I’m not a big fan of the opera. Well, that’s an understatement. I actually hate it. Everything about it is so pretentious and exhausting. The music is over the top and so are the actors’ mannerisms and gestures. Some people love this place so much that they cry because they are so moved by the music. Well, I don’t. In fact, I wish that I could put in my ear buds and listen to something I do actually like. Like the Stones. Or Led Zeppelin. I love classic rock. Now, if they actually made a rock opera…then that’s something I’d watch.

So, why am I here? I definitely don’t need to be here in my line of work. Even though everyone in tech is really rich, we aren’t money rich. So, you’d be hard-pressed enough to find any of us wearing a suit and tie, let alone going to the symphony or the opera. Unlike the rest of them, who spend their days in t-shirts and jeans, I love a nice tailored suit that costs double what my childhood home’s mortgage was. But the opera? I’m definitely not a fan. No, the only reason I’m here is that Kristina insisted that we come.

Kristina Taylor is a class act. I’ve known her for a very long time. We met at some Ivy League mixer back in college when I was at Yale and she was at Brown. Kristina and I never dated. Our sexual appetites and desires are way too similar. Kristina doesn’t believe in relationships and I don't either, that is if you don't count that brief lapse in judgement when I got married.

I glance over at Kristina, who is wholeheartedly engrossed in The Metropolitan Opera’s critically acclaimed production of George Bizet’s Carmen. The tickets to this show were not only ridiculously expensive but they were also impossible to get and it’s all because of the French mezzo-soprano Clementine Margaine who stars as the immortal Gypsy heroine.

“I saw Maria Agresta in her debut last year in La Boheme last season,” Kristina whispers, wiping a tear away after a particularly touching performance.

“Yeah, she’s great,” I say without much enthusiasm.

Kristina returns her gaze to the stage and I return mine to her. Her pale white skin and her long, thin fingers make her look delicate, but I know quite well what they are capable of and it’s not at all delicate. You see, Kristina is one of the most popular and well-paid dominatrix in New York City, which pretty much makes her one of the top dominatrixes in the world. You’d never guess it from the outside. No, from the outside, she still looks like a shy librarian and the lost little English major that I remember back in college. But then again, as you probably already know, you should never judge a book by its cover.

“Quit staring at me,” she whispers, without taking her eyes off the stage.

“I’m just imagining all the bad things I’m going to do to you tonight,” I whisper back. She shakes her head, but a small coy smile forms at the edge of her lips, which tells me that she’s looking forward to it, too.

As far as I know, Kristina and I have a unique relationship. What I mean is that while I continue to play with other women on the side, Kristina doesn’t. Kristina is a dominant for a living, but she likes to be the submissive when we are together. She likes being tied up and she enjoys all the little dirty things that I do to her to make her orgasm over and over.

“If you keep this up, I’m not coming over,” she says defiantly. She might be bluffing, but I can’t tell for sure. So, I decide to play it safe.

When we arrive back at my place, I’m dying of anticipation. My mind has been running in circles, all throughout the performance, of all the bad things that we’re going to do together, and my dick has been rock hard since the intermission.

“Hey, baby.” I press her against the kitchen counter and kiss her neck. She throws her head back and moans a little. “I have some nice things planned for you.”

“I can’t wait.”

Before heading into my special room, I glance one last time at her dress. Luckily, it’s a little black strapless number, which I can slide all the way down. Good. This means that her arms can be otherwise occupied.

Kristina walks confidently into the room and looks around. She has been here a number of times before. She’s even used it for her own clients on a few occasions. They were very exclusive clients, and she owed me big afterward as I don't allow just anyone to play around in here.

She glances up at the swing hanging from the ceiling and winks at me. I know what she wants. She wants me to tie her hands up there and lift her up. She loves that. Being weightless. Hanging in space while I make her orgasm over and over again.

“Oh, sir, please be careful with me,” she says flirtatiously. Being called sir is the lingo which sets up the power dynamic between us. It’s as much of a turn-on for her as it is for me.

“We’ll see about that,” I say and put her hands into the restraints above her head. I unzip her dress and pull it down to her feet. She steps out of it. I notice that she’s not wearing either underwear or a bra.

“Wow, I wasn’t prepared for that,” I say. My cock gets so hard it feels like it turned into a rock. I spread her legs wide and tie them with rope so that they stay apart after I start.

I look at her and lick my lips. She tries to put a frightened expression on her face, but she isn’t very successful. Instead, she looks like it’s taking all of her energy to keep her excitement and anticipation at bay.

And then suddenly, last weekend pops into my head. And not just last weekend, but Ellie to be precise. Her soft lips, her luscious breasts. Her defying me and orgasming without my permission. I try to snap out of it and turn my attention to Kristina, but my mind refuses to cooperate. All I can see is Ellie here. All I want is Ellie.

“What’s taking so long?” Kristina asks. “Are you going to start or what?”

I look at her. Her pale skin is a shade or two too light in comparison to Ellie’s. Her eyes aren’t the right shape. Even her body is suddenly a little too thin. No, the problem is not that there’s anything wrong with Kristina. It’s just that she’s not Ellie.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” I say and untie her leg restraints. When I bring the swing down to the floor and undo her arm restraints, she slaps me across the face.

“What do you mean you can’t do this?” Kristina asks. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m sorry, but my head is just not in this tonight.”

“Well, get in this.”

She goes to slap me again, but I catch her hand before it reaches my face.

“Please, don't do that again. Ever,” I whisper in my most dead-serious voice.

“You’re an asshole, you know that!” Kristina yells, grabbing her dress and shoes, walking out of the room.