Surrender
35 min reading time.
Surrender is a work of autofiction.
It was commissioned — meaning someone asked me to write it and then, specifically, to publish it. The writing was mine. The decision to go public was his.
At the time of sharing this piece, it is the most time I have spent on any short story. All my work is a labour of love, but this one demanded the most of me.
If you’re interested in commissioning a piece, contact me!
Consecration
“If you don’t mind, I want to pay for this now,” she said, managing to sound collected despite the tangle of anxiety compressing her chest. “I’m meeting a friend, and I don’t want him paying for it.”
The bartender’s smile tilted. “Not up for an arm wrestle?”
The bartender’s perfect smile tilted a bit. “Not up for an arm wrestle?” He brushed a lock of dyed golden-brown hair from his forehead; the rich colour was dazzling. “I get stuck in the middle of that one all the time, trying to read their body language and figure out what they really want me to do.” He handed her the card reader. “I appreciate it.”
“Happy to spare you,” Amy said with a smile.
The rum glimmered as she swirled it, tilting the glass just so to catch the light. She’d toyed with the idea of ordering their cheapest vodka and slamming back two shots—a perfect pairing for the lurid outfit she wore. If she had to look like sex-trash in a bar this elegant, she might as well commit to the part.
But no.
That wasn’t irreverence. It was petulance, its weaker cousin.
>> You will wear the sexiest, classiest club dress showing off my firm, juicy property with easy accessibility to your body. A dress that, unfortunately, might be torn and damaged beyond repair. So be it. We can always buy you something to slink home in.
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was curation. Every detail was chosen to provoke her.
Her last night at a club was a haze, Johannesburg, maybe. The memory was blurred more by time than by alcohol. These days, she spent late nights bound in rope and wearing cheap lingerie bought knowing it would be ruined.
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was curation. Every detail was chosen to provoke her.
Her last nightclub excursion was a haze. Johannesburg, maybe. The memory was blurred more by time than by alcohol. These days, she spent late nights bound in rope and wearing cheap lingerie bought knowing it would be ruined.
So she went with her favourite cocktail-bar dress instead: a denim halter with a plunging neckline and a zipper running from sternum to belly button. It revealed the small mole just below her bust, a detail usually reserved for lovers.
And riggers.
Or strangers who lingered over her nude photos online.
Actually, the mole had a bit of a cult following. She could feel it like a tiny spotlight and pictured eyes fixed there, invited in on a secret.
The dress would have been perfect, if not for the second rule:
>> You will wear your tightest push-up bra.
Amy didn’t wear bras. They were for the modest, the programmed, the ones who thought nipples were obscene. She liked the honesty of her silhouette and the way it invited the imagination.
But she would give him anything, even if it meant a desperate sprint to Victoria’s Secret.
The Bombshell DD was the most outrageous option that fit.
“Oh,” the fitting-room attendant had said, startled. She hadn’t mastered the bartender’s poker face.
“Oh,” Amy echoed at her reflection.
Excessive. Crude. Desperate.
Worse, it felt exposed. Her secrets scrawled across her chest.
It stole the dress’s promise that with one tug of the zipper, her vanilla-custard skin would be completely unwrapped. Instead, the bra bulged above the neckline, making her breasts look gauche—like overfilled wine glasses.
Adds two cup sizes, the tag had bragged.
>> I look ridiculous.
Her hands gripped the phone, hating the feeling of being so vulnerable. The words pinged off satellites into The Stranger’s anonymous inbox.
The reply came instantly:
>> You are not dressing for your comfort tonight. You are dressing for my pleasure.
At least one decree offered mercy:
>> You will wear a light amount of makeup.
That made it possible to hold her head up.
Barely.
Across the room, a couple sat in a pillowy booth, watching her with the idle scrutiny of the rich. The wife raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a smug, little smile. She said something to her husband. He nodded and looked away. Amy didn’t need to hear their verdict to know what it was.
She held her ground under the look, focusing on her drink, feeling like a gaudy bird among hawks. Her mouth grew dry, and she took another sip.
I chose this, she reminded herself firmly.
>> Write to me when you have two stools at the bar, with your primed pussy and a Negroni waiting for me …
1.5 oz of London dry gin
3/4 oz of sweet vermouth
3/4 oz of Campari
Orange twist
She finished her rum and nudged the empty glass toward the bartender.
“Another?” he asked.
“A cocktail this time. Something strong, but not too sweet. He can pay for this one. Start a tab.”
“What name should I put it under?”
She paused just long enough for him to notice. Not with interest, exactly, but the discreet vigilance of someone who noticed everything and betrayed nothing.
“Let’s go with Thomas.”
“Thomas it is.”
Amy looked at him again and braced.
Preparation
The time had come to fulfill the final demands. She slipped into the bathroom with the leather overnight bag that had been tucked under her chair. Resting her hand against the door, she exhaled and stepped inside.
The bathroom surprised her. Stone everywhere. Cream and pale gold. A wide granite counter beneath a mirror large enough to frame a threesome.
Noted.
She set the bag down and unzipped it with the deliberate, practiced care of a surgeon arranging instruments. In her mind, the message replayed with the steady authority of a cleric reciting a rite:
>> You will wear the following:
The nipple jewellery.
Red stilettos AND white, silver, or natural pumps. Wear one pair. Bring the other in your handbag.
Arrive without panties —wearing an anal plug in preparation for penetration if you haven’t saved your cunt for my cock; I want you prepared for anything, anywhere I choose. Or arrive with an uncovered, baby soft, shaved, pure pussy to be caressed, adored, possessed and filled if you have been a virtuous woman.
You will make yourself available at the bar for discreet inspection as the wordless corporeal answer to my question about your fleshly faithfulness.
The instructions were obscene in their detail and strangely soothing. For a little while, she wouldn’t have to struggle with who she was supposed to be in this city, this year, this version of her life. He had already decided. That made the chaos simple.
Their exactness also reminded her that nothing here was casual; every demand meant something.
Still, there was a faint stirring in her throat—a small, instinctive pushback that evaporated as quickly as it surfaced.
She took the shoes out first and set them side by side on the granite counter.
The red patent gleamed like a wet ruby. The white leather radiated elegance. They stood like rival monarchs, each demanding something from her. She slipped off her ballet flats and wiggled her toes on the shining marble floor.
The mirror captured everything: her mole, the shoes, the tension in her mouth and worry in her eyes.
The reds: fit for a stripper. Brash and provocative. Disobedience. Confession.
The whites: a lady’s choice. Classic and restrained. Virtue. Submission.
She stood barefoot between them and let the silence crowd in. The air was cooler here. The mirror held her in its incorruptible truth. The black satin of the bra peeked above the denim neckline, still feeling more vulgar than bare skin. She trailed a finger down exposed skin, then along the zipper.
Truth or lie?
She took out the metal anal plug and cleaned it carefully, polishing the glass diamond. It would be the only visible part visible once she wore it. Weighing it in her hand, Amy felt her body brace for the test of her willingness. She wondered if his control ever grew tiresome. Was there someone, somewhere, he submitted to?
Squatting over the immaculate floor, she pushed the smooth tip against her pucker and felt her body part around it, yielding with surprising ease. She’d never been trained to take a man there.
‘I was made for this,’ she thought. Or at least wanted to be. Born to be willing, to be given and taken.
She reached into the bag for the velvet pouch.
Nothing.
The nipple jewellery he’d bought her in Paris —gone.
‘No, I packed it. I know I packed it.’
Panic climbed her throat. She tipped the contents of the bag onto the counter, then the floor —hands turning frantic and wild—scattering lipstick, hairpins, a vintage tin of weed, an emergency pair of stockings she’d never once needed, coins from a country she couldn’t place.
This wasn’t just ornamental. Devotion lived in the details. So did his attention.
Failing him over something so small—so trivial yet so much everything—struck her like a lash. For decades, she’d met every demand. Not because she couldn’t say no, but because saying yes was the lifeblood of their magic.
To disappoint him over this…
Velvet brushed her fingertips.
Relief spilled out in a long, shaking exhale. She rested her forehead on the bag and stayed there.
She repacked slowly, restoring order piece by piece.
When she stood, the mirror caught her again.
The woman gazing back was not the girl he had first undressed. Her skin was still smooth, still firm, but had softened with time. The rose-petal glow muted. Laughter lingered in the fine lines. A taper at the cheeks, a gentler jawline. She wasn’t as slender, but his presence in her life had driven her to tend to her figure.
He looked at her as if time had left her untouched.
Not decay. Evolution.
Under the gathering years, the girl flickered, refusing to be snuffed out.
She cupped a breast and freed a nipple from the bra, pinched it until it tightened. Then she reached for the velvet pouch, drawing out delicate charms and fastening them with thin elastic. A silver butterfly settled neatly into place.
He had not aged. Or maybe he had, but it looked good on him. Sophisticated, educated elites offered their bodies to him, gifts wrapped in perfect tans and entitled confidence.
And still, he chose her.
She shoved the thong into the bag with finality.
Back against the wall, she tipped her head back, throat bared to the gentle, inviting light.
Her hand slid lower, a slow reconnaissance. Two fingers dipped into her silken folds. The barest brush of her swollen clit sent heat pooling deep in her body. For a split second, a rush of shame tangled with pride at her readiness—at what she had become for him. Slick. Open. A private altar, complicit, wanting his exquisite desecration.
She chose the white heels and slipped them on. White for the staff who didn’t look. White to keep her secret, just a little longer. She wanted him to ask, to know it mattered. The click of her heels on the floor sounded decisive.
She gave her reflection one last anxious glance.
Back at the bar, the Negroni waited.
The bartender finished the final pour into her glass with the same unhurried grace as before, as if he knew the exact moment she’d return. She took a measured sip. Tart, faintly floral, with a pleasant bite.
Amy stared at her phone beside the glass, willing herself to reach for it.
Minutes passed. Her hands refused to move.
She watched the bartender instead. His hands were quick and precise. White cuffs rolled neatly, wrists as slender as piano keys. A silver watch flashed in the light—minimalist, unassuming, its function nearly obsolete in a world ruled by glowing screens.
He never looked her way. He moved through their fragment of the world with the steady precision of a metronome. He belonged here, his place earned by training and discipline. She used to belong to. Now she borrowed it hour by hour.
For days, the Stranger had consumed her thoughts. Now, just a few keystrokes away, she delayed nervously, twirling her glass, watching beads of condensation rolling down.
She waited.
Waited longer.
Then:
>> Your drink has arrived. Your pet is waiting. Come claim me.
Send.
Taking a deep breath, she put the phone away.
Inspection
Amy knew nothing certain about him. No last name. No address. No number. Every trace existed in messages that could vanish with a dead phone.
She remembered the night she tried to reach him after years apart, sending an email to an address that might no longer exist. Weeks went by with nothing until a reply appeared. She sat at the dark bar he had chosen, not knowing if he’d actually come. But then he walked in, as if no time had passed.
He could vanish as easily as a ghost.
And yet, she trusted him completely.
Not because he promised anything, but because he never needed to. There was no expectation. Only her discipline.
She never asked for more. That was proof of her devotion. That was the hook.
Another message rose up in her mind:
>> And I want you to pray and meditate, to make space to fully enjoy the wonder of our ever having met, and ever being this close, even when afar.
An unnecessary order. Amy lived inside that wonder. She knew how to transform absence into faith. Nothing bound them except his word.
And he never broke it.
He always returned. And each time, she felt more alive.
But had it ever cost him?
He demanded openness down to the bone. Not just her pleasure, but the way she gave herself to it, her crushing need. Anything less, and he’d be gone.
And that —
That would crush her. More than the pain of missing him, she would be left to face the small, stubborn traces of what they’d built together. The burn scar on her calf from the candle they’d knocked over, laughing, afraid they’d burn the hotel room down. The paper bunny she’d torn from a gift bag the night he first handed her The Myth of Sisyphus. A single photograph, given to her as a mercy, the kind anyone could have found online. His absence wouldn’t just hollow her out. It would haunt every corner of her life, making the world a little empty.
She wondered if murres felt this way, poised at the edge of a cliff, caught between fear and a mysterious, irresistible pull. The sky wasn’t theirs until they surrendered to it. In that held breath before the plunge, did they feel the world’s yawning indifference, daring them to fall?
The bar buzzed around her—glassware chiming, voices low and distant. Life went on, indifferent to the moment about to crack her open.
The touch came like an exhale. Soft. Inevitable.
Fingers followed the long line of her spine, easing tension from her back. Amy closed her eyes and let the sensation take her.
Her chest tightened. Thighs pressed together, the want between them sharpening, begging to be filled.
He was here. And she fell into place.
>> In public, you will only speak when you are spoken to. If you have been a whore, you will not look me in the face.
“Beloved,” she whispered, meant only for him. The rule broke immediately. Not defiance, but reflex. A prayer spoken before she could stop herself.
He slipped into the seat next to her and lifted his Negroni, unhurried. Ice tapped the glass. He drank again, still not looking at her, settling into that still authority she both dreaded and craved. A predator at rest. He studied the cubes in the glass, perhaps measuring their melt, calculating how long she had delayed. Then his eyes swept the room, cataloguing faces.
She dared a glance and quickly dropped her eyes.
That movement betrayed her.
He had commanded her to preserve herself for him – her sex and her mouth. A month of restraint and sharp-edged hunger.
She’d lasted three and a half weeks.
“Well,” he said mildly, “have you been good?”
For all the pitiless teasing and despotic messages, in person he was tender as a doting father. The contrast was obscene and exquisite. She imagined him as a paternal priest, guiding her to salvation through sin.
“No,” she whispered demurely.
“And why not?”
“Sometimes… little girls want to prove they’re not so obedient.” Her fingers drifted to his thigh, a small rule-breaking reach.
>> You will not touch me.
The strong muscles of his legs shifted against the fabric. Untouchable.
“You’re not supposed to be touching me.”
She withdrew her hand and folded it in her lap.
“So,” he said, “you did it on purpose?”
She forgot to breathe. Amy had never broken a rule before and didn’t know what came next. That was why she did it. She didn’t need punishment. She wanted to know.
>> If you have strayed, you will not kiss me.
“I can’t always be good.”
The words sounded thin. She had no real taste for rebellion. He summoned surrender. Now, with him so near, the absence of his mouth was unbearable.
She leaned toward him, eyes fixed on his chest.
“Kiss me,” she murmured. Then, quieter: “Please.”
“No,” he said. He let the word sit. “Not yet.”
Amy’s heart seized on that “yet”, a single syllable holding so much. His tone had no cruelty, only gentle resolve. He was chipping away at her patience, stoking her hunger, letting it deepen.
She bent her knee toward him, testing the space between them. He shifted back. Her hand hovered near his abdomen.
“Can I touch a button?”
“I’m not sure. I should check the fine print.”
“Please.”
Behind the bar, ice settled in a glass. She sensed the bartender nearby. He didn’t look their way, but his movements slowed, as if waiting too.
“Yes.”
Amy glided a fingertip over the tortoiseshell button at his collar. Slow. One. Then the next.
His clothes were casual yet exacting. Quiet luxury.
“I suppose touching the fabric is allowed,” he said.
The bartender polished an already-clean glass.
Her fingers moved along the plane of his chest through the cloth, millimetres from skin. She played with a button, wanting to close the distance.
“You look good,” he said.
Her heart stumbled. Praise from him was never empty.
“I feel ridiculous,” she admitted, forgetting herself and lifting her eyes.
“This isn’t about you. This is about me.” His look fell briefly to her hand before lifting again.
She could never remember his eye colour. Only the way he looked at her: wolfish, protective, tender. Both cage and sultan’s tent.
“Are you properly uncomfortable in your chair?” he asked.
“As you commanded. Will I get to kiss you tonight?”
“We’ll have to check that fine print. We’re going to our hotel. It’s time for me to dress my doll. It’s a short walk.”
He stood.
The shift drew the bartender’s open attention at last. He gave Amy a small, knowing grin as they rose. She wondered how much he’d overheard, how they would be archived in his private stories from behind the bar.
Suddenly, she was grateful for the denim dress, feeling the damp heat between her thighs. Silk would have shown too much.
Procession
She crossed the marble floor slowly, her stride altered by the combination of stilettos and internal pressure. He followed close behind.
In the lobby, his hand settled on the small of her back.
“I’m only touching you for my sake,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to seem like less than a gentleman.”
He was a gentleman. One who teased and tested, pressed and pried, but never broke her. He knew her limits better than she did. Whatever this was, it thrived in a strange elegance of appetite.
Outside, the city wrapped them in its heat. Golden light thinned as evening crept in. She usually matched his long, quick strides. Tonight, her pace lagged slightly. The odd sensation inside was neither pleasure nor pain, only persistent.
“Are you comfortable?” he teased, glancing back. “Because I’m very comfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” she said, returning his grin. “Just very… aware.”
They never held hands in public. An ordinary grace denied her, making it the stuff of fantasy. Whoever he was, his life was ruled by reputation and contracts. He risked recognition. And he was married. That detail didn’t trouble Amy. She didn’t want his life—only the part of him that chose her. The part that reached for her when the world grew tedious.
They entered the hotel, where the luxury was so practiced it was invisible. Varnished wood, hushed voices, a cultivated calm so thorough it felt like part of the architecture. The elevator door slid shut, and the car rose fast and smooth.
There were too many people. Everyone politely looking nowhere, a shared agreement not to see.
Amy hovered closer to him than she should have. Close enough that a careless movement might justify contact. A brush of fingers. A tilt of the hip. Her jean dress felt flimsy among tailored wool and polished leather, the butterfly charms under her dress tugging lightly with each breath, reminding her of what she was.
She waited.
Each floor chimed softly. She kept her eyes forward.
Someone cleared their throat. A phone lit up and dimmed again. Her own phone, dark in her bag, felt like proof of their secrecy—a fragile world, one flick away from disappearing.
It was a little too close. Amy shifted her weight impatiently. In the stillness, the sensation inside her stayed insistent.
She studied him from her periphery, allowing herself to lean a touch closer.
He noticed.
He did nothing.
He stood with casual indifference, offering it to her like a gift. And to himself. His gaze moved once toward the mirrored panel, looking at her, then returned to neutral. He loved the way she wanted him. She dropped her eyes to the floor, pulse pounding in her head.
When the elevator slowed, the tension broke all at once. The doors opened.
He stepped out first, unhurried.
Amy followed — controlled, hungry — carrying the burden of everything that could never be.
Exposure
Inside the plush suite, the city sprawled below them in a theatrical sweep of light and glass. It demanded attention. She gave it none. Her attention was locked on him. Her womb howled. A thin trickle of anticipation moved down her thigh.
“Sit on the counter,” he said, nodding toward the kitchenette.
She perched on the edge as he dug through her bag and pulled out her phone, turning it over thoughtfully. The screen lit up.
“Is your skin a perfect virgin canvas for me?”
“Of course.” She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. There was no rebuke.
He looked away from her face, his voice dropping. “Good. I want to mark your body, bruise it, and taste it.”
Her eyes also lowered shyly, but she leaned into him, thrilled by his confession, knowing he never would.
He raised the phone, framing her with care. The lens felt like another pair of eyes. Colder, less forgiving. Not desire. Appraisal.
“This is for my collection,” he said. “You’ll send them tomorrow.”
The thought flashed, a brief sting, wondering who else had posed under his lens.
It didn’t matter.
She leaned back, lifting her arms, arching her back slightly, offering herself to the camera. He moved around her open, inviting body, fixing an unruly strand of hair and smoothing the hem of her dress. After a few shots, he reached for the zipper and drew it down, enjoying the unwrapping. He paused to watch her, then pushed the fabric aside to free a nipple, pleased by the butterfly charm. The lens moved closer.
Then he stepped back.
“Your password.”
“4242,” she said with a dry little smile. “The answer to everything.”
He typed it in. The phone unlocked. His thumb paused over the messenger icon, then tapped the camera.
“From now on, your phone stays with me when you leave my side. You’ll tell me if you change the code.”
“Your wish is my will,” she said obediently.
He checked his watch. “We have time. Come.”
She followed him to the bed, sitting at its edge with hands folded neatly in her lap, looking up at him with open love.
“Undress me.”
She rested a hand over the zipper of his trousers and lingered there, gratified by the unmistakable tension beneath the fabric. Hard for her. It still surprised her. This man—brilliant, accomplished, compelling—wanted her like this.
A little drunk and giggling nervously, she fumbled with the buckle. Feeling the source of so much pleasure so close only made it more difficult. He watched fondly, fingers drifting through her hair, patient.
When she freed him, Amy took her time. That first slow lick along the tip absolutely delicious. She gently sucked him in, relearning the feel of him in her mouth. It had been too long since they’d shared a room, even a country. She indulged, running her cheeks along the soft underbelly of his shaft with feline affection.
She swallowed him deeper this time, pleased by the shift in his breathing, the tightening of his hand in her hair. She had missed pleasuring him.
She shook off her white heels and knelt on the bed, pulling the dress to her waist, glad to shed the lie of innocence. Guiding him between her thighs, she slid her lips along smooth skin, coating his cock in the sweetness of a woman who’d spent weeks tormenting for it. What began as teasing quickly betrayed her—pleasure surged too fast, too fierce. All that wanting collapsed into a single, concentrated sensation. It stopped being about him.
She reached for the buttons of his shirt, each one suddenly intolerable, wanting his skin in her mouth. For a moment, she imagined sending him home with a few missing. A mark he’d have to hide.
She never would.
Amy bit his skin as it was exposed, wanting to draw blood to her mouth. Her hips slowed, drawing the moment out. Clit throbbed, overstimulated, legs shivering as she held his skin gently between her teeth. Her devotion went deeper than impulse. Even the life that excluded her was something to be protected.
“Let go, baby girl,” he whispered close to her ear.
She did.
Release crashed through her all at once. Still biting, still careful not to leave marks. She came before she’d intended to and lay still against him for a moment, slightly embarrassed by her own urgency.
He slipped past her and stretched out on the bed, watching her with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they have.
“I want a taste of what’s mine.”
The edge gone, steadier desire took its place, less desperate and more deliberate. They moved with fluid grace, his mouth under her sex, her mouth at his cock, their bodies knowing how to move together.
The first touch of his tongue drew a sharp breath from her. He was unhurried, reveling in her excitement, her skin, her moans. He followed the music of her responses, sighs and movements and shivers, with the precision of a conductor.
Amy expressed her gratitude with tongue, lips and fingers, following the feedback of his body the way he followed hers. They were attuned to the almost imperceptible tells, the tensions and releases. Unhurried and deeply immersed, they savoured the tastes of their private paradise. This was their language, their dance.
She leaned into his pleasure when the right combination of rhythm and pressure made his hips lift, the slight unconscious thrust of a man losing his composure.
He distracted her with slow strokes of his tongue that knew exactly when to ease back, that kept her suspended just below the peak until her thighs were shaking and her grip on him had tightened past intention.
Until he felt it —the faint, familiar tremors, and the tightening in her abdomen.
And pushed her away.
She let out a plaintive whine and collapsed beside him. He was naked; her dress clung indecently, hiked high, breasts bared, her body offered without dignity. It reminded her of a girl who was reckless, adored, teetering on the edge of losing everything without noticing. This time, feeling like sex-trash was earned. This time, she welcomed it.
“Well,” he teased, “you should have thought about that before you let someone have you.”
She glared at him with adoring petulance.
“Your clothes are in the top drawer,” he said.
Intrigued, she crossed to the armoire. Inside, two parcels waited: one wrapped in flowered tissue, the other a wide leather pouch. She reached for the leather. The other was unmistakably forbidden.
Black chiffon. Red leather. Her heart skipped. He often dictated the look of her outfit, and she loved it. The certainty of pleasing was its own relief.
Yet for all his careful orchestration, he had never dressed her himself.
She withdrew the clothes carefully. Her fingers caressed the supple, red leather of the skirt, as her brows arched in surprise. It was modest in length and wicked in design. Her backside would be entirely bare.
Suddenly, she became sharply conscious that something was nestled inside her, remembering another instruction he had given her:
>> Bring a long black cardigan, jacket or sweater that covers your ass.
Relief mingled with anticipation. Luckily, her overnight bag held a long white evening jacket, embroidered with silver flowers. Cardigans weren’t the sort of thing that appeared in her wardrobe, and it was too hot for her black leather jacket.
She shuddered at the thought of what that omission might have cost her.
She put on the skirt and felt its immediate rightness, the waist a perfect fit. She made an ungraceful turn, offering the full view.
“Perfect,” he pronounced.
She grabbed the blouse, and a bra fell free. It too was crafted of buttery leather. Black with white leather half-cups veiled with delicate lace.
This time, he stepped in. He guided the straps over her shoulders, kissed the curve where neck met shoulder, dexterously fastening the clasp. A narrow ribbon arched just above her nipples, framing them beautifully. She adjusted the butterfly charms, bringing each one into perfect position.
Then she put on the sheer chiffon blouse, watching the fabric fall cleanly along her figure. Every seam, perfect; every line, precise.
“Of course,” he said, satisfied. “I’ve studied this body very closely.” His hands glided along her sides, admiring his fine choice of blouse and body.
She put on the red shoes. A Jezebel’s pride settled over her. Her first steps were unsteady, but she quickly found her footing.
Draped in silver, she followed him out, daring to lace her fingers with his only as far as the elevator. The jacket brushed her bare skin as she walked. Her nipples, held taut by the charms, grazed chiffon. Her breath slowed, keenly aware of how little separated her from exposure. Precision and provocation balanced in exquisite tension.
Ever the gentleman, he opened the cab door. Amy settled carefully into the back seat, one hand holding her jacket closed.
At their destination, he opened her door again. She looked up at him, rueful.
“This feels like the most dangerous part,” she said, swinging her legs onto the pavement.
“That’s because it is.” His eyes moved briefly past her shoulder, scanning the entrance before offering his hand.
As she stood, he took both her hands, preventing her from closing the jacket. The implicit command was clear.
They crossed the street. She fought the urge to shield herself. Red heels struck the road with a confidence she didn’t feel. Step by cautious step, they climbed a curved staircase.
At the top, an impeccably dressed hostess greeted them.
“We have a reservation for eight-thirty,” he said.
The hostess checked her screen. Amy felt her heartbeat quicken in the pause that followed. Maybe—just maybe—the hostess would say his name out loud.
“Wonderful,” the hostess said.“Please follow me.”
‘Damn.’
“Would you prefer a booth or a high top?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Booth,” Amy quickly interjected, confident he wouldn’t override her in front of an audience.
The hostess beamed and led them along. It must be exhausting, Amy mused, having to seem genuinely delighted every night.
Around them, the staff moved with rehearsed serenity, passing without a glance—somehow making her hyperaware of every exposed inch. She noted the cadence of the place: the unhurried steps, the attentive waiting without watching.
The ache returned. Not regret, but remembrance. She’d always been a guest in this world, but for a while, it was a second home. Now she travelled light, drifting between countries, living a life that fit in a carry-on.
Communion
She pressed into him, grateful for the privacy of the booth, for the way it invited people to linger and forget themselves.
The hostess withdrew, her professional smile lingering a moment too long. Amy’s skin prickled with a fleeting, irrational sense of being noticed
He leaned in. “I’m a little disappointed.” His approving gaze followed the hostess a moment longer than necessary before turning back to her.
Amy slipped out of her jacket as she got comfortable, letting it fall open to frame her hips. The movement caused her red shoes to pinch.
“A high top would have been much more fun,” he teased. His arm slid around her back, hand resting firmly on her hip. Proprietary. He pulled her closer, lifting her just enough to reveal an enticing strip of skin. Feeling the air where skin should have been covered changed the room.
She buried her face against his neck and sighed. “That would only have been fun for you.”
He laughed softly. “That’s true. I’ll forgive my girl for wanting to sit close. But next time, it’s the high top.”
Somewhere between the suite and this booth, the rules had seamlessly dissolved. She noticed, and didn’t care. They had done their job.
Anticipation sharpened as the menu opened. They selected a variety of textures and flavours, indulgently ordering more than sensible. The act of choosing became its own foreplay, pleasure at every level.
The Stranger leaned back as the wine was poured, taking the glass and turning it slowly, studying the colour.
“Tell me, what’s been happening in your adventurous world?”
“Fires,” Amy sighed, lifting the Chablis to her lips. “Everyone I know trying polyamory has set their lives on fire. I’m doing triage.” Their voices instinctively adjusted to the room, lowered, defined by linen and porcelain, careful not to carry.
He laughed. “Love triangles getting tangled?”
She lifted her chin, adopting a mock-academic tone: “Ethical, non-hierarchical, anarchist polyamory,” she said dryly. “It’s a progressive version of the Four Yorkshiremen.”’
She took a piece of flame-seared hamachi and chewed, letting the richness ground her.
He winced. “Just hearing that jargon makes me tired. They’ve taken something so primal and turned it into a flowchart. Without risk, there’s no passion.”
She nodded slowly. “Do you know how many polyamory books I’ve recommended but never read?” She smiled conspiratorially. He laughed, and she felt it move through her like the first drink. “I never needed a manual.” She paused, then just for him added: “You can’t out-logic attachment.”
The waiter returned at just the right moment, topping up their water glasses and setting down clean plates, his presence frictionless. This choreography used to be second nature. Now she caught herself thinking about it, where to rest her hands and how to receive without reaching.
“That’s what I value about my wife,” he said. He lowered his voice, the word nearly lost beneath the clink of cutlery. “We don’t pretend there’s a perfect arrangement. We break the rules, but —”
“But with permission,” Amy said, with a hint of irony. Her fingers paused on the glass stem, a brief tension before she masked it. She never knew how far permission reached, what was sanctioned, what was simply taken. She hoped something had been taken. That she was worth a line crossed. It was a crack she never dared show.
He leaned in, a fingertip brushing her inner wrist. “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? Permission to do the forbidden. We try to control the situation, and crush its beauty instead.”
They ate for a while without speaking, sharing bites of sake-marinated eggplant and richly marbled beef. Time seemed to still around them.
“I won’t pretend I haven’t had my share of bruises,” Amy said at last. “But all this dissection of every feeling… It’s exhausting.” She exhaled. “When I first heard the word polyamory, I was relieved. Finally, something other than ‘cheating slut.’” A small, crooked smile. “Now people need a textbook thicker than the Bible. A life full of lovers, proudly independent —and still lonely. Just… busy.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to tell them. It comes naturally to me. I go by instinct. And compassion.”
The waiter topped up their glasses, hands moving efficiently, then vanished as if he’d never been there, leaving nothing but the wine. The Stranger angled a degree closer, discouraging interruption. He waited until the waiter cleared the next table before continuing.
“You don’t need manuals,” he said, fingers running through her hair. “You were made for love. Not the fantasy kind.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “Right here. Right now. That’s enough for you.” He studied her. “Love beyond ego. Do you know how rare that is?”
She didn’t look at him. All night she had thrown herself against the command not to, needing to soak in the rare sight of his face. But now, when he gave her precisely what she wanted to hear, she played idly with the buttons of his shirt. It was almost too perfect. She didn’t want to know. She gave herself never certain if it was her he wanted, or only what he could make of her.
“That kind of openness,” he continued, “is rare. And dangerous.”
The words came over with disorienting gravity, and she closed her eyes briefly, smiling slightly—afraid to believe them, grateful to feel them.
“I do. Everyone’s trying to be so damn evolved it’s become a social status symbol. Colour-coded calendars. Negotiations that sound like board meetings. It stops feeling like a celebration and starts feeling like a project.” She kissed the inside of his palm.
He watched.. “Have you been singed in these fires?”
She turned away. “Of course.” Her voice barely carried. She reached for another bite, needing the distraction.
“I have limits,” he said after a moment. “That’s what keeps things from spiralling. But you —your world sounds more…”
“Unhinged?” she offered, smiling around her fork.
“Freedom scares people,” he said. “They dress it up in language. Most don’t truly want it.”
His eyes became introspective. “You’re uninhibited in love. You give yourself completely because that’s how you feel most alive—wanting, being wanted. Physically. Expressively. That’s every man’s fantasy, until it becomes too real. That’s powerful sexual energy, and most won’t be able to handle it.” He shifted slightly, as though weighing his next words. “Your essential nature, it’s going to trigger insecurity and panic if they aren’t grounded in themselves. It’s going to expose what they’re missing. Be careful with that heart of yours.”
An ache swelled beneath her ribs, slow and tender. She leaned in without speaking, buried her face against his neck, breathing him in. The familiarity was soothing.
He held her.
When she drew back, her smile was wistful.
She lifted her glass. “To honesty. And to the mess.”
He raised his. “To breaking the rules. Yours. Mine. Everyone else’s.”
Transgression
The plates had long been cleared; the second bottle sat empty between them.
He leaned in. “See those two women?”
Amy followed his glance. “The ones trying very hard to be desirable?” she said without malice.
He motioned toward another table: a handsome couple in their thirties, talking cheerfully, eyes glistening with effort.
“And them?”
“Not a first date. Still early. First six months, maybe.”
He nodded. “Let’s show them what they’re looking for.”
Before she could ask what he meant, his hand gripped the nape of her neck and drew her in. His mouth pressed against hers—deep, slow, and determined.
A jolt shot through her, followed by a rush of mortified delight. His hold tightened, reminding her she was not the woman in the white heels. The room fell away.
His hand slid underneath her bottom, urging her closer. She obediently lifted herself just enough that he could reach the bare skin beneath. He found the glass jewel and pressed his fingers against it. He coaxed a small moan from her lips, then withdrew just as suddenly. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he smiled adoringly at her.
She blinked, breath uneven, the world rushing back into focus. A waitress passed by, giving a sly smile and a wink.
Amy’s face felt hot, and she let out a nervous laugh. “Okay,” she panted. “Now I get the jewel.”
“I think it’s time I get you back to the room.” His hand grazed the side of her breast.
“A quick stop at the washroom first.” She ceremonially set her phone on the table. “It stays here, as you commanded.”
He looked at her, calculating. “Can it wait?”
“Yes,” she answered with a trace of uncertainty.
“Good.” His fingers dug into her waist. “This is my body. I decide when.”
Descent
The back staircase was concrete and echoing, the building stripped to its bones. The sudden austerity was jarring, a shock of honesty after all that pretense.
At the landing, he caught her from behind and drew her back. He pulled her jacket aside, exposing the bare curve beneath. He lingered. Her eyes flitted nervously along the stairwell, alert to any eyes she hadn’t invited.
He kissed her, harder this time. Claiming.
Then—
Footsteps.
She broke away. A tiny clench in her stomach told her to flee before she even saw them. He didn’t follow right away. Two men in suits turned the corner below.
Amy straightened, tugged her jacket closed and made her way down the stairs with steady steps. As she passed, she gave them a polite, brittle smile without looking at them. Whatever they’d seen, she didn’t want to know.
He acknowledged them with a brief nod, casually following behind her rapid footsteps, pleased by her ruffled feathers.
Blood rushed into her face, sharp enough to sting. She felt the old panic of being spotted where she didn’t belong. Half-naked, misplaced, and carrying a life no one was supposed to see. Her red heels rapped faintly against the concrete.
Threshold
The door closed.
Only then did they collide— mouths clumsy, teeth clicking in drunk haste, making them laugh breathlessly. Her heels came off in a careless kick, skidding across the floor. She reached for him, fingers grasping his, looking up with giddy delight.
“May I pee?” she asked, bashfully, girlishly. “It’s getting urgent.”
He pulled her in. One hand cradled the back of her skull, the other across her back, steady and anchoring.
“You can,” he murmured gently. He started to say something else, stopped, and drew a small breath. Then, closer, softer: “But I want you to pee on me.”
She froze. A small, startled breath caught between them.
Her arms tightened around his waist, clinging, as comfort capsized.
‘Did I hear that right?’
Her insides quivered. Thoughts raced, blurred by wine and want. Emotions sloshed inside her – confusion, then fear, followed by the unnerving sweetness of being trusted with something raw. Her fingers dug involuntarily into his back.
He didn’t move away, but he didn’t guide her either. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t explain. Didn’t reassure. Just held her, waiting.
All at once, her shoulders tensed, drawing up in a reflex to make herself small. A crawling sensation crept across her scalp, demanding a decision. Pressure built up at her temples, squeezed between fear and surrender. In that frozen moment, her body knew the answer before her mind, the whole web of nerves lining up.
She stayed there, pressed against his chest. She always said yes. That was their bond. He chose his commands carefully, not wanting to force a no and break the spell. But still, he pushed her. And stepping toward that edge made her feel strong.
‘Is this the start of something else? Is this a door I want to open?’
No, there had never been even the faintest hint of this before. It would have slipped through the cracks of intimacy created over the years. Her instincts would have caught it. He knew the landscape of her desire better than she did, so he would have known this wouldn’t excite her. She couldn’t even stand the idea of peeing in the shower, hating the thought of urine touching her toes.
There had been a question beneath his words.
How far will you go for me?
For the first time that night, the next moment depended on her.
He wanted to test her. He craved the kind of submission where power became intimate and daring.
This was the gentler path. Kinder than asking her to upend her life. Instead, he led her somewhere she did not want to go.
And still, he had never left her in ruins. Whatever he demanded, however deeply it challenged her, their fire never ended in ash. It always reforged her.
Even exile had shaped her. Crossing borders, shedding skins, leaving names behind, watching the life she once had disappear behind her like those shoes sliding across the floor.
A rebirth, every time.
Baptism
She backed up, taking his hands.
“Okay,” her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Okay… how do we do this?”
He led her into the bathroom and undressed her with a care that made her feel more naked than the act itself. One foot stepped back towards the bathroom door, a subconscious desire for flight. She caught the reflection in the vanity mirror, her body leaning toward escape.
She watched him undress too, each layer falling away until he was naked. The ordinary motion sharpened the strangeness of what she was about to do.
He stepped into the empty bathtub and sat, opening his arms in invitation. She climbed in, straddling his waist, knees pressed against cold porcelain. The chill startled her thighs into tightening. A small, involuntary flinch.
Her bladder throbbed.
Amy scanned his face —familiar, intent— and then looked away. His eyes on her made the butterfly charms at her nipples feel as if they were small guardians witnessing this.
“You can do this.” His knuckles brushed gently along her cheek.
She understood then that it would be impossible to do while looking at him. She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
She tried to let go. Her body refused her. The pressure built, insistent, uncomfortable. She shifted slightly. A tiny retreat in her hips, as though distance might free something inside of her. Turning her attention inward, she willed her bladder to obey. Still nothing.
“I’ve got you,” he said in a whisper. She felt the faintest tightening in his arms.
Her jaw clenched, searching for that elusive muscle she summoned when peeing in the woods. She remembered squatting behind a gas station years ago, drunk and laughing, stream immediate and effortless. A poorer version of herself, long before airports, luxury bathrooms and the kind of man who could touch her then disappear.
Not a drop.
“You can let go.” His breath was warm against her ear. She tried. God, she tried. Every muscle held fast, mutinous. Embarrassment, frustration, and the terror of failing him flared. She breathed through it, tried again, forced nothing.
Not a drop.
“My precious baby girl,” he cooed, stroking her hair. The endearment had a note she almost didn’t recognize, a trace of conscience beneath the coaxing. She tried to conjure rushing rivers, dripping faucets, the patter of rain, and the roar of waterfalls.
“I love you,” he said quietly, “I want you completely.”
Something loosened. She felt it then—the faintest yielding.
Finally, a small giving way. Just the faintest trickle. She shivered as it continued.
Warmth spilled down his skin and along her thighs. She held her breath and hid her face, shame and relief indistinguishable.
“You’re mine,” he said. The words came out lower, rougher. Amy’s body let go completely. Warm, uncontrollable, spilling down her legs.
When it was over, she stayed still, fevered, uncomfortable in her skin. The hollow was immediate and raw.
“Beautifully broken,” he said. “For me. Mine.”
The words hummed in her ears. She was gone. The world was gone.
His lips brushed hers, sweet and adoring. The tenderness struck harder than the command. It always did.
That’s why she did it.
Cleansing
Later, beneath the hot shower, their bodies glossy with soap, the steam rose slowly around them. She turned her face into the water, washing away tears before they could be seen.
Fog gathered slowly across the mirror, blurring their shapes until they became only movement and light.
She rested her forehead against the tile, closed her eyes.
I chose this.
The fog thickened and the room disappeared.
FIN
You’ve found your way to the end. I hope something in these pages found its way to you.
I want to hear about it — what stayed with you, what it stirred up, what landed and what didn’t. Honest responses welcome. Constructive criticism too; I mean it.
Write to me: alyssaforelsket@protonmail.com
Instaram: literarywhore
Muses
Judith Bernstein
Yale during Vietnam, Judith Bernstein turned bathroom graffiti into art — transforming penises into guns, superheroes, and flagpoles. Shocking, virile, and defiantly feminist, she forced Yale’s male administration to reckon with work they’d rather have ignored.
There may be a day when
I don’t need to beg for money.
Today Is Not That Day
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Fall Deeper
Threshold
She’s a prostitute standing in a supply closet doorway at 3am, listening for angels. This is not the story you think it is. It’s about the moments that fold into themselves like mirrors facing mirrors — the ones that feel, somehow, like destiny. Short. But it will stay with you.
Prologue
More than erotica. More than art. Before you go any further, I want you to know what you’ve walked into. The prologue is short. It will tell you exactly what this place is — and what it makes you, now that you’ve found it. Start there. Everything else will mean more