“Is this what you were thinking when you wrote about being fucked like you want to be fucked?” “Yes.” “What?” “Yes, sir.” “Good girl.”
hair pulled up toes curled mouth in my ear
“If you wanna play this game, here’s how this is going to work. You say the safe word and everything stops. We put our clothes back on. We go eat dinner. But if you don’t say the safe word, I own you.”
cocooned inside walls of scraped wood and everyone outside sleeping on camper pads over concrete floors can hear us
“First rule every word that comes out of your mouth ends in sir. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” “Good.
Second rule you don’t come without my permission. And if you do” –I can hear him smile– “I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
tomorrow at the restaurant I won’t be able to think I’ll be holding on to the bathroom stall breathing in gulps trying not to scream
“I read that poem of yours on the internet, and I wondered who she was that wrote that and how she wanted to be fucked. And then I saw you in my living room and I knew. Do you know how I knew, Lorena?” “How, sir?” “Because I’m a dom, and I can recognize little sluts like you.”
I say the hours out loud under my breath until I’m supposed to be there in stockings and eye liner four hours and twenty minutes four hours and twenty minutes three hours and ten minutes three hours and ten minutes at two hours I’m shaking I can’t eat I almost vomit the food I swallow my co-workers see my desperation and think I want to go home because I’m tired
“Twelve minutes. You’re twelve minutes late. How many times should I punish you for each minute?” –I’m laughing but I don’t answer– “Turn around. I want you to count these out.”
outside there’s a band playing and a boy listening to everything but I can’t tell you who he is or why he matters I scream into the blankets so he can’t hear me but really I get off on knowing that he can
“What number are we on?” “Ten.” “What number are we on?” “Twelve.” “What number are we on?” “Twenty-four.” “What was that?” “Twenty-four, sir.” “I can’t hear you.” “Twenty-four! sir.” “That’s two for each minute. Because this is your first time, I’m going to go easy on you. Next time it will be five, then ten. You don’t want to know what happens if you’re late more than three times.”
when it’s over there’s cigarettes in the back yard and wind blowing up leaves and paper and bits of trash swirling up underneath a streetlight
I wrote my letter to Marie I wrote it and gave it over today to the woman who put a white postage stamp over my marbled yellow paper
Now all I can do is wait.