Kill Switch Read online

  They’d done a short flogging scene downstairs, then gone upstairs to a semi-private room, where they’d fucked while an older triad sat on a couch on the other side of a sliding glass door, watching and fondling one another. By then she’d been less panicked by all the strange noises and found herself mostly giggling during the whole experience.

  The second time she’d gone to Deviance, hoping to find a play partner on the spot, and ended up propositioned by nearly every guy in the place. That was right around the time she’d decided that maybe she was done with guys. It wasn’t that she hated them. There were plenty of men she loved. But her trauma went too deep. Women were safer.

  The experience soured her on the monthly event for a while, until she met Essie, who had an exhibitionist streak a mile wide and wanted to go to all the public parties.

  Tonight she entered the club carrying her toy bag over one shoulder and guiding Essie with one hand on Essie’s collar. They attracted attention, as they always did. The scene skewed heavily heteronormative, even in progressive Portland, a trend that drove many of the LGBTQ crowd underground. But if exhibition was your kink, then there was no substitute for public parties.

  The music was loud, competing with a background din of raised voices, and broken only by occasional screams from players in the impact play area.

  Eventually she’d become acclimated to all the unusual behaviors and noises. Screams that would have once sent her into fight-or-flight response now were recognizable as two people having fun, experiencing a cathartic event together, bonding over an activity that required trust and compassion and skill.

  They headed to the second floor, where riggers like her would take turns on the few hard points surrounded by spectators. It was a little quieter here, and the screams from downstairs were interspersed with noisy sex sounds and spanking. She heard distinctive screams at regular intervals from the rope area and recognized the tie from the pacing of the screams alone: a torturous version of a futomomo, the Japanese folded-leg tie that bound the ankle firmly to the upper thigh.

  When one of the hard points freed up, Igloo and Essie climbed onto the mattress beneath it, and they worked together to put a black sheet down. Igloo fixed her shibari ring and swivel to the hard point above the bed while Essie laid out bundles of rope according to Igloo’s precise preferences.

  Igloo and Essie knelt facing each other. They exchanged smiles at the sound of someone groaning as they were spanked in one of the nearby private rooms. Other people’s sex noises were weird, no matter how often you heard them. Igloo knew from experience they’d fade into the background as soon as her scene started.

  Igloo caressed Essie’s cheek. “I love you.”

  Essie wiggled. “Are you going to be nice or mean?”

  “I’m always nice and mean.”

  “No, sometimes you’re just mean.”

  “Well, you won’t get wet unless I’m mean.”

  Essie blushed and nodded.

  Igloo grabbed a riding crop from her pile of toys and threatened Essie with it. “You have thirty seconds to get undressed.”

  Essie squealed and rushed to pull off her shirt.

  Igloo counted backwards. “Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…”

  Essie tossed the shirt aside and fell backwards onto the bed unzipping her skirt. She was completely naked.

  “Look at you,” Igloo said, grabbing Essie by the hair, and pulling her close. “Such a slut, you were out of your clothes in fifteen seconds.”

  Essie responded with a sheepish grin.

  Slut shaming did nothing for her, but Essie loved it. She let her lips brush Essie’s shoulder, and Essie’s breathing accelerated.

  She twisted Essie around by the hair forcing her to kneel facing away. She grabbed Essie’s arms, pulled them behind her back, and wrapped a length of rope around her wrists, tying them together by feel while she continued to nibble at Essie’s neck.

  She took the free end of the rope, brought it around Essie’s upper arm, and wrapped it around Essie’s chest, letting her fingers glide softly over Essie’s breasts, teasing her nipples. Two wraps around and a friction. Igloo got into the zone, finishing the takate kote, the classical Japanese box tie she’d repeated so many times that the mere act of tying it was a comfortable meditation, every little movement a chance to play with Essie in some way: a teasing touch, a sensual stimulation, a hundred caresses building sexual tension. Essie responded with little moans and a subtle arching of her back, leaning into Igloo’s touch.

  Box tie complete, she forced Essie back onto the mattress, grabbed an ankle, and tied a futomomo, binding Essie’s leg into a folded position. Essie’s eyes followed her every movement, a sharp attentiveness that sent a continual electric thrill through Igloo.

  Essie’s movements diminished as the restraints grew. When Igloo finished the other leg, she went for Essie’s ticklish spots just above her hipbones. Essie writhed on the mattress, squealing, which gathered laughter from the onlookers.

  Igloo glanced up for a brief second, gratified to see a circle of spectators. But the audience received only the barest slip of her attention, and then she dove right back in. It was always that way: she loved to be watched, and yet 99 percent of her attention was right there on her partner. So why did it even matter if people were watching? She couldn’t say, and yet she couldn’t deny that it was hotter to play in public.

  She tied a Y-knot between Essie’s thighs, added a rappel ring, and ran the rope up to her shibari ring and back again. She would dead-lift Essie without a second upline. Her teacher frowned on the risk. But she and Essie had discussed the dangers, and they were comfortable with the decision.

  She checked the mattress to ensure there was nothing lying around that would interfere at a crucial moment, then patted her back to feel for her rope cutter on her belt. She heaved on the upline and Essie rose, legs-first into the air. She took extra care as Essie’s upper body came off the bed, making sure Essie curled up so no weight rested on her neck. Once Essie successfully cleared the mattress, Igloo tied off the rope.

  Essie hung upside down, legs splayed, eyes closed, her breathing carefully measured. From her own past experiences, Igloo knew Essie was processing the uniqueness of being upside down, blood flooding the brain, back muscles and spine stretching out, shortness of breath due to the elongation of her torso, compression of the legs, turning eventually to pain where the rope dug into the skin and shins, and the sensations of dangling, freely spinning and swinging.

  Kink was an interplay, two people meeting each other’s needs, supported by vulnerability and shared trust. Igloo needed to be in control, to be able to restrict what Essie could do, to take charge of even basic bodily functions like scratching an itch or being able to defend herself, leaving Essie totally dependent on Igloo. And though she was still uncomfortable and conflicted enough that it was hard for her to admit it, the sadist in Igloo wanted to hurt Essie. The pain reinforced that Igloo was so far in control that Essie was powerless to stop her.

  But play couldn’t be only about meeting Igloo’s needs. Essie had needs too, the need to give up control to someone else, to have someone take charge of her, to have a freedom from responsibility, to be of service to someone, to be used for someone else’s enjoyment, and ultimately, to receive pleasure in return.

  She gave Essie a push, setting her to spinning, and watched, admiring. Even upside down, her face red, Essie smiled, blissed out from endorphins.

  They played for an hour, transitioning through positions, Igloo sprinkling in other tortures —spanks, grabs, bites, flogging—when the mood struck her. When Essie finally came down, she was rope-doped and crawled into Igloo’s lap, where she curled up in a little ball. Igloo stroked her back, petted her head, and cooed into her ear. While Essie continued to rest, Igloo bundled rope and swept her various toys and tools into the toy bag, creating a sea of black messiness inside the bag.

  There were other riggers waiting for the hard point, so Igloo gently encouraged Es
sie to put on clothes and get up. Essie moved slowly and unsteadily, still loaded with endorphins. They made their way to one of the private rooms and closed the door behind them. Essie climbed into the bed. Igloo dumped the toy bag next to the bed and stripped off her clothes.

  Essie’s skin was warm against hers. She pulled Essie’s clothes back off and reached down between her legs.

  “You’re wet, you little slut. I’m going to start thinking you like being tied up.”

  Essie shyly hid her face behind an arm.

  Igloo grabbed her arms and pinned Essie back to the bed. “Tell me what you are.”

  “I’m a slut,” Essie breathed. “Your slut would enjoy being fucked, Mistress.”

  Igloo got a thigh between Essie’s legs and ground on her while she sprinkled kisses and bites up and down Essie’s neck and chest. Igloo held Essie’s wrists with one hand, and ran the other down Essie’s chest, brushing fingers across nipple, breasts, ribs. She grabbed a tit with a firm grasp and squeezed.

  Essie moaned and soon she was bucking hard under Igloo, her breathing erratic. “Can I come, please?”

  “No, not yet,” Igloo said, feeling perverse, gleefully sadistic.

  “Oh, fuck.” Essie was thrashing now, on the edge. “Oh, please, can I come?”

  “Beg me to hurt you,” Igloo said.

  Essie fell silent as she still writhed under Igloo.

  “Beg,” Igloo commanded.

  “Please hurt me,” Essie said. “Please.”

  Igloo crushed Essie’s nipple between her fingers, then twisted and pulled.

  Essie shrieked in pain, and Igloo grew even wetter. She ground again on Essie, who responded with still greater passion.

  “Can I come, please?” Essie asked, the urgency now strident.

  Igloo felt a visceral thrill at Essie’s desperation. “Yes, come.”

  Essie moaned and shuddered, nearly tossing Igloo off. Awe and power flooded through Igloo in equal portions at her ability to cause this reaction in Essie. Igloo refocused her weight, bearing down on Essie until she finally slowed and lay still, breathing hard.

  Igloo rolled off and onto the bed. She lightly stroked Essie, running her fingers up and down Essie’s thighs and stomach, brimming with love for this amazing being. She gave Essie a few moments to enjoy the afterglow, then grabbed her by the hair.

  “Enough fun for you.” She pulled Essie to her knees, then forced her to kneel in front of her. “Hands behind your back.”

  Essie clasped her hands to her elbows behind her back as Igloo had taught her.

  Igloo forced Essie’s head down with both hands. “Time to earn your keep.”

  Essie’s response was muffled and inaudible, but fervent.

  Igloo set the lights to morning, and stroked Essie’s hair.

  Essie nuzzled in closer. “We don’t have to get up yet, do we?”

  “Soon, pet.”

  “I’ll get your coffee.” Essie stretched and unfurled herself, then rolled out of the bed. A few moments later, Igloo heard the hiss of coffee brewing from the kitchen.

  She propped herself up and waited. Her eyes fell on the pile of uncoiled rope next to the bed, then moved on to the nightstand with its collection of sex toys, and the pile of half built circuit boards teetering on the dresser next to leather restraints. Why did they have so many dildos anyway?

  The door opened, and Essie returned, carrying two cups. She set one down on the far nightstand, then climbed into bed. She held one hand in front of her, set the cup down on her open palm, turned the handle to Igloo’s left, and steadied the cup with her other hand. She waited, eyes down.

  This was bliss. Igloo’s heart ached with love. She stared at Essie’s lips, the curve of her neck, the line of tattoos running down her arm. What had Igloo done to deserve such dedication and service from another?

  Essie’s nipples were hard in the cool morning air. Igloo caressed the soft curve under one breast and ran her hand lightly over Essie’s shoulder and down the back of her arm. Essie trembled and shivered, goosebumps rising all over. She moved ever so slightly closer, the softest of moans just barely audible through slightly pursed lips. Igloo brought her hand back around to her breasts and squeezed a nipple. Essie grimaced but stayed still.

  Igloo took the cup. “Good girl. You’re released.”

  Essie leaned in and kissed her, then half lay in the crook of Igloo’s arm.

  “It’s unbelievable that we get to do this every morning,” Igloo said, and it was true, even though at times she worried about when she would get alone time. Living together came with its challenges.

  “I feel guilty about not making any contribution to the rent.”

  “We’ve discussed this before. The money is immaterial.” Igloo was a millionaire many times over, thanks to Tapestry. Neither she nor Essie would ever want for anything. But any time she brought up money, it made Essie uncomfortable.

  Essie lightly stroked Igloo’s side but didn’t say anything.

  “Is this really about my money?” Igloo asked, and Essie shook her head. But there was something in Essie’s eyes. She sipped her coffee and waited. This hesitant silence on Essie’s part was odd.

  “Is there something else?” Igloo said, finally.

  “I’m excited to have moved in with you,” Essie said. “But I’m twenty-six, and I always imagined myself dating all through my twenties, and maybe finding a life partner in my thirties.”

  Igloo’s heart skipped a beat or two. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No, definitely not!” Essie gazed into Igloo’s eyes. “I just thought I’d have more of a chance to date. I want to live with you, but I still want to experience dating in my life.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “We talked once about an open relationship. Are you game to try?”

  Oh! Part of Igloo felt an instant guilt, like she was expected to object. But what she mostly felt was a rush of excitement. Essie had been Igloo’s only serious kinky partner. Meanwhile, nearly all of their friends in the scene played with multiple partners or were fully polyamorous. Igloo had secretly longed to tie someone else.

  When Igloo asked about playing with others in the past, Essie said she didn’t mind. But the two of them were always together, and she’d never had the time to meet anyone by herself. Either Igloo was working, or hacking with Angie, or she was with Essie. If Essie went on dates, it would give Igloo some of that time and space she needed to set up rope scenes with others.

  Still, there was a pit in her belly…Essie was precious to her. What would it feel like knowing she was out with other people?

  “You mock everyone we know who’s polyamorous,” Igloo said. “You claimed poly is a label people use to justify their inability to form real emotional bonds. That it’s an excuse for people who don’t actually know how to have a relationship. Those were pretty much your exact words.”

  “I know I said that, but we’ve met others. Look at your teacher. He’s got loving relationships. He cares about his partners. There are people who have figured out how to do this.”

  “Is there some problem with our relationship? Something you want that you’re not getting?”

  Essie climbed into Igloo’s lap and kissed her. “Our relationship is great. This has nothing to do with us. I just want to experience something I always thought I’d get to try. And you want to play with other people, right?”

  Igloo laughed. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about that.”

  “This will give you the space for that.”

  Igloo squeezed Essie tight. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  “If it doesn’t work out?”

  “Then we call quits on poly.”

  “I’m game to try,” Igloo said. “I just don’t want to put our relationship at risk.”

  Chapter 3

  Angie pulled her bra on, holding one side with her stump and fastening the clasp with her hand. She picked out a simple blouse. Her best frie
nd Emily would insist on calling it a blouse, and it perturbed Angie that she’d been brainwashed long enough that now she had second thoughts about calling it a shirt.

  She stared in the mirror for a second. This is what the eve of fifty looked like. She felt vaguely dissatisfied. She had so much to do. Tapestry wasn’t done, not nearly. If anything, the real challenges were still to come.

  In the beginning, she’d fought abusers. Then she saw what Tomo was doing to their users, and she saw a higher purpose, a bigger battle to fight. Tomo was toppling now, a tree that had been axed at its base, leaning and succumbing to gravity. It just hadn’t hit the ground yet. But Tomo was no longer Angie’s problem. She’d let Amber and Maria handle that.

  The bigger challenge was the country. The proliferation of fabricated news and echo chambers weren’t the problem. They were the symptom of a gap in critical thinking skills. What people needed was the ability to evaluate information, understand causation versus correlation, apply system thinking, to detect patterns and turn them into concepts that they could apply to real life.

  She looked back at the mirror and sighed. At forty, she still appeared young. Now she looked, well, not old. Just her age.

  Emily said that men aged like fine wine, getting more nuanced with each passing year. Women aged like fresh fruit, a moment of peak ripeness, then growing soft and wrinkled.

  Oh, fuck Emily and her stupid cultural programming. Why the hell did she even care about how she looked? It was irrelevant. She was who she was this moment, this day.

  She pulled on her pants.

  She didn’t know how to solve the critical thinking problem. Tapestry wasn’t a school. These were skills people should be taught by their parents, by the education system. But she was going to have to do it. And if she couldn’t, then she’d need to somehow counter the effects of misinformation. If people were going to be brainwashed, then at least let them be indoctrinated to be kinder, gentler, and better human beings.