A Christmas Story, Part 6: Good Girl

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Six: Good Girl      

“Be a good girl,” he said. His voice thrummed with humour. “Wait here.” There’d been something else in his voice, too, a promise of something darker that sent a thrill down my spine.

            But that was—God, I don’t know—I’ve lost track of time. Too long ago. He’s left me here in the dark. I’m naked but for heels and stockings. My arms remain cuffed behind my back. This wasn’t how I planned it in my head. Giggles and naughty fun, some heavy petting; we’d make out, I might go down on him again. But not—left tied up naked and alone, with an aching jaw and sore knees and cramped toes.

            He unwrapped me first. As the ribbon slipped away, he stroked my skin and fondled my tits, held me by the neck and lay a gentle kiss on my forehead above the blindfold. Then he said, “Be a good girl,” and left me kneeling at the centre of coils of red ribbon. “Wait here.” I listened to his steps, following his progress upstairs. A door opened and closed—the office, maybe. He’s still in there, just as I’m still here kneeling, waiting for him, bound and blind and silenced.

            Bundled under the Christmas tree, left with the thought that yes, I really do want to be his good girl. This thought confuses and frightens me a little. It is why I am here, and yet I’ve never wanted to be a girl, let alone a good one. But the thought of being his good girl excites me. Growing a little uncomfortable, I shift and squeeze my thighs together. I’m still wet, very much so. The cuffs jingle with my desire to reach around and thrust my fingers between my legs, grab my tits and squeeze. My breasts feel heavy, nipples hot and hard. God, why am I so turned on by all this?

            He’s taking his time. Central heating breathing, the faint hum of the fridge. Briefly, the sound of water trickling through unseen pipes. Startingly clear, the remaining ice in his tumbler melts, cubes crashing into each other. And his smell lingers in the room, too: soap, whisky, and the faint, acrid scent of cum.

            This submission is an act… and yet somehow, no it isn’t. A profound insight hangs tantalisingly outside of reach. The silence and darkness and the sheer intensity of my own physicality pushes me inwards. The sensuousness of the situation leads me to picture Cindy—or rather, myself—from without, still life capture of a young woman kneeling on soft carpeting beneath a decorated tree in the dimness of a moonlit Christmas night. Arms bound behind the back, blindfold, perfect breasts topped by darker areola and tight, pink nipples. Cherry red stockings, heels, lips and ball gag, painted nails and a sheen of sweat on pale skin gleaming. The intensity of the image steals my breath because this isn’t fantasy—it’s me: sexy—humiliating—and alluring. Again, that terrible duality of wanting to fuck the girl and embody the girl being fucked.

            I want to touch myself something terrible. God, do I ever. My fingers itch to finger myself, I want to slide them into my pussy and clamp down. I want to fondle my tits, pinch nipples, roll them between finger and thumb and pull and twist. I want—a finger, languidly sliding over sensitive lips—or something else, slipping between them.

            It’s so hard to think straight. I wiggle my toes to alleviate the discomfort of waiting. Faintly, I can hear him upstairs, a distant report of activity I can’t identify. It’s like, fine, I get it, okay? You’re in charge, Mr Connor. You’re the boss. With this thought, arousal flickers between my legs, in my nipples, the heat rising that little bit higher. I clench and unclench my hands, feel my fingertip tingle, and yearn to dig my nails deep into my thigh.

            Another tug at the cuffs. It’s very tempting to snap free. I remind myself this is all a performance for his benefit. He’s in charge, but only by my sufferance. Emphasis on the ‘suffer’—God, my jaw’s really starting to hurt, I rushed the gag and the ball sits too far back in my mouth. The top of my ears, too, the leather strap chafing, too tight and giving me a headache. Then, I hear his steps. About fucking time. He better take this goddam thing off my head. Focusing on my annoyance helps distract me from just how fucking horny I am.

            Michael descends the steps at a steady pace. He enters the room, turns up the lights. He moves with renewed purpose. Instantly, I can feel that his old authority has returned. He radiates a presence I haven’t felt since arriving here last night.

            Good, but something like fear that isn’t fear grips my heart. Especially as Mr Connor seizes my upper arm. He’s being rough, fingers curling into the meat of my slender biceps. Pins and needles erupt across my legs, and I gasp with pain. I wobble unsteadily in stilettos. Without his strong hand at my shoulder, I might stumble.

            I want—need to speak; there’s so much I want to say. I make incoherent sounds around the ball and then—he slaps my bum, hard.

            “Shut up,” he says.

            I huff with annoyance.

            He tugs the blindfold up over my eyes. The sudden light makes me blink. After so long kneeling in the dark, I feel unsteady, momentarily confused. He’s changed his clothes, navy designer jeans and a black, fitted button down shirt that emphasises his firm belly and strong chest. His eyes glitter with amusement as he reaches around my head and loosens the gag, pulls it free from my mouth, catching some of the drool with a waiting cloth.

            “Oh, thank God—”

            He slaps my bare bum again, harder. “Quiet,” he barks.

            A little hurt, but also terribly turned on, I look up at him imploringly and begrudgingly nod. My jaw aches. My legs feel numb. He towers over me, and I feel small and vulnerable and, yeah, some part of me thrills at this, too.

            He stares at me for a time, eyes hard like flint but then he softens, grins and there’s something almost childlike in his smile. “Okay. We’re going to try it your way,” he says. “But I need you to listen, got it? Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?”

            Unable to suppress a little grin of my own, I nod.

            “You’ve really fucked with my head, you know that, Cindy?” He says it in a kindly voice. “Here I was, living through what I assumed was just another midlife crisis, how typical, how boring. Forty-five and wondering where it all went wrong. I was coming to terms with—the failure of my marriage, failed fatherhood, failed career—and yes, even failed fantasies. But that’s life, right, and I was ready to slide into whatever failures the next forty years would bring…” he trails off, shrugs.

            “Then you come along and—” he waves his hand at my nubile, bound form— “this, and fuck, Cindy—just, fuck, you have no idea what you’ve done up here.” He taps his temple. “From the first day—yes, the very first day you pranced into our offices in your tight little skirts—I’ve fantasized of grabbing you and—well. Maybe you’ll find out.” He smiles ruefully. “And you were right, of course. Guilt. Doubt. Fear. I was so busy feeling sorry for myself I nearly let this beautiful opportunity slip away.”

            Roughly, he cups my chin in his hand, and his eyes harden like flecks of slate. “Not anymore,” he says. “So here are some ground rules. Starting tomorrow, I am in charge. We will explore these fantasies of mine. Maybe they’re your fantasies, too. But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because in these fantasies, we are not equals.

            “I am not your boss. I am your master. Do you understand?”

            I hesitate. I nod, once.

            “Say it. Call me master.”

            My jaw aches and I struggle to get the word out. At my hesitation, he takes my nipple between finger and thumb and pinches, lightly. I gasp, he tightens his grip, twists lightly. It hurts, burns; my knees buckle, just a little, and I sag in his arm.

            “Ma—” I choke on the word, try again: “master.”

            His lip curves in a small smile. “I like the sound of that. Good girl.”

            I shiver. The word feels heavy on the tongue, but his praise delightful to the ear.

            “I will tie you up,” he says. “I will spank you. Maybe I will humiliate you. I will test your boundaries, and my own. Do you understand?”

            Biting down on my lip so hard it nearly breaks the skin, I nod.

            “Your safe word is ‘Andromeda’. Say the word, and we stop. If you can’t speak, you tap out: three taps, and we stop. And if you can’t tap out, you shake your head, moan or grunt, three times. Understand?”

            This is well outside my comfort zone. These games, what he wants, it’s something new and that makes it both exciting and frightening. Truth is, as David I wasn’t really into this kinky stuff. Obviously, I met plenty of women over the years who were. Especially more recently, where it seems over the past few years to have gotten increasingly more popular, especially with the younger ones. Tie me up, spank me, gag, insult, use us, these girls demanded, collars and kisses, tongue and fingers and fucking.

            I gave them what they wanted. And sure, I enjoyed it, too. But I never reciprocated. No one ever tied me up. I never wrapped a girl in ropes and smacked her ass and looked at her and wondered, what it’s like to be her? How does it feel?

            Not once did I wish to be the girl. Oh sure, some girls tried taking charge, but it was always one of my lines in the sand, a line not for crossing. A little awkward role-playing, fine. But no one ever made me their bottom, I was the man, dammit and I never submitted to any… bitch, looking to taking charge.

            But of course, the problem with a line in the sand is it gets washed away by the next rising tide. Now that Cindy’s come along, I’ve been heeled and corseted, tied and gagged, fingered and fucked and spanked, and—fuck me for a liar if I don’t kind of love it.

            Wide-eyed, I nod.

            I see the excitement in his eyes. “Starting tomorrow, and for the entire day, you are my—toy, a plaything. You have no authority, no agency, no power whatsoever except for what I gift you.”

            I nod, yes.

            He smiles, draws me into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispers. He holds me like that, tightly and not only reinforces my arousal but confirms my decision to agree to his terms. Pleasurable waves tremble through me as I fall into his embrace, a sensual languidness at the thought of his total control. I feel weak and wonderful in this weakness.

            “You can speak, now,” he says.

            But I’m happy in his arms and feel no desire to speak, only to stay like that for a little longer. Equally, I can sense he wants to hear me speak, confirming or challenging his decision. So, I ask the first question that comes to mind: “why tomorrow? Why not start now?” To be fair, it’s late, Boxing Day’s only a few hours away but still, he’s already got me naked, and my arms remain cuffed behind my back; why wait? I’m ready.

            I mean, I think I’m ready.

            “Because it’s Christmas,” he says. “And I’d like to spend the evening with an equal.” Then he laughs and all the sternness melts away, he visibly relaxes, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I guess I’ll settle for spending it with my better.”

            “Hardly.” Stepping close, rising on my toes, I kiss his cheek. “Are you sure?”

“I could ask you the same.” He turns me around, releases me from the cuffs. Then, he takes my hand. “You’ve given your consent, but this is probably a lot more than you thought you were signing up for when you agreed to spend Christmas with me. I’ve thought a lot about what I’m going to do. But have you? I’m worried I might go too far.”

            He makes a good point. “Well then, why don’t you show me?”

            Not long after, we’re back on the sofa. I’ve slipped on a short red skirt and a tight, long-sleeved white top, sparkly with sequins. I’ve kept the red thigh-highs and thankfully ditched the shoes, curling my toes in the soft carpeting. Meanwhile, he’s grabbed a pair of beers from the fridge and queued up some entertainment. Mr Connor’s about to let me in on his fantasies: he loads up his favourite porn and streams it to the TV.

            It’s an exceedingly surreal experience. Like, sure, I’ve watched porn with a partner a few times. But it’s rare, right? Normally, it’s a very personal thing. In fact, it’s not really my thing at all. I don’t have a problem with it, I’ve just never really needed it. And so, sitting there next to this man, watching his sexual fantasies made flesh by a mix of professional actors, digital generation, and amateur couples is—weird. We’re sitting rigidly apart, and he’s red-faced as he hits play.

            The girl on the screen is sexy—slim, with well-formed boobs, tattoos down her arm, long hair, piercings. Soft-lit, candles in the background. She trails slow kisses up the reclining form of an anonymous man. She begins her fervent, ten-minute worship of his cock. Her enthusiasm steadily grows. His face is never shown, but his pleasure is audible. Finally, she dives down, deepthroats him balls-deep and his fingers curl into the bedsheets, her throat moving in silent waves as she swallows. Smiling, she faces the camera and a little cum dribbles from the corner of her mouth.

            We watch it in silence, together. At the end, I’m profoundly confused, I’m aroused imagining myself the faceless man, shooting my load, can feel that ball-clenching ecstasy of release; but I’m also the girl, tits swaying, hair brushed to one side, his heavy musk in my nose. “I—don’t know if I can do that end bit,” I admit. “I mean, I can try if you want me to, but I might gag.”

            In the next video, there’s a man in a suit, smoking a cigar, drinking whisky, some kind of mafia don or corporate big shot, it’s not clear. He’s sat in some dark-panelled study with his high-heeled trophy wife in a too-tight dress. There’s some pure am-dram bullshit between the man and woman before a maid enters with drinks on a platter. It’s not long before the sexy maid’s bent over his lap. The man spanks her, ties her arms behind her back, fucks her face until he sprays his load over her impressively heaving bosom. The wife watches and plays with herself before ordering the maid to clean up. Smiling, the servant scoops the cooling cum off her tits and licks her fingers clean.

            Mr Connor looks over at me. He’s a little red in the face but it’s not really embarrassment anymore. An impressive erection tents his jeans. I give it a little pat. “You like that?” He nods, I pause the video, take his hand and lead him upstairs. I pull my suitcase out of the wardrobe and show him the outfit I didn’t unpack: the French maid uniform. Julia mailed it to me after we went out separate ways. No idea what she was thinking, but now I’ve got the corset, black stockings, white petticoats, shiny platform stilettos, apron and cap—all of it. I hold the corset up against my torso, grin and look up at him through half-lidded eyes. “What do you think?” His speechless excitement makes me laugh. “I was going to surprise you with this tomorrow, you know, clean up downstairs in this. But since you’re in charge, I wouldn’t want to presume….”

            “You’re wearing it,” he says.

            That breaks the ice for us and back downstairs, we’re a lot more open about the porn he plays. In the next one, some kind of poorly acted home invasion scenario, the girl ends up tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged. We laugh at the poor dialogue, he bets I can’t guess where it’s going, and we clink bottles when I get it right. We watch as the thief dives under the woman’s dress and eats her out, and she thrashes her head in ecstasy as she moans through her gag. Such a considerate thief, Mr Connor intones, and I laugh. It’s a weirdly comradely moment, just two guys watching porn together, drinking beer. After, I tell him I’m okay with that one but found the gag today painful after wearing it for too long. He takes that under consideration. “I’ve got a bit gag,” he says. “We can try that instead.”

            After that, an office scenario: there’s a deadline, the boss is working late and so’s the secretary, and it hews so closely to yesterday evening we both chuckle a little uneasily. But the man’s a lot rougher than Mr Connor. He tears off the girl’s skirt, mauls her tits, grabs her by the neck, pulls on her hair. We pause the video. He takes my hand. Is that what you imagined, I ask, yesterday at work, when I came into your office? Yes, he answers, from the very first day you came into our offices. He hastens to add, but not without your consent. We return to the screen, frozen image of a half-naked woman bent over an office desk, skyscraper heels thrusting her ass high in the air. Would you have let me? he asks. No, I say, not yesterday. Tomorrow? he asks. My breath catches in my throat. Yes, tomorrow. He plays the video. The man pins the woman from behind, his massive cock ready to impale her. He grips her by the ponytail, yanks her head back. Grabs her roughly by the waist and then pushes into her asshole. My grip on Michael’s hand tightens, he winces in pain. He stops the video, looks at me. No anal? he asks. For a moment, I can’t breathe. I let go of his hand, clutch my neck. He waits, tucks a stray coil of hair behind my ear. I need to hear you say it, he says. But I don’t say it. I slow my breathing. Eventually, I force myself to say, let’s see how it plays out.

            “Remember the safe word,” he says.

            The next is a slow, extended showcase of bondage, an erotic and elegant display of rope-skill. It goes a long way towards calming me as I watch the meticulous proficiency of the man on screen. With sensual care and patience, the man ties the girl, her arms, long coils of soft rope drawing wrist and elbow and upper arm together, binding her limbs to her long, braided hair. This long line is then woven into crosslines that tie her arms to her torso, wraps around her breasts, and then downwards, tight between her legs and then down to her thighs and knees until her legs, too, are bound. Soon, she is suspended in the air by these ropes. She wiggles sensuously in suspension. There is no possibility of escape. There is no indication she wants to escape. She is a beautiful object of art on display, the contrast of red rope against her dark skin, the woven pattern, and the blissful calm of her beautiful face. Mr Connor looks at me. I hesitate. I find the woman’s helplessness alluring. There is also something terrifying in the idea of being so utterly powerless and at another’s mercy. I gnaw my lower lip before giving a single, hesitant nod.

            Then we watch another soft-lit, professionally filmed production where the man slowly undresses the woman down to exquisite lingerie. They kiss and stroke each other, and he leads her to the bed. She lies on her back. He slips a blindfold over her eyes, then binds her wrists and ankles to the bedposts. Spread-eagle, she wiggles in erotic ecstasy as he teases her. I hold Mr Connor’s hand, watching breathlessly. The man tickles her with a brightly coloured peacock feather, traces lines down her slender belly, brushes her bald pussy. I draw Mr Connor’s fingers to my lap, slide them up beneath my skirt and moan as his finger brushes my pussy through thin panties. No doubts, this time: Yes, let’s do that one, I pant. Are you sure, he replies as on the screen, the man retrieves a long, flexible wand from beneath the bed. A crop, and he lays a few, swift strokes across the woman’s flank, her breasts. She writhes on screen, strains against her restraints and now, my arousal’s conflicted. He brings ice to her nipples, and hot wax to her smooth belly, and she flinches with every drip. Eventually, he mounts her, muscular ass raised high before entering her in one smooth, powerful thrust. She cries out with a shuddering moan, and again several times, and he relentlessly rides her until they climax together.

            “Still sure about this one?” Mr Connor asks.

            And in a very small voice, I answer, “yes, please.”

            And on the screen, the next video is already playing, and very quickly it’s clear where this one is heading, and a cry rises in my throat, but my throat clamps shut around it and I watch in silent horror as the pretty young woman is circled by two muscular, well-hung men. Very quickly, they have her on all fours on a futon mattress; too quickly, the men position themselves at either end of the girl. No, I say, but nothing comes out, I stay silent as horror grips my chest and no, I try again but watch helplessly as first one man fills her mouth and the other seizes her by the hips and—no; I still can’t speak as the second man fucks her from behind and she’s suspended, impaled between both spears and the first tears slide down my cheeks as—

            “Cindy?” The video freezes, the woman’s face caught in a rictus of either pain or pleasure.

            “Not that one,” I whisper. “Please.”

            Mr Connor reaches for me, intending comfort. Involuntarily, I flinch back from his touch. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s not you.”

            He nods towards the screen. “Something in this triggered you.”

            “Yes.” The idea of physical contact with a man right now makes my skin crawl. Because he can’t do it, I hug myself, tightly. He turns off the tv, reaches for some tissues. Smiling gratefully, I wipe my nose, dab at my eyes. The tissue comes away smudged peach and bronze and black. “Sorry,” I repeat.

            “This morning, when you told me about the man who hurt you.” His voice is level, controlled. “It wasn’t the whole story, was it?”

            My mouth opens to explain, but nothing comes out. There’s a buzzing in my ears, a pain in my stomach. I realise my hands are clenched into my skirts, twisting the fabric tight. I try again, croaking out, “sorry”—and realize I’m crying, properly crying now, and suddenly shaking, too. It’s—unmanly—embarrassing—and I try to apologize for that, too—“sorry,” and the pain in my belly redoubles, I let go of my skirts and hit myself where it hurts, to push the pain away, and I’m saying it again, “sorry”—

            Mr Connor catches my hands. “Stop.” He keeps hold of my hand. “Cindy. Stop.”

            My gaze tracks from his hands, holding me, to his eyes. I am gripped by an instinct to break free and hit him. His touch does not disgust me. There is anger in his eyes, but it is not directed at me. Rather, I can see it is directed at those who hurt me, at a world that empowers men to hurt young girls. And Mr Connor isn’t one of those men. He hasn’t hurt me.

            Slowly, I withdraw my hands from his and lay them on my lap. I smooth out my dress, chasing invisible wrinkles. He waits, patiently.

            “I told you,” I begin, “my—sexual—experiences before, they weren’t—good ones.” And I tell him what happened the night after Icarus. The details are necessarily vague. A night out, double dates. Good food, flirting conversation, too much to drink. A bar, afterwards. Drugs, more drink, and a slow and steady escalation of male attention. Alongside this a growing sense of inevitability, of where this would end up. The women’s washroom at Circe’s. Julia promises. Julia threatens. Stay, this is what happens. Leave, the other thing happens. Fear, tearing me both ways, and over it all the humiliation of knowing that either Tom discovers that his date for the night, this cute twenty-year-old nymphet is really his old drinking buddy squeezed into a tight dress; or my old drinking buddy shoves his tongue down my throat, his hand up my dress, and thrusts his cock—wherever he wants.

            We went back, I explain to Mr Connor, to the woman’s apartment. Not long until it’s two women on their knees, eager faces buried in their partners’ crotches until the game shifted, and then it was just one girl on all fours—me.

            I point my chin at the screen, still hugging myself. “That was me,” I say. It’s the first time I’ve spoken about this to anyone. Acknowledging the similarities between an actress in a porno and my own experience triggers a shudder of revulsion. “You were right. I am… God, you must think I’m such a slut.”

            He looks stricken, and I hurry on before he interrupts. “It was my fault,” I say. Almost as vividly as the night it happened, I sense the touch of two men on my naked body and I feel—filthy, ashamed. “That’s the worst of it. I—deserved what they did to me, I did, I knew what was going to happen and didn’t even try and stop it.” I feel sick, nearly gag. A cock in my mouth and—the hurt as Tom took my rear, my first time. Rhythmic slap of skin against skin, thighs against ass. Lines in the sand, wiped away. How—a friend; once we sat side-by-side, blonde bimbos between our legs; God, if he ever found out! The final breaking of something already eroded; still broken, never to heal. Left helpless and weak—but also not, because I could’ve ended it at any point. Spit out the flesh gagging me, kick him away. But no. I… gave up, let it happen. No, it was worse than that. I knowingly put myself in that position. It was my fault. “I’m—” I feel like I’m about to throw up, stomach clenching so tightly I gasp, bend double, forehead to knees. When the pain ebbs, I straighten and turn to him. “A fucking whore. You were right.”

            “I shouldn’t have used those words,” Mr Connor says. “I’m sorry I used those words.”

            “You were right to send me away,” I say.

            He raises his hand. For a moment, I think he’s going to strike me. I’d welcome the blow. I deserve it and make no effort to stop him. But he’s eying his own hand contemplatively, rather than with intent to use it. “You hit me,” he says, and what I see in his eyes is not disgust, but rather sadness. “When I was feeling sorry for myself. But you—what was done to you? That wasn’t your fault. Those other people, they hurt you. They chose to hurt you. That was their choice, not yours. Could you have walked away? Maybe. I doubt it. The—pressure—put on young women, especially these days; I can’t pretend to understand. It was different when I was your age, I think. Though maybe I’m fooling myself.”

            He lowers his hand. “We’ve all seen the stories, but it’s easy to believe they happen somewhere else, or to people you don’t know. Or maybe, they’re all just made up, more fake news. But still, girls wake up every next morning in strange beds filled with regret at what they’ve done or had done to them. Nice boys who turn nasty after a few dates. Or the ones who take the girl’s phone away, control and dominate their lives. Insist they dress a certain way or demean them in public. Guys who—” he cuts off, angry. Then he sighs. “But you don’t need me to tell you any of this, do you?”

            He’s right, of course. The girls, they’ve all got their stories. Especially Emma, who seems to draw the worst of men. But even Mel’s been slapped around more than once, and Willow coerced into doing stuff she didn’t want.

            For a moment, he’s very distant, focused on some space on the opposite wall. With deliberate slowness, his hand clenches and unclenches, over and over. Whatever he’s thinking about, he eventually grimaces, shakes his head. “I’m very sorry, Cindy, for what happened to you.”

            This time, when he reaches for my hand, I don’t pull away. His touch is gentle.

            “Don’t be,” I say. “It wasn’t you.”

            “But it could have been. I’m not stupid, or blind. I’m capable of terrible things too, Cindy. We all are. Had I not met Rose—” he shrugs. “Who knows? I’ve had twenty years to come to terms with my—desires. Had I stayed single… and frustrated; who’s to say I wouldn’t have—coerced—or force—myself on a girl, where we were both young?”

            I shake my head, gently. “No,” I say. “You’re not that kind of man. Believe me when I say—I know, okay? I’ve—met—that kind of man.”

            “I wish I shared your confidence,” he says. “Can you understand, though, why I’ve been so hesitant?” His thumb strokes the back of my hand, and his eyes are grey and serious. “These—urges—of mine, what kind of man do they make me? I want to tie you up, Cindy, control you and yes, hurt you—hurt a young woman half my age. How am I any better than the men who hurt you? Than the men who hurt…” He trails off, squeezes his eyes shut as though to block out something unpleasant. He raises my hand to his lips and lays a gentle kiss to my fingertips. “I don’t want to hurt you, Cindy.”

            “You won’t,” I whisper, and mean it.

            “I want to believe that. I really do.”

            In the silence that follows, I feel with surpassing intensity this feminine illusion I’ve crafted. This has gone far beyond simply performing the girl I appear to be. Nothing forced me to accompany my boss home for Christmas. I chose—suggested, even—to watch, maybe even embody, his erotic fantasies. I owe him; this is true, and I want to make right the things I’ve done. But this goes well beyond that.

            Truth is, these tears, the tight twist to the gut—the experience of being right here and now, as he holds my hand, and looks at me—these emotions are real. I am so very far from the man I used to be, a single short year ago. The pain of my first sexual experience remains vivid. So too, that final night at Julia’s apartment in which she made an offering of me against her own pain, a sacrifice given to two men as payment for things done in ignorance many years ago. Atop this, the shame and humiliation of pretending—and jealousy, yes, in comparing myself to Michael—always simmers beneath the surface.

            And yet, I am content. In his presence, I feel safe; at night in his bed, the nightmares remained distant. His version of Cindy is not necessarily one I would have ever explored, yet in taking on the girl he imagines or wants me to be, I find myself… happy. His touch elicits a powerful reaction in me, and the thought of surrendering to his desires still excites me.

            “Those other men,” I say. “They hurt me, hurt Lily, because… they’re sick, because they’re weak, because they feel entitled to anything and everything they want. Or because…” I shrug, a little limply. “Who the fuck knows? Pick whatever you like, there’s more than enough reasons. It doesn’t matter. Because whatever those guys wanted, whatever any horrible, selfish little prick of a man wants… they’re not the same as you. They don’t want what you want. You say it’s about power and control and being in charge, and yeah, sure that’s true. But for you, it’s also about pleasure and joy, isn’t it? As much as you want to—enjoy—my submission, I know it’s my pleasure that’s foremost in your thoughts.”

            He strokes my hair, grips my shoulder and says nothing.

            I bring his fingertips to my lips and kiss them as he kissed mine. “I still want to, you know,” I say. “Do those things with you tomorrow.”

            “How?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused. “How could you possibly?”

            “Because— those men, they made me feel—dirty. Sullied, and I wanted to melt away, completely, like that snow outside. This body—I hate it. I do! Especially after what they did to me. Tell me, sir, have you ever hated yourself? And I don’t mean, like a thing you’ve done, or a moment of weakness, disappointment or regret. I mean, have you ever truly despised the very flesh you live in? Wanted to—flay yourself to the bone, dig nails into your skin until you bleed, tear away the bits that make you other than who you want to be?

            “That kind of hate,” I say, “brings you to some very dark places.”

            Places I was entirely too familiar with, visited not only over the past year but across a lifetime filled with anger and hate.  Some of them existed purely in the mind but others were physical, real-world places where a damaged man spoke in apocalyptic whispers to the demon riding piggyback on his soul; or expensive apartments housing wealthy scum preying on the young and vulnerable. Corporate offices and neon-lit back-alley bolt holes. Cold streets under empty skies, a doorway offering scant protection against the winds, a poor bargain in the price paid for that tiny patch of shelter.

            Mr Connor shakes his head, no, of course he hasn’t. For all his hesitation and guilt, he’s never doubted the very nature of who he is. “Have you?”

            “Always,” I say flatly. I yank on my hair, squeeze a breast. “I hate—these, hate—” my hand cups my groin. “This, myself.” I pluck at my skirt, indicate with a sweep of my hand makeup and stockings, flimsy blouses and push-up bras. “All of this,” I say, “because of what it makes me, because it’s not who I am.”

            “Cindy—”

            I lay a finger against his lips to silence him. “But not when I’m with you.” My smile is weak but genuine. “You make me feel good about being—me; you bring out a version of me that I like.”

            He gently pulls my finger away from his lips.

            “Why do you hate yourself?”

            I reach for an answer he can understand. I settle on the first that comes to mind. “I’ve done—bad things,” I say.

            The way he nods, it’s as though a piece of a puzzle just fell into place. “Is this why you react so strongly whenever I call you a good girl?”

            “You noticed that, huh?”

            “Yeah,” he says. “It’s not exactly subtle.”

            My cheeks burn. “I mean—I don’t know. Maybe?”

            His fingertips brush against my cheek. “You don’t need my praise, you know. My approval. Take it as a given. Because you are, you know.”

            My fingers rest over his, holds his palm to my face. “I’m what?”

            “A good girl,” he says.

            My eyes flutter shut, I sigh and lean into his touch. “Say it again,” I murmur.

            “You’re a good girl.”

            No wrenching sickness twists my gut. There’s no shudder of disgust. Only a pleasant, diffuse warmth spreading from his touch down my neck, my spine, across my chest, reaching tendrils of sensual satisfaction uncoiling through torso, limbs and breasts. My lips tingle and so do my toes, my fingers and nipples. I bring his fingers to my mouth, kiss them again, draw them between my lips, suck on first one finger, and then two, slowly drawing them in and out. Eyes shut, I focus on the feeling of his fingers against the softness of my lips. The other hand drops to his lap and finds that he’s enjoying this, too. Soon, his hand rises to my breast, soon slips beneath my top and massages my tits through my bra. He withdraws his fingers from my mouth. They escape with a wet little pop. I open my eyes, smile as he closes in for a kiss. We make out like that for a little while.

            Eventually, I nestle closer, sliding into his lap, arms around his neck. “What time is it?” I whisper in his ear.

            “Nearly eleven,” he says.

            I nibble on his earlobe. “I don’t want to wait until tomorrow,” I whisper.

            He pulls back. The erection already prodding my bum grows even harder.

            “Are you sure?”

            Biting my lower lip, I nod.

            “How would you like to begin?”

            I shake my head, blonde hair swirling across my shoulders. “You’re in charge. You decide.”

            But he smiles, eyes twinkling with happiness. “Not until midnight,” he says. “Like you said, I’m in charge, and I said I’d start tomorrow. So, do as I ask and—” he smirks a little, “be a good girl and tell me what you want.”

            “I want—” and my heart hammers in my chest, I hold my hand to my throat as though I might cut off the words before speaking them. “I want you to make me a better girl,” I say. “I want you to—”

            Drive away the memories of before. Kill the pain. Teach me not to despise my own skin. Force me to—love—myself.

            What comes out is: “fuck me,” as though summing up all my wants.

            “I can do that,” he says.

Notes:

This scene's been through a number or revisions, and it's nearly where I want it. I feel there might still be a need to smoothen the transition from talking through their trauma and insecurities to jumping into bed with each other, but I also don't want to kill the pacing. Does the ending feel jarring, or does it come off as plausible to you?

I'm also not quite happy with Michael's unresolved guilt - Cindy's speech comes as a little too easy, a touch preachy, I think and kind of pushes his doubts to one side.

Otherwise... onwards to the finale! Next week I should be posting the final chapter of the Christmas arc, and then returning to the Empyrean and filling in the gap between the old chapter 6 and these most recent chapters.