Finally, he went to his box and pulled out a slender, long glass device. He spoke to her for a moment. Then he touched the device gently to her body. Every time it touched her body, Ophelia let out a sharp cry. Just the slightest touch made her shout out. I watched as he repeated it, and again, tapping the device against different spots of her body.
“Mercy!” Ophelia finally shouted. He immediately lowered the wand. He cradled her face in his other hand.
“I’m sorry,” she sputtered. She was crying now. “I’m sorry.”
Then, suddenly, she broke. She burst into tears. Big, heavy tears. I started to get up, wanting to comfort her, but Carver stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. He shook his head.
“Let her,” he said. “She’s okay. Watch.”
Phantom undid a knot I couldn’t see. Almost instantly, Ophelia was released from the suspension. She dropped into his arms and he held her, still cocooned in the rope.
He was saying something. Over and over. I couldn’t hear it at first, not over her loud sobs. And then it hit me.
“Good girl.” Again and again. He held her as she cried, cradling her tightly.
Carver’s arm found its way across the back of the loveseat, over my shoulders. The energy in the audience had shifted—everyone was aroused, excited, itching to play. But as I watched Phantom give Ophelia aftercare, it felt as though someone had taken an ice cream scooper and used it to remove my heart from my chest.
Playing was fun. Getting spanked was fun.
But I wantedmore.
I wanted what they had. The trust. That connection. The way their bodies seemed to know each other.
The ache was so bad, the backs of my eyes stung. I had to look away.
“Sorry,” I told Carver. I got up and left, quickly rushing out of the room.
I left the Club. I felt like a woman on a mission. The subway took me away from Harlem, downtown, and into Brooklyn. I followed the line all the way to Shawn’s apartment.
His apartment building had a short step and a long line of apartments with a fisheye doorbell camera. I rang his doorbell and waited.
“Yo,” he said.
“Hey. It’s me.” When there wasn’t any response, I added, “Dove.”
“What’s up?”
Could he see me? I wasn’t sure. I chanced it anyway. I got on my knees on the dirty New York City curb. “I want to be yours,” I announced.
The intercom crackled. “What? Sorry. Can’t hear anything in this.”
“I—” a man feeding pigeons across the street started to laugh. I ignored him. I yelled into the camera: “I want to be your submissive, sir!”
A pause. My knees were starting to hurt, and I tried not to let my brain wonder how much pigeon poop had collected here.
Finally, his voice came through again. “You like pizza?”
“Um…yes.”
“Your first task: go get us a pie. Don’t come back until you have it.”
“What sort of…toppings?”
“Guess.”
I couldn’t help it. My heart fluttered. I grinned. “Yes, sir.”
Being Shawn’s submissive was not like Ophelia and Phantom.
