The Bondage Strap that Bjork Wore

Well, this pandemic is pissing me off. Third national lockdown and third time I’ve had him tell me he can’t possibly leave his wife and kids for me. Not now, not yet. 


What the hell? 


Why can’t he just grow a pair and do it? His kids are brats anyway, they really are. 

I’m not against kids, I was one myself not that long ago, but his are two of the most spoilt, entitled little buggers I’ve ever met – and that’s me only meeting them fleetingly. Bumping into them in the park, with her. Him telling his wife I’m a new employee – A Client Relationship Manager, guess he thought the job title was funny. 


It was, kind of. I’ll manage his relationships. I manage him. That’s what he comes to me for. That’s why he says he loves me and he’s trying to get me to stop seeing the other assholes.

But if I can’t see him when I want, why should I give them up? 


I wore the bdsm pet collar he bought me last time, last time it wasn’t with him. I made the other guy put it around my neck, asked him to hold my throat for longer than he needed. A slight squeeze to get rid of the other him out of my head. That guy is okay, I keep him around for when I need him but he’s getting a bit attached now so he might have to go soon. 


My guy, the married one, likes to walk me around his flat – him wearing his stupid steel grey satin pyjamas (seriously, they’re going to have to go) and me wearing nothing except my Shiri Zinn piece. I let him do it, but the lead is never tight. He likes to walk me around, parading me past those vast panes of glass, 20 stories up where only the moon will spot me, and then we sit and we drink whiskey. I like it now. A single malt, over ice. Only one though and I save the glass of ice to take with us to his bedroom. It’s a bachelor pad. A bachelor pad with a difference – it’s owned by a married man.


My friends say I should care, I should give him up for the sake of his kids, his wife, but why the fuck should I? They’re not my wife and kids, they’re not my responsibility, they’re his and he keeps coming back to me. 


Except now I’m in his damned flat alone. I’ve come here to lie on his sheets, to think about him here, about the strap he offered to me, the second time. It only took till the second time. He knew where we both stood. The dildo panties lie on the bedside table now. Man they're beautiful. Bjork wore a pair just like them once – you can see the pictures on the shirizinn.com website, where he got it from. It’s so pretty.


I took my glass of ice back to the bedroom, whiskey in my mouth, led gently by him. At the threshold to the door, we stopped. He unclasped the leash and lay it down on the silk sheets. Pink silk sheets. I hate pink but I’d tell him that later. Much later, after I’d pushed him down onto them, after I’d tied him up, face down onto his own bed, dragging the lead gently across his body and then thrashing him with it until he was biting that goddamn silk so hard, he ripped holes in it with his teeth. 

It was a shame I told him later, to spoil such beautiful material. But no more pink, you sentimental dick. Pink’s for fluffy people and if it’s fluff you want you can go find it somewhere else. 


She doesn’t treat him the way he wants to be treated. The way he deserves to be treated. That’s why he comes to me. 


Sod off lockdown. Let him come. 


Yours,                                                                                                                                          

Mishca C

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