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I kick off my one high-heeled shoe so I am on two feet again, and the balance gives me courage. While my hands are tied behind my back, and I can’t see anything, I can hold my head up and pull my shoulders back.
“Are you going to tell me who you are?” I ask again.
Something rubbery touches my cheek, and I jerk my head away. What is that?
“You don’t need to know, little girl,” a man whispers in my ear, so close I can feel his warm breath.
And then I feel it again. The rubber. And I can smell it too. It’s chemical-y, like a Halloween mask.
Wait? Are these people wearing Halloween masks? What for? I’m blindfolded.
“Is… is that a mask on your face?” I ask, not expecting an answer.
A finger runs down my cheek, and I realize that, too, feels like rubber.
“Of course, we have masks on. Gloves too. We don’t want evidence, do we, young lady?” he croons.
I don’t speak until the finger stroking me becomes a hand around my neck. The man yanks, tilting my chin up so my head falls back. He tightens his fingers. Fortunately, in spite of the pressure, I can still breathe—so nice of him—but I wheeze because he still manages to restrict my air flow.
“Wh… what are you doing?” I rasp.
I can knee him in the crotch. But why? What good will that do? I’m blindfolded and my hands are tied. I might be able to run, but where?
He scoffs and releases my neck, running his hand down my chest to grab one of my breasts. At first, he strokes me with his open palm, and though I shouldn’t enjoy it, it feels nice, even through the fabric of my dress. I drop my chin back to a comfortable position and take a big inhale.
“Yeah, there you go, little girl, much better, huh?”
I nod in spite of myself. I mean, I still don’t quite know what’s going on. Is this the scene I am supposed to play? The one Gwen set up for me? If so, why was I left in the dark about the details?
But I guess that’s the point.
And what the hell am I doing, anyway? I came to Chicago to take courses, not hang out with perverts and sinners. What kind of girl am I if not a horrible hypocrite?
Something I’ve been asking myself for as long as I can remember.
I stiffen under the man’s touch, his palm now off my breast, his fingers having reached inside my dress to rest around a nipple. The plastic gloves are strange on my skin but also exciting. They’re smooth and cool. They kind of tickle.
Wait. This is not arousing. Or rather, it’s not supposed to be.
If anything I learned growing up is true, this is supposed to feel dirty, a man touching me who I don’t know, don’t have a relationship with, don’t love, and am not married to. What I am doing is wrong on every single level except one.
The one where I like it.
It might be dirty. Humiliating. Sinful. Downright wrong.
But I like the fear. The humiliation. The shame. The sin.
I want this, even though I don’t know what kind of woman it makes me.
“The bed.”
I turn toward a different voice, familiar but muffled. I must be with the three guys. Who else could it be?
“What? Excuse me?” I ask.
While the man with his hand on my breast stands on one side of me, someone else approaches me on my other. Both my arms now have strong hands holding them.
I’m not going anywhere. Well, anywhere these men don’t want me to.
