Page 13 of Bound By Brielle (Crave & Cure Productions)

“We’re still friends, you know,” she says quietly, her long dark hair curtaining her face as she smiles gently.

I nod. “I assumed. And I wouldn’t want your friendship to end because I couldn’t make it work.” I sigh, and my entire body goes hollow with the release of that trapped breath. My body is in a constant state of weakness, and I hate being used to it.

“Aug,” she soothes, “I know you, and I love you. And, for that matter, I know Lance and love him, too.” She drops her hand to my knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know it’s over but… he’s as miserable as you are.”

I shake my head and pull the plate of food from the table into my lap, taking the fork in my hand. “I don’t know that he is, Claire.” I stab a red potato and take a bite.

“He is.” She crosses her legs, watching me eat for a moment before saying, “I know you’re a dominant but… I don’t know. You can’t possibly–”

Through a mouthful of food I look up, and level a pointed gaze her way. “Don’t you think I would if I could, Claire? And we’re stuck in this fucking loop! The same way he needs to fulfill both sides of the switch coin because that’s whoheis,” —I drop the fork and press my fingertips into my chest. “I am who I am.” I push the plate back onto the table. “Believe me, if I could do it, I’d do it for him.”

Silence clouds the space between us for a moment. “What is it, if you don’t mind me asking? What is it about taking on the submissive role that you just… can’t do?”

Shaking my head, I stare at my ex-wife in the glow of the fire. I love her, and I respect her, but I’m tired of being heartbrokenandmisunderstood. “You wouldn’t ask a straight man to have sex with another man, because straight is who he is.” I lick my lips, trying hard not to be angered, but exhausted by having who I am at my core viewed as achoice. “I am a dominant, Claire, okay? It’s not about bottoming, or, I don’t know, ego, or whatever the fuck you think it’s about.”

Memories run through my mind of Lance being buried deep inside me, my arms behind me, hands gripping his tight ass as I hold him there. Dominance isn’t about being the one who fucks—it’s about control. My stomach clenches at the memory of the first time he penetrated me, how broken and beautiful his moans were as he came in hot, rippling waves inside me—at my control, my urging.

She grips my knee again, nodding. “I’m sorry, I know. I know you’re right and I do understand, I promise I do.” She lets out a sigh nearly as weighty as mine. “I just, I hate seeing you both this way and I just…”

I nod, and rest my hand on top of hers. “I know. I’m sorry for snapping. I just… I would change who I am for him if I could, I really would. But… life doesn’t work that way.”

She sighs. “I know.”

I finish the plate of food she’s made for me, watching the fire lick at the glass. And I fall asleep with my head in her lap, my heart full of pain.

I would change who I am for him if I could, that’s the truth. I want nothing more than to give him what he needs, I just don't know how it’s possible.

seven

My first day as the porno protégé

brielle

I tipmy head to the side, studying the black pencil skirt and white blouse combo, also known as outfit number four that I've tried on. Still, nothing feels or looks quite right. Usually, these pencil skirts make me feelfire. They accentuate my already voluptuous curves, cinching my waist while bringing focus to my ass and thighs which, if I may say so myself, arebuxom perfection.

I know why nothing looks right.

Because I have no idea what to wear to a mentorship at a fuckingpornocompany. And everything I put on feels… quite frankly? Too good.

“Jesus, what’s wrong with this one?” Winnie asks from her spot on my bed. She’s draped across on her belly, quietly texting on her phone. “This is like outfit ten trillion, B. You gotta pick one.”

I turn to face her, stroking my fingers through my hair to lightly untangle it as it dries. I’m going with natural waves because I amnotblow drying and beach waving my hair for work at a porno place.Um, not worth the heat damage.“Four, not ten trillion. And what’s wrong is nothing feels like it makes sense for where I’m going.”

She smirks. “Do you have…” she draws out her sentence, tapping her long pointer finger against her lips as she hums thoughtfully. “A white tank top, red bra, ripped jeans and like, fuzzy slippers?”

I put my hands on my hips and level a snarky glare her way, eyebrow arched. “A little judgmental,” I chide, though in truth, I was thinking theexactsame thing. Spinning to face the mirror, I decide outfit four istheoutfit, because I’m tired of pulling on and peeling off clothes. “I’m giving this way more thought than it deserves. No matter what I wear, I’m sure I’ll look like Ivanka fucking Trump compared to everyone else.”

“Now who's judging,” Winnie snickers, her focus back on her phone.

I slip into black pumps and snatch my deodorant off my dresser, uncapping it before dipping in my shirt and swiping my pits. “I know. I am. And I really don’t mean to be an asshole but–”

“Quincey Parker is your father and it’s literally in your DNA to be a total snob,” she deadpans.

I put the cap on my stick of deodorant and grab my perfume, pumping it twice on my wrists and one on my neck. “I’mnota snob,” I argue, sinking the end of a silver hoop through one ear. “But come on, Win, it’sporn.” I put the other earring on and reach for my necklace, dragging it on over my head. “Gia Coppola was on that list.” I shake my head, waving my hands around like a crazy person because—“Francis Ford Coppola’sfucking niece, Win! And I got stuck with some dude who makes–” I shake my head, trying to think of anything pornish. “Cum shot movies with a story line!”

Winnie sits up, locking her phone as she slides to the end of the bed, putting her feet into her sandals. “You know,” she says, tucking her curls behind her ears. “You like and respect Mr. Leon. Is it at all possible that this September guy–”

“Augustus,” I correct.

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