“I needed to do it on my own.” Not to mention, Sam’s been MIA recently.
“Without even warning me? Who’d you use as backup? Your dad?”
“No!” Dad’s liberal and all, but no. “Absolutely not.”
“What if they’d been serial killers? Or, like, truly bad people? What if they’d chained you up and had their way with you or tortured you with…? What’s your worst thing?” She gasps. “What if they glued your eyes open and forced you to watch the non-equity tour ofMean Girls? Or, oh, oh, blackhead-removal videos. For hours.”
As always, I gag at the thought of another person’s pores up close and personal. “Both of those are terrible.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You love the yucky skin stuff.”
“Yes, but you hate it. Weird, since you’re the masochist. I’m just a simple girl who enjoys a good pop of—”
I barely contain another dry heave. “I’m not a masochist. I told you, I’m a submissive. A bottom. I don’t want to be hurt or treated badly or made to watch anything. I want someone to, like…” Rub my back and call me beautiful. “Do things to me,” I end on an embarrassed half whisper.
“I could boss you around if you—”
“Ew. Stop it.”
“So, how did it pan out? You meet the Dom of your dreams? Did he put a collar on it? Throw you over his leather-clad shoulder and drag you back to his lair?”
“Clearly not, if I’m calling you.”
“Yeah, why are you calling? Shouldn’t you be getting it on right now?”
I go quiet, the only sound the click of the turn signal as I pull up to my place.
“You didn’t even go in, did you? Bet you did a walk-by and chickened out. Am I right?”
“I went in.” I look around to make sure the street’s empty before getting out of the car and rushing around the house to the converted garage that contains my entire life.
“Selfie or it didn’t happen.”
As usual, Samantha manages to put a smile on my face. “They don’t let you bring your phone inside.”
“All right. Hickey or it didn’t happen. Or, like, I don’t know, lash marks or something.”
I laugh outright now, which isn’t easy to do quietly as I squint, trying to locate the lock. “It happened.”
“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat exactly happened? Come on, spill!”
“I mean, nothing happened. But I went.” I don’t even know why I bother prevaricating. She’ll get it all out of me eventually.
“So, when can we go? I want to see it. I want the full HD kink experience.”
“I don’t think I’m going back.”
Quiet on the other end. The only sound is the jingle of my keys.
“You home?”
“Yep.”
With a deep, relieved sigh, I lock the door behind me and turn on a light, kick off my shoes, and head to my compact kitchenette to wash my hands, taking care not to trip on a meowing Pepe as I go.
“Is that my boy?” asks Sam, who’s known—and loved—my cat since the day she went with me to the SPCA and helped me pick out the feline most likely to eat his person before the body goes cold. Pepe’s got the eyes of a stone-cold killer and the body of a gelatin pillow. I love him more than anything in the world. “Geez, he’s loud.”
