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A friend 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 friend shrugged. "Call him," she said again. I was the youngest of trio girls. Getting taller up, I’d observed my sisters and their stud friends. Awkward smooches in the barn. Palms groping, shoveled away, more groping. I had dreams, murky photographs in my head. And I’d kneaded with myself some nights, unsatisfied, my massaging enlargening my longing. Like peckers were doing now. Oh, I’d had lots of peckers the last few years, good-sized ones, diminutive ones. peckers that were hair-trigger, and peckers that had to be coaxed. peckers that luved your basic fuck, and peckers that wished anything but your basic fuck. And I’d lie in bed afterward with every one of those peckers (never guys, or men, just cocks), damp, salty, periodically massaging in the dark after they started snoring, and I wished more, less, nothing, everything. I wished something I couldn’t admit to myself. I wished and wanted, but I was afraid. "Call him," my friend said. It was the devised lounging in the dark that stopped me from calling, and the smell of supposed love, and the emptiness, the loneliness, the unhappiness that was always worse after it was over. I was massaging in the dark. When I eventually made the call, he told me to come alone and to wear a mini-skirt and blouse. No underwear. My Palms shook. I trimmed everything that night. Everything but my head. I pushed a stool in front of the mirror and sat in it, naked. I touched myself, my gams opened up and soles resting against the wall on either side of the mirror. I inspected each fold of my gash and cunt, then touched my thumbs to my mouth, degustating myself. And I pawed my breasts, watching, playing with my nips until they hardened. I glided my thumbs in and out of myself, the thumbs of one hand in my asshole, the thumbs of the other in my cunt. And all the while, I watched. I was a stranger to myself. I was nobody I’d ever met before. The very first thing he did that night was to tie me arched over a cage. Some other damsel was locked inwards of it. "You think I’m going to penetrate you?" he said, arching close, but not kneading me. "Only if you’re lucky." And he cocked his head, his eyes sad, as though he pitied me. "Don’t worry." He sneered then, but it made me shiver. "I’m only going to hurt you a little." I wished to say something sexy. I wished to make him want me. I wished to do all the things I’d learned thru the years, the way a damsel 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 saw me. He’d observed my eyes stroll once he’d unlocked the door to his "special room" and led me inside. The walls were covered with straps, ropes, chain, shackles. My assets was on fire. That night he cut my clothing off me. He chained me to a iron bar. He locked a strenuous steel dog collar on my neck. Chain between my legs, around my breasts. iron in my mouth, my ass. iron clothespins clamping my nipples. And later, massager in my cunt. He opened up me out spread-eagle, lounging 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 dog collar 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 very first time, I wasn’t massaging in the dark anymore. "Yes sir."