Kink In Exile

“…and whatever the lady wants.” He says this without looking at me: dismissive and accommodating rolled into one. It’s the kind of passive sexism that doesn’t happen to me, and it makes me wet. He doesn’t care what I want, doesn’t care about the money either, just as long as I look pretty and keep my mouth shut. Later he’ll take me up to his flat. He’ll push me against the wall, and pull a knife out of a hidden pocket in his expensively tailored suit. He’ll slice my dress off in ribbons, and I’ll have the momentary distraction of “what will I wear next week” before he forces me to my knees. And later, much later, as I walk out of the bathroom still naked he’ll tell me my money is on the bed. I’ll walk over and pick up a stack of crisp hundred dollar bills. I’ll gather my raincoat from where it lies in a puddle of red vinyl by the door, and wrap it around my naked body. I’ll stuff the cash, haphazardly, into a pocket, and go out to hale a cab savoring the ache of fresh bruises.