I’ve kind of stopped telling elaborate stories, but sometimes I’ll say we’re colleagues at work, or she’s my summer intern, or she’s a sorority girl and I’m the handyman/landscaper dude in the jeans and the t-shirt, or whatever. Girl next door, bored housewife next door, home and school association volunteer, etc. She mostly can’t hear me but she does sometimes find them fun. But the other night, Wednesday night, I wasn’t really doing any imagining of the sort, it was just the two of us having sex. At one point she asked “Who are we?”
I said “what do you mean?” because often, when she blurts out something seemingly out of context it’s because she was dreaming something and might remember some of it, but she said, “you know, where are we, who are we, how do we know each other?” and I understood she meant which fantasy are we trying out? I said “oh, of course, you’re my slave.”
“What kind of slave?”
“A sex slave, of course.”
“Where are we?”
“You’re chained to the wall in the dungeon of my castle.”
“No.”
“You’re …” I had in my mind something like the inside of Genie’s bottle, you know, all fabrics and cushioning:
but I was struggling to put it into words. I think I said something like “you’re in a very cushy room, all soft, with bright colors.”
“No.”
“OK, where are we.” It is not typical for her to have any opinions about much of anything we do while high–she’s a lunk, she mostly just lets me handle everything.
“Penthouse apartment, Upper West Side.”
You can tell we lived in NYC a while ago, if the UWS was the height of luxury. Actually even when we lived there the fanciest places were in TriBeCa. But there was no Hudson Yards, there were no skinny little pencil buildings south of the park.
“OK, you’re in my penthouse on the UWS. You’re not even locked up … I met you on the street and asked you for a drink. I mentioned that I lived nearby in a nice apartment; you said ‘maybe we can go there now?’ and I said “if you come over now, you may never leave.” You said “we’ll see” so I left a $50 on the table and took your hand. I led you up the block to my building and we took my private elevator. Sure, at first I kept you locked up, but only for a couple weeks. That’s as long as it took you to understand you would never meet another man like me, and would never get fucked like this by anyone else. That being my sex slave was the best life you could hope to have.”
It’s been a few days since this happened and we’ve fooled around at least twice since then, so if I try to go on from there and relate what happened next in any detail I’ll end up mixing in things that happened on those other nights, because it is hard to keep them straight. So I’ll stop there, but you should know, reader, that she made an excellent slave that night.
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