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John never did get it. The sexual stuff, I mean. Like how I wanted him to tie me up. How I wanted to be helpless. I wanted him to use me, use my “holes”, all of them, for his gratification. Put anything you want inside of me, I said to him. Treat me dirty.

When we first got married, he tried a few things with me. But then he got disgusted, saying I was crazy. A pervert.

John has no idea what I’m doing this weekend. He’s gone for three days on a business trip. I’m on the train to New York.

I have my instructions.

A friend made the arrangements for me. She’d been a collared slave several years ago, so she had some contacts, some people she trusted.

I feel sick. My hands are shaking. I hit the bathroom for the third time since I left home. But I keep imagining my hands bound, my legs bound also, spread wide. I fantasize, hearing a voice in my mind telling me that I’m nothing but a toy, something kept for sexual amusement. I’m a prisoner. I’m to be kept as long as I satisfy. And he kneads my breasts, twisting my nipples. He plunges inside of me.

When I detrain at Penn Station, my legs are weak. I lean against a column in the main terminal.

After my friend made the initial contact, a questionnaire arrived in my e-mail. Imagine that! It asked all sorts of things. Things I’d never imagined in all my wildest dreams.

I’m a novice, I wrote in the ‘additional comments’ part of the questionnaire. I have no real experience. I’m a complete idiot.

I wander through Penn Station, following the exit signs. What the hell am I doing? I must be as sick as John said, because I’m putting myself in the hands of a total stranger. My instructions were clear about the fact that I would give over control of everything. All of me. Someone else would decide when I ate, slept, how much I could move, see, speak. And how, when, and where I would be allowed to go to the bathroom.

I feel myself drip between my legs.

Not only am I an idiot, I’m definitely a pervert.

All the way on the train, I got more and more wet in expectation. I felt my clit and labia swell, drooling. And I worried, because my instructions were clear about what I was to wear. A tight, thin top that shows my breasts and nipples, a short skirt, and sandals. No underwear. I worried that my skirt would be wet clear through in the back. And I smelled myself the whole time, pulling at my skirt, trying to make it cover better.

Out on the street I hail a cab. He drops me at the café specified in my instructions. I go inside and wait, checking my watch every few minutes. Some of the men stare at me. I think they must know what I’m doing. I think that everybody knows. It’s written all over me in big, red lettering. PERVERT. But the men smile at me hopefully when I meet their eyes. I see they’re watching my nipples, hard, stimulated by the tight top that I’m wearing. My thoughts are filled with the images of being whipped, slapped, spanked, hung upside down. I want my nipples pulled, pinched, pierced. I want to be penetrated, filled, fucked. I want him to take everything.

My cell phone rings. I jump, then grope in my purse.

“A car is waiting outside on the street. A black Camry with dark windows. Enter through the rear car door.”

He hangs up. Was that his voice, the one who’s going to finally do what I’ve always wanted? I tremble. I think I might get sick again, but it passes. And now I feel odd. I feel electric. I’m burning. My skirt is drenched. It’s sticking to the back of my thighs. My lips are numb, but my nipples hurt. They’re so clenched, so painfully wanting whatever he’s decides to do with me.

I’m on the street, looking. I don’t know a Camry from a Corvette. A car is double parked on 8th Avenue right in front of me. I can’t see into the car. I wait for a moment, but the car doesn’t move. So I walk forward and open the rear door. A woman is driving. Her face is turned away from me.

“Excuse me. . .”

“You were not instructed to speak,” she says.

I bite my lip. My knees go weak. I take the final step. No going back now. I sit in the car and shut the door. She drives.

“In the bag on the seat, you’ll find a gag, a hood, and handcuffs.” She’s wearing sunglasses. All I can see is the back of her head and the dark glasses in the rear view mirror. “You will put the gag in first. If it is not tight enough when he checks you over, you will be punished. After you have the gag in, the hood goes on. Then you will handcuff yourself with your hands behind your back.”

I feel a drip of sweat run between my breasts. I swallow.

“Am I not making myself clear?”

“No. . .I mean, yes.” My voice is too loud. I try to calm myself.

“Put in the gag now,” she says.

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