She bobbed her head back and forth without pausing for air, the way I’d trained her to.

“Stop, now.”

I knew that if I came, I would lose all my energy and want to cuddle with her on the bed. She sat back on her knees.

“Good girl.”

I went over to the wooden desk chair and sat down. I beckoned to her, and she stood before me, giving me the downcast look that she gave the principal in her movie about teenagers who slip onto a spaceship bound for Mars. I put the blindfold around her eyes and bent her over my knee. She was taller than I was, making our positioning a little awkward. I pulled up her shift and ran a finger along the outside of her pussy to feel how wet she was.

Very.

As I began spanking her, all my cares drifted away. The only thing happening was my hand hitting her flesh, her little cries that no longer worried me. I had even more of a boner than before.

You.

Hit.

Are.

Hit.

A.

Hit.

Very.

Hit.

Bad.

Hit.

Girl.

Hit.

All her endorphins entered me. She let go of the eyes watching her, the restraint, the careful affability required of female stars. She wanted to be dirty, wet, and bad. She went through a portal to the upside-down place of dire need: pink, soft, womb-like, pleasantly dangerous, and, most important, off any record.

Sure, I could have gained internet infamy if I posted a sexy photo of her, but I wanted to help her reach this place because I needed to reach it, too. Plus, I’d signed an NDA.

I told her to go stand with her hands on her head, and I went down the hall to the bathroom.

I watched myself reflected in windows thinking, How many layers of complacency must we shed to get to the threshold of desire?

Naked in R’s hallway, I sensed how our relationship wasn’t supposed to happen based on the conventions that we lived in and under; most of us really weren’t supposed to be breaking through, and yet we did, through the constant reapplication of will, over and over again, even when it felt more wrong than right, when we worried that reality might start to splinter from all the pressure forced on it to shift, and it broke and mended, and with my 2.5 trans-eye, I knew that this was the only path, the yellow brick road away from shame and not toward any great thing except that which could be found along the way.

I peed, inhaled her Moroccan jasmine diffuser, and went back into the bedroom, where R was touching her glowing butt cheeks. I reached back and smacked her ass.

“No, bad.”

“Sorry!” she squealed. “I have to pee, too.”

“Go. Do you need Daddy to go with you and wipe your pussy?”

“No, I can do it.”