cups fall to the floor between us.
        “Beautiful,” he murmured, taking my now-erect nipples between each thumb and forefinger. He squeezed them gently for a moment, then used the backs of his knuckles and the rest of his hands to caress the sides of my breasts.
         “Mm,” I said, when his fingertips moved to the curves underneath, back to the swelling on the sides, and up again to my nipples, this time pinching them harder. He let his hands drop to my waist, feeling my width there as if measuring, then slid his hands into the part of my dress that was still on. Gently he worked the material down over my hips, past my thighs, and held the dress for me to step out of when he reached my ankles. I stood in my shoes, thigh-high stockings, and a G-string, feeling somehow fully dressed. With the lowered lights and his compliments, I felt like my semi-nakedness was an outfit of its own that I’d put on.
        “I’d like you to lie down on the towel there, on your back, face up,” Robert spoke softly.
        “Yes, Master,” I said, and let myself down onto the towel. “Close your eyes,” Robert said, and I heard his shoes scuffing the carpet away from me again.
        A moment later he was back and I heard a match being struck against its box. I jerked involuntarily, and hoped he hadn’t seen; burning is one kind of pain that I’m not interested in. I knew he wasn’t going to burn me — the match was for a candle I could already smell since he’d lit it — but not being able to see gave me an irrational sense of personal flammability.
        “I’m scared right now,” I blurted out. “I’m kind of afraid of fire.”
        “I didn’t know that,” he said without judgement. “Would you rather not do this part?”
        “No, it’s okay. I like candle wax. I just felt afraid for a second. Thanks for being nice about it,” I said, calm again.
        “You’re welcome,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
        I was aware of the effect my openness had on men, especially perverts — they generally found it endearing and thought I was cute. I very much wanted Robert, and any other good clients, to find me so. More than the validation of it, I was still preoccupied with how bizarre and exciting it was to know that money was virtually piling up outside the door for every minute I spent enjoying myself.
        “You ready?” Robert asked me quietly.
        “Yes, Master,” I answered. Through my closed lids I could make out a brightness that hovered