Page 127 of Made Better Together

“Thanks, what?” He winks. The cue we’re starting.

“Thanks, Sir,” I say softly.

“My perfect Rosy.” He pulls out a piece of black fabric. What’s that for? “So first things first, safe word?”

“Red.” We should probably come up with something more original, but not a priority right now.

“Good girl.” He comes behind me with the black fabric. I think it’s a…

“Blindfold.” He raises it up. “I’m going to put it on you now.”

He waits to see if I speak up, but I remain silent. I’ve never done anything like this before, in any scenario. I’m as curious as he probably is whether I’ll like it.

After seeing me stay quiet, he slips the soft fabric over my eyes. It’s fastened together with an elastic band that rests comfortably around the back of my head. Everything goes pitch black.

“You alright?” His voice, rougher than it was a moment ago.

“Yes, Sir.” I can’t see anything, but I’m still on the same chair, on Connor’s roof, with him watching out for me. I feel safe—and there’s no part of me that doesn’t trust him.

“I’m going to feed you to start. Just dinner right now. And then we’ll…play more later.”

“Mmmm,” I hum in agreement. In the outside world, I’d probably ask a million questions about what that means. But here, now, I let go of all of it.

The anxiety of not knowing what’s next.

The strain of making certain he’s taken care of, that he’s happy.

The pressure to make a choice of what comes now.

I let it all go.

Because Connor’s got this.

Sir’s got this, I say to myself, to fully immerse myself in the experience. The blindfold blocking any visual stimulation accelerates the release into my new reality.

An easy contentment floods in to fill the void.

“Rosy, I’ve got some penne with feta here for dinner. I’m bringing a bite up, on a fork.” I hear the scrape of the utensil on whatever container the food is in. “Open.”

I part my mouth. The intake of his breath is loud as the food hits my tongue, and I bite down, then chew.

Shutting down all thought of anything else, I eat the pasta as I would normally.

“Very good. One more.” Then, “Open.”

He feeds me the pasta four more times. By the last bite, his instructions are confident. Peace spreads across my mind as I’m certain of what I’m expected to do.

“I’m going to feed you some cherry tomatoes next. They have a vinaigrette on them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Another “open” is followed by the crisp sensation of the tomato, the tangy flavor of the dressing…and something else. The salty taste of his fingers—he’s feeding me by hand.

I make sure not to bite down until his fingers retreat. Like with the pasta, he keeps giving me tomatoes several times.

“Open.”

“Open.”