Sometimes, late at night, he calls me. He set his ringtone on my phone to an alarm blaring so when he calls I know immediately that its him. Tonight is one of those nights.
My body jolts awake at the sound of this alarm. This is the fifth time he has needed me this month. I jump out of bed and turn on my bedside lamp. The light illuminates the entirety of my apartment-style residence in downtown Toronto. The alarm rings a third time- I have to answer it on the fourth, his orders.
It rings a fourth time and I do as he told me to.
"Hello?" My dry throat impairs my high pitch voice, I cough.
"I told you never to answer when you are sick." The tone of his voice signals flashing red lights in my mind, tonight is not one to mess with him in any way.
"No, no I'm fine I swear." Do not compromise. Submit.
"Good you little bitch." My heart starts pounding. "Who's little bitch are you?" His British accent is strong and rough, raspy even at this time of night.
"I'm your little bitch, Harry." By now I'm wide awake and pacing around my four hundred square foot residence.
"Get over here Amy, you have fifteen minutes." It only takes twelve for me to get to his place so I don't need to rush tonight. "You know what happens if you're late." I can't dare be late, not after last time. I couldn't sit properly for days.
"You've got it." I say without thinking, instantly regretting my words.
" 'You've got it'? Who's got it?" He replies back in spite of me, his voice growing impatient.
"You've got it, master. Sorry, it won't happen again." My body quivers, he doesn't scare me now as much as he used to. "I'll be at your door in fifteen minutes, sir."
"Thats better." He hangs up without another word.
My heart races as I throw on my black tank top and leggings, it reminds him that I am not a child. I'm only eighteen, at first he was hesitant to accept me as his other. I don't know why I've tried so hard to sell myself to him.
I stare at my reflection through the only window in my dorm room, overlooking Toronto. The city is gorgeous at night. My reflection stares back at me. I cannot recognize myself like this, not without him.
A moment later I'm out the door, past the hallway, and into the elevator with my purse and cellphone in hand. The elevator dings when it reaches the main floor. Jen is waiting to go up.
An awkward exchange occurs between us, she used to be his other- I was her replacement. She knows exactly where I'm going with my makeup half smudged off and that scared yet turned on look on my face she knows way too well.
I'm out the doors and greeted with the mild weather of October in Canada. I locate my white Honda Civic and place my phone on my lap, awaiting further instructions when for when he clicks send.
The drive there consists of me navigating through the quieter than usual streets of Toronto and multitasking driving and putting on my face.
I get to his place with two minutes to spare, I take advantage of this time and fix my complexion for him. He hates it when I don't use products full out, once he made me wash it off and redo it for him while he watched; he was really angry that time.
My phone vibrates in my lap after I finish applying mascara to my left eye. The directions.
They read: 'Come around back, theres a key on the table besides the door. You know the routine.'
Every time he calls I run to his place, enter through the back or side door. He never does this with me in the same room more than once. Every time he employs a new girl he repaints all the rooms he has done it with the previous girl.
I walk around the back of his loft and locate the key quite easily, almost effortlessly. Once inside, I place the key in the designated spot and remove my shoes along with my light brown jacket.
He always tapes pieces of paper with black arrows printed on them around his house to where he wants me to wait for him. Its as if I'm a rodent being conditioned to his liking- to be controlled. I don't mind at all being controlled, but not like this.
Every door along the path is locked. I recognize some of them, rooms we have done this in before. Left, right, right, left, right. I wonder what will happen once we run out of rooms to do it in. He'll probably buy another house, I don't know.
At the end of the path is a large white door with the instruction 'enter' written on it in black paint. This is new. Maybe he's going through something again. I was his rebound girl after he got over his last crisis.
The room inside is painted bright red. In the centre is a circular bed equipped with several pillows and a duvet. Hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the bed is a large piece of rope that takes the shape of a noose.
There is something different in each corner of the room. In the top left I recognize his spanking bench. Parallel to it on the top right is a sex swing. I recognize his whipping staffs and straps of leather neatly placed on a mini-shelf with wheels in the close right corner. I don't recognize the contraption he has set up in the other corner- like I said, probably a crisis.
From this moment on I know what to do. I remove all of my clothes from head to toe, taking off my tight blue jeans and loose grey top and fold them neatly before placing them in the designated bin besides the bed in the centre of the room. I put my phone on top of the folded clothes.
I lay in the centre of the bed completely still and as lifeless as a corpse waiting to be given the gift of like for a second time. I see a red blindfold hanging from the rope above and know instantly that this is his way of telling me to put it on. It is the same shade of red as the walls.
Several minutes go by until he arrives.
I hear the door creep open and know that its him. I don't dare take a peak, he will show me what he wants to show me when he wants to show me it. His footsteps are amplified as he takes his time crossing to the centre of the room where I lay still, waiting for him.
There is a brief moment of silence that I assume he is using to undress. He never lets me see him until all of his clothes are off and tucked away, folded, on top of my clothes. This is his way of making sure I can't get dressed until he gets dressed.
He unzips his pants and my heart starts to pound. Usually by now he has touched me at the least, but nothing yet. Nothing as subtle as a brush of the hand.
I feel a silent gust of wind as he reaches out to touch my knee. His hand is ice cold and moves up to my thigh, tracing the outline of my body until he reaches my hair. He tugs me towards him, my breath escaping my body.
His thumb traces my lip as I sit up with my mouth gaping. His other hand explores the lower half of my body, settling in the nice warm spot between my thighs.
His lips find their way to mine, and I know instantly that this night is going to be one for the books; whether it is good or bad.
