I walked to the bathroom and undid my robe. Looked at my naked body in the mirror. Turned right, then left, then right. Leaned forward, checked my teeth. Brushed my teeth. Used mouthwash. Returned to the room and laid on the carpet. Did a dozen crunches before I realized the futility of trying at this point. Got dressed in my lingerie set, purchased three days earlier at Quincy’s local department store. Stood in front of the mirror again. Right, left, right. Realized how ridiculous I looked in red lace and garters. Stripped again. Pulled the robe back on and cinched it tight. Avoided the bathroom mirror and found Brett’s room number. Had a mini panic attack. Downed a tiny bottle of rum from the minibar. Decided to brush my teeth again. Grimaced at the combination of mint and rum. Called Chelsea back and regained my resolve. Rode the elevator up two more floors and knocked on Brett’s door.

When he answered the door I stepped inside. Dug my hands into the cotton of his shirt and pushed him back, against the wall, his hands fast on the tie of my robe, a groan rumbling from his mouth when he yanked it open and saw my naked body. Our mouths stole a hundred kisses in a few minutes, short frantic ones, long, deep discoveries, a blur of tongues and teeth and moremoremore. And suddenly, all was right. It was instant, hot freaking passion that didn’t leave room for nerves or awkwardness. It was the prior weekend all over again, and I dragged my fingers through his hair, twisted in it, his hands exploring the skin underneath my robe. I felt the pull of his palms on my ass as he yanked me closer, one hand sliding down ... down the crack of my ass, over the pucker of skin and to the wet slit, a place where - when he pushed inside - we both reacted, my body curving closer, wanting more, his mouth coming off me to gasp out my name.

“Pull me out,” he said, his hands occupied, one finger slowly dipping in, then out, in, then out, then ... two fingers. His other hand, on the back of my neck, curled in my hair, kept me close. When I arched against him, his eyes drank it in, eager and greedy, and if I could bottle up that moment, I would never have to wonder if he found me attractive. I could open it and sip it, a bit at a time, and be satisfied my whole life. But that devouring of me with his eyes? It was gas on my fire, and my hands shook as I ripped at his belt, jerked on his zipper, and ... finally, a day too late ... palmed and pulled out his cock.

tight (tīt)

(adj.) allowing little or no room for free motion or movement

The man who kept me had an accent, a thick coating over every word, something I might have found sexy in another life. Now, in this one, I wanted to cut out his tongue and never hear another of his affected syllables.

He sat before me, my hands again tied, this time to the lower cuffs, a more comfortable position. My bare ass sat in the wooden chair, my ankles secured to the legs of it. I tried to fall over, tried to rip the chair, but only succeeded in wrenching my opposing arm practically out of socket.

Now, my bones tired, throat sore from screaming, I sat and tried to block out the words that he spoke.

“Do you know that in the UK a sex slave ring of 1,400 victims was just discovered? It’s the fifth one of its kind, led by Muslim men, that has been found. I find it fascinating that they target white women, such as you. Do you know why, Kitten?”

I didn’t respond, my eyes avoiding his, focusing on the pad of paper he held on his lap, his pen tapping the surface with a quick rat-a-tat-tat that was driving me crazy.

“They say that if the ethnicity of the victim and abuser are different, then the crime seems less severe. It’s a mental Band-Aid, really, to the victim. That’s why I was so pleased to get you, Kitten. To see if I felt less empathy for you. Now, I’m wondering if it works in reverse. If you feel less empathy and connection to me, as your Master.”

“You’re not my Master.” The words spilled out before I could contain them, and I watched his pen as it stopped its tap and swiveled upright.

“Well then, what would you call me? The majority of sex traffickers in the United States are prostitution rings, in which the Master is called ‘Daddy.’ Would you prefer that name, Kitten?”

I looked up from his pen, into his eyes. “No. And I’m not Kitten.”

He chuckled, the corner of his mouth drawing up as if pulled by a thread, his eyes tight on mine like he found me fascinating. “I use the nickname to help you forget your old life. Also, it is a form of endearment. Most slaves embrace their new names.”

“How many have you dealt with?” I asked the question quietly, unsure of his reaction, my hate of this man one-upped by my fear of him.

“Well ... just you so far. If you don’t give me what I need, then I’ll have to get another. Which takes me to the second part of today’s training.” He set his clipboard aside and my breath stalled, my chest tightening as I prepared for the unknown.

5 months, 1 week before

The man had the art of courtship down. I wondered, as I sat at my desk and opened the box, how many times he had done this. How many women he had courted from afar, how many companions he had flown to every Caribbean island. Wondered, not for the first time, if I was a mistress and playing second fiddle to a Mrs. Jacobs.

The box was chocolate brown, with a red satin ribbon, and had arrived at the bank this morning via UPS. I’d cut open the ordinary brown box and there sat this, nestled in a sea of Styrofoam peanuts, its bow perfectly in place despite the shipping. I’d shut the box before anyone saw it and carried it into my office, kicking the door shut and bumping it with my butt until it clicked into place.