A Permanent Collar

I still feel woozy from the drink and the pills. His apartment makes me uneasy - it's less a living space than a lab, clean and white with glass display cases set into the walls, the occasional scribbled idea on crumpled sheets. He pours more wine and I try to relax into the sofa, it's size making feel swamped, disconnected from the room. He excuses himself, saying he'll be back with something to show me. I follow him with my eyes, he moves into a side room, unlit, and opens one of the display cases with a code. I turn away, not wanting him to know I'm watching, and I hear the case close, leather shoes on wood floor, and he's back in front of me.

This is something new I've made, he says. Watch what happens.

He takes the cantaloupe from the dish on the kitchen side. In his hands he's holding a narrow black band with metal ends, resembling a bracelet or choker. He slips it around the melon and it fastens with a click, gripping the skin of the fruit. He props the melon on one end, and moves over to sit with me.

Are you watching?

Yes. What am I looking for?

He whispers something. It sounds like a codeword, and the melon explodes. He gets up and pulls the band from the within the mess of pulp and skin. Lifting it, I can see it has shrunk in diameter by about a third. He takes it to the kitchen, and I watch, disturbed, wondering why he would show me.

What a mess, he says, dismissively. He rinses the melon pulp from the device, and as I'm watching, it seems to return to its original size, and the clasp opens, metal ends swinging from his hands.

You like your toys, I say. What's it for?

I'm going to fasten it around your neck, he replies.

I swallow hard. It didn't sound negotiable. My bladder twitches in fear and I try to stay composed.

Why? I say. It's all I can come up with.

Well you will belong to me and will have to do as I tell you. Or, well, you saw, he says, looking at the shattered melon.

He's holding the band in his hands with the clasps pointed towards me and I realise he means right now. I suddenly feel vulnerable, with my bare shoulders and my hair pinned up. Almost as if I had invited this.

I suppose, I could for a bit, as long as you promise, I start to say, but he interrupts.

It's impossible to remove it, once it's locked, he says. Only if it's been triggered.

I can't think of a response. Why am I not getting up to leave? The fact is, I'm not. I'm staying put. And he knows this. He's already won. And I have no idea why, but I put down my wine glass, and, sitting up straight, I lift my chin, and drop my shoulders, stretching my neck out. I close my eyes and hold this pose.

With my eyes shut, I feel the band touch my throat, and he runs his fingers round to the back of my neck. I hear the metal ends touch, and he grips them. I swallow hard as I feel him push them together.

The band tightens and there's a soft click. He runs his fingertips down my shoulders; the tightness around my neck remains. It's done.

I'm unprepared for how tight the collar is, and I feel like I have to keep me neck elongated just to reduce the pressure. I want to lift my hand to my neck, feel the new situation, see myself in a mirror, but already he's pulling my tube top down, and his hands are on my breasts. I want to resist this but the feeling that I'll be strangled is both terrifying and exciting me.

He stands, and says follow me. I comply.

His bed is enormous and he instructs me to undress before I can lie down. He starts to undress as well, and I feel a twinge of excitement when I see the size of the bulge in his pants. Discarding them, he moves towards me, hard and straight as a missile. Despite the fear, I'm soaking wet below. He can tell this. He begins to rub my clit in circles, and I whimper, so many thoughts and sensations colliding in my head. After a few minutes I starting to feel the first promise of an orgasm, he rolls me onto my front and, for a few seconds, nothing happens. He is finding something in a drawer, but I can't see, and I want him to return, finish what he's started. There's a squirting sound, and a finger, cold with lube, is pushing up my ass. I clench, shocked, but he persists, forcing a second finger in.

Please, I say. I don't know what I'm asking.

Remember the melon, comes the reply.

I try to relax, and start to rub myself as he works on my asshole. Each finger stretching me further, each pump of lube making me slicker. The tightness around my neck and in my ass mirroring each other and either end of my body. I'm in pain, and pleasure, and fear, and excitement all at once, and when he finally withdraws his hand, who knows how many fingers later, I know what's coming next.

I feel the weight of his body bearing down on me, and his cock is in his hand, the bulb pressing against my asshole. I clench without meaning to, and he lifts his other hand to my throat, around the collar, reminding me to behave.

He pushes and relaxes over and again; each thrust opening me slightly further, the stretching making me wince, until I feel the head of his cock push past the sphincter. I wail a little but he's past the point now, he pushes himself in deeper, his other hand back on my clit, moving in circles, and the orgasm begins to build again. As it does so, his begins to thrust in and out, quicker as the muscles in my ass warm and slacken for him. It takes no time before I am nearing an orgasm, and I can hear from his breathing that he is too; the head of his cock feels bigger with each new rhythm, and as my body starts to spasm, his hands grip into my hips, emptying himself into me with a cry.