Page 50 of Pierced

But, shit, I’m not thrilled with the way things are now between us, so what the hell? May as well roll the dice and see what happens.

Because I think… I think Myrtle is done with me. I think, possibly, in her mind, she’s moved on already.

It’s obvious she doesn’t need a job with me. Perhaps she’s never needed a job with me. And every day since “the incident,” it’s become harder to come up with a rationale for why she sticks around.

So…

I take off my shoes, socks, and pants and start unbuttoning my shirt. When that’s done, and the only other article of clothing I have left is my boxer briefs, the full realization of what I signed up for—what she’s going to do to me tonight—manifests.

“Your minute is up.”

“I’m—one second.” I tighten my eyes, open them, take off the boxer briefs, and stand there behind the curtain. Naked. “OK, I’m ready.”

“You’re sure?” she purrs.

“Yes. I’m ready.”

“Then pull the curtain aside, take one step into the dungeon, and stop.”

I have an overwhelming urge to cover myself. Because some things you can’t take back. And the moment Myrtle sees me like this—stripped bare, down to nothing—I won’t be able to take that back.

I’m not embarrassed of my body. I work out. I eat right. I lay off the fromage as much as possible. So I have a very fit body. And my suits are custom-tailored. They are made not just to accommodate my physique, but to accentuate it. So it’s no mystery that Pierce has, as one might say, “got it going on.”

But if I do this… tomorrow at work, she’ll know. She’ll know what’s underneath.

So I draw in a deep breath, pull the curtain aside, and take one step into the dungeon.

It’s different than I remember. Which is to say, I’m not sure I really took it in at all. Last night it seemed very much like a candlelit basement in a big, weird house. Tonight, it feels like…

If the exterior of the house reminded me of my childhood home in Marseilles, this reminds me of the inside of some seventeenth-century French castle. In fact, it’s almost exactly like the catacombs leading to the Palace of Versailles. If the catacombs had received a makeover and been spruced up with lace and silk and painted in hues of silver and cream.

The cages are adorned with thin strips of satin. Soft, delicate material, but strung along the bars as much for function as design. It’s clear that they’re there in order to bind someone to them. To hold them there. Secure them.

Off to the side is a bed. A four-poster bed with a canopy. More satiny ribbons hang from the posts. It’s soft-looking and plush and elegant. But at the foot of the bed sits a chest with whips and handcuffs and bridles and some shit I’ve never seen before in my life.

Pillared candles are everywhere, creating a golden, amber glow that causes the metal and concrete and dark bricks in the walls to feel almost inviting. Almost. Because right in front of me is a red velvet rope. I reach to unfasten the barrier when I hear a sharp, “No!”

I look up as the billowy smoke from the candles swirls around my head and the smell of incense fills my nostrils. And then, like a wraith appearing from the shadows, Myrtle emerges.

She’s not wearing a nun’s outfit, as it turns out. She’s got on…

Ho. Ly. Fucking hell.

I can barely process it. Myrtle. She of the dark skirts and open blouses. She of the sexy librarian glasses and the knowing looks. She who I have seen every day for the last seven years, but never, ever, in my wildest dreams, like this.

The high heels she wears are eggshell-colored. Almost white. They have petite, silk ribbons on the tops. They’re sort of like Mary Janes, if Mary Jane were about to shove a stiletto into your crotch and bend you over to make you beg her to stop punishing you.

The hose she has on aren’t hose per se. They’re more like skin sleeves. Again, shimmery and white, they’re either rubber or latex or some material that blood and liquids will just slide off clean. They come to mid-thigh, and pinch tightly enough that the strong, toned flesh of her legs is cradled inside them and then erupts into glory at the place where they meet her garters.

The garters themselves are a complicated affair, and, like the cages and the bed, have satin ribbons hanging from them that trail down the sides of her legs. And rather than being bound to a garter belt by one single strand, there are four individual straps that traverse the circumference of her thigh and attach to the waistline of her frilly white panties.

She has on a corset. A finely stitched, ornate affair with a floor-length skirt hanging from the back and lines in front detailing the shape. Vertical stripes of silver that look like boning running along the body of the well-structured piece. It fastens across the front with five metal buckles that appear as both a seduction and a challenge. Guardians of the skin within.

The same goes for the bra. White satin with beaded detail and another metallic buckle in the front to restrict entry. Long, white gloves disappear under the puffy sleeves of a silk shrug that just covers her shoulders. It fastens with a fragile-seeming brooch in the front and rises along the sides of her neck in a pseudo-military collar.

She’s wearing a mask. Bedecked with rhinestones, it fans out in an arcing swoop beyond the sides of her eyes, and the way it sits across her defined cheekbones causes it to almost seem like her face is not her face, but a floating complement of cheeks and lips levitating in the air below her disguise. The hint of Myrtle is there, but this is another person entirely.

And on top of her head, she wears a tiara. Diamonds, and rubies, and sapphires. And they all appear real.