Page 74 of Pierced

Once we’re onto the rug, I loosen my hands and allow her long legs to land on the floor. I don’t let go of her with my mouth as I strip both my overcoat and my suitcoat off, and she helps me push them off my shoulders and down my arms. It’s dark in here, but the candlelight from the hurricanes she has lit in the foyer cast us in a half-glow, and the shadows dancing across her face make her appear as some sort of half-cherub, half-devil. In other words, the perfect creature for someone like me.

She reaches for the buttons on my vest and I go for the satin ties on her corset at the same time. We are fumbling and clumsy, our eagerness making us frantic. I jerk at the knots in the ribbons that I think will cause her body to fall free of its captivity, but it must be some kind of… It’s not a slip knot, because it doesn’t slip. So it... I can’t... It seems to just be... I think it’s getting tighter, so… maybe if I just…

She gasps in an, “Oh, shit,” as the tight satin cinches her harder, causing her to have to suck in her ribs.

“Fuck. What? What did I do?” I go to try to rectify whatever I just caused to go wrong, but she waves me off.

“No, no,” she chokes out. “It’s not… hold on.”

She fiddles with the knot that I drew in, trying to get it unwound. She kind of slaps at her stomach as if she can maybe knock it off.

“Seriously, let me help,” I say, coming toward her.

She waves me off again and turns to head to a writing desk. There’s an antique letter opener. She snatches it up, slices at the ribbons, and cuts them loose. She gulps in a breath and releases it on an exhale as the satin binders fall loose and limp and hang unceremoniously from her torso.

“They’re just… they’re ornamental,” she says. And then, to illustrate the point, she pops a snap in the front which opens the top a fraction, allowing the smooth flesh of her breasts to spill forward a bit. Which is distractingly pleasant.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s OK.”

“I hope that wasn’t like, your favorite outfit or anything.”

“I mean… it was.”

“Oh.”

“And it was designed by maybe the most famous dungeonwear designer in the world.”

“Oh.”

“But, y’know… no big.”

Fuck me. “Fuck me. I’m sorry. Tell me her name, I’ll have her make you ten more.”

“His name.”

“His?”

“Yeah. He was a he.”

“Was?”

“He died last year.”

For fuck’s sake. “For fuck’s sake. I’m sorry… um… how’d he die?”

“Auto-erotic asphyxiation. Which is probably an occupational hazard.”

I don’t know if she knows she’s making a joke, and I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I start laughing. Hard.

“Stop!” she says. But then she starts laughing too. “Stop! I’m serious!” She’s not serious. “Stop! It’s not funny!” It is funny.

“OK, OK,” I say, slowing my laugh down. “OK. But I am sorry. Shit. That was ridiculous.”

“Yeah.”

“It feels kind of like… Know what it’s like?”