Page 227 of The Dommes

Ira steps away, leaving me alone at the front of the stage. When I feel her near me again, it’s to have my arms spread above my head and attached to two elastic binds hanging from the ceiling. The tension in my shoulders instantly pleasures me.

Or is it the sensation of not being able to escape?

“Tell them, Kathleen. Tell them why you’re here tonight.”

My words are lost. I know what words I want to say, but getting my mouth, my tongue, and my lips to cooperate is like trying to wake up when the rain falls outside and the one you love is wrapped tight around you. The kind of mornings I want to experience every day for the rest of my life.

“I’m here because I need to be freed.”

I don’t expect to cry. Yet one hot tear makes its way down my cheek, and I’m blinded by the lights shining above me. Ira pats my head and touches the top of my spine.

“How does binding you like this free you, darling? Seems like it would do the opposite.”

I’m too hung up on her calling me “darling” in front of these people. When her words sink in, I respond, “They keep me in place, so I don’t have to worry about going anywhere.”

“Why’s that?”

I know that this is therapy when we’re alone, but confessing my real feelings in front of an audience is otherworldly. It’s like I’m preaching to the choir for half of them, while the others are leaning in intently, waiting to hear my eternal truths.

“People always want something from me. They want me to drop everything I’m doing to come fix their problems. I don’t have a choice most of the time. What am I supposed to do? I can’t not go. But when I’m tied up, I don’t have to go anywhere. Because I can’t. All I need to do is sit still and finally rest.”

Something stiff touches my back. It’s a crop.

There are two layers of clothes between my skin and that crop, and even though I know Ira would never strike me there, I still tremble. Having that implement of therapy touch me is enough to make me moan. I don’t, however. Not in front of these people.

“You’re under a lot of stress, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell us.”

I take in a deep breath. “Under a lot of stress” is something nearly everyone in this building can say. We’re rich. Some are powerful. You may think that’s a ticket to happiness, and while it affords us many freedoms, it does not protect us from anxiety and stress. Last year a patriarch jumped from his fiftieth-floor window because a deal fell through. It didn’t bankrupt him. Financially, he was still fine, but I knew his daughter, and she said that her father often felt unworthy because he wasn’t perfect. Perfectionism runs rampant with people I know. I don’t want to be like that when I get older.

“My parents wanted a boy…” Why I decided to start here with my confession, I have no idea. I suppose it’s the root of everything, isn’t it? “When they only got me, it was a blessing and a curse. I love being a woman, but even as I am, the disadvantages are too much. People don’t take me seriously. I’m only as good as my ability to dominate others, both in and out of the bedroom. I will always be compared to men, and I will always lose.”

Ira hesitates, and I sense that my own words have taken her back. Is she thinking about her relationship with her assigned gender? How she fought against it, seemingly triumphed, and came out the other side a more confident version of myself? You’re the envy of half the women in this room, Ira. They wish they could be as comfortable in your body as you are, now that you’ve found your way.

The crop curls around my ear and strokes my cheek. “You forced yourself to be strong, even when you wanted to be vulnerable.” It’s as much a statement as it is her confession.

“Yes. I missed out on a lot of opportunities to explore that side of myself.”

I can practically hear the arrogance in her haughty voice. “What made you decide to explore the role of a submissive, Kathleen?”

Yeah, I bet you’d love this public ego stroke, Ira. “Someone put the idea in my head a while ago. It made sense. So I started my journey, and here I am.”

“Yes, here you are.” The crop taps my cheek. “Making up for all that lost time. With me.”

Inch by mind-numbing inch, the crop makes its way down my chest, touching my stomach, my thigh, and around my ass. Tension multiplies in the audience. They want her to strike me. That’s why they’re here, after all.

In truth, I want her to smack me with the crop too.

Not here. Not like this. This isn’t the time for that. Yet.

“Say it in front of all these people, Kathleen. Free your emotions once and for all. Tell us what you’ve been hiding in your heart even from your closest confidants.”

I bite my lip as it begins to tremble. Let go of my emotions? Let them run free from my mouth? Course over my tongue and spill for all to see? Bare my heart and leave it exposed to the elements? In front of this neck-biting crowd?

“I feel guilty because I wasn’t born a boy.”

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