Yellow Leather

If you have a cock, you own me. I wake up whispering those words. Ever since I read the Story of O in my twenties, I have had this fantasy. No. Not a fantasy. A need.

Toppy mails me a narrow band of yellow leather. He says it is for my neck. I am to wear it in public so that men can see it. They will know what it means. That I am at their mercy. Theirs to use.

I sit naked on a hard-backed wooden chair in my apartment, the cardboard box abandoned at my feet, my legs spread. I can’t help myself. This is the way I’ve been trained to sit. Trained by Toppy, who has his opinions about everything I do. Don’t slump, he tells me over Skype conversations. I sit up straight, press my chest out so that  my breasts are prominent. I weigh the leather in my hands. Toss it back and forth, weighing the decision.

It is late spring, the daffodils are fading. The leather is the colour of faded daffodils, I think. Such a romantic. I don’t understand why Toppy chose yellow instead of blood red or black, but he’s not predictable. He has his eccentricities.

I hold the leather in my hand, caress the tiny holes, stroke its length, bring it up to my nose to take a sniff. Scent of leather, smell of a whip or a belt, instruments of flagellation, of my subjugation. My cunt is wet. Memory association. No madeleine dipped in a tea cup. Leather striking my naked back as I am bent over a desk. Counting each stroke of the whip. Scent of leather mixed with blood and musk.

I walk to the mirror. Gaze at my bare neck, so vulnerable. A man’s hands choking the life out of me. Controlling my breath.  My cunt is wet. If you have a cock, you own me, I repeat to myself as I stare at myself in the mirror, naked except for the yellow strap against my neck, pale yellow, egg yellow, the colour of rebirth.

My fingers glide along my collar bone, dipping into the  hollow at my throat. Pulse quickening. I am breathing hard. My nostrils flare. My chest rises and falls. My skin is flushed pink. The spot above my upper lip glistens with sweat. I part my lips. I am parched with need.  Quivering with fear and so fucking wet.

I hold the leather between my fingers, a bright flash of colour against my pale skin. I wonder how men will know its significance. Toppy has his ways. I wrap the collar around my neck and slip the fastener into the hole closest to the end, but it’s too loose. I unbuckle and rebuckle until I reach the second last hole. It is tight but not enough to choke me. Just to hold me. To stay in position so that it will be seen by those who want to use me. The silver buckle is cold against my neck. Goosebumps creep down my spine.

I look up. My eyes are wide with desire. My nipples are hard. If you have a cock, you own me, I repeat again. It has become a mantra. One I’ve whispered to Toppy over the phone while I abuse myself. Cocks are my master. Any cock.

Telling Toppy things is like a fucked up confession to a twisted priest. Forgive me, Toppy, for I have sinned. He sends me off to sadists to torture me for my transgressions, my awful thoughts. Some are so shameful I dare not write them, but I’ve told him.

I am whipped hard enough to give me release, to make me feel less ashamed of myself. For a moment and then it comes back. I tell Toppy I can’t do this anymore, but he never listens. He sends me to serve men. He has turned me into the office toilet. At work, all I do now is kneel in the men’s room and wait to be used.

One day he will make me get a tattoo on my face to show my condition of slavery to the world. Something permanent. But for now, he has sent me a collar. Playing games with me as always. Making it seem like it’s my decision, but really, he’s making this happen.

Oh, I know. I don’t have to wear the collar. I can end all of this at any time. If I were rational, that’s what I’d do. Tell Toppy to get lost. I know it’s dangerous. Toppy doesn’t care about my well-being. He’s already demonstrated that. I don’t know exactly what he gets out of it. I send him photos. I write him. We talk. He’s still a mystery to me. He hasn’t demanded anything of me other than my obedience. Every time I respond to  his texts, I acquiesce.

Some days serving men is all I can think of. Everywhere I go, I look into their eyes, imagine kneeling for them. They have no idea. Even if they did, they aren’t going to act on it. And neither am I. Not unless I feel I have no choice.

With trembling hands, I roll the stockings up my legs, trying not to tear them. I slip a lace garter around my waist, slut wear. I wriggle into a tight skirt that hugs my curves, shows off my ass. Finally I put on a thin white blouse with an open neck to show off the collar. No underwear, no bra. Stilettos that emphasize my long legs. I apply dark red lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. Not daytime make up, but it’s exactly right for what I am. I’m a whore, a slave meant to do what I’m told. To yield.

Yellow is the colour of surrender.

I kneel in front of the floor length mirror and take a picture to send to Toppy. Then I walk out the door into the bright afternoon sunshine. If you have a cock, you own me.