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The closer we got to the stage, the more my heart forgot how to beat.

Everyone watched us.

Everyone saw.

I thought I’d been sly with Victor. Thought I could play a part I’d always felt but never accepted. Turned out, he knew me better than myself.

All I had was her.

All I wanted was her.

And the novelty of finally finding someone who could make me feel something other than loneliness made it impossible to motherfucking breathe.

Ily didn’t say a word as I led her crawling up the short steps to the stage.

The spotlight seemed too bright.

Booze lodged like a boulder in my gut.

I was sober as a priest, despite my lack of food.

My breath came fast as I looked over the sea of tables and Masters.

The back of my neck prickled with far too many eyes.

Was this what stage fright felt like?

Would I even be able to perform?

Adjusting my hard-on, I tested my sensitivity.

I almost folded in half at the barest squeeze.

At least I’d be quick.

Ily wouldn’t have to tolerate me for long, seeing as I could barely fucking see straight with need.

Tugging on the leash to stop her, she sucked in the faintest inhale.

I thought I was the cause until I looked down and noticed what she focused on.

A translucent spot on the black fabric floor.

Cum.

It’s cum.

Peter’s cum from fucking the slave he’d been commanded to role-play with.

Was it funny that both acts tonight would be complete fabrications or just tragic?

Even in a fortress that claimed freedom beat at its very heart, all I could hear were chains.

“Flog her, mate!” someone yelled.

“Stretch her with a dildo!”

“Shred her tattoo with that whip over there. The cat-o-nine-tails cuts ’em real good!”