Archive for desire

The Parking Lot

The elevator doors opened and revealed Cheyenne standing in the hall outside Dr. F______ office.

“Ms. B______,” she said. “Welcome back. The doctor will see you now. Allow me.”

She stepped into the elevator, inserted a key and pressed one of the basement buttons. Once it lit up, she straightened herself and looked up at the progression of floors.

She was wearing a heather gray wool jacket and straight skirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun. She did not look at me or address me beyond her initial instruction.

The elevator arrived at the specified floor after what felt like hours and when the doors opened, I turned to Cheyenne, who did not step forward. She motioned simply into the darkened parking lot with a hand.

I rolled my eyes and stepped out. As predicted, Cheyenne keyed the doors shut and disappeared in the silver tube, leaving me alone in the creepy basement place. I looked at my mobile phone. No reception. Of course not. I lit a cigarette and began to walk across.

There were few cars. Most of them were covered, but all of them were good looking cars. I know nothing about cars, but I do know about aesthetics and these cars were very visually appealing. I touched one with my fingers: dust. An old man’s abandoned toys–as depressing as a teddy bear lying on the side of the road.

I lifted one of the covers and looked at a gorgeous machine, the sort of thing in which a treacherous, villainous woman would have herself chauffeured, which I would later discover was a Bucciali TAV 12, of which only two are known to exist in the world, one in France and one in the United States. Right here. Somewhere under Los Angeles.

I took a long drag of my cigarette before crushing it under my heel and began to pull the cover off the car. Its body was black and square. I ran a hand over the red line that ran across its side and my eyes focused on the peculiar image of a silver bird with gold wings on the side near the grille.

A sudden burst of force suddenly knocked me into the car, the impact of which caused a series of alarms to go off around me. In a motion, my hands were behind my back and I was motionless, pressed against the long hood of the car, my face staring into the empty windshield of the Bucciali. My focus on the reflection of my assailant in the vague reflection of the dusty car prevented me from going into a panic.

I was so focused on it that I didn’t realize he’d tied my hands until I felt him working the rope around my fore-arms. I pressed my pelvis against the car, trying to manipulate myself out of his grasp.

Dr. F______ put one hand on my back and flattened me into the car again.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No.” I responded.

He put a hand under my belly and flipped me over so I was looking up at him. He pushed up my skirt a bit and began to bind my thighs with a rope with such dexterity, I was unable to react in a way to prevent it.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked.

“No!” I said, obstinately, though I could not move my limbs from the knees up.

He took me by the front of my coat and threw me to the ground.

“Do you feel trapped?” he asked once again, the alarms still echoing around us.

“You can tie me up all you like, Doctor,” I said with a smile. “But you can’t keep me.”

He knelt beside me. His face came close to mine.

“I can’t keep you,” he repeated. “And why is that?”

“Someone would notice. Your office is the last place on my planner. They would know it was you.”

“And who is they?”

“The police.”

“What if I don’t mean to keep you?” he asked me.

What is he going to do? I wondered, feeling my impertinence shrink and fear begin to take hold. What good was the police after the first forty eight hours? If he doesn’t mean to keep me–would he dispose of me?

In the dim light, Dr. F______ looked like the perfect serial killer. Well-kept, in black lambswool sweater rolled up almost to the elbow, showing impressively shaped forearms. The stuff of Bret Easton Ellis’s twisted mind.

F_____ looked down at me and smiled, it was almost a kind smile. Except, well, you know, he’d tackled me, tied me up and thrown me on the ground. F_______ nodded and then he placed a blindfold over my eyes.

Darkness. I don’t know how long I lay there. With the sound of alarms fading fast, the cold pavement smelled like the silence of the forgotten.

A movement suddenly pulled at my shirt and I felt the cold harden my nipples. I tried to sit up, but was met with the force of his sole.

Oh, my god.

In time, the weight of his foot disappeared, but I didn’t dare move and invite it back. I wondered whether rolling would give me enough time to get up. Just then, I felt something cold, I thought it was a hand but it rolled between my exposed tits and down my side and I realized it was water. No, not water, water doesn’t move up a breast and circle a nipple. Ice.

I hate cold. I wasn’t joking when I told him Russia’s winter sent me running. It’s one of my least favorite sensations. My teeth clattered from my shivering.

“Do you feel trapped?” F______ asked.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Yes, I’m trapped! I’m trapped.”

“Do you think saying that will compel me to untie you?”

“No, but can you at least cover me?”

“Why would you like to be covered?”

“Because I’m cold,” I said. “Please.”

“You need to be cold right now.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because that’s what I want,” he responded. “From now on, we’re going to do what I want.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What I want is for you to be cold and be still. Do not move until I give you express permission to do so.”

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps fading away and finally the ding of an elevator and the swoosh of doors opening and closing.

Silence. Cold. I lay still for a long time. My lower back, which was resting on my bound elbows, screamed with pain. I couldn’t feel my elbows or arms. Every once in a while, a fit of shivers would send pain shooting up and down my arms.

Finally, when the silence convinced me no one else was there, I rolled on my side. Immediately, all the pain in my arms that had been numbed by the lack of circulation made itself felt. I winced and bit my lip, afraid to make any sound.

I shimmied, my face to the ground, trying to loosen the fabric around my face. Finally, it began to slip until it was around my nose. I looked around for him. He wasn’t there. He’d literally left me in the middle of the parking garage. Still on my side, I pulled my knees up and began to gnaw on the knot F______ had made. If I could free my thighs, I would better able to move, perhaps find an object against which to loosen the ropes holding my arms.

It’s amazing. The instinct that propels flight in creatures shoots such incredible quantities of adrenaline into the body that suddenly, every physical concern fades. No pain, no fear, no system of analysis. All I could think about was escaping.

I was at that rope forever, finally, it began to loosen. I wasn’t able to fully untie it, but with it loose, I managed somehow to slip a leg out of it. Getting up, I shook the rope off the other leg. I looked around. Not a sign of him. Not a sign of anything to help me remove the rope holding my arms. And certainly not any kind of fire escape.

Is that even legal? Shouldn’t every building have one?

I knew it was pointless, but I still ran to the elevator and tried to call it down. At first I thought I wasn’t pushing hard enough–hard to do with my hands tied, and certainly when I can’t quite tell after having turned around where the button is. Then I noticed the card slot. Of course. You need an access key.

So I’m stuck in a basement, tied up, by myself either with a psycho or a brilliant therapist.

Is it naive that I want to believe this is some brilliant form of therapy, of illustrating what it means to have no control?

The elevator made a ding and I jumped, my heart pounding like a chariot without a charioteer against my ribs. I quickly turned around and flattened myself against the wall.

I felt the swoosh zip through my body as the elevator doors opened. F______ stepped out and took a couple of large steps forward before he paused to pan the room.

I quietly inched along the wall and began to back into the elevator.

One of my coat buttons hit the mirror when I pressed against the inside of the elevator. I held my breath, but after a couple of quick steps, a hand landed heavily on the doors, causing them to open completely.

F______ peered in. He had a look of mild amusement on his face.

“I was hoping you would be a good girl and do as you were told,” he said to me. “But I was also hoping you would misbehave so I could show you what happens when you don’t do what I tell you.”

The doctor reached into the elevator, took me by the hair and dragged me back to the parking lot, where he threw me face-down on the dusty hood of a Bentley.

Holding me in place with his own body, he pulled up my skirt until it was around my waist. When he pulled a way, a hand remained tangled in my hair, holding my face down. What was he going to do?

Slap! A palm landed evenly on my ass. I couldn’t believe it. Was he spanking me? Slap! came the answer. Yes. Slap! He hit me hard, each sting searing through my body. He hit one cheek, then the other, then alternated again. I began to feel raw.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked me.

I didn’t know what to say. If I said yes, would he stop?

He slapped me again.

“When I speak to you, you will respond. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I responded.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I said.

He paused.

“You want me to keep going?”


“Spread your legs.”


“Do it.”

I spread my legs slowly.

SLAP! His hand landed square on my pussy.

“OW!” I screamed, closing my legs.

F______ pressed down on me again, crushing my arms into my back. I could feel his hot breath against my neck as his free hand battled with my legs to push them apart. I fought him. I fought him with my hips. I fought him with the strength of my ass cheeks and thighs. But he got through.

And when he did, he found I was soaking wet.

There was a pause in his movements. Finally, a breath escaped his lips and rushed against my neck.

“Do you like this?” he asked me, in a different tone.

“I–I don’t know,” I confessed.

He said nothing, then rose. My arms were pulled this way and that as he untied the rope. When he was done, he turned me around so I was on my back. We looked at each other in uncomfortable silence.

I’m not really embarrassed by anything but this, somehow, was a bit mortifying. The man had been abusing me, teaching me what it was like to have no control and instead of understanding my situation and giving in to terror and impending death, I’d become aroused.

I’d ruined my therapy. Again. Fine. Whatever. It had its benefits.

“Fuck me,” I said looking directly into Dr. F______’s green eyes.

He simply stared.

Taking his sweater with a hand and pulling myself up so my face was inches from his, I looked at his lips before looking into his eyes and repeated, “Fuck. Me.”

He brought a hand to mine and I released my hold on his sweater. I could smell myself on his fingers. I brought his hand to my mouth.

I sucked his fingers, one by one and he watched, with no expression. Finally, when I had finished, I released his hand and he bent to pick up my purse from where it had slid during the first struggle and handed it to me.

“Cheyenne will contact you in regard to a next appointment once I review the conclusions reached today,” he said simply.

I dropped my purse on the ground and looked at him.

“What, that’s it?” I asked. “You assault me, you tie me up, you spank me, you feel my cunt and then you send me home?”

“It is enough for today.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It is not enough. It is not even close to enough.”

I pulled him to me by his belt. He took both of my hands in one of his and looking at me with a small smile, asked, “do I need to tie you up to take you out of here?”

I sighed and pushed my skirt down. Three of my buttons were missing, so it was impossible to button up my blouse. I removed the blindfold, which was now around my neck, and buttoned my coat over my torn blouse. I pulled a clip from my purse and pinned my hair up.

If I had been a little mortified before, now, I wanted to die. As I followed him into the elevator, I began to freak out. Who the hell asks her therapist to fuck her? What’s wrong with me?

He said he’s going to “review the conclusions reached today”–what does that even mean? Is he going to have me committed? I hope at least he medicates me something decent.

We don’t exchange a word on the way up. In the lobby, he gives me a nod as I exit and that’s that.

When I look at my phone, I realize I’ve been “in therapy” for four and a half hours.

Fuck-Me Pumps

“What?” she looked at me. And then turned away. She seemed nervous by my stare. A flash of light came in through the windows. Her earthy scent permeated my nostrils. Her hair turned and twisted down her back. I could only imagine what she was going to do once I moved my hands up her black skirt. So tight, in fact, it was like a second skin.

“Do you want me?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Do I want you? Want is not the word. Want is futile. Want is weak. I want to do things to you, yes. But want you? No. I crave you. So much, that I go through withdrawals. Physical withdrawals when you leave my presence. As we left the confines of that restaurant tonight, you said you had to go to the bathroom. When you went there, I almost went in after you.”

She smirked. “Oh yeah? You are that desperate for me?”

“It’s not desperation. It goes beyond that. I need you like I need to eat, breathe, have shelter. I need you. More than need you. I am an addict. You are my drug. I will give a lot to get a little of your time.”

“Hmmm… you talk a lot my friend,” she said, inhaling another drag and blowing it in my face.

“You are a fool you know,” she said, as her five and a half inch red heel started to move up my leg. Her smoky eyes with their green centers. She stared at me now as the tip of her heel rested on my throbbing cock.

“Do you like my shoes?” she asked. Her lips red like fire.

“Yes. I do,” I was breathing harder.

“If you could fuck me, would you keep these on?” she took a sip of her champagne as she gently stabbed my cock with her stiletto.

“Yes. I would.”

I grabbed her red fuck-me pump and raised it up in the air. Her leg trailed behind. It was smooth and glowing under the light of the street lamp outside. My hand gently ran down her calf and up to her inner thigh. She gasped and bit her lower lip.

As my hand hastily drifted toward her panties, I moved her thigh outward so she was open.

“Touch it,” she whispered.

Wait. “No. Wrap your thighs around my neck,” I demanded.

She obeyed.

Her milky thighs opened even wider, her legs extended to either side of the chair where she sat. She leaned back and moved her legs into the air. Her stilettos pointed to the opposite walls. Like daggers, they stabbed the heavy, hot air. Slowly, she moved them toward my shoulders. Her legs wrapped themselves around my neck. I heard her heels snap against each other. She pulled my head closer.

“My panties,” she said. “You didn’t take them off.”

My fingers found the tiny strings. They were a poor excuse for underwear. With a snap, they ripped.

“Yes I did.”

She giggled.

My tongue entered her juicy lips. She was dripping. A little stream ran down her left butt cheek. It tasted like skin and smelled like musk. I breathed it in and savored her flavor. My mouth kissed her smooth glossy lips, her clit red and pulsating. Over and over. Lick, lick. Over and over again.

“Fuck me, OMG, fuck me!” she begged.

Her legs flew off of my shoulders and her pumps hit the tile. Click! I couldn’t help but notice her defined legs walking across the floor in those shoes. Every step making her muscles tighten and relax, tighten and relax, just like a woman’s cunt. Tighten and relax. Her ass moved gently toward the bedroom. Tighten, release, tight, release.

She threw her tank top and pink bra to the floor. Her breasts were plump. She flung herself on the bed. Long hair falling onto white sheets, her body open to my cock, her red stilettos still attached to a magnificent body eager to be fucked.

“I want to feel you inside of me.”

“Do you?” I asked as I unzipped my slacks. My cock bounced outward. It pointed at her luscious figure.

“Yes please.”

And so, I let her.

Slave Material

I waited for Cheyenne’s call all week. There was always a degree of apprehension–would she call me to the office or some other place? It was impossible to tell what would happen with F______, but as a general rule, places other than the office were more exciting.

Today, I didn’t get a chance to stare psychotically at my mobile because Cheyenne called me at exactly 7:00, just as I was getting out of the shower.

“Your appointment is at 3:00PM. Dr. F______ will be waiting for you in his consulting room.”

I ended the call and threw the phone on the bed.


When the elevator doors opened, I didn’t go through the waiting room. I turned left and headed straight for the door that led to F______’s consulting room. I slid my patient key on an unobtrusive panel beside a nondescript landscape painting and the door opened with a small screak of wood.

Inside, F______ was standing at one of his bookcases.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, distractedly.

I took a seat on an ottoman.

F______ pulled out a book, flipped through it, then placed it back. He went over to his desk, looked over a paper and brought a hand to his face.

I observed curiously. I had never seen him working before. He had that look that academics get when they have finally reconciled some impossible fact with reality.

“You might be ready, Zita,” he said. “You might be ready.”

“Ready for what?” I asked him, crossing my legs.

“Something else.”

“Something else?”

Had he decided there was too much risk in what we were doing? Was I becoming a liability to him despite the fact that I only saw him when requested and knew nothing about him? Or was he bored with it and ready to get me off his hands?

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked, getting up and walking to his desk.

He walked around his desk and pulled on the steep v-cut of my jersey dress to expose my tits.

My heart jumped in my chest, I was sure he must have heard it beating insanely inside me as he inspected me.

“You still have considerable bruising from our session two weeks ago,” he said. “Even some scabbing on the underside where you bled.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

He pressed down on a bruise.

I gasped.

“You have done much talking about submission and discipline, Zita,” he said. “Is it a metaphor for a selflessness and humanity you otherwise fear you do not possess or a real desire?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You throw around the word ‘Master’ as though it’s a game, a though that is something you grant a man. For all your academic musings on Natural Order and the flaws in modern pornographic works depicting BDSM, you seem to have entirely missed the point.”

He had my nipple tightly between his fingers.

“Do you really think that you could be a slave?”


He walked around me, touched my hair, my hands, my shoulders, my waist. His are hands that please and hands that break, hands that conquer and hands that caress.

“Get into position,” he whispered in my ear.

I dropped on the ground in the position he taught me.

He examined me in place.

“I do like this position,” he said.

He pressed down on my back, felt my pelvic bones, my ribs, my vertebrae.

“There is so little of you,” he lamented. “You will always bruise. Up.”

I sat up.

He knelt before me and took me by the neck. He looked at me. I closed my eyes.

“Look at me.”

“Yes, Master,” I responded opening my eyes.

“Don’t call me Master. I have not decided whether you are fit to serve me. Call me Elias.”

Slap! He slapped my face.

“Thank you!” I said before the pain registers.

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

“What is my name?”


He slapped the other side of my face. Then the other side. I thanked him. My cheeks stung.

“Stand up,” Elias said, rising, still holding me by the neck.

I stood. Elias reached under my dress and took hold of my cunt. I gasped, pressing my hips against his arm.

Elias removed his hand and, still holding me by the neck, pulled me into him. I felt his large chest against the left side of my body, rising and falling as he breathed. We stood pressed together like that for a moment before he took my hair with his free hand, pulled my head back and kissed me.

I gasped into his mouth. For some reason being kissed by him felt like a bigger deal than being fingered and slapped.

He didn’t notice or if he did, he didn’t care. He kissed me, first just lips, opening mine like peeling a rosebud. Then I felt his tongue, rough and cold. The kiss was soft but somehow, incredibly violent at once. I moaned and struggled and he held me and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me.

Kisses are for lovers. Dr. F______ is not my lover. How could he kiss me? I felt confused, I felt high, I felt lost, I felt so good, so good, so good. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

When he pulled away, I was shaking. I was breathing so hard, I could’t think. I was almost crying. My lips were swollen and bleeding.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

Elias slapped me.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me again.

“Thank you, Elias!”

He slapped me and slapped me and with each slap I felt less lost. With each slap, I found my way back.

Yes, yes, yes, punish me, I thought. Punish me. I shouldn’t want you this much. Punish me. Punish me. Punish me.

“Sit down,” Elias said.

I sat in the chair before his desk. He knelt before me. And, taking one of my feet in his hand, pulled it up and removed my shoe.

“Are you ticklish?” he asked.


He tickled me. Nothing.

“You have strong feet,” he remarked.

He slapped my right sole.

“Thank you!”

He slapped it again.

“Thank you!”

Elias put my foot down. I lifted the other.

“You little pain slut,” he said, betraying a smile. “You want more, don’t you?”

I sat silent, wide-eyed, feeling betrayed by my body.

“I will take only what you see fit to give me,” I said, too late.

Elias reached between my legs.

“You’re so wet,” he said. He could feel it through my pants.

“Ask me,” he said. “Ask me to give you more so I can punish you.”

“Give me more, Elias,” I begged.

He punishes me and it feels so good.

“That’s enough for today,” Elias says, finally, rising.

The Orange Grove

“Good morning, Zita,” came Cheyenne’s voice over the phone. “Today you are to meet Dr. F______ on the corner of South Doheny and Whilshire at 3:00PM.”

I thought for some reason we would have a late lunch at Kate Mantilini’s until I noticed the waiting smoke beige Saab sedan. I walked to it and without waiting for whoever was inside to open the door for me, let myself into the passenger seat.

F______ was behind the driver’s seat, alone.

“Hello, Zita,” he said, pulling a kerchief from his pocket and waving it. “Face the window so I can blindfold you.”

He smoothed my hair and stretched the silk kerchief around my face, ensuring that the area around my face was covered. I felt the pressure on my face as he tightened it and opened my eyes. I could only see specks of light through the dark fabric, like millions of distant stars on an ink black sky.

The car began to move. It slowed and sped up as its made its way through light early afternoon traffic. Eventually we hit a constant speed and I realized we were on a freeway, but by then, I had lost track of the streets and had no idea what direction we were going.

I was already aroused.

“Can I smoke?” I asked.

I heard my window roll down partially.

I reached into my clutch and felt for my cigarettes and lighter and sat back.

As I lit it, I heard a click and a voice–not F______’s–took over the speakers.

“Our models of the universe,” the man said, “our glosses or gambles have at least the following limitations and constraints upon them: one, Genetics. Our DNA happens to have evolved out of standard primate DNA and still has 98 percent similarity to chimpanzee DNA and 85 percent similarity to the DNA of the South American spider monkey. We basically have the same gross anatomy as other primates, the same nervous systems, basically the same sense organs, etc. Our more highly developed cortexes allow us to perform certain higher or more complex mental functions than other primates but our perceptions remain largely within he primate norm. The DNA and the sensory neural apparatus produced by the DNA creates what ethologists call the unwelt, world-field–perceived by an animal…”

I took a long drag. It sounded like some kind of a lecture on sense perception. It was a logical follow-up to the discussion on perception as illustrated by the notion of an assemblage point. I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. I didn’t want to walk about my unwelt, I wanted F______.

Without my eyes, there was no way to perceive F______ beside me–not without reaching out. I wasn’t about to do that.

“Two, imprints. It appears that animals have brief periods of imprint vulnerability in which their nervous systems can suddenly create a personalized reality-tunnel unique to itself. These imprints permanently bond neurons into reflex networks which seemingly remain for life. The basic research on imprinting, for instance, for which Lorentz and Tinbergen shared a Nobel Prize in 1973, demonstrated hat the statistically normal snow-goose imprints its mother, as distinct from any other goose, shortly after birth. This imprint creates a bond and the gosling attaches itself to the mother every way possible. These brief points of imprint vulnerability can literally imprint anything. Lorentz, for instance, recorded a case in which a gosling, in the temporary absence of the mother, imprinted a ping-pong ball. It followed the ping-pong ball about, nestled with it, and on reaching adulthood, attempted to mount the ball sexually…”

I laughed and took another drag.

“How and when our pubertal sexuality gets imprinted, similarly, seems to determine lifelong programs of heterosexuality or homosexuality, brash promiscuity or monogamy, etc. In both common sexual imprints like these and in more eccentric imprints–celibacy, foot fetishism, sadmasochism, etc.–are bonded brain circuitry seem quite as mechanical as the imprint which bonded the gosling to the ping-pong ball…”

My ears perked at the sound of sadomasochism, but the discussion on the topic shifted once more to umwelt and went into other aspects that programs one’s perceived universe, including conditioning and learning.

I lit another cigarette and began to zone out, thinking of how hard his dick had been during our last session. It looked like it could have burst through his pants. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see his cock and put it in my mouth and…

What’s stopping me? What’s stopping me from flicking this cigarette out the window, pulling off the blindfold and diving into his lap? What would F______ do? What could he do while he was driving?

But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t dare.

A couple of minutes later, I felt the car slow to a stop. F______ killed the engine. He pulled off the blindfold and I saw we had parked on a forgotten road among orange groves. Orange groves in California. It could be anywhere.

Dr. F______ stepped out of the car, walked around and opened my door. I stepped out, thinking we were about to go on a hike, but he opened the backseat door.

Confused, I got in. F______ came around and got in through the other side.

“Turn around.” he said.

I did and he pulled up my top and unclasped my bra.

“Take off your shirt.”

I took it off.

“Take off your pants.”

“May I remove my boots?” I asked.

“You may.”

“May I remove my socks?”

“No,” he said. “Keep them on. It’s embarrassing.”

I looked at him in surprise. It really is embarrassing.

“Turn around again,” he said.

I turned.

He slapped my right tit, hard. He smacked the left one. He smacked the right one. Smack, smack, smack! One, then the other. Smack, smack, smack!

Then he pulled me to him, bent me over his knee and spanked my ass and pussy until I was raw.

It was brutal, intense. He hit me like no one has hit me before. I cannot tell you what other atrocities he did to me because I don’t recall very well. I floated into a trance. At one point he asked me something and I, crying and moaning at once, whispered, “where am I?”

As I write this, I try to understand my kink. Is it that I’m a masochist? Do I just want to be spanked? Or is there something else?

I think about Eric again and the reason things didn’t work out between us. There was plenty of pain in our interaction–and sex, too. No one has fucked me like Eric fucked me. I doubt anyone ever could. But Eric was lacking. Why?

I think about the scene in that car bent over F______’s knee again as his hand lands on my ass and cunt again and again and again. I think about the way I floated away at his violence, enraptured. I transcended.

There was no transcendence with Eric, I realize. There was nothing holy. This here is holy. When I am writhing in pain under F______’s hand, I am with the martyrs, living the ecstasies of devotion.

F______ made me a penitent worshiping before him.

“You are going to perform a duty for your Master,” F______ said that afternoon in the car after he had spanked me raw.

So I knelt before him in the cramped space of the car, waiting, unquestioningly as he unzipped his pants.

“Suck my dick,” he said.

“Teach me how,” I said, in supplication, opening my mouth over his cock.

F______ took my hair and guided me. I sucked his dick, his perfect dick, his solid, pulsing dick. He liked it when I gagged, asked me to thank him for gagging me, so I made myself gag on him and thanked him over and over as I sucked him off.

Then he picked me up and threw me on my back next to him in the seat. He came over me, took my nipple in his mouth, sucked on it, bit on it with his hand in my pussy.

He descended on me, sucking on my clit and labia, fingers still deep inside me until I was writhing and creaming. I could feel my thigh muscles tightening against the flexing muscles in his neck. I began to float away into pleasure, again, began shaking uncontrollably, like I was freezing, but it was just the power of the release as I came.

F______ looked up when I stopped shaking. I lay in place and watched him arrange himself.

“We’re done for today,” he said. “Dress so I can blindfold you again.”


As I’d said, everything went into the little notebook that Dr. F______ had asked me to keep, even little pieces of fiction that I would come up with during the course of the day. These didn’t really have anything to do with being broken–they were written specifically for him, little missives full of want. Like playing with paper airplanes, I directed them at him by creating the master in the story in his likeness, from his head to his shoes.

I imagine him circling me without a word, his footfalls heavy on the wood as He inspects every inch of me as one would a thoroughbred. I take into account what I can with eyes downcast. Ferragamo shoes. I can tell by the length of the pants that He’s wearing a classic cut but I just can’t help myself. I let my eyes move up the length of His suit.

Prada. The Devil wears Prada, they say. I don’t know. I do know, however, that Pope Benedict does. I could recognize those shoes anywhere.

Mmm, Popes are fascinating. The passions of the Borgias taught me to appreciate my Catholic heritage. Under the debauchery, we’re all hungry masochists looking for a God in front of whom to prostrate ourselves.

Is this my God?

I realize I’m looking into His eyes. The Stranger takes my braid in a single motion and pulls hard so my head is thrown back.

“Have you not been taught you are not to look a Man in the face unless so ordered?” He asks, with a sneer.

“Forgive me, Sir,” I reply.

He moves closer so He’s looking down at my face.

“Do you really think a weak little cunt like you could become everything I need in a slave?”

I say nothing.

Suddenly, I hear a lash. It takes a moment for my tits to register the pain. I’ve been too engrossed in the suit to notice He’s holding a dog quirt in one of His hands.

“Do you really think you could be my slave?” He asked again.

“It would depend entirely on Your Constitution, Sir,” I respond insolently.

And as He lashes me, I have hope that He’s finally found me.

It excited and unnerved me to watch him read the notebook. That’s how we were doing it now: I would meet with him and he would look over the notebook and then we would discuss whatever he felt was pertinent.

This time, after he finished reading, he rose from his seat and came over to where I was sitting on the daybed in his consulting room.

He untied the scarf from my neck.

“Did you bring me this, Zita?”

I nodded.

“Do you like to be strangled?” he asked, putting it back around my neck so it worked as a noose and pulling it until it was tight.

I felt the oxygen intake decrease.

“Spread your legs, Zita.”

My heart jumped in my chest. I spread my legs, the scarf growing tighter.

“Tap me if it’s too much,” he said.

I felt his fingers inside me. I put my feet up; one on his desk and another on a shelf and angled my hips forward.

“Very intuitive, obedient Zita,” F______ said, fingering me.

I was so wet, it was ridiculous. I hadn’t realized I was so turned on. When did it happen?

He fingered and fingered me, harder and faster, pulling the scarf tighter around my neck. I don’t know how long I was without air before I tapped him.

“Get up,” he whispered.

I stood, the blood rushing to my head and making me feel dizzy.

“Now bend over with your legs straight and your elbows on the chaise.”

I bent down, three and a half feet of leg into two and a quarter of body at a breakneck angle.

He ran a finger up my leg. “Such a perfect frame, my little thoroughbred.”

I felt like we’d stepped into a story. I moaned.

He spanked me. He hit me so hard I almost fell. It felt amazing.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again, harder.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again, other side.

“Thank you.”

He spanked me again on that side, harder.

“Thank you.”

He knelt and observed my cunt. He put a finger in and moved it about, as doctors do when they’re feeling for your ovaries.

“You have an incredibly tight pussy.”

“Does Master like it?” I ventured. I couldn’t believe I had called him that.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He finger fucked me in both holes until I was raw.

“Do you want a break, Zita? I think you need a break.”

“Thank you, Master.”

I stayed in place though my calves stung from the strain of being up like this.

“Now, Zita, before we finish, I want you prostrate yourself before me. Sit with your legs folded under you, Zita. Sit on your feet, your shins parallel to the floor, and ass resting on feet pointing backwards.”

I did as he told me, making sure my ass was exposed for him to see.

“Now bow down, make sure your ass is still touching your feet,” he continued. “Yes, very good. Bow further, until your forearms are resting on the ground before you. Put your head down and close your eyes.”

As I went down, I saw his cock, hard, pressed against his pants. I couldn’t believe it. I’d turned him on.

“Very nice,” he said.

“Does Master want to cum on my face?” I asked him without looking up.

There was a short pause and then F______ asked: “Don’t concern yourself with it. That aspect of it isn’t as important as this.”

With that, he picked me up by the hair, reached into my slip and pulled out my tits. He took a nipple between his fingers and pinched me so hard, I came.

“You little pain slut,” he said with a smile. “I think we’re done for today. I like using alternative tools to hurt and subdue you. I think you ought to include ideas in the notebook along with descriptions, images and places where these can be obtained. Start with the quirt, since it had such a charming debut.”

Deja Vu

I can’t wrap my mind around what happened with F______ on that mountain. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Was it therapy or a ruse to fuck me? I thought the latter, until I got a statement of services from my insurance provider, listing all sessions with the doctor. So he had billed them.

Billing women for fingering them on a mountain top! A fine job that is. I obviously am in the wrong field! Still, the confidence with which he conducted his affairs, as though there was nothing extraordinary was either brilliant or incredibly arrogant.

Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. All my pain is his, he said. All my pain and all my pleasure.

Again, I walked to my book shelf. This time, I pulled out Story of O, which I hadn’t read since I was in college.

I was briefly involved in a BDSM relationship in college, actually, if you can call it that. I didn’t really know what it entailed. I still don’t, to be perfectly honest. I gave Eric Story of O. He had never read it. Before that he would always call me at night to read me to sleep with his Morrissey voice. It was always The Fountainhead. He used to call me ‘Dominique.’

That’s kind of how it started, actually. I was doing PR for a gallery and had gone to a party at a British ex-pat’s to try to get him to deck his white space in glory. The affair was typical of the venture capitalist set, except for one minor exception: Tyson, our British ex-pat, loved gorgeous, well-sculpted boys and always had a harem of twenty to twenty-five of them wandering his apartment, all of them built like gods, between the ages of 23 and 33.

I’d been on the porch smoking when a light flicked on in a bedroom off the main space where Tyson was entertaining us. Through the window, I saw a giant push Tyson against a wall and kiss him with passion.

Tyson’s expression was one of sheer horror.

I immediately moved closer. I couldn’t make out what he said, but the tall man’s voice came clear as a bell.

“Is that what you want?” his voice was mocking. “I don’t think you can handle what I have to give. You’re playing with fire.”

With that, he stepped out.

I put out my cigarette, picked up my martini, slid open the door, walked in and like another moth to a flame, I joined the giant where he was sitting on a coffee table. I took a sip of my drink and ventured something I can no longer remember.

He turned to me slowly and after a pause that seemed to last an hour, he asked, “do you think you could surprise me?”

“I think you are already surprised.”

“Dominiques are dime a dozen,” he responded arrogantly.

“So are Howard Roarks.”

He couldn’t believe I’d picked up on the Fountainhead reference. Frankly, neither could I. I have a turbulent love affair with Ayn Rand that started when my father gave me her Virtue of Selfishness at the age of fifteen. She delights and enrages me in turns.

Conversation flowed between us after that and when he decided to leave with a group of boy toys, I followed. Like the fly to the flame, I followed him.

Once we were at the club, I took his hand and led him slowly to the dance floor. I watched his body curve and bend, tracing my hands over it. I wanted it, to be a part of it. After a few songs, when he motioned for me to follow, I let him take my hand and lead me off the dance floor to a balcony where he stopped abruptly, turned around and kissed me. To date that, perhaps, is the best kiss I have ever received.

“It’s time to go home,” he said.

There was such danger in following. That was why I did it, why I couldn’t resist. This man, this 6’6″ frame could overpower me at any moment. There was nothing I could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted with me.

I couldn’t resist the allure of his body, tall, built. His softly tanned skin. His short pepper hair, his gray eyes. I couldn’t resist the knowledge that I would not come home that night, that people would notice, that something could happen to me. Something terrible, something I could never undo. I needed change. I’d been trapped in a cycle of the same things, the same people. I needed something different.

My god, what else could I do but follow? Perhaps it is true that the control-obsessed just secretly want to lose control. I’ve been in control all my life. At that moment with him, I knew I could lose it. I wanted to lose it.

We drove out over a highway that felt endless. In the silence I watched him without reserve. Something about his presence made me uninhibited. I felt eighteen, almost giddy. I wanted to provoke him more than anything. Provoke him to do some kind of violence to me. But I was curious, too. I wanted to know who he was, what he did. I asked him to tell me his story, to show me himself.

“We are not to know about each other,” he said. “What we already know as things are is already too much.”

I was taken aback by his words. Yes, I have been involved with all sort of men, yes, I have had one night stands, but they were always open, full of strangeness and stories. That’s what made the act ours, the communion of existence. To engage in something with someone without the privilege of that information is to deny yourself a third dimension, a point of contrast.

I don’t want to own those pieces of you, I just want to see you metamorphose. I want to see you go from a school teacher to a tyrant, from a legal shark to a whimpering slave. I just want the full force of the moment, that’s all.

He looked at me, “tell me a story.”

I hesitated, sucking at the cigarette, buying seconds that didn’t serve me.

“Once upon a time,” I finally started, “there was a woman who wanted fulfillment more than anything in the world. She met the perfect man for it, but as it happens, when the unconquerable becomes the conquered, he lost interest, and their bed became cold and empty.”

He didn’t need to know the distance, he didn’t need to know the silence that drove me in every direction other than home. All he needed to know was that I was there and he was there, and my lips were aching to swallow him.

I unfastened my seat belt and leaned across dragging my breath over his neck, looking for his mouth. At the red light, he kissed me, his hands wandering over me. I wanted them all over me. I wanted the smell of him, the taste of him.

He pulled over on a small side street and killed the engine. We sat in silence. And then he reached for my face roughly and pulled me crashing into him. I fell completely. I’d slipped out of my lace corset during the drive. He looked me over, “take off your top.”

I untied the knot at my neck and pulled the black tightness over my head. He looked at me, bare-chested in the street light and took one of my nipples between his fingers. I stared at him intently. He brought his lips to me, and at his breath alone sent my pulse racing.

“Lie down in the backseat,” he said, taking off my pumps in two strokes. I did as he told me, stretching on my back. He unbuttoned my pants and pulled them off, putting my knees over his shoulders and burying his face in my pussy.

I could play coy all I wanted, it made no difference. The body does not lie, and he knew I was starved for his touch.

When he resurfaced, he buried his fingers in me, wet, soaked so the whole car smelled of cunt and cigarette and sweat and perfume.

“Look at you,” he said. “Finger-fucked in an alley like a common whore.”

“Lucky whore. Usually she is the one who has to do all the work.”

I wanted to cross the fine line, to see how far I could push him before I felt all of him, the secrets he locked inside himself, his natural urges to own, to take, to destroy. I wanted to feel them rage on me, explode and break me to a thousand pieces.

It only led him deeper inside me, exploring the ridges on the hot, wet velvet walls of me. I gripped his face over mine with one hand and his shoulder with the other. He alternated motions, hieroglyphs and alphabets on me, until I was oscillating against him, kicking and screaming as my climax ascended my spine.

Then we lay in place, talking, like throwing nets into the ocean, looking for something alive under the stillness of the surface. I asked him inane questions, psychoanalyzing his answers, comparing the sound of his voice to mine, as we rested, coated in satisfaction.

“You are a beautiful woman,” he said drawing a finger over my cheek.

“I have a mirror,” I said, “tell me something else.”

“I do not mean only physically, I mean the way you carry yourself, the way you speak. That is beautiful to me.”

I said nothing, I did not know what to say. So I took the compliment and said nothing.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he said suddenly. “I am going to fuck you here in an alley for the slut you are, without a condom, without another word, against your will.”

I lost my breath in my throat, I pushed against him, fighting him as he plunged his fingers inside me again and my struggles died in my desire. I wanted to fight him, more than anything I wanted him to tear into me inch for inch.

He didn’t.

The sun was rising.

“I’m Eric,” he said.

“I’m Zita.”

He slapped me.

“I don’t like your name,” he said. “I’m going to call you Dominique instead.”

I laughed. “As you like.”

The conversation fluctuated. Talk between us was a drunken driver, swerving from one lane to the other, not knowing where to stay or how to stay. We moved from the mundane to the mordant without hesitation.

“Come with me,” he said as we drove back toward the city. “We’ll sleep. We’ll go to the beach, get a chance to enjoy each other.”

“No. I’m tired. I need to go home.”

“I’m taking you home. With me.”

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“I will jump out of this car.”

He looked at me from behind his aviators with amusement.

I opened the car door and looked at the road below. It was going to hurt like hell.

“Holy shit, you’re serious, aren’t you?” he laughed. “You’re a piece of work. I’ll take you home.”

We pulled over beside my apartment building, both of staring up the length of windows reflecting the sunrise.

“Nice digs.”

“Not bad for a common whore, is it?” I asked.

He pulled me to him and kissed me tenderly. I walked out of the car in a state somewhere between awe and disconcert, every step knowing where to go but my mind not registering any of it.

My body led me, I followed. I followed without turning back, though I wanted to. I followed without hesitation though I had no means to contact this man again and I knew I wanted to see him again. I knew I would see him again.

I was right. He called me later that week.

“You are going to meet me,” he said mentioning a popular downtown restaurant. “See you at eight o’clock this Friday.”

I almost missed it. That Friday, I woke up at 8:15PM. I didn’t have time to shower or fix myself up. I flew into a white Von Furstenburg jersey dress, grabbed my purse and disappeared out the door, shoes in hand. I put them on while waiting for the light to change so I could cross the street.

Fortunately, the restaurant was a block from my house.

“I apologize for being late.”

He ignored me. “You will be able to choose what you want to drink all night. But I will tell you what to eat. Tonight you will be having the moi.”

“Why don’t you order for me, then?”

We smoked, talked, ate. The fish was divine. I infuriated me that he had known just what to order for me. Afterward we stood in the street. I was talking about the galleries I frequented. He wanted to see the art, but they were not open. It was getting late.

When we got into his car, I didn’t know where we were going. We ended up at a gay bar in the tourist district. All eyes on us, regarding us strangely. We separated, he went looking for a momentary satisfaction. I sat in place staring at myself in the mirrors that lined the walls. When he came back, he watched me with a smile as he smoked.

“You are full of shit,” he said, “I don’t believe that a person who stares at herself like that doesn’t care for her physical appearance.”

“It is a marvelous thing, the body, isn’t it?”

He laughed and offered me his hand. We walked out and wandered the streets to a strip club on the boulevard.

“I have always secretly wanted to be a stripper,” I told him as we took a seat before the goddess dancing on a pole.

“You should be, Dominique,” he told me. “It’s very fitting for a whore.”

“I want to dance for you like that,” I thought. “I want to submit myself to the ultimate act of vanity and worship before you, I want to release myself knowing you are enjoying me, delighting in everything I am. I want this beauty to be yours.”

“Let’s go,” he said, after a short moment.

I followed him. He stopped me in the street. We stood facing each other. He picked me up like I weighed nothing and threw me up, sandwiching my body between him and the wall of the club. He kissed me like he might die any moment and this was his last kiss.

“Take me home,” I said. “Take me home with you.”

And that’s how it began.

The Mountain

When we arrived at the chosen location, I heard a door open and the sound of footsteps on gravel. My door opened and a cool breeze blew in.

“Hello, Zita,” I heard the doctor’s voice.

“Hello,” I responded.

“Take my hand,” he said and I felt a touch on my upper arm.

I took his hand and he helped me out. He guided me from the car and then stopped.

“Put your arms up before you,” he instructed.

I did, and hit what I thought was his chest. It wasn’t–it was his back.

“On my shoulders,” he said.

I put my hands on his shoulders. They’re wide, set on a strong frame.

“I am going to guide you. The ground is uneven; to avoid falling, drag your feet.”

We begin to walk. Being unable to see anything, my other senses come to life. I begin to take in all the information around me, the dryness of the earth beneath my boots, the way it easily gives way, the crunching leaves and dead grasses. We’re outside somewhere, perhaps a park.

We walk for some time before he stops.

“Let’s take a little break,” he says.

“During our last session,” I tripped a little over the word, uncertain of what the incident in the garage was. “During that event, you said you had to review conclusions you had reached. What are those conclusions?”

“When I asked you who you were in our first session, you told me you didn’t know, but you have a very rigid self-definition. You act in stereotyped ways and attempt to manipulate others to act in particular and fixed ways towards you; or else you redefine their actions to fit with your pre-established stereotypes.”

“How–how do you mean?”

“The events in the parking garage formed a pattern outside of your comprehension. You asked me to fuck you, a pattern you understand.”

I blushed powerfully.

“Your lack of acceptance of the spontaneity holds you back and possibly makes dealing with particular life events very difficult, if not impossible.”

His voice was still clear, but more distant now, as though he’d walked away some ways.

“So you’re basically going to have sessions with me where we do new, spontaneous things?”

“Even that is a pattern. Neurosis, Zita, is fixed predictability. I want to facilitate you to become unpredictable.”

Suddenly, I felt something ice cold hit my chest and thighs with a powerful force. It’s a sprinkler. I’m drenched.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” F______ says to me. His voice is close again.

I do as he says. We walk on. The path is winding and slanted. I’m tired.

“I never hike anymore,” I say.

“Why is that?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you like it?”

“It can be fun.”

“When was the last time you did it?”

“College,” I say, remembering the endless four hour hike. “An ex-fiance thought it would be sweet to propose at the top of Stairway to Heaven in Oahu.”

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s a metal stairway on the windward side of the island that runs along the cliffs surrounding the Haiku Valley all the way to the peak of the Koolaus crest at Puu Keahi a Kahoe. It was originally built for the Coast Guard to enable them to maintain radio towers up there; it’s endless, there are probably close to 4,000 steps. It was made forbidden to climb because those stairs sat in disrepair since the late 80s, making them extremely dangerous. Fortunately, the City and County of Honolulu repaired the stairs in the early zeroes, some time before I took the hike. It’s still forbidden, though not as dangerous. It’s not an easy hike, even with stairs because it’s so long and at moments it feels like you are literally clinging vertically to a cliff. The drops are terrifying. But the view from the top–you can see the highways like little bands of spaghetti below, and a 360 of the island. It’s breath-taking.”

“What do you mean when you say ‘a fiance’?”

“I mean one of among others.”

“How many are there?”


“All right,” Dr. F______ says, stopping.

I run into his back and feel how sturdy it is. He turns around and I feel his hands on my shoulders.

“It’s time to conduct a more formal review,” F______ said, his voice even closer.


“Yes,” he responded. “Of your physical person. Remove your coat.”

I did as he said and he took it from me.

“Lift up your dress.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Up until this moment, I’d thought I’d made an error, that we were engaging in some kind of very experimental therapy, that somehow that phone call between the parking lot and now had been an aberration, a sort of fluke engendered by the demand of an attractive woman to be fucked during our previous session. Was I wrong?

I wanted to be wrong. I lifted up my dress.

“Lift up your dress.”

Erotica books always talk about the humiliating experience of being poked, prodded and searched by man like a piece of meat, and at first, I did feel a sliver of panic. A vestige of Catholic shame? No, vanity. I have always counted on the lust of a man to grant me the status of the embodiment of Venus. Most of the time, men are so hell bent on fucking you, they wouldn’t notice if you were missing a limb. OK, maybe they would notice a missing limb, but I’ve had guys date me for years and never notice scars or moles.

Men usually look at you appreciating and anticipating what they’re getting. It’s all about fucking. They usually are thrilled with the fact you’re not hideous and that’s it.

But here was one who was going to inspect me to make sure I was perfect. I’m attractive, a beautiful sum of ugly parts. A flat ass. Uneven ribs. A spine that is crooked as a serpent. A sunken coccyx. Big feet. I bite my nails. I get black heads in my ears. I have an oily scalp. My toenails crack. My elbows are always dry. I don’t shave the little blonde fuzz I get on my legs…

“Remove your panties,” Dr. F______ said.

I was horrified. I wanted something to happen, but I wasn’t sure what was happening. I didn’t want to venture further without–

Suddenly, I remembered what F______ had said earlier: “your lack of acceptance of the spontaneity holds you back and possibly makes dealing with particular life events very difficult, if not impossible.”

I slipped my panties down and stepped out of them. I reached for the knot behind my neck holding up my dress and untied it. I pulled my dress down to expose my tits and then down further so it dropped to the ground. I was naked except for my shoes, my nipples hard in the cold spring day.

I raised my arms so F______ could “review” me.

I felt his hands on my breasts.

“How big are they, Zita?” he asked. “B? 32, 33B?”

“32B,” I couldn’t believe what he was doing.

He took a nipple between his fingers with his free hand.

“How sensitive are your nipples?”

He pinched them until my breath caught in my throat.

“You have an incredible pain threshold,” he remarked.

He slapped my tits.

I let the pain of his palm feather over my skin and reach beyond my ribs. My nipples were warmed by the contact.

“Turn around, Zita.”

I rotated in place and he guided me a few steps away from where we’d begun.

“There is a boulder in front of you. Touch it.”

I reached up and felt its pock-marked texture with my hands. Then I let my hands run up along its rough surface until my arms were raised over my head. I spread my legs.

“You have a phenomenal ass,” F______ said. “You don’t look like you do at all, but when you position yourself, you have the most perfect, delectable ass.”

He slapped it.

“Thank you.” I said, remembering the phone conversation.

He slapped it again.

“Thank you.”

He slapped it harder.

“Thank you!”

He slapped the other side. He came back to this one. Again and again. The sound of each slap ricocheted off the face of the rock before me; they sounded enormous, like thunder claps.

Again and again I thanked him until I had no voice, just moans and whimpers. I could feel my ass stinging like an open wound. Sensitive, burning skin juxtaposed against the cold of the day.

“Zita,” F______ said. “What a lovely red ass you’ve got. Turn around.”

I turned. I could feel him looking at my ribs, my tits.

“You have impossibly long legs,” he commented.

Then he inserted his fingers into my pussy.

I stood motionless, in shock.

“Offer your pussy to me,” he commanded.

I slowly leaned back against the rock, one hand behind me me to steady me and the other gripping an edge of the wall. I felt with my shoe for a surface and finally found a small rock on which to prop myself up so my cunt was facing him.

He rose and fucked my pussy with his hand, leaning toward me, and it feels so good and so wrong, it’ disconcerting and—and—and—well, what kind of therapy is this?—Not any real—oh, yeah, oh, God, oh, God, yes, yes, yes, yes—

I leaned against his shoulder, I could smell him, awake, alert, alive, erect. He took one of my nipples in his mouth and he sucked on it and I closed my eyes, delirious, ready to pass out.

“Zita,” he whispered hotly in my ear.

“Yes?” I responded in a moan.

“All your pain comes from me,” he said. “Say it. Tell me all your pain comes from me.”

I moaned, “all my pain comes from you.”

“All your pleasure,” he whispered into my face, which was now cradled against his shoulder, “comes from me.”

“All my pleasure comes from you.”


“All my pleasure comes from you,” I repeat, this time louder.

He finger fucked me harder, faster, deeper.

Then, he stopped, almost as abruptly as he had started.

“Zita,” he said. “Come down.”

I could hardly move my legs from having them in that position so long. F______ put the hand that had been in my cunt to my face and wiped it on me. I licked it. I licked and licked it as he wiped it until it was clean.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

I turned.

“Bend over.”

I bent over the rock. F______ was still. I sensed nothing for some time. Then I felt his hand on my ass.

“You have some redness and bruises, but nothing of concern.”

He stuck his fingers in my pussy again.

“You have a tiny little cunt,” he remarked.

“Thank you.”

“You’re not used to big objects being inserted into it.”

I blushed, not knowing how to respond.

Without removing his hand from my cunt, he pulled me upright by the hair, then put his hand around my neck. My naked back was pressed against his wide chest. I could feel his breath in my ear.

I realized I was on the edge of orgasm.

“Zita,” Dr. F______ said. His voice was a wave that crawled down my spine to my pussy and made the walls of it reverberate. I could at that moment feel my sexual response cycle begin, one cycle stronger than the one before, like little ripples that welcome the tidal wave, it’s coming and it’s coming and it’s coming—

He said my name again.

I came. Then I fainted.

F______ says the last words I said were, “oh, God.”

When I came to, I was kneeling on the dirt, still blindfolded, and he had me by the shoulders.

People say their lives flash before their eyes when they come close to death. I think mine was swapped with someone else’s between here and there because I saw lily pads, daisies, silks, fuchsia and ocelots.

F______ lifted me up and sat me on a rock.

“Can you die of pleasure?” I asked him.

“Is that what you felt?” he asked. “That you were dying?”

He untied the blindfold. I shut my eyes against the sudden light. When I opened them, F______ was looking into them the way a doctor does when he examines a patient.

“Am I dying?” I asked.

“Yes, you are. You have been dying since you came into this world.”

I said nothing, my eyes slowly coming into full focus and taking in the breath-taking view of the city below us.