The Attorney (III): M. Margo Has To Learn the Hardest Way, Continued

    Yeah, yeah, I know I gained 8 lbs–so embarrassing–it’s the psychiatrist and his Dread Diagnosis.  Fear not!  I shall have protruding hip bones by bikini season.  After all, what else should one focus on in this life…?  ESPECIALLY if one hates to go to the beach!


As my Francophone Canadian friend would say: “Wowy wow wow!” 

     I only told three people–outside of the blogosphere–about this.  All three were freaked the fuck out.  

     To tell you the truth, I am sort of worried that I am not upset.  I feel uncomfortable, because all the skin on my torso hurts, but not upset.  

       And yes, it hurts.  Hurts hurts hurts, hurts hurts hurts.  I am definitely not wearing a bra today.  The worst of it should last about 24 hours more.  

       I am curious.  Fascinated, actually.  

       I feel great.  

      What’s up…?  Am I deluding myself…?  Is this some subconscious defense mechanism?  

      Anyway, there was quite a bit of yelling.  I was worried that a concerned neighbor would knock or call the cops.  It is not characteristic of me to make noise–screaming is humiliating.  

      While he was preparing himself, I went to the sink to rinse my hands and fetched a bottle of water.  Then, because of the way the mirrors are set up, I could watch him from outside the room.  

     He placed his tools on the dresser in perfect symmetry.  His nice shiny shoes were put under the dresser, each one containing its corresponding sock.  

      He turned on the air conditioner.  Pain makes you sweat.  

      I went into the room and looked at the things he’d brought for us.  

      “Oh wow,” I said.  “You’re not kidding around!”

      It was some serious artillery, let me tell you.  Must have cost a pretty penny. I have some expensive stuff, and I know quality when I see it.  I seized immediately upon a wide leather strap, eyeing it with foreboding.  That strap is going to be trouble, I thought, and I was right.   

     “Where can I not leave marks?” he asked.  “Show me.” 

      I gestured.  Any place where they might be visible in a skirt and button-up work blouse.  

      “Close your eyes,” he said.  

      I did.  

     He slapped me upside the head.  

      I dropped like a safe. 

     And then we were off to the races.  

     I safed out once.  That would make the third time in my life it has happened.  It was the strap.  I knew that fucking strap was going to give me problems.  

     I have to tell you: Personally, I don’t think that I’d have the balls to perform bastinado on a person where money had changed hands, either giving or receiving, unless it was specifically requested of me.  I mean, that is some personal shit.  

     The Attorney had no such qualms.  He had no such qualms at all.

     He respected my boundaries–in the strictest sense of the word (what is law school good for? ha, ha): he didn’t do what I told him that he could not do.  

    He did everything else.  

    At the end, he said, “This is against my personal interest, but I have to tell you: you could be charging a lot more for this.  A lot more.”

      “Well, I don’t do it for just anyone,  I’m pretty particular,” I said.  A woman has to have some standards, after all.  

     “That’s the hardest I can go.  Any harder…it’s not…it’s not my thing.  I’ll keep your number.  It’s almost impossible to find a person who can go through all of that.  This was a very special occasion for me.”  

     He put his cell phone back in his pocket.  The blue eyes searched my face.  

     “You were into it, to.  That’s so unusual.  So unusual.”  

       This quote is presented without comment.  

      After he left, I turned my phone off and took a nap.  Then I limped to the bus stop.  My mind felt empty.  

      It felt great.  

      It is imperative that I never see this person again.  

      I need a nice, normal man who is not a psycho.  

One thought on “The Attorney (III): M. Margo Has To Learn the Hardest Way, Continued”

  1. Hi Miss Margo,
    I’m probably old enough to your father and never practiced BDSM. One thing I’ve noticed as I get older is that old pains resurface. For example, broken bones hurt even though they have been healed for years. Have you ever asked any old masochists if they ever suffer for the “pleasure” of their youth?

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