Page 56 of Pierced

She puts her finger to her lips and whispers, “Shhhh.”

A couple of small moans escape my throat as I nod to show her that I’ll behave. This seems to satisfy her because a tiny grin lands on her lips and she moves toward me. She places her hand on my ass and begins to rub the sting away. Her thumb slips down into the inside of my thigh and rubs against my semi-wax-covered balls. I moan longer now, burying my face in the satiny pillowcase.

I’m working hard not to step outside my body and see this from above. Not to get a picture of what’s happening and how it looks. Not to judge myself. Or Myrtle, for that matter.

Because as much as this is about me and her, it’s also simply about me. Period. Full stop. In the limited contact I had with my father as I was growing up, one thing he emphasized with unflagging commitment was that it was incumbent on me never to give up my power. He has, to this day, an extremely rigid perception of what it means to be in control.

Ha. I wish he could see me now.

I must actually laugh aloud, without intending to, because suddenly another smack! welts my ass and I bite into the pillow again.

“Did I tell you you could laugh?” she asks. When I don’t answer quickly enough to satisfy her, she asks again, “Did I?” This time she grabs the leash attached to my collar and gives it a nice, healthy tug. It strains against my Adam’s apple and I cough.

This seems to freak her out for a second, because she drops the tension on the chain and the next thing I feel is her hands on my neck. Not in a strangulating way, which for about half a second is what I expect, but in an attempt to remove the collar from around my throat.

She unfastens it, slides it away, and then her hands are acting as the collar. A soft, sensual massage that loosens my spine, which has been, unacknowledged by me, tightening as we’ve gone along. I allow myself, for a moment, to relax into her touch.

I wonder if she knows that she’s giving me as much as I’m supposedly giving her. That she’s offering me an excuse to let go. To release my grip on myself and be handled. Be manipulated. Be owned by someone.

I haven’t had a romantic relationship in ten years. I’ve had encounters. Interludes. Distractions. But nothing close to approaching a relationship. The only enduring relationship I’ve had with a woman at all has been my time with Myrtle. That’s what’s causing this to feel so unusually intense, I suppose. This is the kind of thing you do with a lover or a partner. Not an employee.

But Anastasia and Christian didn’t really have anything between them before he started working her over either. Their relationship was forged in the crucible of a red room. I wonder if the basement of this big cat sanctuary is the tipping point for me and Myrtle.

Wow. There’s a sentence you really don’t think you’ll ever say.

Maybe Eden was onto something. Not about me. I continue to want to think that I know myself well enough to know whether or not I’m in love with someone. But perhaps she was right about Myrtle’s feelings for me. The way she’s taking care not to hurt me too much. The way she’s caring for me even under the framework of making me feel shame. Maybe there’s something there after all.

Oh, fuck. This could go sideways real fast.

And speaking of sideways…

She leans close to my ear and whisper, “I’m going to untie you so that you can roll over. Do not attempt to get off the bed. Do not attempt to touch me. Do not do anything I don’t tell you to do. Do you understand? You may speak.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Good.”

She straddles my back. The feeling of the latex from her boots, her powdered and scented flesh touching my ribs, and the warmth of her pussy through the shimmery panties touching my back is causing me to forget who I am. Who she is. Why we’re here.

It may just be my imagination or the touch of the fabric on my startled and traumatized body, but I could swear she’s wet. She feels wet. She feels like she’s getting off on this as much as I am. I’m pretending that it’s not turning me on so that I can keep up pretenses. What’s to say that she’s not doing the same?

She finishes untying both my wrists and I let my arms slide down in front of me. I’m splayed out on the bed, completely prostrate, totally vulnerable. I have no idea what happens now.

She slides her crotch down my back, across my ass, and down my legs as she reverses off me and stands. She hits my ass with the paddle again. Delicately this time. Just a kind of reminder. Just enough to let me know she’s still there.

“Roll over,” she says.

“Does it matter which direction?”

“On your back.”

“Yeah, but left or right, or… I don’t wanna presume.”

An almost impossible to detect smile is present in her answer. Almost impossible, but not totally. Not for me. I know her too well. “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Just face me.”

I choose to roll to my left. Seems like the correct choice. Once I’m completely onto my back, I catch her eyes behind the mask. Which is to say, I catch her staring at my rock-hard cock. I don’t know if she’s bothering to notice my eyes at all.

I want to ask, What now? It’s almost compulsive, my need to have control. To know what’s happening. What’s about to happen. To have answers. I fight with my mouth to keep it from opening uninvited. I bite my lip.