Page 32 of Bronson

I wish he would.

I have come to realize that the sexual sparks I feel between Bronson and me must be completely one-sided.

And so, I tell my pussy to cool it, and accept the strange, non-romantic relationship Bronson and I have settled into.

He asks me one more time. His voice is softer than before. “Is that alright with you?” His hand reaches out as if to touch me, then falls back down beside him on the desk. I’d answered yes, accepting his discipline, and his care. Nothing more.

I guess you could say we’re friends.

Meeting Bronson made me realize there’s a void in my life.

I want to be with someone.

Or at least, to go on a date.

Last week, Mr. Dobbins’ grandson, Peter, came in for a visit from Buffalo. He was sweet, kind, and almost funny. He had asked me to dinner for Saturday evening. And I had accepted.

Now, I’m standing before my closet, trying to decide what I will wear to work. It’s seven. Since my last spanking, I’ve never been late. I curled my hair this morning and put on extra primer beneath my makeup. I’ll be meeting Peter straight from work, and I hope that my hair and foundation will last till dinner.

I flip through dress after dress. They all seemed so… stolen. Now that I have a proper salary, I have begun to feel a bit guilty about my conquests.

But I have nothing else to wear.

Giving a shrug, I pull out the emerald green. Not too slutty for work, but sexy enough to be a date dress. I hold it before me, gazing at my reflection.

It will do.

I slide the dress on over my matching black lace bra and panty set (you never know what could happen on a first date) and slip into my black heels.

I pick up a can of hairspray—the Aqua Net I borrowed from Ingrid—and spray the holy hell out of my hair. I know my curls will be drooping, then completely gone by noon, but I owe it to Ingrid to try. She had said I looked like an angel when she had stopped by my room earlier and offered the spray to set my curls.

Time for my coat.

Fall is quickly turning to winter and I am beyond grateful for Gorgeous. I put her on, adding the bright red scarf and gloves that had mysteriously shown up in the pocket of my coat one day after work. (Oh, Brauny! You shouldn’t have.)

I peek my head into Mr. Dobbins’ room. He’s snoozing in his chair, wrapped in the flannel robe I had made him promise me he’d wear, even though the heat has been fixed. I tiptoe across the room toward him. Lifting the quilt from his bed, I lay it over him, tucking it in by his sides. He startles, then his head flops back down. He lets out a tremendous snore.

I leave the room, headed to Bachman’s.

On the way, I stand outside Daughtry’s for nearly five minutes, staring at a pair of red suede heels that have clearly been placed in the window to ruin my life.

They are beautiful. Perfect. Almost exactly the amount remaining on Hank’s invoice for the heating element.

My phone buzzes. Another message from him.

Need the final payment ASAP.

I look at the shoes again.

“That is just cruel,” I tell the universe.

Then I turn away from the window and walk to Bachman’s.

He waits for me, as always. Watching me arrive, in the window.

I hate to think what would happen if I didn’t show up one day. Would the NYC police arrive at home, scaring everyone in their search for me?

“Hello. How are you?” I ask, shaking the cold from me. I pull my gloves off, one at a time. I slip them into the pocket of my coat.