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.but!To my critics I was tempted to say "Fuck You!" but I want to qualify this.First off you need to bear in mind IT'S NOT REAL LIFE! I was criticizedfor not knowing about something since I had not experienced it, well ofcourse not it is fantasy! I did not say it was an autobiography (and thatis a selectable option).But, following your point I'm sure everyone would have loved..."Master put on a condom, because he did not want to give his slave an STD" Mistress dabbed antiseptic on her slaves whip cuts because she did notwant him to die of sepsis"and my personal favorite.."I can't say what the slave felt or experienced because I have not done itmyself!"As to the point my story was a clich?....of course it was this whole genreis littered with them as is life. Star wars is a Romeo and Juliet.....goodversus evil clich?....I assume you noticed this of courseBut the most galling point is that neither of my critics have written andpublished anything on the site! How can you critique when you. ‘Rene…’ the singular word escaping my lips, was it me? Did I say it? I feel so unsteady and I brace myself against the wall. I can feel my hip bone pressing against the cool surface, skin against bone. Making my way in the shadows, tapping the wall until I find the doorway, the exit towards the toilet. I can feel her, her breath on my neck, hands gliding down my waist. She is kissing me here. Tongue to shoulder blade, her hips against my backside, pressing me against the wood. Fingers quick and smooth, across my belly, so warm. I turn on the faucet, the water rushing from the tap, so urgent, so desperate, it feels so cold. My feet are so cold, the tile biting my toes, my only sensitivity, my extremities. In the dark I can see her, she is looking at me, she has come to me, she has come back. As I place my glasses to my head, it all becomes so desperately clear. A mirror image, it is my own face, my own sunken eye sockets, my cheekbones pointed and noticed. I have become so thin. What.
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It waslocked. I picked up the package and opened my door. The place seemedto have not missed me yesterday. Settling down my handbag, keys andcoffee, I opened the box. In the brown box was my folded and cleanedred dress, the rose' intimates, my shoes and a small envelope. Insidewas a disc, noted with the date. My name was written across the topedge. There was also a small black flash-drive. I assumed these werecopies of the movie I had watched yesterday, as the hair weave wasbeing done; me with Thomas and Jenn. I threw these back in the box. Iforgot to look for the ring.After two o'clock, I needed to get away, though the work distracted mymemories, each spare moment allowed me to consider these past fewdays. I thought also of Cynthia, but there were also memories of thesex, pricks, and the toys. I rubbed my wrists thinking of Thomas'slair and his reading "Juliette".I left the package in the office when I went out after working quietlyall day. I had briefly heard the two women next.

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