"Ma'mm, I am calling the authorities if you do not leave immediately."
"I did you a favor." Bethany continues, "When Sky told me she'd seen your face in town, I didn't believe her at first. Really, Grace, you tried to run away from your past in the next town over? Do you know how long it took me to drive to Asheville? Not even three hours on the god damn high way. And you're stupid enough to think I'd never find you here." "And what do I find when I get here? A sad little coffee girl hiding her identity and throwing away her life on some loser boy way out of your league. I'll always find you Grace, You know why? Because I can help you. You'll always be sad and confused about life without my guidance. You need me."
Tears sting my eyes even though I would give anything not to cry in front of this woman. Her words hit a deep truth in my gut. I used to believe every word of what she was saying. Bethany was my reason for rising in the morning and the last thought on my mind before bed. She made all of the decisions for us as a couple because she'd say I was too anxious or too immature. She even chose my collage major. I really believed I was nothing without her. But that, too, was a lie.
"Fuck you, Bethany!" I scream, hatred and aching sadness in my voice. The entire café turns to stare at me. A few people stand up the leave. Oh god, I've made a spectacle of myself. How am I going to possibly turn this around? "I'm out, you know how to reach me when you need me." Bethany says coolly, and follows the customers out the door.
"A word," Michelle says quietly, gesturing for me to follow her into the break room. She stands, arms crossed with her back against a pile of cardboard boxes, the espresso shipment from the smell, and I stare I stare at her, still in shock. "Why didn't you call the police?" I ask.
"She didn't do anything illegal, Grace, and she did leave on her own, thankfully." I nod, still wishing I'd had gotten to see Bethany dragged off by cops, and Michelle softens her gaze on me, looking sympathetic.
"I need to talk to you, Grace. My parents founded 85 on a foundation of faith and good morality and I don't think that we can, in good conscience, allow you to work here given your lifestyle choices."
"You mean...because I'm Bisexual." I laugh, "Because that's really going to influence the coffee."
Michelle frowns, "I'm afraid I'm serious. You're a sweet girl, Grace, but, given the situation, I have to ask that you find a new place of employment."
--
I've done a pretty good job of keeping myself from crying on the car ride home. Instead, I've formulated a long list of ways I might apologize to Nicole, insist that she was always right, and plead her forgiveness.
But when I open the door and call her name, there's no response. Of course, it's still the afternoon and she's still at work. I sigh at the reminder of my own dismal situation and start disrobing on my way to my room. When I get to my bed, I'm just in my underwear and I happily kick those off as well. If there's no one home anyway, there's no reason to wear clothes.
I rock backwards, grabbing my sketch pad and pencil from my night stand, then cross my legs and rest the pad on my lap. I decide if anything will distract me from all of this, it's my art. I relax my eyes and my mind and let my hand start to sketch shapes without really trying to direct it.
I realize I am drawing a figure of a woman, so I shape her in. She is fit but curvy with wide hips, kneeling with hands in her lap. She looks a bit too much like myself, I do hate when I do that. So I give her fat ringlet curls, the opposite of my straight, glossy red hair and plump, sexual lips, nothing like my lips that are thin and a little uneven.
My figure looks incredibly sexual, now that I notice it. Her position reminds me of just last night when I was in the very same position with Richard and Catherine, except I was bound in rope. Then I get an idea. I draw twisting strands of rope around her chest and breasts in the way I remember being tied. I'm excitedly erasing and making slight changes, showing how the tightness of the rope puckers her skin, parting her full lips. I find the sight of this girl I've created, this almost-me, kneeling and bound so beautiful and I feel myself excitedly taking in big breaths of air. I imagine myself as her, bound again, with her beauty and perfection, without anything to be self-conscious about. How amazing that would be.
I erase the gentle lines of her neck and add a final detail, a thin collar. And it is as if I am looking at an image of my ideal self, free and self-confident, all my anxieties and worries placed in the hands of someone else for a short while. I find myself missing Richard and Catherine, as if my absence from them has spanned days, not hours. Somehow, I feel like, if I were with them, I wouldn't feel this pain.
I notice the leather bracelet around my wrist rubbing the paper. It is like an invisible link to them.
"What if," I hear myself whisper.
And before I can give myself time to second guess, I unsnap the bracelet and slide it through my fingertips. I bring it to my face and drawn in the earthy leather smell, feeling myself grow wet at the idea of what I'm about to try. I take an end in each hand and bring them together at the back of my neck, snapping the braided piece in place like a choker, except, no, of course not: like a collar.
I abandon the sketchpad and throw myself backwards into my bed, falling recklessly into my comforter like a joyous animal. I let my right hand slide down the curve of my body, towards my growing desire. I keep my left hand at my neck, grasping and feeling how the leather sits against my skin. I imagine it truly is a collar. That it is held on with a lock, fastened to a leash, led by someone I can trust with my life. My hand slips between my legs and effortlessly parts my lips, slick with wetness. I moan in response and rub, faster and faster.
Usually I start these sessions slowly, sensuously, but not today. It builds much too quickly, and I am overcome with lust at the fantasy of being collared. The feel of the leather around my neck makes me feel untamed and I am rolling my head from side to side, tangling my hair. I thrust my fingers inside myself, flexing them with an intense rhythm and I allow guttural sounds, so different than my normal, demure moans, to come forth.
Yes, I am enslaved, taken, a pet, owned. I am not Grace Meadow; I am just a girl, a beautiful girl with full lips and curly hair, naked and bound for the pleasure of another. I exist to experience pleasure and pain and joy and bliss. My job isn't to think but to feel. And I will feel any sensation no matter how intense if it pleases my owner, oh god yes. The fantasy of being totally taken and used engulfs me and I shudder around my aching hand, coming fast and hard.
I lay, panting and blissfully high, still gracing the leather fastened around my neck.
