“No, this is not about punishment, Sir. It’s about pleasure; yours and mine. It’s about erotic pain; about giving my body and mind over to you, ...nd trusting you to know how far you can take me. I do, Patrick. I do trust you.” He takes a deep breath, smiles briefly, then composes himself before he abruptly orders me to lay down over his lap with my chest and head resting on the bed. “Keep your hands next to or under your head.” His hands begin to knead the flesh of my cheeks again. As I lay. That night I came home slightly inebriated and very unstable in my high heels. I wore a sparkling white Valentino for the black and white ball I’d picked. The men were boring, the women snappish, the food bland, and the photographers awful. All through it I’d drunk. I drank because I’d lost the one thing that meant something in my life. I drank to dull the pain that was now, even years later, still sharp and swift. He was married, had kids, was beyond me then. And how I mourned the life stolen. More

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