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A acquaintance gave me his smartphone number weeks ago. "Call him. Just call him," she said. I’d stopped dating. It wasn’t the guys. Well, maybe a little. "Look, I’m over ‘relationships’ for the moment. I just want to be by myself for awhile. That’s all." My acquaintance shrugged. "Call him," she said again. I was the youngest of three girls. Growing up, I’d observed my and their fellow friends. Uncomfortable smooches in the barn. Forearms groping, shoved away, more groping. I had dreams, murky photographs in my head. And I’d caressed with myself some nights, unsatisfied, my fondling enlargening my longing. Like shafts were doing now. Oh, I’d had lots of shafts the last few years, meaty ones, diminutive ones. shafts that were hair-trigger, and shafts that had to be coaxed. shafts that enjoyed your basic fuck, and shafts that dreamed anything but your basic fuck. And I’d lie in sofa afterward with every one of those shafts (never guys, or men, just cocks), damp, salty, at times fondling in the dark after they started snoring, and I dreamed more, less, nothing, everything. I dreamed something I couldn’t admit to myself. I dreamed and wanted, but I was afraid. "Call him," my acquaintance said. It was the devised lying in the dark that stopped me from calling, and the scent of supposed love, and the emptiness, the loneliness, the unhappiness that was always worse after it was over. I was fondling in the dark. When I ultimately made the call, he told me to come alone and to wear a miniskirt and blouse. No underwear. My Forearms shook. I clean-shaved everything that night. Everything but my head. I shoved a tabouret in front of the mirror and sat in it, naked. I touched myself, my gams spread and soles resting against the wall on either side of the mirror. I tested each fold of my cunt and cunt, then touched my fingers to my mouth, degustating myself. And I fondled my breasts, watching, toying with my nips until they hardened. I slipped my fingers in and out of myself, the fingers of one mitt in my asshole, the fingers of the other in my cunt. And all the while, I watched. I was a stranger to myself. I was nobody I’d ever encountered before. The first thing he did that night was to bind me arched over a cage. Some other woman was locked inwards of it. "You think I’m going to pummel you?" he said, bending close, but not touching me. "Only if you’re lucky." And he cocked his head, his eyes sad, as however he pitied me. "Don’t worry." He sneered then, but it made me shiver. "I’m only going to hurt you a little." I dreamed to say something sexy. I dreamed to make him want me. I dreamed to do all the things I’d learned thru the years, the way a woman takes control. But I couldn’t. I was falling. I was out of control. I was cracking into pieces. He sneered because he knew everything the moment he witnessed me. He’d observed my eyes stroll once he’d unlocked the door to his "special room" and led me inside. The walls were caked with straps, ropes, chain, shackles. My figure was on fire. That night he cut my garb off me. He fettered me to a iron bar. He locked a heavy steel cangue on my neck. Chain inbetween my legs, around my breasts. iron in my mouth, my ass. iron clips pinching my nipples. And later, massager in my cunt. He spread me out spread-eagle, lying on my back. He packaged leather around my neck and tightened. He cut off my air. He made me come over and over. After he was done with me and let me loose, I kneeled in front of him and smooched his boots. He put a thinner cangue on my neck and locked it in place. "You’ll do everything I say. When I call, you’ll come immediately." I perved at the floor. "Yes sir." "You’re mine now." I shivered, not from cold, but from something else, something new, an electricity. For the first time, I wasn’t fondling in the dark anymore. "Yes sir."