Flight of Fancy Luggage, carts, coats, newspapers, books, laptops and people, lots of them, occupied the terminal's small, littered maw. With visibility below minimums, Air Traffic Control was rerouting all incoming and holding all departing traffic. But there was still hope for those who were travelling and those awaiting incoming flights. And so, they waited. The people-watcher had no difficulty sorting out the A- from the B-type personalities. The As were ranting, whining, their body language aggressive. The Bs were accepting, very much into their que sera frames of mind. At 8:30 a female voice on the PA system announced: "Everyone with tickets aboard any carrier, kindly check with your carrier's ticket counter. Because of inclement weather, all flights have been cancelled this evening. Again, check with your carrier." The woman at the microphone, undoubtedly grateful she was out of sight, repeated the message, then clicked off. The people-watcher, reclining on his chair in the corner, watched the commotion her words had created. Everyone, it seemed, was saying more or less the same things. "What'll we do now?" ... "This is preposterous" ... "I'll never use such-and-such a carrier again" ... "What are we supposed to do, sleep here all night?", and so on. He was amused, a little superior and he knew he was being smug. He could afford to be. His company car was in the nearby lot, his trip wasn't urgent and the motel up Route 9, just three miles from the airport, was owned by a friend. His inconvenience would be minimal. People were on the move, to ticket counters, to hail cabs, back to their cars. Activity was the key word. Except! Except catercorner to where the people-watcher was making his observations. The woman there possessed a relaxed body language and a facial expression of detachment. She practically reposed, long legs crossed, people watching. "Ah," he thought, "a fellow traveller, as it were." Her eyes caught his the precise moment his thought ended. He smiled the approving smile usually given to strangers whose predicaments and methods of handling them are in sync. She returned the smile, raised her hand, and wiggled her index finger in the universal "come here" gesture. ***** Her smile held as she said, "You're about the cockiest man in the whole building, aren't you?". "I wont deny it, but maybe that's because I've been who those people are. Now I know enough not to cry about things I can do nothing about. But you, you're of a mind frame very much approximating my own. Why?" "Because as much as I want to get home," she responded, "there's no way I'll impose my need on the aviator's sense of safety. Besides, I like dense fog. It's almost sexual." The people-watcher's flare for snappy repartee deserted him. He was at a loss. He said nothing. "Where are you going?" she resumed. "New York," he said. "And you?" "Home to Milwaukee. Is New York your home?" "Yes, but I'm here in Greensboro every week on company business. They've given me a car so I just leave it in the lot when I go." "So what are you going to do between now and tomorrow morning?" He explained about his friend and the motel, that with his car here he'd have no problem being rested and relaxed during his wait for clear skies. "And you?" he asked. "I'd made up my mind to just sit but, I must say, the idea of a warm room is very appealing." "My Name is Roy Davis," he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Roy. My name is Sandi Jones." "Well, Miss Jones. Would you care to accompany me?" "I'd be delighted," she said. **** He drove slowly, the fog allowing minimal vision. Miss Jones was relaxed and confident. Davis was alert and tense. "Mmmm," she said, her hand reaching to touch his knee, "I love the way this weather makes me feel." He hadn't been aloof to her charms. In fact, Davis's reaction to her touch caused a little movement in his pants. Miss Jones, herself an experienced observer, didn't allow the spectacle to escape her attention. She slid her hand up his leg directly to her target, applied small pressure, feeling him and something else. That something else provoked her to squeeze just a little harder, evoking a small moan. "Did you put it on or was it put on for you?" she asked. He was slow to respond, even as she held and squeezed. He sighed and admitted it was a remembrance device snapped shut three days earlier by his sometime Mistress in New York. "Sometime?" she asked. "What does that mean?" "We don't have a permanent understanding. We get together occasionally. That's all. She asked that I not remove it until I get home." Incredulous, she said, "Asked? Only asked?" She squeezed harder. He whimpered. "If you were mine," she said, "your balls would be tied and separated. And I wouldn't be asking. What's more, I'd want the thong-ends coming out of your fly so I could play by pulling and torturing them at whim." "So, you stand for sensual female domination," he said. "Absolutely. I'm no stranger to the harness you're wearing and, by the way, you'll be showing it to me in more detail later on." Miss Jones released her grip, turned in her seat and rested her back against the door. Raising both legs from the floor, she positioned them in his lap. "Keep your eyes on the road, slave, at least the part you can see." "Yes, Mistress." She pressed down heavily. He was as much aware of that "slave/Mistress" exchange as he'd ever been about any conversation in his life. And it excited him. "From this moment on, you will address me not as Miss Jones but as Mistress Sandi." "Yes, Mistress Sandi." **** Mistress Sandi and Davis checked-in without difficulty. She was sitting at the table enjoying a nightcap. He - his ankles and wrists bound with his ties - knelt on the floor, eyes cast downward. She'd had him disrobe and assume the position just minutes after they'd entered the room. Then Mistress Sandi bound him. Peripherally, he saw the purse in her lap and her hands undoing the various fasteners. It took only a moment before the harmless, black leather purse strap became a standalone object of discipline. She stretched it between her hands, played with it for a moment or two, then stood and stepped the single pace separating them. "Open your mouth, slave," she said. She placed it between his lips, commanded that he hold it for her and remain still. The head of his cock glistened. Davis, the people-watcher, followed her with his eyes. Mistress Sandi opened her carry-on bag, retrieved a pair of black, 5" stiletto pumps, a pair of stay-ups and her make-up kit, then moved to the bathroom. She left the door open but his position didn't allow him to see. When she emerged ten minutes later, he was stunned by the radical makeover. Now Mistress Sandi's lips were bright red, her eye shadow pronounced, her business suit was gone replaced by a black bra, black panties, black stay-ups and those 5" spikes. She took the strap from his mouth, observed the ‘lumber' her appearance provoked and resumed her seat on the chair. Crossing her leg, she snapped her finger, pointing to the floor directly beneath her. He crawled as best he could, reached the spot, knelt upright with eyes lowered to her feet,just as he'd been taught. Mistress Sandi recognized his training but this wasn't her training. "Face down, slave. Your holding position with me is entirely prostrate, your lips on the toe of my shoe." "Yes, Mistress Sandi. Thank you, Mistress Sandi." "The transition pleases me, slave. Your "cock of the walk" attitude at the airport is now more appropriate, don't you think? I much prefer your bound cock on the carpet." She nudged his lips, "Lick." Davis abandoned himself to the task, laving the leather before his eyes in great strokes. The more he licked, the greater his submission became. And, consequently, the more enthusiasm he gave to his worship of her shoe. His mind belonged to her. Mistress Sandi raised her foot, offered her spiked heel to his mouth and commanded, "Suck it, slave. Suck and lick my heel. Worship it. Adore it. Make me know how much you need and want my special attentions. Show me how much you want to serve. That's it. I love watching your cheeks compress like that. You remind me of a squirrel. Give me your passion, slave. Right now, my shoe is the only thing in the world. You adore it. You respect its power, my power. Give my heel the respect it deserves. Good boy." Davis's mind was aflame. She'd taken it to complete subservience. The Mistress in New York was entirely negated. "Stop," she whispered. So involved in the foot worship the command took seconds to reach his intellect. He breathed a huge sigh and obeyed. "Get back up on your knees, dog. I want to inspect your harness." His pre-cum hung cock to floor and she was pleased. Reaching out and down, Mistress Sandi gathered it upward on the ends of her fingers and offered them to his mouth. "Lick, slave. I want your mess cleaned up." His tongue working her hand caused her a sentimental stir, the motion reminiscent of a favorite pet gently taking his treat. But that's what he'd become already, she realized, a pet. Her pet. Her dog. And she wanted to keep him, owning him body and soul. Davis's hands remained tied behind. She unsnapped the leather band around his penis, then the one around his scrotum, releasing him from the bondage. "Turn around," she demanded. "I'm going to release your wrists and re-do them in front. I need your help for something. Stay on your knees, slave." It was true, she did need his help. But there was another reason for tying his wrists in front. "Do you remember what I told you in the car about your balls?" "Yes, Mistress Sandi. You said if I were yours, you'd want them tied." "What else?" "Tied and separated, Mistress Sandi." "Lift your cock out of my way, slave. Your balls are mine and tied and separated is the way I want them." She'd taken a shoe lace from a sneaker in her carry-on luggage. Doubling it, she made a small noose and slipped the lace over his balls, then tightened it at the fleshy base. She brought one end right down the middle and encircled his bag with it, then did the same with the other lace on the opposite ball. A knot quickly followed, leaving about 6" of dangling she laces with which she could hold on to. His testicles looked like small balloons attached to strings in her hand. Davis's harness had been reasonably comfortable. The shoe lace was another story. Mistress Sandi had done the job well. He suffered a dull ache. "There," she said. "You look much prettier now, don't you, slave? What do you say?" "Yes, Mistress Sandi. Thank you, Mistress Sandi." "You may alternate, at your choice, between my full name or simply ‘Mistress'." "Thank you, Mistress." Davis continued to hold his cock out of her way and released it only on her command. It stood tall. "Put your head in my lap, slave," she said, spreading her legs. "I want to feel the bridge of your nose right on top of my clitoris. Do it." Davis was adept. The nub of his nose did battle with the nub of her essence. It was a short struggle. The nose vs. clit match was a first round decision . . . For the clitoris. Mistress Sandi screamed her pleasure. **** "And now you pay for the pleasure of bringing me to orgasm. Head on the floor, ass in the air. Your hands won't be getting in my way now, will they?" "No, Mistress." "Kiss it." She held the strap to his lips. He obeyed. She stood beside him, strap in hand, and meted out her own brand of discipline. He moaned, loudly. Stepping from her panties, she balled them, ordered his mouth open, and jammed them inside. The gag was effective. No one in the adjoining rooms heard a thing. She loved his movements, his straining, his whimpering, the raising of his buttocks to meet the punishment. She alternated, cheek for cheek, until they were crimson from the top down to just above his thighs, then she stopped. "Kneel up, slave. Show me your face." His eyes were red and his cheeks bloated from the makeshift gag. She held her hand to his mouth and retrieved the panties he offered her. Brushing a tear from his eye, she quietly said, "I'm very proud of you, slave. Now," she said as she resumed her seat, "thank me for disciplining you and taking you under my control." He bent to her shoe, kissing, licking and offering his thanks for her domination of him; her understanding of him; her majestic presence. And then he was quiet as his tongue continued its worshipping ritual of his Mistress' footwear. She released his wrists and ordered he take his cock in hand, that he show her how desirable she was. Davis's strokes were long and slow at first but, at her instigation, his hand became a blur. "Ask me, slave. Beg me." "Please, Mistress Sandi. Please allow me to cum. P-p-l-e-e-e-a-a-s-e!" "On the toe of my shoe, slave. I want it all there. Shoot it for me. Let me see all that lovely slave-cum. Do it. Now!" She made him lick her shoe dry, swallowing his cum in several gulps, before releasing his ankles. The shoe lace remained in place. **** The day dawned bright. He awoke her as she'd instructed, by lifting the blankets at the bottom of the bed and revealing her feet. Davis knelt beside the bed, extended his head, and gently licked, sucking her toes. Her eyes slowly opened and she smiled. "Good morning, slave." "Good morning, Mistress Sandi." They sat beside each other on the commuter flight to Atlanta where they'd catch their respective connecting flights home. He'd spread the airline blanket over himself, having earlier complained to the flight attendant of a chill. Mistress Sandi held the ends of the shoe lace the entire distance, giving one long, sensual, painful tug just as the plane's engines wound down at the gate.