from someone who does it better.

That’s who is in Vegas.

Even the dominant one day crawls back into the dark library and searches for that one book, because that one book is the only thing that has taught him humility, patience, made him feel fear, given him true pain, and shown him how much you can see in the dark. It’s not very often, only usually after we’ve had a rough patch in our relationship that Greg goes back for his book, goes back for the master that taught him how to treat me.

The master needs to know at one time what the sub will feel. The master needs to be pushed towards the same boundaries. Every master needs to curl up in his own ball, be stroked like a kitten, burning nerves calmed by the thread of the only voice in existence for him and brought back through the doorway.

Greg needed that last night. He asked me and I said yes.

Part of me was coiled up like a dragon that had just been poked with a stick, because that’s my privilege, mine alone, and no man, no other human on the face of this earth has a right to his body, soul, and mind like that. We were bound by metal threads, the tiniest chains, passed through a flame on a Mesa when we took our vows. That is forever in this world. But circumstances differ, and some needs burn brighter.

He needed to go. He needed to re-open that book.

I was nude and lying on the softest golden silk comforter that ever touched my skin, and I waited for him. I waited for a column of heat to claim the air around me, and I was waiting for payback’s redemption. It’s been four months since that night. It’s been four months and I’ve been waiting, to give him what he gave me, and it’s been four months since I died and was brought back by an electric charge through my heart. It’s been four months since I wore that necklace round my neck.

Greg’s gift was a necklace of purple and black, man-made Tahitian pearls. That necklace he gave to me when we had broken up, when he came to my door high, and when he aborted our love-making, looking through me with the coldest glass black marbles that had ever been blown.

It’s been four months since I’ve understood the power of strangulation.

Greg was high with a torn heart and a pounding head that night. It’s been four months since I have had his knee pushed into my stomach like a 400 pound pole, his hands wrapped round my throat, closing my windpipe, our eyes locked in disbelief and begging.

It’s been four months since I’ve felt the graduation of numbness creep through my hands and my arms, and the swirling dancing of a fucked up waltz and spin making it hard for me to see The burning in my chest is just a sting now, because it’s been four months since I’ve known drowning on dry land.

Pinholes, stars, and sparkles were the last thing that I remember seeing; beyond the black glass marbles pining me to the floor. The scratches at the door and the barking of my dog were the last thing that I heard through the cotton over my ears, and the sparrow struggling of my heart fighting to take what oxygen remained in me.

It’s been four months since I felt the burning