Kinbaku-bi

Physical Therapy

As I'm writing the rest of my lesson plan on the board, the final bell rings. All of my students eagerly place their notebooks and writing utensils in their bags and begin to stand.

"Y'all do know that that bell does not dismiss y'all, right?"

My students all stand around their desks and wait for the two words that are about to come out of my mouth.

"Now, class dismissed."

It wasn't even two seconds after I dismissed them, and they all dashed towards the door. I sit down at my desk and reach in my drawer to grab my phone. I have three unread messages from Damon. I tell all of my clients not to message me during the day. He's going to pay for that later. I like to keep my professions separate, so there's no conflict. I don't want my clients to know what I do during the day, and I don't want my students' parents to know what I do at night. I'm not ashamed of either job, but it wouldn't smooth over well trying to explain to my boss what I do after hours. I even wear different clothing to conceal my identity. I don't want to run into any of my clientele. Imagine running into your client and his wife at the grocery store after whipping him to the point of having him scream to the top of his lungs that he hates his wife and only wants to be subservient to you.

I hate referring to myself as a "dominatrix." I prefer to refer to myself as a therapist. A special kind of physical therapist. My clients lay out their needs, and it's my job to provide a solution. Each client is similar and different at the same time, but at the end of the day, they all enjoy relinquishing their power to me. The high that I get from dominating them is unexplainable but very addictive. The majority of my clientele are middle-aged, corporate, married, white men who never get enough from our sessions. I'd say, on average, I see one regular twice a week. I never truly understand how their wives aren't suspicious of them being gone all hours of the night, multiple times a week. However, that is none of my business.

The only thing that is my business is the pain and pleasure that I inflict on my clients. Believe it or not, I like to think of it as getting my reparations. I get to tie them up, blindfold them, and whip them, all while I charge them $500 an hour. They pay it without hesitation, and all parties are satisfied in the end. Sick, I know. If I didn't enjoy teaching for a living, I could easily quit and live comfortably off of the income I make at night, but making a positive impact on the youth gives me a different type of high that's incomparable. Now, why is Damon blowing up my phone during the day?

"Good afternoon, madam. I know you say not to contact you during the day, but this is a risk  I am willing to take.  I really need to see you. I know it is a very short notice, but can I schedule a session with you for this evening?"

"Damon, you stupid fuck. I've told you several times not to contact me during the day. I don't know why you can't get that through your thick-ass skull. I don't care about you needing to see me. I need you not to contact me during the day. Why is that concept so fucking hard to grasp?"

"I apologize, madam. I will do anything to make it up to you; I need to see you. I'll beg if I have to."

"Beg for it."

I can see out of my peripheral Mr. Benson leaning against my classroom door.

"How's everything going, sir?"

"It's going. Just making my rounds, checking in on all of the faculty. Have you notified your students' parents of parent-teacher conferences?"

"Yes, sir, I have. I called and emailed everyone during lunch.  We should have a nice turnout for my class."

"Good. That's good to hear. A few of your colleagues forgot. I'm convinced they don't check their emails. I make sure to include everyone in the mass emails."

If he only knew that I almost forgot to contact my kids' parents. He'd lose all faith in me, chile. He's the type of boss that likes to flood our emails with meaningless stuff all day. I guess when the disciplinary action rates are low, he doesn't have much to do. Regardless, I developed the habit of deleting everything he sends. I have to save some storage on my Outlook.

"Yes, sir, is there anything that you need from me?"

Mr. Benson is the type of man that likes to complain about minor things. I don't have the patience to listen to that. He also lacks social intelligence and doesn't pick up on social cues very well.

"Not at the moment. Thanks for asking. Have a good evening, Ms. Kidd."

"You as well, sir."

He walks away from my door. Thank goodness. I hate small talk with a passion; it makes me feel uneasy. I unlock my phone and see a long message from Damon begging to see me this evening. So long that I had to scroll a couple of times to get to the end of the message. Yeah, I'm not reading that shit. He'll see me next week. Instant gratification spoils my clients, and that is something that I don't do. These men walk around feeling entitled to everything on this planet. One thing they're not entitled to is my time. You have to earn it like everyone else.

"Save your bullshit, Damon. You'll see me next week when your appointment is scheduled. Pull your shit together, and don't fucking text my phone again until next week. Don't even respond to this message."

I lock my phone and begin to pack up my belongings. Today wasn't that bad of a day, but for some reason, I feel exhausted. I zip my messenger bag shut and swing it over my shoulder. Lastly, I grab the eraser and erase the lesson plan off of the chalkboard. I hope the kids wrote down everything because I'm surprising them with a pop quiz tomorrow.