Page 23 of Valentine's Slave

“Will she be the last one, Valentino?” Marco asks me. He’s not judging me. He never has, but I sense his melancholy mood.

“It’s just another year, Marco,” I say. “You know how it goes.”

“Yes, but aren’t you eager to connect with someone on a more long-term basis?” Marco asks.

I chuckle. “Says the man who’s spent his entire life alone.”

“I was meant to be a loner,” Marco says. “You were meant to make love and ruckus.” He takes a sip from his glass. “I’m behind you one hundred percent, son, but if you’re open to it, allow me to challenge you to analyze yourself and your feelings. Let them breathe. Don’t numb them, especially when you’re with her.”

“I don’t numb myself,” I say. I quit drugs and alcohol, even coffee, for the most part. All I depend on is my discipline and drive. Even so, Marco raises an eyebrow.

“You’ll make your own decisions just like you always have,” he says softly. There’s no harshness in his voice, only care. He’s the voice of reason that has kept me moving forward, especially at the beginning. “All I suggest is that for this one week, you keep a journal. Write what you feel, as it comes, if you can. You can make it to your deathbed with nothing but independence if you like. You can be just like your uncle, and I’ll be proud. Just don’t let yourself live a lie.”

I look at him steadily. He’s worried at my lack of human interaction, I know that. I was always an introvert, but I used to participate in society much more than I do now. I’ve always been charming, and that's not bragging—it's just a fact. That was how I got girls even when I wasn’t trying to, and that was how I metEmelia. But it’s also true that in select situations, I have lied to myself.

“I will,” I say quietly. “But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m happy.”

Mind you, happy is not a word I would typically use to describe myself. I just am. I accept things as they come, and I have peace. It’s better than happiness, and it’s something that can never be taken away from you.

“Don’t censor yourself,” Marco pleads. “Just write what you feel, as if you were a child.”

I nod, refilling his glass.

He slides me a package across the table. It’s wrapped in brown paper.

“For you,” he murmurs. “Open it.”

It doesn’t surprise me to see a little black notebook inside.

“You know this look like a teenage girl’s Little Black Book,” I muse.

Marco shrugs. “It will help you understand yourself.”

I can appreciate that it’s physical. I do work on my laptop often enough for work, but I’m old-school. I prefer pen and paper and writing on something I can touch.

“I’ll give it a try,” I promise him.

He leaves half an hour later, and I prepare to sleep early. I feel calm and peace as always, but there’s a gentle thrum in the back of my soul.

Tonight is when my Valentine’s slave will finally be mine.

8

Ava

I’m sweating already, and I haven’t even gotten there. I’m wearing what came in the box, the skimpiest lingerie I’ve ever seen. It has little bits of black lace, just enough to spread over my boobs and pussy, dotted with little red ribbon bows.

I wear casual clothes and a coat overtop, and I have two bags with me, which hold all the belongings I own. I won’t tell Valentino that, though. No need to let him know I’m homeless.

It’s nearly midnight, and my heart is hammering. There’s a full moon, and as the Uber drives past the mall, I glimpse the big red heart balloons from inside the glass windows that proudly showcase chocolates and hearts and candy, everything like love. But what they’re selling isn’t real love. It’s just consumerism, feeding off people’s desire for connection. As for what’s going to go down between Valentino and me, it’s nothing more than a transaction.

The Uber stops in front of the same brick building as before, and I slip out silently. I take the elevator up to his floor, and thedoor opens without so much as a creak. The apartment is exactly the same as last time, except now it’s cloaked in darkness.

A handwritten letter came with the uniform and the key, instructing me to make my way to the ‘dungeon’ and ‘get comfy’ on the massage bench, which I still mentally refer to as ‘the torture table’. I’m specifically required not to turn on any lights or make any noise, and I find myself hardly breathing as I walk across the hardwood floor.

When I get to the dungeon, it’s almost completely dark. I put my bags down in the corner, waiting a few seconds until my eyes adjust. Now I can make out the shadows, the different pieces of equipment, and I catch sight of the ghost of my reflection in the mirror. At least the heat is on, so I’m not cold, but I still feel incredibly vulnerable as I slip off my coat and remove the baggy T-shirt and sweatpants I had over the lingerie.

Tucking away my clothes in my bag, I feel naked now, the skimpy lace clinging to my skin, leaving nearly everything revealed. The ribbons tickle my tummy, which is in clear view, but at least I’ll be lying facedown, so it won’t get much attention. And now, I face the torture table.

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