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secrets. I didn’t realize that Connor’s own fantasies were darker than my own, went farther than I’d dare to dream.
    He’d laughed, not mean, not cruel, but still, he’d laughed at me. As if it went without saying that he’d do what I asked. “Sam,” he said softly, “I have no problem punishing your pussy.”
    Ah, fuck me—
    He carried me back to the bed, spread me out, and tied me to Lois’s bed frame like the bondage pro he was. He cut my skirt off, cut my T-shirt away, undid my boots and pulled them off, then ran his fingertips over the shaved skin of my pussy. I had only my thigh-high fishnets on now. Nothing to protect me.
    “You know you’re a bad girl,” he said, “don’t you?”
    I nodded, then immediately whispered, “Yes, Connor.”
    “And you know tonight I’m going to make you scream.”
    Tears started running down my cheeks, but I managed to say, “Yes, Connor.”
    He reached for the violet suede flogger and then he looked at me fiercely and said, “And you know you need this.”
    I did. I knew it. I’d known it for years.
    “Tell me why.”
    I pleaded with my eyes. I couldn’t. I didn’t know.
    “Try.”
    “Because—” was all I could say. “Because.”
    The flogger was light, a gentle caress at first. And then the weapon began to sting, the many tails landing faster on my tender skin. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists. But it wasn’t until Connor dropped that soft, sweet toy, replacing it with the very lip of his leather belt, again and again on my pussy, putting power behind the blows, that I started to give him what he wanted. I could hear the wetness as the leather connected, and I could feel the lake of juices under my ass, and I started to cry for real.
    “Open your eyes,” Connor insisted.
    My eyelids fluttered, and he doubled the belt and landed a blow on my upper thighs that made me gasp.
    “Don’t test me, girl,” he said, not a faux threat. “You obey when I give a command.”
    He did what he said. He punished me between my legs until I came, crying out so loudly, repeating his name over and over like a mantra, knowing that it didn’t matter if he was leaving. Tonight, I was his.
    I mentioned that snapshot I have of Connor: black jeans, no shirt, after a night of no sleep. I took the picture myself.I think we spent nearly forty-eight hours in bed, but that photo is from a two-AM run for coffee, the two of us sex-drenched and half naked as he headed to the closest drive-through. I had his shirt on. That’s why his chest was bare. His shirt and my boots, and nothing else. He has that picture of me.
    At some point during the weekend, he introduced me to the crop, and the weapon was as mean and frightening as I’d thought it would be. Later still, he grabbed clothespins from the bathroom where Lois used them to fasten her stockings to the twine strung across the shower. Connor had completely different uses for them. Oh, Christ, did he. I was humble and quiet when we were out of bed, as loud as he wanted me to be when we were on that queen-sized mattress. He’d broken that inhibition of mine, demolished my reservations to nothing.
    On Sunday night, his last night in town, Connor took me up to the Sunset Strip Tattoo parlor and explained to the man behind the counter exactly what he wanted. As if he were the proprietor, Connor led me to the back room and lowered my jeans, and I dropped my chin to my chest, mortified, not only because Connor was baring my ass to strangers but because I sported bruises from when his silver buckle had caught my skin, magenta stripes from his belt, those fine thin welts from his crop. On a fair space of skin on my right hip (had Connor intentionally left that patch alone?), the tattoo artist transferred the cherries that Connor had chosen for me. Connor held my hands in his, and I looked into his eyes and stayed totally still. This was not my first tattoo, but it was the first one given to me.
    “I can tell she’s a naughty