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And the wall around my mind? It keeps me from hearing the voices in my head. The voices I don’t want to acknowledge at the moment.

All these walls likewise keep me from enjoying the final scene Ira has constructed for my training. I suppose I’ll be considered an able sub by the end of this.

Or at least, I’ll be her sub.

Is that what I want? Do I want her tying me up regularly? Denying me pleasure? Forcing it on me? Making me call her Mistress while she fucks me however she pleases? Debasing me?

Stripping me of everything I used to think I was?

I was having fun this week. As much fun as I could outside of the bedroom, anyway. Hell, I took that anal like a pro! I had no problem with Ira dragging me to closets and having quickies with me. I didn’t care. I liked it.

I wanted more.

Scenes are fantasies. When I’m locked away with Ira, indulging in these innermost fantasies of mine, I don’t worry about things beyond my desires. Her desires. Once she dragged my submission in front of the world… once I saw that show… I began to question what the fuck am I doing?

“Look at my pretty girl,” Ira says, standing before me in her crisp, shirtless suit that shows off the slight curve of her unbound breasts. She tugs on the nipple clamps, which I barely feel now. When they first snapped to my flesh, I cried out, my arousal deceiving me as it ran down my thigh. “Who knew that Kathleen Allen would one day be kneeling on this bed, looking like this? For me?”

Who knew, indeed?

“Do you like the feel of the clamps?”

Normally, her voice would lull me into a sense of security, false or real.

“Yes, my King.”

She didn’t ask me to call her that. The word simply fell out.

I’m barely aware of what she’s doing to me. Kissing me. Licking my slit. Pinching my ass and circling her finger around my opening. One tiny piece of my brain captures these sensations and tells me that they feel good. The vast majority of it, however, says that I need to zone out and wait for this to be over.

I wish I knew why. What has happened to take me from a complacent sub to a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown… not that I’ll let Ira know that? Her lips are so tender against my skin, even though her words are full of the sorts of things that get me hot. It’s only a matter of time before she picks a way to fuck me. Maybe strung up like this, my lap riding in hers.

Wouldn’t that be a trip?

I want that. I want her to fuck me, but I don’t think I want it like this.

Why not?

It’s Kathleen vs. Katie, ladies and gentlemen. The regular Domme versus the obedient little sub who likes to be defiled. I didn’t even know that latter girl existed until a few weeks ago when I lost that bet to Ira and decided to follow through with it.

Oh, but I decided to follow through not on a whim, but in a great desire to test out that side of myself. If I didn’t like it, fine. I would know and could say I tried it. Except I liked it.

Not only does “Katie” exist… but I think she only comes out for Ira.

How do I explain this to the world? How do I reconcile this with who I thought I was, who the world thinks I am? This has gone beyond my reputation. This has settled into my own self-worth and what it is I want from life. I can’t do this full-time. These past few days have taught me that. The sex! The thrill! The letting go of reality and remembering what it’s like to feel so fucking alive. Yeah, that often happens at the end of Ira’s prosthetic, but… is that okay?

I love feeling her on top of me. I love all the names she calls me, both affectionate and dirty. I love how she holds me in her arms as we sleep in the same bed. I love…

I love her.

My eyes open, suddenly clear and aware as I stare into the hazel depths before me. Ira stops what she’s doing – there’s a lightweight crop in her hand, and I guess she’s been patting my thigh this whole time. Does she realize that I didn’t feel it? That I tuned it out? My skin is red and blotchy. I don’t remember that happening.

“Ira…” My mouth is getting away from me again. I want her to hold me. Please.

“What is it?” Her face twists into concern. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Ira goes to remove the nipple clamps.

Yes, I’m hurt. My pride is hurt. My heart is hurting. My brain hurts from analyzing who I am. I don’t say these things, though. I say, “No. I just wanted to say that I love you.”

She kisses me, raw, hungry, powerful. Any power I’ve lost over the past few weeks is restored in me through this kiss. It’s a kiss of love. Devotion. Empathy.