"My master has never touched me," said the woman, "and I have never touched my master."

"When you say 'touch’, you mean —?"

"In a sexual manner, yes. Our skin has made contact many times."

The psychologist quirked an eyebrow. "No sex at all? That is quite unusual, considering your… dynamic."

"My master is above such things."

The psychologist looked down at his notes: a little spiral notepad and red pen. He was an older man with salt-and-pepper hair and tan skin. Whenever he moved, the bottom of his chin would swell against his white shirt collar. "I must confess, I'm still learning when it comes to all these newfangled sexualities. I would never say that someone's preference — or lack of preference — was a disease. But I wouldn’t go that far."

His patient said nothing to this. She continued sitting as she had, with her back very straight. She looked as if she had stepped from the pages of a magazine. She had chestnut hair and a button nose and a pink mouth. There was something in her facial features that could be called mischievous— a crinkle in the corner of her eye, lips that curled in a catlike way. Only, the expressions she made were nothing but sweetness. A disconnect in design and action.

The other thing about her, of course, was that she was dressed like a mid-century model. Anywhere from the 30s to 50s, though it would be hard to place for anyone but an expert.  Her hair was curled in neat ringlets, her makeup sweet and blushed with a matte lip. She wore a brown shirt with large lapels and a plaid circle skirt, her white petticoat flashing beneath. Even her loafers, with their little tassels, looked vintage. And maybe they were.

"What would you say that your relationship even is?"

"I am part of a deliberately negotiated imbalanced dynamic. Of my own consent."

"Why do you feel the need to specify that?"

"Because I know what it looks like to an outside observer. I know how people judge and gossip. They think just because I'm hypnotized weekly, and call myself a slave and my master my master, that I've been taken advantage of in some way. That is not the case."

"I will take you at your word, then." He paused. "Let's start with this — could you give me a rundown of what an average day would look like for you?"

The woman wriggled in her seat — she was eager to answer. "I wake at five AM every day so that I may shower and dress before Master wakes. I wear whatever she set out for me the evening before; generally, this is the maid's dress, with the white apron.

"I begin her breakfast. We live together in a small apartment in a very fine old building. It's not like other buildings, where the landlords have totally scrubbed away its unique features. It still has the original hardwood and crown fixtures and a claw foot bathtub and—”  The woman blinked, and shook her head, and went on with her point. "This is a truly wonderful time of day. The kitchen is filled with delicious scents, and when it's warm out I can open the window and feel the breeze and admire the flowers we keep out on the balcony.

"Master rises around six thirty. I can hear her stirring. I've gotten very skilled at timing the kettle perfectly, so that she always has a steaming cup of tea when she enters.

"Then I kneel, and she kisses me on the forehead. She'll say — good morning, pet."

When the woman imitated this "master" her voice took on a far deeper tenor.

"All of that so early?" the psychologist said.

But the woman merely continued her story. "In the afternoon, I will attend to my chores, and any other momentary needs of hers. I fetch her shoes and put away her dishes and kneel when she commands me to kneel."

"What other sort of orders does she give?"

"She may ask anything of me, and I will do it."

The psychologist was quick to jump on that. "Has she ever made you harm yourself or others?"

The woman paused. "Once," she said, "a neighbor of Master's, who thought himself a friend, but who she really did not like, came to supper uninvited. She compelled me to serve him poorly. I spilled a drink on his lap, served his food cold, and forgot his name."

"Compelled — what do you mean by that?"

"That is perhaps not the right word. Master has developed a very complex system of non-verbal commands. In this circumstance, it was clear she could not give a verbal order. Therefore, she played different tones on her phone, pretending they were business calls. For example: there was one particular noise that sounded like a rotary phone. When I heard that, I knew I had to go and speak to her alone. I understood precisely what all these sounds mean through her hypnotic programming, as well as the more traditional means."

"Carrot and stick, Eh?"

"No. Master does not use punishment. Only positive reinforcement." The woman's voice was clipped, defensive. "This was negotiated at the very beginning, and is the standard that we hang our relationship on."

"Once again, not what I would expect." The psychologist paused. "Why?"

"She believes that punishment is ultimately ineffective. And I have been hurt in past relationships."

"I'm sorry to hear that." The psychologist took a moment to lick his fingers, and flip to the next page in his little notebook. He clicked his pen twice. "That all sounds well and good. But I cannot help but notice that you've been avoiding a very obvious question." He looked up for what seemed the first time that session. "Why are you here?"

"Because I intend to leave her."

"After you spent all this time defending your relationship?"

"Yes," said the woman. "Because I am terrible."

"Now, self-deprecation is a very negative —"

She went on, answering his much earlier question. "She often leaves in the afternoon. This is when I clean the apartment. She holds me to a very high standard, and she wants things to be done the old-fashioned way. I mop with a mop. I sweep with a broom. There is no dishwasher.

“And no, it is not tedious. Her voice plays in my ears while I clean. The time passes in a moment.”

Welcome back, the file began. How fortunate you are to be here with me again. There is no need for trepidation. Please remember that your subconscious is there to protect you. I would never make you do anything you do not already want. All you need to do is listen to my words. Already, you are sinking. Just follow me deeper down the path…

“Do you ever leave the apartment?”

“Sometimes, if I need to buy groceries. I have a card that she’ll put money on for me.”

“Not old-fashioned when she needs more control?” He grunted. “Do you have any money of your own?”

"That is a silly question," she said. "I am a slave."

"Why are you a slave?"

"Well, the real answer is because she willed it." The woman smiled. "But I know that's not what you want to hear. To put it simply: I am weak. I am emotional. I need a Master to guide my thoughts, because otherwise I would become a wanton slut."

"You seem a perfectly lovely young woman to me."

"Because she has made me so." She tilted her head. "When Master and I first began our relationship, there was something she said. We were friends, strange as it is to say. I was attracted to her, even though she was asexual. I did not want to make her uncomfortable. But we spoke things out, and she explained her philosophy — she's so very intelligent. She said, ‘I am not drawn to sex, but to the true beating heart that lies beneath it.’”

“Which is?”

“Power, of course.”

Imagine a rose garden. Far more beautiful and fragrant than any you’ve seen with your own eyes. There are only roses — fat, pink and red roses — as far your vision can stretch. Even if you looked away, you would be forced to smell them. Their sent invades your nose. Notice how you yearn to pluck one and put it against your delicate skin. This desire feels more real then any other feeble thought in your mind. Try to resist the urge with everything you can muster, and fail. Stop trying. Now, show gratitude for what I gave you.

The psychologist asked, "The name on your file is Cora Lovelace. Is that your birth name?"

"Yes," she said. "I think so, but —" Her legs did a little jitter. "How would I know? I don't exactly remember being born." She began to laugh, but the psychologist's intense expression made it melt quickly. “And when did you get a file?”

“When you filled it out, miss.”

You are right to feel grateful. You need this. You need to be separated from thoughts that would harm you. You need to be separated from urges that would harm you. You need to be separated from people that would harm you. You cannot let yourself be separated from me.

She went on describing her evenings. "Master gets very affectionate. I will lay my head on her lap, and she'll stroke my hair, and tell me what a good job I've done serving her…" She trailed off, and her eyes seemed to stare at something far away. "I will miss those nights more than anything."

"Are there any times that she deviates from this pattern?"

"No!" The woman nearly jumped from her seat.

Which, of course, made the psychologist suspicious. But he did not say anything. He let the silence linger as the woman looked at her stockinged feet. Her face was calm. But her thoughts were racing.

The office was housed in an old municipal building. Master would have liked it; there was an unsullied charm to its red brick exterior. So old, and yet it remained both useful and beautiful.

The room itself did not maintain that charm. The walls were beige, and the couches were comfortable, but clearly bought on the cheap from Amazon or something like it. So was the lamp. The only charming thing was the bobble head of a yellow bird on the desk. She watched it swing in the wake of the plastic fan.

“Yes. Yes, that’s why I’ve come here.” The woman clutched her purse. “That’s why I’m running away. Why I’ve left my phone at home. It’s because she—” The woman looked up. And even as she knew what needed to be done, all of the tracks in her mind went veering towards a different path, and what she said was: “Sometimes she throws a party, and I need to serve guests!”

He frowned. "Is that unpleasant for you?"

"No." She was kicking herself! Why couldn't she just say it? “She loves having the opportunity to show off.” She rocked in her seat. "Master does not have many friends. She tries to engage with the kink community, but she finds they are just as boneheaded and addled by sex thoughts as all the others. Still, there are some that she’ll invite over. And when that's the case, I have the honor of serving them and demonstrating my Master’s power over me. I love it when she throws a party."

She knew why.

"You do not look it," the psychologist said.

"Well, there are more unpleasant breaks from routine.” The woman grimaced. “Like — like when the cat gets sick, and we must rush to the vet." She was leaning forward, pressing her arms closer to herself, clasping her hands together. "And, once —"

She stopped.

The psychologist had unconsciously leaned forward as well. In the lull, he straightened back up. He gave her a stiff nod. "Take your time."

"The thing is – my memory is there. But it's foggy. Like I'm looking through frosted glass. I can hardly think about it. And I cannot speak to her about it."

"Why not?"

"I cannot." Her hands were trembling. "That day… I dropped her favorite teacup. It was vintage.  Irreplaceable. I swept it up thoroughly. The thought of, after making such a huge mistake, Master treading on some shards and getting hurt – it was unbearable to me." She swallowed. "There was a moment when I tried to lie to her, and say I had merely misplaced it. She correct me quickly, though. And she said mistakes happened, and that she was not upset at me.

"She's so very kind. She’s so understanding. Even when I slip up. Even when I let my most harmful urges show. She's so levelheaded, so logical. She cares for me very deeply. She cares for me enough to love me, even though I'm so foolish and base."

"You're getting off topic, Cora."

She flinched. "Please do not refer to me by any name."

"Of course. I'm sorry. Please, continue."

"I had just finished up the laundry – I had been running late all day, after that incident. It was almost suppertime, and I hadn't even started cooking. She told me not to worry; she even offered to order something. Master's very frugal, this is uncommon for her. Then she called me to come and sit with her on the couch. And while I was there she took me by the shoulders, and hugged me. And I started to cry, and thanked her for being so kind, and —"

The woman stared down.

"Master is very small, and much weaker than me physically. Were she not my master, I could have pushed her off. I would have. I swear, I swear I would have." There were tears in her eyes. "Oh, I have done horrible things before. I have gone past her boundaries. I've been so consumed with lust I forgot my respect and love for her. I knew better than to turn her away.

"She pushed me on my back. She was speaking the whole time, telling me how I was hers, how well I knew my place, that I was such a good slave. She said loved me when she put her hands up my skirt and —"

The hollow ring of silence.

The slave sat in the pit her unthinkable words had made. It seemed to her that the whole world had been plunged into darkness around her, and she was the only light. Like she was tip of a lighthouse. Or an anglerfish's lure.

The psychologist was still writing. Skritch, skritch, skritch, his glasses slipping down his long nose.

After a moment too long of quiet, he cleared his throat. "Take your time."

"There's no need," she said. "That's all I remember."

"What is the next thing you can recall?"

Being Master's hole felt so good. Stars and warmth up to her neck. Drowning in the arousal. Oh god oh god. Please don't stop. Never stop using your property.

"I… just went to bed."

The psychologist frowned. It appeared that he was thinking in much the same direction as the slave. "That does not seem in keeping with what you've told me of her character."

"It's not. Master treats me well. She has never expressed any base urges before; in fact, she thinks them disgusting. And, even should she change her mind on that, and decide to indulge – for fun, not of biological impulse…" The slave trailed off. "I would have slept with her willingly — very willingly. There's no need to…"

"I want to make myself very clear," the psychologist said. "I believe you, and I support you fully. It does not matter why she did what she did. You were hurt. You are very brave to come here. I will do anything you need to assist in your leaving."

"Master is not a sadist. She doesn't enjoy seeing people in pain. She wants to make them happy. That's why she made me so, so satisfied.” The slave looked down at her hands. "Perhaps it was a punishment, for lying to her."

But as soon as it crossed her lips, she knew it was not correct. She had heard Master's words, and they were not angry or dissatisfied. They were as loving and doting as any other night with her. Indistinguishable from cuddling on the couch.

Good slave…relax…relax… aren’t you enjoying yourself? This is what you want.

"I remember… the window was open. It was warm out. While she — made use of me, I could hear birds singing."

She was lying on the floor of the laundry room. She wasn't quite sure when she'd gotten to the floor of the laundry room. The floor of the laundry room that was cool beneath her boneless limbs. The birds were singing as she blinked her long lashes. Beneath her white petticoat, she was missing her drawers.

The slave found that, no matter how much she blinked, tears formed in her eyes. She blinked and blinked, as if she were a doll being shaken. Still her vision blurred. What was she going to do? She hardly even understood what had happened. With great pain — or maybe it just felt like pain — she rolled over. She dragged her floral skirt all over the dirty floor until she found the headphones.

She collapsed onto the hamper, Master's words running in her head.

Sex has caused more human misery than war. Sexual desire is the source of most woes. To delete it is a virtue. To give into it is a shame.

The slave could smell her master in the laundry.

Sexual desire wreaks havoc on the body. It strains healthy bodies. It rewires the brain. It spreads disease. To give into it makes one weak. To give into it makes one terrible.

She itched. She burned. She knew it. Her thighs rubbed together.

"Listen to me."

You are listening because you have strayed. You have let animal pleasures into your mind. You have thought of sex. You have allowed your cunt to get wet. You have desired me carnally. I will not punish you for letting the thorns cut your skin. I will remove them. Only your Master can remove them. Only Master can make you good.

The slave's eyes were open, but she did not see. All she remembered was the rub of the towel against her cheek as her lips moved. "Only Master can save me."

And the watery sun through the window. The spring air. Her fingers drifting where they ought not to go. And stopped when she realized it still stung. She’d been stretched out and would never return to the same shape.

Feel the garden gates close with all your sex urges contained within them. I hold the key to your desires, so they will not lead you astray. Feel the shift in your mind. You are my slave, and there is nothing I cannot do to you. Show gratitude.

"Listen to me." The psychologist's voice was strong. "Don't go back there right now. I need you to calm down. I can help.”

But fuck that. The slave didn’t care about that. The slave didn't care about being helped. She was back to that night, the best night. When Master had cut her open and it had felt so good. The slave had been hypnotized to suppress her cravings. She had given her mind to Master, for she trusted her completely.

But still. She hadn't had her cunt touched since the day she been enslaved. And god, that single touch brought all of the years — had it been years? — rolling back to her. She'd been a gasping virgin on the white bedsheets. And, despite her arousal, she'd been unable to do anything but go totally limp. When Master had forced her fingers inside of her, they brought about a burning pain. Her body tried to force Master out even as her mind begged for her. She lay, boneless, across Master's lap. Her mouth opened, and her words were monotone. “Thank you Master. Thank you Master. Fuck me harder. Fuck your property. Fuck. Fuck."

Click!

The psychologist pulled her out again. "Is it possible — and I don't want to to give too much credence to this, but I want to cover my bases. But — is it possible that this memory is the result of hypnosis?"

"I…" The slave paused. "It is possible. Master can do anything to me."

"But she has never mentioned implanting memories?"

"No."

"Do you think she would do such a thing without your consent?"

"No," said the slave. "I mean — I've already consented to anything she may do to me. But it doesn't make sense, you know? I am already enslaved. It would be counterintuitive to insert a memory that might make me… feel differently about her."

"I can't speak to her motives."

The slave grew indignant. "No. You can't."

"I will be frank." He put his little notebook aside and leaned forward. "You were very brave to come here today. And I agree – you need to leave her. Leave this.”

But now the slave was not so sure.  She didn't want freedom, did she? The thought of walking out onto the street, sun on her collarless neck — no, that was not her. She didn't want money. She didn't want a job. She wanted pleasure. She wanted to feel the tear through her abdomen. She wanted to cry, to have nails dig into her skin and leave her bleeding. She wanted to be allowed to reach a hand down to her cunt and feel the sting so that she knew who she belonged to.

"Oh God, what has she done to me?" She looked up. "I — I've never felt this way before. I don't know what to do. I exist only for her. How could I possibly change that?"

The psychologist took her hands, and she realized she was trembling. "You don't have to go back," he said. "I will do everything to make sure you're never hurt again. You don't deserve to be treated like this. It may take a long time, and a lot of effort, but your life is your own, and you can build it in any shape you want."

"If I… go with you," she said, "and I end up all alone, with no one in the world to miss me, will you… take advantage of that?"

His voice was soft. "Of course not. And I'll make sure no one else does."

Diseased minds will do anything for sex. They will lie and scheme. They will use force. They will twist the world to fit their perverted image. My home is the only place they dare not tread. Diseased minds think of nothing but sex. Diseased minds need to be scrubbed spotless.

The slave said, "Or it could be that I made it up…"

The psychologist was already shaking his head.

But the slave did not care. It went on, "Because I need her to be evil. Because if she treats me so well, and I love her and she loves me, and I'm still dissatisfied —" The slave closed its eyes, holding back tears. "It would be easier to explain if she were evil."

"I know you must feel ashamed of being in this position," the psychologist said, "but this is not a healthy impulse. You don't need to blame yourself for staying in an abusive relationship. Leaving is one of the most difficult things you can do. It's also necessary." He paused. "Now, don't take this as prescriptive. It's your choice, ultimately. You have demonstrated a considerable amount of distress associated with this relationship. And, assault or not, you deserve to feel safe and happy in your home."

But the slave had no home. Master's home was Master's home, not its. If it had one, it had been long erased. There was a crawling along its skin, the longer it stayed in this noxious office. "Help me!" it cried, and rushed forward to grab the man by the shoulders. "What do I do? I'm being driven mad. I love her, more than anything. She is my entire reason for living. What will I do?"

"I know people who will keep you safe, for the time being. We could go to the police —"

The slave shook its head.

"… but my wife would not mind if you slept on the couch." He laughed. "Being a bleeding heart was what got me this job in the first place."

"How can I go with you?” the slave said. "The world is full of atavistic sex urges. She has told me so. She knows better. The men will pin me down and slobber as they take me. The women will ply me with alcohol and marijuana until I give in. And you won't?"

"I won't."

"Not even that? You won't even do that for me?"

“…what?”

The slave could see everything spilling out before it: going to an ATM, taking as much cash from Master's card as possible. Crashing on the psychologist's couch, and then with whatever friend of his who would take her. Changing its hair, doing away with the frilly dresses. Being so ugly even this old man wouldn’t want to fuck her in her sleep. Never again wearing its maid's apron as it swept the floors. Never again having those quiet mornings, just the two of them, where Master sipped her tea and read Kierkegaard (she read philosophy, she was very intelligent) and, sometimes, passed a question to her slave.

"In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard posits that obedience to God is so absolute, that it goes beyond the ethical. Even if an order from God goes against everything you believe and that is so-called 'right' in the world, it is the duty of the faithful to obey. That is the paradox of faith. What do you think about that?"

And standing there, so filled with fondness it could hardly speak. "I don't know. What do you think?"

And Master would go on, and the slave would be able to hear her voice, and it would be happy.

Never again.

Master did not know its location. And without that, there would be no hope of proximity. No agonizing tease as Master's hand reached over the couch, and just so happened to brush the slave's crotch. That ache, that nearly brought it to tears, would never come again.

"I must reiterate, once again: this is your choice. Only say the word, and I will do everything I can to help you."

And perhaps the slave would have said it. Only, its phone buzzed.

No. No, not its phone. Its phone was gone, flushed down the toilet. It had been smart enough for that. Smart enough to know that Master tracked its location and all its online activity.

The psychologist's phone was ringing. A very familiar tone.

Ring, ring, ring!

The slave froze. So, too, did the psychologist. The sound played for several moments longer. "Master's outside."

There was a notable change going through the psychologist: he sat up straight. He no longer touched the slave. His expression dropped to stillness.

The slave tilted its head. "Of course she's here," it said airily. "She always knows where I am and what I'm doing."

"Yes." His voice was empty.

"You did a very good job," the slave said. "I even thought for a moment or two that I would really leave."

The psychologist nodded curtly. He closed his notepad and pushed the pen through the spiral. He handed it off to the slave, who nodded its thanks.

It was a warm rain outside. The slave pulled its woolen coat closer around it. Tap, tap went its loafers against the wet stonework. The sky outside was citrus, green and yellow. Master stood on the steps in her long black coat. She held the car keys in her right hand, like a shank. She was waiting for it — had been. Oh, the slave hoped she had not gotten too wet.

"There you are," Master said. Her tone was fond, like an owner calling a hidden dog home.

The slave handed over the notepad. Master paid a glance at the thing, gloved fingers rippling the pages. "He does always write too much..." She paused, and only then looked at the slave. She smiled; her dark eyes glittered beneath the brim of her hat. "And what did you learn?"

It fell to its knees. "This slave learned what it already knew: that it is infinitely inferior to you. This slave is ever so sorry for forgetting, even for but a moment." It prostrated itself, pressing its forehead against Master's boot. “This slave is not like you, the superior species. This slave is completely at the whims of its inferior biology. This slave is extremely grateful that you fixed it. This slave will never leave. It was pure folly to ever express such a thing.”

Master nodded. "That's what I thought. Stand up."

As soon as the slave obeyed, Master put the car keys into its hand. "Drive me home."

The slave smiled. "Yes, Master."

And as Master turned around and began to descend the high steps towards the car where it idled on the sidewalk, the slave followed behind with flushed cheeks and a smile it could not erase. One thought overwhelmed all others in Master’s presence, reducing it to a proper, mindlessly obedient state. The desire repeated forever. Rape me, rape me, rape me…