“Secrets, secrets are no fun.” The rictus grin spreads across her face, gaunt through self-inflicted starvation, gaunt from the way she pulls her hair back, tight behind her head. I feel the flick of her ponytail, the soft warmth of her lips brushing against my cheek as she whispers into my ear. “Secrets, secrets hurt someone.” She drives the point of her stiletto heel down, hard. Down onto my feet, already red this early into the interrogation. What a way to start the morning. Her smile stretches further, her pleasure at my pain touching on the orgasmic. I feel her hand, could feel her subtle caress along my jaw line, probing for a weakness. I flinch away from her reptilian touch. She can smell my fear, can taste it as her tongue stretches out to touch the air. “I know you have a secret. And I know that you’d very much like to keep it. Wouldn’t you?”
I keep my mouth closed; she doesn’t want answers, not yet. I grimaced as best I could, beneath my heavy black blindfold, already heavy with the smell of sweat, bracing myself for the inevitable barrage I knew she was waiting to inflict. She was holding herself back, trying to stay calm. To stay in control. Catching at the heels of her fantasy, snatching at her breath, just behind my shoulder. I hear her leaving the room, the impact of her heels echoing off the wall before me. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, indebted to my resilience, saved by my silence.
He tried to warn me, as he sat half hidden behind his heavy wooden desk, a barrier set between himself and an often-violent world. He tried to scare me off with tales of misconduct and misadventure, hands shaking as he remembered his halcyon days. He wanted to know why I wanted to be so different, wanted to know if this was truly what I craved. Why I was interested, what I had heard. “Fuck off;” I told him over the table top, “what’s your excuse?” I just needed some excitement; I didn’t want to settle down into just another suburban life, aging beside just another suburban wife. I needed a change, needed something different, something new. I told them that I didn’t want to end up like my father.
I remember his callously cryptic smile, on a face that I just felt an inner compulsion to hit, that damned smile smearing across the wrinkled leather of his face as he muttered across the metre of wood between us, “The apple never falls far from the tree, sonny.” I told him I was ready, I was willing. He never told me about the three days blindfolded, gagged and bound to a chair. He never told me about the intermittent and utterly unpredictable cycles of pleasure followed by pain. I was up against one of the best, he had warned me. He was right.
I heard her return, something turned on inside me at the clicking of those heels. Days had passed, days and weeks and years had flown by as I wallowed, lost in the space between my earlier imaginings and the harsh reality that confronted me. I wanted the best, and that’s what I got. He gave me the code words that would guarantee my safe return, and I had passed across that desk a small mountain of electronic treasure – discreetly charged, of course – and I was to get nothing but the best service he could provide.
Four days with a dominatrix.
For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Catherine challenged me with “What’s your excuse?” and I challenged Lille with “Write a deliberately anachronistic story set in a Medieval monastary, with time-travel as the focus but without using the word ‘time-machine.”