part0016

It was a book. A well-worn one from Vanessa’s personal library, from the looks of it. Is she kidding me? Mitch plucked a book titled, “The Psychology and Appeal of BDSM in Modern Women.” Good Lord. It practically smacked her in the face. Was this a joke?

“Ignore the tacky cover, my dear,” Vanessa had written. “You said you were a novice, so I thought you might like to do some reading to bide your time until we can meet again. I earmarked some pages I think you might find interesting. If you want, we can talk about it later. I’m willing to answer any questions about our relationship if you have them. I also wouldn’t mind asking you some about your motivations in the bedroom.”

“My motivations in the bedroom,” Mitch repeated out loud. “You mean besides getting fucked?” That was the simplistic way she chose to put it. Because both she and Vanessa knew it wasn’t as easy as that.

She sat on the edge of the bed and opened the book to the first earmarked page. “A Drive To Submit: The Psychological Origins As Described by Experienced Submissives.” Rather wordy, wasn’t it? Maybe that was how Mitch knew it was legit. Therapists and doctor-types loved hearing themselves talk. She knew so many academics, both in and out of the military, that she could hear their pretentious vocabulary from a mile away. Didn’t help that some of them could run like the dickens, and she couldn’t simply get away from them.

“Many victims of trauma and PTSD report that they find answers for their ailments, particularly where medication and traditional therapy fail them. As Marie Davidson puts it, “After my assault in college, I felt like a perpetual victim. I was always searching for ways to take back the power. I’ve met a lot of Doms who were also victims and found their power through taking control in the bedroom. My brain didn’t take to it, however. I’m that cliched survivor who is drawn to dark fantasies and stories. When I told my current partner that I wanted to role-play the worst night of my life, he thought I was nuts! But we’ve done it multiple times now, and each time I heal a little more. In those scenarios we know it’s not real, but it feels real enough that I’m back there on that night, looking my rapist in the face and telling him, “Not today, mother fucker.” He wanted me to be in pain and to suffer. With my partner, I am free. I can enjoy sex again without wondering when the pain begins.”

Mitch closed the book. Why did that have such an effect on her? I’ve never been… No, but she had feared it, hadn’t she? Not only during the dark days of her life, either. There had been more than one moment during her enlistment when the only reason a man didn’t touch her was because she had a firearm on her. She knew how to use it, too. Stockpile taught me how to fend off creeps trying to feel me up. Good ol’ Leslie Stark. Too bad she couldn’t single-handedly fend off the creeps who jumped them in broad daylight. Then again, when a whole household was in on it…

Fuck PTSD. Mitch had dissociated a whole half hour of her life. According to the clock, anyway. One moment she had been putting a book down on the bed, and the next? The sun had set a little farther beyond the window. Shadows clung to the walls. Mitch’s eyes were dry from staring into one spot in the carpet for so long.

“Don’t think about it, all right?” she had told Stockpile and the other woman in their group, a newer recruit too fresh to have a nickname. She had spent their three days in captivity crying nonstop, blabbering about her newborn back in Illinois. Stockpile had cried, as quietly as she could, during the long nights when only one or two guards stood outside their festering room. “If you think about it, you’ll keel over. You’re not really here, okay? You’re somewhere else. You’re by a pool in Vegas. You’re on vacation in Miami. You’re on your honeymoon in Hawaii or some other shit. It’s Christmas morning, and your mom comes to wake you up to tell you about the bike Santa Claus left behind.” That’s what killed the new girl. Mitch had made her cry so hard that one of the sick fucks holding them hostage came in and slammed the butt of his rifle into her stomach. All three of them had to sleep in her dried-out vomit that night.

The three longest days of Mitch’s life. She hadn’t assumed survival was on the table. Not when they awoke early on the third morning to the sounds of their fellow Marines barreling down the doors and putting bullets in the heads of the men who swore they were going to do unspeakable things to them.

They never did, though. We never gave them the chance. Mitch never knew who she meant by “we.” Her and the other women, who somehow held their own? Or her fellow Marines, who not only came after them, but showed them more kindness in the following days than she ever saw before? We were suddenly addressed by our actual names. Nobody gave us any trouble. Sent home after a two-week medical evaluation. Mitch had still been in a survival-like dissociative haze when she deplaned in SFO and witnessed her mother running up to hug her.

She had tried to move on. Put it all behind her. She blew off any change in her personality as a side effect of being in the Marines. “Of course I’ve changed,” she barked at her mother one night. “You’d change too if you spent the past few years of your life doing whatever someone with brass commanded, no questions asked.” That was the easiest way to describe being shot at, seeing convoys blow up, and staring down her fellow Americans, thanking Uncle Sam that she had a firearm on her person.

This is why I’m here. So my brothers aren’t tempted to do it for the money. Mitch hadn’t enlisted for the money and benefits. Not solely because of them. She didn’t know why now. Something about not knowing what else to do with her young life, since she wasn’t much for book learning and didn’t mind following orders.

She picked up the book and flipped to the index. After locating a few pages mentioning military, she discovered that, surprise, combat vets often expressed interest in “BDSM therapy.” Some of the interviews didn’t sound that much different from what that Marie Davidson said about working through the aftermath of her assault.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad. It meant there was more research than she originally thought. Maybe she’d take some of that two million and put it into more vigorous talk-therapy. There were some good therapists and counselors in her area, but unfortunately they didn’t take her insurance. Too expensive otherwise.

“Hi, my name is Mitch,” she rehearsed in her head. “I’m a retired vet who served two tours in Iraq and almost lost my god-damned mind. And my life, I guess. Got anything for a woman suffering from PTSD? Besides a diagnosis? Because I already have that.”

She didn’t like medications that messed with her brain. She didn’t really like talking about the horrors she endured or the adrenaline that permanently seeped into her muscles and bones. Didn’t help that most of the information and programs out there focused on male responses to combat-related PTSD. It wasn’t enough for her to know that “women experienced it differently,” when she could very well tell some asshole that. What good was that to her? Was she expected to simply figure shit out for herself?

Probably. Life is bullshit like that.

For a single moment, Mitch wondered if it was a sexy picture of the woman who seemed to know exactly what her partner wanted. Things I didn’t know I liked. Or at least was completely indifferent to, since Mitch wasn’t yet ready to say she kinda liked crawling around on the floor, anticipating where her face might end up next. She was almost willing to admit she liked the collar and leash, if only because there was something… secure about it. Yes. Secure. A tight piece of jewelry around her throat and metal yanking against her body was totally secure.

Yet she knew Vanessa wasn’t sending her sexy-anything. That wasn’t her style, and she might compromise her precious safety. Instead, Mitch would get something that whetted her whistle while invoking a very important question.

Vanessa had laid two strap-ons – or, at least Mitch was pretty sure that’s what those things were – side by side on her bed. It took Mitch a moment to realize there was a difference between them, besides one being a shiny purple and the other neon-pink. Why do they always have to be such ridiculous colors? Either that or “flesh colored,” which was almost worst.

“Never used one before,” Mitch responded. She had used other kinds of toys in her relationships, but an actual strap-on? Never as a giver, and absolutely not as a receiver. The thought had never crossed her mind.