Megan Hart - Switch

fingers, closing around the pen. My palms, caressing the

paper. The inside of my wrist, my elbow, forearm pressing

the table as I wrote. My thighs, touching beneath my skirt.

I didn't come from writing the notes, but it was almost as

good as if I had.

I told him what to wear. What to pack for lunch. He had,

at last, given up smoking. I ordered him to buy me lingerie,

and I gave him the size but alowed him to choose. I had

him send it to the post-office box I rented from a branch

close to my office. I expected something in black.

Crotchless, maybe, or at least with fishnets. The soft, baby

blue satin and lace pleased me.

I let him stroke himself to orgasm for that gift.

It was time for something more now. I wasn't sure how I

knew this, just that I did the way I knew each day when I

went in to work how to gauge Paul's mood and keep him

focused on work so he didn't hassle me about the job with

Vivian.

What frightens you?

What frightens you?

I tapped the pen against the paper, then my lips.

I want to know what makes your palms sweat but gets

you hard at the same time. What frightens you because

you want it so badly?

It wasn't a question I'd have been able to answer without a

lot of thought, but that was the point. To make him think. I

sealed the note in a matching plain envelope and ran it

down to the mailboxes. Eric was working another twelve-

hour shift and I knew he wouldn't get home until after I'd

gone to bed, but I didn't want to get up early to deliver it,

either.

I went online to pay bils and make some changes to my

Connex account. I hadn't been on it in weeks and had a

page of friend requests to approve and friends' list entries

to scrol through. Nothing terribly interesting, since the

people I knew from home were stil doing what they'd

been doing when I left.

Even so, I got sucked into watching a series of "ghost-

sighting" videos and "true alien abductions," and so I was awake when my phone hummed and a new text message

awake when my phone hummed and a new text message

came through.

I'm afraid of being owned .

Not of being "pwnd" which was something else altogether.

I sat back, the computer forgotten, my heart thundering in

my ears and my mouth tasting something like honey al at

once. It was the sweetness of anticipation. Expectation.

He was afraid of being owned.

So that's exactly what I gave him.

I found it in one of the kiosks in the center of the mal. It

sold hair barrettes of tooled leather, belts, along with

necklaces of cord and beads. And there, hanging

unobtrusively on a rack with a slew of others that didn't

even turn my head, was the bracelet.

Flat black leather about an inch wide, fastened with a

snap. It was the sort worn by teenage emo or skater boys

and could be tooled with any number of phrases or

designs.

"Help you?" The boy in skinny jeans and high-tops leaned

"Help you?" The boy in skinny jeans and high-tops leaned

around the kiosk to catch my eye.

I lifted the bracelet. "I'd like this."

He looked at me through the fringe of his long bangs.

Bangs on boys. There was a fashion statement I was

helplessly squishy over. "Want something on it? A name or

something?"

He flipped open a rack of designs to show me my choices.

I looked through rows of stylized hearts, flowers and fonts.

I touched a simple, elegant alphabet.

"I was thinking…the word slave ."

That perked his interest. "For you?"

I laughed. "Oh, no."

"Sweet." He gave the word two sylables.

"You think?" My fingers stroked the stiff leather. It would circle his wrist like a cuff.

I tested it on my own and noted how the edge cut a little

into my skin when I shifted. Not enough to hurt, but I

into my skin when I shifted. Not enough to hurt, but I

knew it was there. I handed it to Emoboy, who took it

over to the machine that stamped the letters. Idly, I flipped

through the rack of designs while he fiddled with buttons

and adjusted the bracelet inside the grips holding it stil.

Then I saw it. "Wait."

He looked up, one finger on the button that would start the

machine. "Huh?"

I gestured for him to come over, and he did, and I pointed

at the picture on the menu. "I want this, instead."

He grinned, then nodded. "No problem."

It took him a minute to adjust the settings and another for

the machine to stamp the leather. When it was done, he

handed it to me with the black leather scarred into the

design I'd chosen. A rose, the stem and thorns made of

barbed wire.

Simple. Elegant. And far more subtle than the word slave ,

which didn't feel right, anyway.

"Here you go." He handed me a bag with the bracelet

inside. "Enjoy it."

inside. "Enjoy it."

Enjoy wasn't exactly the word I'd have chosen, but I took

the bag with a smile. Our hands touched, and he grinned.

He knew nothing about me, but he thought he did. And I

discovered I didn't care.

I don't think there's a woman alive who doesn't understand

how the right clothes can entirely change a situation. Under

my simple summer skirt and casual T-shirt I wore the bra

and panties Eric had bought for and sent to his mistress.

The lace and satin clung to my skin and reminded me with

every step how it felt to be desirable.

Of course, none of that showed on the surface. I met him

in the lobby as had become our habit on these semi-dates,

and he greeted me with a smile and a half hug. He wore a

long-sleeved Henley shirt, but when the sleeve rode up I

saw the flat leather strap of his bracelet. The one I'd sent

him. The one that marked him as mine.

"Ready to go?" Eric held the door open for me and we

both went out into the warm spring evening air.

"Starving," I said. "I had my windows open and could

smel the funnel cakes al the way upstairs."

smel the funnel cakes al the way upstairs."

He patted his stomach. "We'l stop there first."

Al along the riverfront, stands had been set up for the first

summer festival. Some sold handmade arts and crafts,

others boasted displays from local companies. Some had

games, the prizes cheap things like water bottles

emblazoned with the names of banks and restaurants. As

summer festivals went, it was one of the less glorious, but

al that realy mattered to me was the food.

Stal after stal of greasy, delicious fair food. Corn dogs,

ice cream, French fries and vinegar to go with them. My

stomach let out a loud, obnoxious rumble as we crossed

Front Street to get to the sidewalk on the other side and

headed to the left to walk about a quarter mile to reach the

rows of booths. Music from one of the local radio stations

blared from a huge boom box set up on a trailer. Morning-

show personalities handed out T-shirts, mugs and key

chains as we passed.

"Do you want something?" Eric asked as I stepped aside

to let a mother pushing a double stroler pass on her quest

for free junk. "T-shirt?"

"No, thanks. I don't listen to that station. And besides, it

"No, thanks. I don't listen to that station. And besides, it

doesn't matter if it's free if I'l never use it."

"Mind if I grab one? You can never have too many T-

shirts."

"Go ahead." I looked at the crowd surrounding the boom

box and estimated how long it would take him to get his

shirt, then down the rows to the line for funnel cakes. "I'l