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I’d been all set to talk but this showed me she was already on the wrong side of the equation. And I knew from the past all about talking with Jodie. I’d talked to her about her drinking, and about toning down her stage persona so she wasn’t feeling compelled to spew forth everything that went wrong in her life. I’d talked about how she related to me and about how looking after one another went both ways. She hadn’t changed. Talking didn’t work so well.
Communication was the very bedrock of BDSM according to Moghul, but there were other ways of communicating. If I talked, she would likely reject my ideas. The funny thing about saying no was that it set up a barrier in the mind so that a yes became much harder to say.
We’d been doing this a while. Weeks.
Stockholm Syndrome. Where was that when you needed it?
And those other ways of communicating?
Showing, doing, was far superior to talking. You could always talk later, when she knew what it was like to experience it for real. After all, a wish to try out what she’d read in books had led Jodie to this.
Two and a half weeks left. I found myself with the remote in hand, turning it like a pig on a spit. I wasn’t some serial killer murderer, kidnapper sort, but there was nothing about weaning in our agreement. Technically, I had that time to do what I wanted to.
I had that time to convince her to keep going. In whatever way I could imagine. I’d barely scratched the surface of what was possible.
Those other ideas materialized. I could do them. She wanted to see what it was like to be a slave. I could show her.
Really? I stared at the remote, then stared at the TV some more. I really wanted to do this?
My certainty faltered. I wanted to. But I suspected it was wrong. But I was going to.
Maybe if I was another man, I’d have been thinking about how to talk her into a relationship after the documentary ended. I would have been talking with her, full stop. But the opposite course of action drew me like gravity on a man falling from the sky. I was going down, down, down.
I’d never thought of myself as the obsessive sort, yet I knew all the way down to my toenails that I could not back away from this without trying to the utmost. I wanted this so deeply it hurt. I wanted to own her. Not in some mock BDSM scene way. I really wanted her as mine. To do with as I pleased. Crack had nothing on this.
Moghul was hosting a party in about two weeks, on the Sunday – the last day of this so-called documentary. The temptation was too much. Train her. Take her to the play party and show her how suitable she was to be my pet. Jodie already had the collar; all she needed was the right moves, and the right attitude.
