15
It’s been a month since the night at the restaurant—thirty days, seven hundred twenty hours—an absurd list of phone alarms I can’t even remember why I set, and the short version is I’ve had so many sex sessions I’m running on ibuprofen, creams, and stretches on the carpet.
I talked to Bea, who, besides being my boss, should have a plaque that says Queen of WhatsApp, with a splash of poison.
"When you come back, don’t expect me to hold the premium clients for you, sweetheart."
That’s what she sent, with one of those smug little emojis that make you want to hurl your phone. My Bea, so refined, always lobbing hints like little Ginsu knives. She’ll tell you you’ve got great skin while reminding you you’re replaceable, all at once.
Thing is, I asked her for a temporary break.
I said it with an “I’m going to Bali to meditate” tone, but without the savings, without Bali, without the enlightenment.
I’ve only got… some cash. A little stash.
A cushion that won’t last long if I keep ordering expensive sushi and buying lube with French names.
And yeah, that worries me. Because… what the fuck am I going to do? What am I going to live on? What’s my plan? Quit being an escort for what? To become… the Russian mob’s official sex pet?
But every time that hyper-productive thought clamps down on my neck, bam, I plug it fast with a Nat-brand emotional tampon.
Never fails: my instant anesthesia. Nat, Nat, Nat.
Her mouth, dragging out the syllables; her voice that pins me; her hands that find my weak spots; that gaze that calibrates everything and records my gestures, my breathing, my shifts in tone.
She knows what day of my cycle I’m on by the sound.
She doesn’t ask—she detects it. And I sit there alert, surrendered, laughing inside because she studies me better than my gynecologist.
I’m in a first-rate emotional mess. She entertains me, calms me, and makes me nervous all at once.
I don’t want out; I prefer the spin. It gives me a weird high I like and it scares me.
And me, who always says I don’t get hooked…
look at me: hooked. And on top of that I narrate it with the calm of someone who thinks she’s so clever while sticking her head in the oven and posing for Instagram.
And somewhere between fantasy and reality, I invent another life: Alaska, the retired escort, strutting down the red carpet at some fancy venue.
And in the middle of all that glamour, Nat pulls me out of the sparkle and into her reality: a private workshop, shutters down, a noisy fan, and she teaches me how to handle submachine guns without looking ridiculous, to stare straight ahead without blinking, to enter and exit a place looking like nothing’s happening.
She lays down her criminal commandments, all like “I’m telling you this in case you ever need it.
” I nod, I laugh, I memorize them. I won’t give details, but I’ve got them.
Officer, it’s all theoretical. And yes, there’s practicals too: stance, breathing, nerves under control, and a couple tricks I keep under my tongue for when I need them.
But honestly, forget fantasies. Lately my life is a real one, the kind you make, you sweat through, and then you lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering if they swapped out your operating system while you slept.
We’ve done things. Things that leave me shaking. Nothing extreme: she doesn’t tie me to the radiator or walk me down the street on a leash. But she’s added a new word to our dictionary: punishments.
You laugh when she gets all intense? Punishment.
You’d rather watch an episode of MasterChef than do mindfulness set to the tempo of cunnilingus. Punishment.
You open your mouth to have an opinion—aka to exist. Wham. Punishment.
And I put on a whole show: fist on my hip, a feisty-lady speech in Twitter-thread format, very militant, very “I’m free and nobody manipulates me and blah blah.” Then reality shows up and the same old thing happens: thighs open and face buried in the mattress.
Me, who had never begged for anything in my life—and trust me, I’ve had more than enough reasons to beg—now I’m pathetic.
The other day, case in point, she told me I was getting too clever and made me copy with my best handwriting, on a blank sheet of paper, with a Bic pen, no erasing, and with SAT-level pressure in my chest.
Ten lines of re-education: I must not provoke her if I’m not prepared for the consequences.
She was behind me, strolling calmly, a surprise smack now and then, her hand never still, and me trying to keep the last line from veering off the line.
Like before, when keeping my handwriting straight was the only thing that saved me from a scolding.
How fast you learn to obey when you’re taught right.
The ending was a mess. She laughed under her breath, a gorgeous villain’s laugh.
Soft, sadistic, delicious. Me, pissed for a second and then my pussy calling the shots. What a surprise.
On top of that, she’s creative. She showed up at my place with a fox-tail plug, yep, real fur and everything.
I put on my respectable-lady act—hands on hips, offended face, saying we needed to talk and that not everything goes.
She stayed calm, convinced. I pouted, I performed, I invoked human rights, and in the end I ate my words and asked for cold water.
And another round. Meanwhile I was stressing about the very near future, picturing my sister opening the washer, seeing that tail spinning with the towels, calling the group from the group home to organize an intervention with Keurig pods and day-old donuts.
I’m high as hell without touching a substance.
She doesn’t talk much, but she runs the show, and she wakes up things I’d put away: no trauma, no drama, just pleasure.
I hand over control on purpose and on a timer.
She calms me and revs me up, and I’m chill about it—because if something finally puts my head in order, I’m not about to complain.
I know: I’m in free fall, and I don’t even feel like grabbing onto anything, because my rational brain is busy with something better—Nat’s mouth and her plan for tonight.
I’ve got consequences coming for laughing in her face yesterday mid-command: laughing on her turf, a serious offense in the sovereign republic of her bedroom. Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I’m not telling this to brag; I’m telling it because she’s turned me to mush—got me ready to apologize in advance and sign wherever.
The room now looks like an expensive spa: perfect mood lighting, bougie incense.
I’m in a T-shirt and panties, perched on the edge of the bed, at that useless point of “why get dressed if she’s going to take it off in two moves. ”
Nat watches me from across the room, legs crossed, chin set, that little smirk that says this is going her way and I’ll pout and then scream her name. If she had a glass of wine, they’d book her for the cover of a high-end lesbian magazine.
"You went too far," she says in that theatrical tone that turns me on and makes me mouthy at the same time.
"It was a joke." I jut my chin, pride up. "A solid joke, admit it. Late-night monologue level."
"You laughed while I was giving you an order," she says, with that inner stage-manager edge she has.
That word does nothing for me. Order. It flips my laugh switch, gives me playground hives, flashes me back to gym class in a polyester sweatsuit, and my tongue starts to itch.
"Sorry, but you said, ‘put your tongue there, slower, not so hard, higher, down a little, back to center.’ With that much technical instruction, a laugh slipped out; and I swear it was affectionate laughter, not mocking. And now look: breaking news, Alaska in the ICU for running her mouth."
"Now I’m going to spank you," she says.
My stomach drops and I hate that I need it; my ass clenches on its own.
"No, no, no. Hard pass. No. Not that."
"Alaska…" She raises an eyebrow and cuts right through me.
"From the start I told you: spanking, no. That’s my boundary. Maginot Line. I’ll sign it in period blood if I have to. And I’m not acting—it scares me."
She stays impassive. Doesn’t even blink.
"It won’t be hard. I’m not trying to hurt you. It’s a game."
"Yeah, the ‘give me back my ass with no marks’ game."
She sighs, goes serious, comes over and sits beside me; my panties already need changing. She gives me the kind look of a responsible adult who takes your keys when you’re already tipsy. She’s got me. She knows it. I know it.
"Come here. Lie across my legs," she says, patting her thighs.
"Excuse me, what the hell is this, a Victorian boarding school? You gonna pull out a switch or something? Ring a little bell to summon Miss Trunchbull of BDSM?" I hear myself and I’d smack me, but it just comes out.
"Across my legs," she repeats, firm.
"I swear this is humiliating," I say, my ass already in a preemptive clench. "I feel like a kid about to get swats for stealing candy, and I don’t even like candy. I’m a fries-and-French-toast girl, give me something with substance.
Is there an educational version with mac and cheese bites? Can we gamify this?"
She doesn’t laugh. The witch bites the corner of her lip, a slight curve, eyes saying you kill me with your nonsense, and lays an open palm on my back, soft, which makes me want to lie down and shut up already.
I think about my safe word—we set it over text, serious plan, no jokes—and a whisper slips out of me I didn’t see coming.