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The stylist strapped me into Louboutin Black Sleeping Beauty pumps. There’s a red rose over my toes while their gold heels are adorned with thorns. The many inches of my legs are glossed and bare up to the eight inches of this black leather miniskirt.
Even smaller is the wide black leather strap bound tight around my breasts, holding them up high and knotted in the back as my top. My short hair is slicked back, and my lips match the rose on the shoes. My lashes are done, but I’m sure they’ll add more makeup at the shoot.
But the real sight that captivates me in the mirror?
I’m wearing the same BOUND perfume collar from ten years ago. It’s black. Simple. Elegant with its delicate gold hardware. But the gold chain is missing this time. I won’t be bound to Redix tonight.
Like this new perfume.
Like ten years later.
I’m free of him.
If I choose to be.
I like this woman in the mirror… because I don’t know what the fuck she’s gonna do next.
Marco won’t stop gushing over me.
And he won’t stop with his hand around my hip, introducing me to every VIP in sight.
“My Goddess,” he cries, “you must return to me. Be my spokeswoman. A grown one now on every campaign with this body, this face with that short hair, Mio Dio, you are sex on two long legs.”
It’s all in good fun.
I’m not coming back, and he knows it. But he sure is trying. And with me at twenty-eight and Marco a sexy forty-something, I know when a man wants to do more than work with me.
I’m not his innocent virgin bound in leather anymore. I don’t need fashion or collars to assert my sex and power. I have more than any restraint can harness.
Marco’s coming onto me. The couple who owns Oomph magazine propositioned me too. Marco’s hair stylist—she’s acting very interested. I feel like fresh meat, and Redix is watching it all from across the room because the same is happening to him.
But no one gets a bite of me tonight.
I don’t know what Redix will do with his savory body everyone’s after too.
I never have.
“Where is your Romeo?” Marco sips a Negroni, searching the sea of chic people. “It’s time for the show.”
I point to Redix, but I haven’t spoken to him. He had no words when he met me in the hotel lobby for our limo. All he’s wearing tonight is a pair of black leather pants, a matching black collar, and a cloak of tension.
Marco’s PR team joined us in the limo along with Redix’s assistant, Eric. On the ride over, they chatted about the night, the names we must know, the schedule we must keep…
All while, Redix watched me with a storm in his eyes.
I looked back and saw no trace of the boy I knew, the young man I loved, or even the asshole who followed me into a parking lot.
Who is he now?
When we stood for the cameras at the rope line, blasts of lights, shouts of his name, a scurry of people told us where to stand, and he just held on to me, pressing his oiled flesh against mine.
We didn’t smile.
We let the cameras take pictures while we tried to decide, with no words, if we could be saved.
Or if we’re damned for infinity.
In a rush of assistants, I’m hurried across the room and plopped into a makeup chair for a retouch. Redix sits beside me for his. After a whirl of people directing us, we stand in front of a white backdrop. Music pumps bass through the air. Lights on tripods make our almost naked bodies glow. Guests hold their phones up. Marco talks with his team and the photographer.
