“I’ll write the word slave on your
body the next time we do a photo session,” I promised her.
“Thanks,” she said without
enthusiasm.
“I’m going to give you a slave
task,” I told her.
Sheila grimaced. “What? Like
scrubbing the kitchen floor with a sponge in my mouth? I’m not doing any shit
like that. I have some f*****g dignity.” This was delivered as we sat next to
each other at the dining room table, the laptop between us. I was home from
work, still dressed for what was essentially a day at the office. But she had
shed her clothes the moment she got home and was now wearing her four leather
cuffs, locked in place, plus the metal collar around her neck. She might have
some dignity, but she also knew exactly what she liked and how she liked to be
used.
“No, nothing stupid li
