You drive, of course, your black-nailed hands sure and confident on the controls of your red Maserati as we crawl through the streets of Manhattan, headed uptown toward... I don't know where. The top is up and no one can see me through the tinted windows. For the moment I'm safe.
"Almost forgot," you say with a grin that says you never forget anything. "We need to make a quick stop."
Fuck.
You pull into a parking garage on Broadway and you find a spot and kill the engine, then sit there looking at me. "What are you waiting for, slave?"
"I can't get out of the car, Mistress."
You cock an eyebrow. "Can't?"
I shrink back into the leather seat at the deadly seriousness of your expression. "Please, Mistress. If someone sees me..."
"I thought we settled this, slave. Do you want me to drop you at your house instead? Knock on the door, tell your wife I found you wandering the streets? Or--" You pause. "Tell her the truth about where you go on your 'business trips?' Let you sort *that* out?"
I swallow hard, suddenly finding myself near tears. "No, Mistress."
"Good answer," you say. "You're such a pretty girl like this. Let's show you off. Come around and open my door like a good slave."
I sniffle.
"Don't make me say it again," you snap, and the whiplash shock of your tone jolts me out of myself and I find my hand on the door handle. *Fuck fuck fuck.* I open it and lever myself out of the Maserati.
"Good girl," you say behind me as I close my door. And when I open your door you smile up at me and my heart melts a little. I'm so fucked up right now. Humiliated, terrified... but so obsessed with you, so infatuated, that I can't figure out if that matters. I hold my hand out to you and you take it and lift yourself out of the car, light as a fairy.
This parking garage smells of exhaust. This level is empty--thank God--but I can hear voices in the stairwell as we near the elevator. Three men, complaining about the Knicks' loss last night. My face reddens as we get closer and they get louder. You hold on to my hand. "It'll be okay," you murmur. "I'll keep you safe."
You press the elevator button and we wait as the voices ascend. As the door opens and I'm about to step in--desperate to step in--the men come around the corner. Broad-shouldered, red-faced, meaty hands, construction worker types. They look at you--look twice at you, because who wouldn't--and then look at me. You squeeze my hand harder and I know what you want. I don't get in the elevator.
"The fuck?" the tallest one says, his jaw falling open.
"Holy shit," the roundest one says. "Holy shit."
The third just laughs. I turn my face away, face burning beneath the makeup. I'm starting to sweat and feeling a little nauseated. The elevator door dings closed. My escape is gone.
You drop my hand. "Is there a problem?" you ask them, turning toward them. *Stepping* toward them.
"Your, uh, girlfriend? She's kind of a freak," the round guy says.
I dare a look. You're standing there in your pretty black dress, staring arrogantly up at them. You're so ferocious. So beautiful.
"I'm a freak too," you tell them. "And I'm fucking him. Am I fucking you?"
