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pleasurable pain, to heighten my partner’s experience. Does that sound like something you’d like?”
        Did it ever. I couldn’t believe I was about to head into my second session of the day. And he said he wanted to go for a full hour, which meant a whopping eighty dollars for me. I could buy a week’s worth of groceries and have money left over for the gas bill with this hour of so-called work.
        Robert held the door open and then followed me back up to the front desk. He told Hillary that he wanted to have an hour-long session with me, with the option to extend if we both wanted to. Hillary told us that one of the big, plush rooms upstairs, known as the Lair, was open. It had a thick shag carpet like the Dean Martin, and was decorated in pretty much leopard-print everything. It was the most comfortable of the four rooms. Across the hall from the Dean Martin downstairs was the “Vault,” where floors, walls, and furniture were all made of cold stainless steel, and next to the “Lair” upstairs was a room called the Rock, for reasons I still don’t understand. It was a large space with black rubber floors and black leather everything else, including a faux-black-leather toilet seat in the bathroom.
        Robert picked out some floggers, cuffs, and a candle, and got a few cubes of ice before leading me toward the front door, which opened out into a small, enclosed courtyard and to the stairs for the upper rooms. I wondered the same thing, walking up that staircase in front of Robert for the first time, that I would wonder every time I ascended with someone to the comfort and danger of the rooms above — Does my ass look good moving this way? I wanted every moment of every session to reinforce the new image I was forming of myself: sexy, glamorous, different from merely pretty girls. I wanted to come across like one of the va-va-voom broads from whatever decade it was where round hips were appreciated as the luxury they truly are.
        Up in the room, Robert had me sit on the leopard-print bench while he readied the space. He dimmed the lights and lit candles, then put on a CD of his own. Low, mellow-sounding techno music came through the speakers in each corner of the room. Robert grabbed a couple of maroon-colored towels from the adjoining private bathroom and spread one of them in the middle of the plush red carpet. He walked back over to me and, putting his hands on my upper arms, drew me up to face him.
        “Close your eyes,” he told me softly, and I did. “While you’re with me, you’re to address me as ‘Master.’ Is that understood?”
        “Yes, Master,” I answered, feeling once more swamped in hokeyness but trying to keep an open mind. I hoped this one affectation was merely a quirk and not representative of his general style.
        “That’s good,” he praised my response, stroking my shoulders. He paused to clasp my forearms with his warm hands. “I want you to kneel — I’ll help you down if you can’t do it alone with your eyes closed.”
        “Thank you, Master. That would be helpful.” I let him take my hands to guide me. Kneeling in front of him, I felt a hand cup each side of my head, softly stroking my hair in half circles. I prayed he wouldn’t let his thumbs fall forward to massage my temples. I hated it when anyone’s fingers got near my eyebrows. But there was no way he could know that, and his thumbs were about to rest on my painstakingly-secured arches when I jerked my head involuntarily away “I’m sorry, sir. I have a thing about having my face touched.”
        He pulled his hands out from my head abruptly “I’m sorry,” he began, but I interrupted him.
        “No, no, it’s okay. I just didn’t think to mention it beforehand. It’s not a big deal,” I assured him. I liked that he was sorry, though. I hadn’t wanted him to feel bad about it, but it was a good sign that it mattered to him to have done something