‘No, I think you’re wrong. I think it’d have to be you in the gorilla suit. I even think it’d have to be you in the sexy corset.’
I turn away from the mirror and put my hands over my exposed collarbones, my throat suddenly tight. ‘D’you really think so?’
‘God, yes. Don’t you?’
I wander over to the desk again, not trusting myself to answer. Wrist cuffs. ‘Do I have to put these on?’
‘I would, since they’re there. I guess it’s for a reason.’
She buckles them on for me, nice and tight. The leather is heavy, which is both sexy and reassuring. Instantly, I feel closer to the headspace I’m aiming for.
I pull on high strappy shoes and then I’m left with the last thing: a collar, with dog leash attached.
‘I don’t know about this,’ I say, picking it up.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it makes me think of dogs, and dogs don’t turn me on. I don’t really want to be treated like an animal.’
‘I guess I won’t invite you to the pony farm then.’
‘I guess you won’t.’ I snort. ‘You’re serious? That place really exists?’
‘I’ve told you! I went there the other month. I had a brilliant weekend. Look, put the collar on. Don’t think of it in relation to dogs. Think of it as a slave collar.’
Slaves? Isn’t that worse?
Rachael puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘It doesn’t symbolise anything you don’t want it to. It’s just a weird-looking necklace. It’s a piece of leather with some metal links attached. Whatever you want to make it, that’s what it is. And it’s a damn sight less uncomfortable than that corset.’
‘Where’s Lloyd? Is he coming to fetch me?’
‘Yeah, he’ll be here soon.’
I pick up the collar, weigh it in my hands. It’s just a thing. It can mean what I want it to mean. I’m not a dog, not a slave, I don’t belong to anyone. I do what I want, because I want to do it.
I put it on. It’s supple, the leather moulding itself to the contours of my neck. The chain dangles between my breasts, chilling them.
Rachael picks up the end of the leash and tugs on it playfully. ‘How does it feel?’
‘It’s OK. It’s good. Where’s Lloyd?’
‘Here’s Lloyd.’
He stands in the doorway – I pivot on my teeteringly high heels and look him up and down.
‘Wow. It’s a dom makeover.’
He looks like a sexed-up cat burglar, in black leather trousers (Mal’s?) and a black silk shirt, billowing and open to about halfway down his chest. Most fun of all, he is wearing an eye mask and a flogger in his belt. And shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather. His hair is slicked back and his smile is deadly.
I put a hand on a jutting hip and ask in my best husky purr, ‘Who’s this?’
He shuts the door behind him and crooks a finger. ‘Let me look at you.’
I swing the leash, burlesque-style, as I approach him, but he grabs it as soon as it’s within reach and uses it to hold me still and close, the length of chain wrapped around his fist.
‘Gorgeous,’ he says, putting his other hand to my neck, sliding it down over my bare shoulders. The intensity of his attention makes me want to step back, to make a jocular remark, to puncture the moment. Something stops me, though, holds me still just as the leash does. ‘Turn around.’
His hand on my shoulder steers me lightly. He lifts my skirt, the two pathetic flounces of frothy net, and checks that I am naked underneath. I look at the ground, conscious of Rachael watching us, conscious of Lloyd’s eyes on my bottom and pussy. There will be more eyes than his later, but I don’t think I could feel so naked if a million eyes were trained on my sex. I have never felt more laid bare.