When I Went Back Part II

He was waiting for me at the baggage claim. I had no baggage to retreive; I’d come straight from the hotel room. All that I had was a backpack with my laptop and some toiletries and a duffel bag with all the BDSM gear I need for work.

I was self-conscious because I knew I probably looked like shit. I’d tried to do my hair in Chicago during the layover, but all I had was a small bag of makeup to do my face (touch-ups in between sessions in the hotel room) and I was wearing jeans, Sketchers (I love Sketchers! Fuck the haters!), and a baby T-shirt with a campus mascot on it which is…a Gecko lizard.

He looked great, as he always does, but I gotta say, he didn’t look as good as when I left him. He’s always taken care of his skin and hair–he’s the only man I’ve ever met who uses uses Retin-A and sunscreen daily–but he looked older. I used to tell my shrink that it was as if he would get stronger as I got weaker (and, over the course of our relationship, I did get weaker, both as I became thinner to meet his demanding aesthetics, and as my boundaries broke down). He looked smaller somehow. Maybe he stopped taking the testosterone when I left (because that was what the Collector needed, MORE TESTOSTERONE)? Did he have more silver in the wheat-blonde hair? Was I imagining things?

But he practically ran up to me when I came off the elcelator and crushed me to him so tightly I couldn’t breath. I dropped my bag and he picked me up and spun me around.

His sweater was so soft–all his clothing is of the best quality. He smelled good. Why didn’t it feel like coming home? I was still hurt.

He grabbed the back of my head and kissed me hard. I’m sure I tasted great after four vodka-and-pineapples on the airplane. I brushed my teeth and Listerined, but after about three, you invariable taste like booze. When he released me, I pulled away.

“I’m sorry. I’m not ready, Collector.”

He had the good grace not to act offended. “I understand. Let’s go home.”

He picked up my bad and I followed him out to his car. He has a gorgeous car he almost never drives. I’ll never understand why anyone in Manhattan has a car–the fucking parking space alone is hundreds of dollars, and driving in the city is a goddamn nightmare–but I guess if you’re rich, it doesn’t matter.

“I’m so glad you’re here! Are you warm enough? Do you want me to turn on the seat heaters? You must be tired. Are you hungry? Do you want me to cook anything? I ordered elk steaks. White asparagus. African pineapple. All your favorite foods. I had the housekeeping put fresh linine on the beds.”

“I’m just tired. I’m sorry.” I was, and starting to feel hung over, too.

He patted my hand. Then he tried to put his hand on my thigh. That was too fucking much. I did let him hold my hand, though. The Collector’s hands are huge for his size, and his fingers are long. The left one is covered in scars from his years of cooking, where he’s cut himself. They are not soft. It’s one of the first things I noticed about him when we met years ago. I thought it was odd that a man with a desk job would have hard hands. I learned it was because he doesn’t wear gloves when he lifts weights. I loved his hands. They are downed in golden hair. I thought of them as wherewolf hands, which he found complimentary.

We got back to his building and he turned in the keys at the parking garage. The front doorman recognized me. I would never live in a doorman building, even though it’s convenient to get packages. I hate that they can monitor your movements. I guess rich people are used to it.

“Do you want me to give you a bath? Do you want to take a shower?”

Now, I don’t know if you remember, but bath time used to be a serious ritual between the two of us. Almost every night, it was bath time after dinner. I was just not up for bath time. Too intimate.

“Please don’t be offended, Collector, but I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed until I feel comfortable again.”

I have my own room in his house. He gave it to me when I moved in, so that I could have my own space.

I went to my room. He’d put the door back on the hinges. I hadn’t had a door on my room in years. His sons had commented on it, and we just said it was “broken.” Yeah right, it was in a fucking closet. When I examined it, I saw he’d even installed a lock.

As if any lock could keep him out. But I appreciated the gesture.

He was as good as his word: everything was exactly as I’d left it. Right down to the Hello Kitty toothbrush he’d left me in the bathroom.

I changed into gym shorts and a fresh tank top and fell into bed. After a few minutes, he came in with some hot chocolate and an Ambien. I could tell the hot chocolate had alcohol in it, and God knows what else.

On top of all the other alcohol you’ve had today, not to mention the propronolol, this shit might knock you out for days, I thought to myself.

Then: fucking fine with me.

(You know, I had a dream about the Collector in the last month or so. I was back at his house, and he gave me dinner, and then drugged the food. I passed out in my bed, and when I woke up, I threw off the covers. He’d amputated my feet. There was no blood or pain, just bandaged stumps where my feet used to be. He came into the room and said, “Don’t worry. You’re still beautiful. I just needed to make sure you couldn’t run away from me again.)

I still have my feet. But that is, in a sense, exactly what he did to me.

I did indeed sleep the rest of the night, and most of the day. He woke me up at 6 PM to get ready for dinner.


Happier Times

Before we continue with the tale of what happened when I went back, a brief interlude. A memory of happier times. Perhaps I feel compelled to write it as a sort of justification…?

CONTENT WARNING: I try to keep this blog rated R, but what follows is pretty sexually explicit, and the sex is kinky. Don’t read it if that might offend you.

The Collector and I were a little more than a year into our relationship, and things were getting serious. Not as serious as they would eventually get–wedding plans and the discussion about having a baby were still in the future–but they were serious enough. He’d already told me, point blank, that I was his future wife. He’d done this without proposing. To him, this was merely a matter-of-fact observation: this is the way it is going to be.

It was early afternoon, and we were making out on his couch in the big room. I was naked, which was typical–the Collector was always big on rules (only for me, of course), and one of those was no clothes inside the house, unless of course we had guests or he wanted to see me wear something. Or if I had my period, in which case I could wear underwear. There were various throws all around the house so that we could keep things at least sort of hygienic and I wasn’t sitting my bare ass on the furniture–you could just throw them in the wash every other day. He was magnanimous enough to crank up the heat a few degrees so that I was comfortable.

Anyway, he was laying halfway on top of me and I was getting pretty turned on. The Collector could always turn me on; we had a tremendous amount of chemistry and despite all the crazy stunts he would pull or the punishments he would subject me to, our sex life was consistently and reliably excellent, even if it made me hate myself–and him–from time to time.

“Do you like being mine, Margo? Do you like being my property?”

I nodded, breathless. When I had my clothes on and my wits about me, it was mostly true. When I was turned on, naked, and vulnerable it was completely true.

“How long will you belong to me?” he asked.

“As long as you want me to…?”

Forever,” he said, and put my hand on the bulge in his pants. “Show me.”

He sat back up and tossed a pillow on the floor. I awkwardly slid onto the floor between his knees, undid his belt buckle and the front of his pants, and got to work.

“Look at me,” he said.

You have to be pretty special to me before you get sustained eye contact from me while I have your dick in my mouth–it’s just too intimate. I did it for him all the time.

After a minute, he just laid back against the sofa and tilted his head towards the ceiling, taking it all in and running his fingers through my hair. When he relaxed like that I always knew I was doing an especially good job. “Relaxed” is not a word I would usually use to describe the man.

I thought he was going to finish in my mouth, but instead he pushed me away gently and put his cock back in his pants. He told me to get on my hands and knees, with my face on the floor.

“I’m going to take my pleasure from you now,” he said, standing up. When I heard him taking off his belt, I shivered, and when he doubled it up and started to beat my ass and my back with it, I started moaning. It wasn’t anywhere near as hard as he could hit, but it hurt, and it felt great. The next day I would find a few bruises.

“That’s right. Keep your head down.” He obliged me by stepping on my head, pinning me to the floor.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” he paused and looked down at me. “You are smiling.”

“I’m just so happy,” I answered, my eye rolling up at him from the floor.

After a second, he nodded down at me. He was panting a little and his blond hair had become disheveled and was hanging in his eyes.

“I am, too.”

When I Went Back part 1

I went back to the Collector once.

For over a year, he was relentless in getting me back. With one exception, the men I’ve fallen in love with have all been stalkers, but the Collector was the most persistent. I stayed in my Western state because it felt more safe. I stopped using the email account he’d used to communicate with me for years and opened a new one. When I stopped working as a prodomme in San Francisco, took an office job, and eventually started domming in my home town under a new stage name with all-new photos, he found my ads on the sex worker ad malls and started emailing me there. He called my mother at her home and would talk to her for hours–leaving her with a very positive impression, of course. He send me birthday cards and gifts, none of which I opened. When I decided to teach a course at one of the local colleges in exchange for a partial tuition waiver (and a nominal salary), he somehow found out and enrolled in the course, which was online due to COVID.

I went to the administration and explained that he was my Ex who was stalking me long-distance. They told me that they needed to see a restraining order before they could block him from taking the class. I’ve been through the restraining order process before and the last thing I wanted to do was have to answer some very awkward questions about our BDSM relationship.

“He doesn’t need to be in my class! He’s an attorney in New York! He’s not working on another degree!” I told the administration. The administration was sympathetic–I could tell that they believed me–but their answer was the same: restraining order, or it didn’t happen.

Every time I logged into Skype, there were his texts: You’re hurting me. Stop hiding from me. I had to change my phone number twice and he found me both times. How, I do not know, and the anxiety about not knowing fueled my ever-increasing paranoia. The third time he found me, I gave up and got TracPhone, which is a virtually untraceable burner.

In the meantime, I was ranting and raving about the man to my therapist once or twice a week.

“Stop letting if affect you to this extent. You don’t owe the Collector anything. He dragged you into the gutter and made you do the worst thing you’ve ever done,” the therapist reminded me.

“But you don’t understand. You don’t understand what he’s like. What if he sends the school administration my ads? What if he sends the ads to my mother and tells her I’m and S&M hooker? He could ruin my life! And sooner or later, he always gets what he wants!”

“Well, you don’t have to give him what he wants.”

But in the end, I did.

“Margo, just get on the plane. I’m looking right now. There are still three leaving today. I will make you the reservation immediately,” he said when I finally called.

“I need to go home and pack. I need to get my contact lenses and makeup bag and cancel my appointments. I need to tell my family where I’ll be going!” I sniffled pathetically in my hotel room, surrounded by the detritus of my last session. Of course I’d been drinking and made the mistake of reading his most recent emails to my work account, which is what made me call.

“You don’t need to bring makeup and you don’t need more clothes. Everything is here, exactly as you left it. I’ll buy you whatever you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything. We can discuss it all when you get here. Just get on the airplane. Margo, this can’t go on! Do you know what this has done to me, Margo?”

That’s what they all say when I leave: I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!

“I’m going to get there and you’re going to punish me for leaving you!” A very legitimate concern.

“I will not! I promise you I will not. I would never hurt you, Margo! I love you!”

The magic words.

I got on the airplane. A first-class ticket back to God-knows-what. Except that if I was being honest with myself, I knew exactly what. Layover in Chicago, during which I told myself You need to turn around and go right back home. Instead I boarded and availed myself to the complimentary booze.

The plane touched down in the middle of the night and I texted him when I arrived, expecting to take a cab into Manhattan. He was already waiting for me at the baggage claim.