I received my itinerary on Wednesday via email while I was at work. I wasnt seeing him til Saturday. I saw the email come through and my heart started pounding. I picked up my phone and went to the staff toilets, locked myself in a cubical and read. Then I read it again, and again. Back at my desk I read it some more. I didn’t get much work done and spent the whole afternoon trying not to be in a fluster.

“You’re about to go further down the rabbit hole.”
He was pushing me further each time.

The itinerary detailed the rules, what I was expected to wear, and an hourly schedule of all the activities for the night. It began with a face fuck to set the tone followed by immediate punishment for any misdemeanours or lateness.

I knew one thing for certain, I was going to be punished for letting him down during the week for choosing a good night’s sleep over phone sex.

It turned me on, but I barely noticed since I was more nervous with anticipation and trying to look like I was actually doing work.

As I studied the itinerary I remembered a happiness survey I read about. People were interviewed about their holidays and it was found that they experienced more joy from the anticipation of going on holiday than the actual holiday. If this was true I have been suffering all week from the anticipation.

It’s some sort of twisted joy to have your heart feel like it’s going to jump out of your chest; like it is now as I am writing this on the train on my way to his. A blow-by-blow account of my twisted anticipation of tonight, and my hands are shaking.

Part of the itinerary is my expected attire.
Stockings and suspenders.
Heels.
A dress with a loose skirt that can be easily lifted above my hips.
No underwear.
Heavy non waterproof eye makeup.
And whore red lipstick.

During the week I made sure I had everything he asked. I own a suspender belt, I bought it years ago and never used it. I picked up some nude stockings after work one day and tried them on with much fiddling when I got home. Whore red lipstick I have, every girl should own some. Make up, nice and easy, but it was only going to end up smeared down my face. Heels were in plentiful supply, they were easy to choose in comparison to the dress. I tried on every dress I own and even tried shopping for a new one with no luck. The dilemma: which dress goes with stockings and which was I willing to sacrifice to his spunk? The answer being none. All my dresses are hand wash and dry clean only. I didn’t fancy scrubbing spaff out of an expensive fcuk dress with my bare hands or someone at the dry cleaners seeing a suspect stain. It’s yogurt, honest.

With reading the itinerary over and over and trawling my wardrobe over and over the preparation for tonight has been a little trying and fraught with panic the closer Saturday came.

Thank fuck that I found the ideal machine washable LBSD – Little Black Spaff Dress – hidden in my wardrobe about half an hour before walking out the door.

The next dilemma, travelling by train wearing LBSD, stockings and whore red lips without looking like a cheap hooker. It’s a hot afternoon, as I got dressed I imagined bending to pick up my bags and walking up stairs baring my arse and stockings to anyone having a perv. I decided to suffer the heat in a coat. Heels are packed in my bag to change into, the lipstick will be applied at the last minute. I did bottle it on the underwear front, I have slipped on knickers over my suspenders and I will whip them off in the taxi on the way to his like a true little slut. Even with my preparation I still walked out the door with my inner monologue going, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. And then thinking fuck some more upon realising I was already moist. Damn him and his horrible headfuck.

So here I am now, sitting on the train jotting this down. It is therapeutic and is helping to ease my anxiety. My dress is too short to cover the tops of my stockings when I sit down, one woman has already noticed me trying to tug them up and then pull my coat over my knees to conceal my slutty legs.

Now fingers crossed there are no delays on the train. I can’t be late.