What freaked me out most wasn’t the pain, but the violation. He’d used my mouth for pleasure more than once, and I enjoyed the feeling of being no more than a convenient object for him. The submission involved in removing my personality and desire from the equation was almost spiritual.

That was probably an exaggeration, but at the same time, it wasn’t. I was focused on nothing but him and my objectification.

Anal was a different thing entirely. The size of his cock wasn’t a joke, and he was bound to rip me open. Anal wasn’t just about submitting to him and his desire. I was submitting to the risk of damage and pain.

He was going to tear me apart for his pleasure.

As much as pain and blood and shredded tissue scared me, what scared me more was the sight of him enjoying it. There was more than a touch of sadism in his appetites. This could be where we found the limits of my masochism.

I knew I could refuse him. I could take as many redlines as I wanted. But I wanted to be trained. I wanted to do it right, and yes, I wanted to finish.

A thousand years before, when I was engaged to a man named Brian, I’d agreed to anal. It was the night of our engagement party, and I was a little more than a little drunk.

The night was winding down, and as we were kissing and stumbling down the hall, he pushed me into the men’s room. There were five stalls with heavy wooden doors. We went into one. I sucked him a little. He got under my Lacroix gown and fingered me until I came. Then I put my hands on the door and bent for him. He pulled my underwear down, and when he said he was going to fuck me in the ass, we both laughed.

A big gob of spit landed in my crack. That was all the lubrication I got, and I didn’t know any better. Neither did he. He shoved his dick in my ass, and the pain was brutal. It came from inside me. I screamed and told him to stop.

He did. He pulled out and apologized, but the pain in my gut stayed for another five minutes. We agreed to not do that again.

And that was that.

Now here I was being trained to take anal for someone else’s pleasure.

Yeah. I was scared.

“Diana?”

I jumped. Kayti stood in the doorway.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We’re going to dinner. Wanna come?”

“God, yes.”

“Awesome! We were going to catch the N up to 49th and go to Gerdie’s?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” I was already closing windows on my computer. “I’m starving.”

“Great.”

“Wait.” I closed my laptop. I couldn’t take the train with her. Adam had gotten me a bodyguard and a car. Because he was afraid I’d picked up a rogue Dominant. Who I’d called. Because Adam hadn’t wanted to train me. Even though I was submissive. And we were still getting divorced but were acting as if we weren’t.

I couldn’t seriously explain half of that.

“Meet me out front,” I said. “I have a driver.”

Kayti; Frank, her fiancé who worked around the corner; and Zack piled into the back of the car. I got in the front next to Dominic.

“Do you know where Gerdie’s is?” I asked when the back door slammed shut.

“Sure do.” He glanced at me sidelong.

I was supposed to go to Murray Hill, but I was hungry and with friends. So I shot him a look back, and he pulled away, turning uptown.

“What’s with the private car, Di?” Zack asked.

“She’s the boss, Zack,” Kayti protested. “It’s the boss life.”

“No hack license,” Zack continued. “That’s not a driver.” He changed his tone so it reached Dominic. “You a bodyguard?”

We loved having Zack at McNeill-Barnes because he was sharp and perceptive. That was the exact reason I didn’t care for him in the car at that moment.

“Zack, you’re being an ass,” I said, turning halfway. “If I say he’s the driver, he’s the driver.”

What was that tone? I heard myself as if I were someone else, and I sounded like Adam Steinbeck telling me to get on my knees.

And Zack heard me loud and clear. He actually nodded and shut the fuck up.

I could get used to this.

Gerdie’s was packed, but Kayti had magical mystery reservations. Zack to my left. Kayti to my right. Frank across from me, and Dominic somewhere in midtown. He’d said he’d “stay close,” but he had to put the car somewhere, and this was not a neighborhood known for legal parking spaces.

Everything was normal on the surface. We talked about work. Kayti showed off her ring. Frank blushed like a schoolboy. Zack leaned two inches too close to me and I jabbed him with my elbow while I brought the fork to my mouth. As the courses came and went, I started to think about taking a bath when I got back. I wondered what my fingers would feel like, what position I’d put myself in. How silly I’d look. I wondered if I could get away with not doing it and saying I did.

I’d missed the last three jokes and I was now laughing because everyone else was. I was ready to get home and just do this thing.

I got up and handed the waiter my card.

“I’ll get this ready,” he said.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Downstairs, to the left. Ladies’ is the last door.”

Adam’s text came as I pushed open the door to the single toilet.

I wanted to be careful, but I also wanted to eat. I texted him as I sat.

I stood, straightened my clothes, and washed my hands. The light was terrible. Blue green and dim. I looked like a ghoul. Had I stopped thinking about Adam since I’d gotten there? Had I laughed with my friends freely or been fully present for one second?

No. I hadn’t. I wasn’t finished. I was incomplete. In process. Waiting. And I hated it. Maybe that was why I never finished things. The in-between place where the marriage got hard, or school was a drag, or the project was in production were empty and easy to leave.

I couldn’t this time.

Highlight>select all>delete.

* * *

I crawled into bed victorious. Slowly, I’d gotten two fingers in. My ass stretched with the second finger, then closed around them like a vise. I brought myself to orgasm with the other hand, and the involuntary pulsing around my inserted digits shocked me.

Ten o’clock. Was he back at the hotel? Or was he exploring Philly’s scene?

I scooted under the covers with my phone.

The reply came immediately.

Nobody’s perfect. Not even Adam, who never seemed to forget anything. He’d probably scraped the event from his mind when he moved his stuff out of McNeill-Barnes. In his bones, he was a real-estate mogul, not a publisher.

Not that I was looking forward to sleeping in my old room, but that was how it usually worked when Dad and I went out. Even when I was married.

Whatever he was typing, I didn’t want to hear it.

Fight for me, Adam. Fight for me.

I thought he’d never answer. The dots crawled on the bottom of my screen, but whatever he was typing, it didn’t make it to my screen.

Fight. For. Me. You fuckwad!

He was taking too long to answer. Way too long. What was the problem already? All he had to do was fight the tiniest little bit.

Maybe this wasn’t worth it. Maybe I was climbing a tree without a foothold.

I practically danced under the covers and, I admit, I squealed with happiness. He was fighting for me. Maybe it was one night and not a lifetime, but he was fighting.

Yessiree-fucking-bob.