The Slave

by Julia Morizawa

Scott ran his fingers through my hair and told me I was beautiful. When he said it, he looked me straight in the eyes. He wouldn't look away until I gave him a response. I knew this, so I stared right back. I took in every detail of his eyes so I would never forget the power behind them. The color, a blue so magical, as if the ocean and the sky had blended together after a storm. The shape, deep and wide, like the comforting shelter of a mother's womb. I took in his long, feminine lashes and his perfectly arched brows. I could see his honesty, his passion, and a mysterious history that held years of unrevealed struggle. When my observations caused an intense fluttering sensation in my stomach, I finally turned up the corners of my mouth, ever so slightly, and said, "Thank you."

I often wished that Scott and I were the type of people who could fall in love. The type of people who weren't afraid to do so. But to him, I was just a girl, and he was looking for a woman whom he could marry. And to me, he was just a home away from home. A comfortable set of arms that held me so much tighter than my boyfriend's. And both of us just wanted to hold on because it was a place of stability outside of our everyday hectic and unhappy lives.

My response made him blush. He gently pulled me toward him and kissed me on the forehead. The kind of kiss a father gives to his young daughter at bedtime. Scott was sitting in his thinking chair, an antique coated in burgundy velvet that could have easily belonged in a Charlotte Bronte novel. I'm sure the chair had experienced a lot of skin. A lot of bodily fluids and heavy breathing. That's why I liked it so much. It was a great piece of furniture to have sex on.

I was straddling him and my knees had begun to get sore. I adjusted my body so I was sitting in his lap, my legs dangling over one arm of the chair and my head resting against the other. I pressed my ass hard against his crotch before settling down.

"Where's your boyfriend?" he asked.

"I don't know."

"He sounds like an asshole."

I didn't reply. My boyfriend wasn't an asshole. In fact, no man had ever treated me better than he did. But we bored each other.

I focused my attention on a tall, thin bong centered on his dresser. It was a blood red color with Japanese letters made of silver etched in the side. I didn't know what it said, but probably something about peace or unity. It matched the fresh red paint on the walls. It matched the red silk pillows on his bed. It matched the red beads hanging from the door frame. Everything matched. It was almost suffocating.

"What are you thinking about?" Scott interrupted my silence.

"Nothing," I whispered.

"Don't lie."

I thought about it for a moment. I thought about the red, the suffocation, the way I felt with him.

"Life," I finally concluded.

"What about it?"

"I don't know."

He leaned into me as if he were going to whisper something in my ear. Instead, he kissed the top part of it, then slowly ran the tip of his tongue around the outside, and eventually bit the lobe around my earring. He leaned back. I could feel his stare, could sense he was about to say something else, so I turned to face him.

"I love the way you look when you're thinking hard about something."

Scott and I met at a Fourth of July barbeque. I went to see some acquaintances that I hadn't spoken to in a while. My acquaintances were Scott's closest friends. I immediately went to the bar and he was there pouring drinks for others. He was the type of man who looked best tired and messy. I watched his light curls brush the crease in his forehead every time he looked down. I watched his pink lips purse to the side every time he searched for a specific drink on the table. I was hypnotized by those lips. They looked as if they could never tell a lie. Or never tell a joke. He glanced up and caught me watching him. He offered to pour me a drink.

"What are you having?" I asked.

"Diet Coke," he replied. "I don't drink alcohol."

"Good for you. I could go for a screwdriver."

He smiled, made me the drink, and handed it to me. When our fingers touched in the passing of the glass, the area between my thighs began to throb. We didn't separate from each other the rest of the night. We talked about everything, from the weather, to the party, to our jobs, to politics, to God. We stood on the hillside together to watch the fireworks above the river. Once the show was over, most people left or went back down to the house for more drinks and small talk. We stayed. We lied down on an open patch of grass and shared a joint. We kept a look-out for shooting stars. The lights from the city illuminated the horizon. The shadowed blend and repetition of the trees around us faintly resembled a Warhol installment. Without the shimmering stars, the smooth, black sky could have easily been mistaken for water. Occasionally, the sound of a passing car below us or erupted laughter from the party echoed against the grass. But the sounds of our peaceful, steady breathing kept us oblivious to any disturbances. After a long, beautiful moment of silence, Scott said to me, "It was meant for us to meet here and be together tonight."

When he said that, I couldn't help but turn onto my side and face him. I couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of passion flow through my body. He turned toward me as well and wrapped his arm around my waist. He slowly rubbed his warm hand up and down my back, first over my shirt, then under it. When he kissed me, it was as if all the warmth in his body had been passed over into mine. I wrapped my palm around the back of his neck to pull him in closer, to kiss him harder. His tongue felt like warm silk in my mouth. When he moved it around and under mine, it was done perfectly, as if we had choreographed the movements ahead of time. He caressed my stomach with his hand, making my muscles tense up. When we kissed harder, he grabbed my skin tightly. He slid his hand under my bra and gently cupped my breast, then massaged it, moving it any way he wanted. I kept one hand on his neck and slipped the other underneath his shirt, feeling a thin trail of fuzz just below his naval. I pinched his nipples hard between my fore-finger and thumb. I knew he liked it because of the soft, airy grunts escaping from the back of his throat. He slid his other hand up the back of my skirt and squeezed my thigh, then my ass. I moved my hand from his chest to his stomach to his crotch. I could feel him hard underneath his jeans. After undoing the button and zipper of his pants, I wrapped my fist around his cock, first over his boxers, then under. As I slowly slid my fist from tip to base and back to the tip again, his breathing became heavier, his vocalizations more difficult to control. He followed my lead and pulled my underwear to the side so I could feel a cool breeze pass through my moist skin. He pushed his fingers inside of me, first one, then two, then three. I briefly pulled my hand away to spit in my palm and used it to moisturize his cock. I began to move my wrist and arm faster and he did the same with his fingers. I could feel his pre-cum dripping into my hand, helping me keep him lubricated. Our hips danced with our hands, synchronized in motion together. Suddenly, he pulled himself out of my grasp.

"Stop, stop," he whispered.

"Why, what happened?" I asked.

"Nothing. I just want you to come first."

He sat up, grabbed my ankles and pulled them toward him. He lifted my skirt and slipped my underwear off and let them hang on his wrist. He spread my legs open and held onto the insides of my thighs. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the dry grass. I felt his warm, wet tongue tease my groin, then the lips of my pussy, then my clit. He started slow and gentle. My breathing became heavy and a soft moan escaped my mouth. As he began to pick up speed, he slipped his fingers back inside of me and used his other hand to pinch my nipples. As soon as I came, he reached for his wallet and found a condom. He quickly opened the packaging and slipped the rubber around his hard cock. He leaned into me but stopped and asked, "Is this what you want?" I simply nodded. I watched him penetrate me for the first time. I squeezed myself tight around him and I could tell that he liked it. He felt so good inside of me.

We spent the rest of the night on that hill together. At one point a couple of men walked by. When they spotted us they quickly mumbled an apology and left. By the time the sun was rising, we were alone. Only a few others had crashed at the party, but they were all indoors. From then on, I spent at least three nights a week with him. We never got bored.

"There's so much going on inside of you," he continued, "It only makes me want to know you better."

I smiled and pressed my lips against his. "Do you have to work in the morning?" I asked.

"No, do you?"

"Yes, but I never sleep anyway."

He reached around me to grab his pipe and stash off the window sill. I watched him carefully pack the bowl and take a hit. He gestured for me to come closer. So I did. He wrapped his mouth around mine and exhaled the smoke into my throat. I took it in and slowly released it into the room. I couldn't help but cough a little. I watched the lines around his mouth curl as he took another hit. Sometimes he looked old. Times like these when I could tell he was tired and distracted. I was nineteen at the time. He was twelve years my senior. He still looked young and healthy, but sometimes I could see the age in him sneak to the surface. I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror and we looked beautiful together. I started to suck on his neck, but not too hard, so I wouldn't leave marks. I pushed my tongue inside his ear and rotated it in circles. He groaned. He always loved that.

"Careful," he warned, not meaning it.

"Why?" I tease.

"Because. You'll make me do bad things to you."

"That's what I want."

"I know it is."

I bit his earlobe nice and hard. Hard enough to almost break skin. In retaliation, he grabbed me by the waist, lifted me off of him, and threw me back in the chair. Then he was on top. He ripped off my shirt and my pants and kissed every part of my body. He unclipped my bra and pulled it away so he could suck on my erect nipples. He pushed his fingers inside of me, but only for a moment, just to make sure I was wet. Then he stopped. He stood up and just looked at me for a moment. I smiled. He smiled. We kept our eyes locked tight on each other as he slowly stripped himself naked. He removed his jeans and his cock emerged from within, already hard. He loved not wearing underwear. He loved letting his pants hang low so the top of his pubic hair was just barely peeking out. He slowly caressed himself, teasing me, letting me watch but not touch. Then he swaggered toward me, back into the chair. This time, he straddled me and pushed in close so the tip of his cock was level with my mouth. He wrapped his hand around my neck, just tight enough to turn me on but not hurt me. I teased him with my tongue. Just barely touching the head then pulling away. Kissing it but not opening my mouth. Licking it but not sucking. He became impatient and tightened his grip around my neck. I smirked then placed one hand around his cock and the other on his ass. I pulled him in closer, letting him slide to the back of my throat. I held him in my mouth for a moment, pursing my lips tight around the base, pushing my tongue hard against the underside. Then finally, I sucked. I sucked hard, using every muscle in my mouth to tickle his nerves. He released his grip around my neck and transferred it to the back of my head, helping me make the complete movements at the desired speed. He let his head fall back, his eyes closed, and released a moan of complete satisfaction.

We liked to play games with each other. Our favorite was when he played the Master and I was his Slave. He'd call me up in the middle of the night and demand a full-body massage. If I was in the mood, which I often was, I'd make the short drive to his apartment, struggle to find parking, and enter his room at his complete service. When I'd arrive, I'd find him already in bed, lying on his stomach, completely naked. I could see the stiffness in his toned, hairless back. The relaxed muscles in his ass. The blonde hair coating the skin on his legs. I often wanted to climb on top of him right then and there. But I knew I had to be a good girl and be patient, giving him what he had called me over for first. I'd slowly climb on the foot of the bed, lightly dragging my fingernails up the backs of his calves, then his thighs. I'd let one finger gently slip between his ass and tease his hole just for a moment. Then I'd straddle his thighs and get comfortable for the work to come. We kept a bottle of vanilla body oil on the bed stand. I'd grab it and pour a perfect circle of the thick liquid in the palm of my hand. I could feel the coolness travel through my wrist and into my body, creating a tingling sensation that moistened my pussy. Then I'd rub the lotion between my hands, letting the silk sink into my pores. I could hear Scott's breaths become shorter as he grew impatient. I'd use all my weight to dig into the dips just below his shoulder blades and rub the oil from my skin into his. I'd grab his body hard, holding as much as I could get. He was warm and soft, like clean laundry just removed from the dryer. Touching him felt like stepping into a hot tub after a long week of labor and overtime. The vanilla scent would creep into my nostrils, causing a feeling of floatation. I'd move my hands from the back of his neck down to his ass and eventually to his toes. Sometimes the massage would last for as long as half and hour, but usually, he'd want to take it elsewhere after several minutes. He'd flip over, interrupting my work.

"Get off of me! Lay down on the bed," he'd demand.

I'd do as I was told, knowing what would be coming. He kept a line of rope wrapped loosely around one of the bed posts. He'd use it to tie my wrists together above my head and secure me to the bed. I wasn't allowed to talk unless he gave me permission or wanted an answer to a question. I'd have to finish everything I said with, "Master." He always removed my clothing in the same order. My socks, then my pants or skirt, followed by my shirt, which he'd leave dangling around my elbows. He'd slap his cock hard against my body – my legs, my stomach, my face. He'd remove my bra and underwear. Then he'd stand back and just look at me. I could sense him observing the wetness between my legs while he jerked off. Then he'd return to me and rub his pre-cum on my nipples and my clit. He'd tease me, let me lick the tip just so I could get a taste. Then he'd begin pushing the underside of his cock against my clit. Rubbing it, massaging my pussy, but not entering me. He'd ask rhetorical questions or demand details on how much I wanted him.

"Where do you want it?" he'd ask.

"Inside of me, Master."

"What part of you?"

"Anywhere you want to put it, Master."

He'd ask me if I was better than other men. If he had more stamina. If he made me come faster and better. He'd demand I talk dirty to him. He'd demand I describe how I wanted him to fuck me and where. And who would be watching. Eventually, I'd say something that didn't satisfy him.

"That's not what I wanted to fucking hear!" he'd scream. Then he'd flip me over, my wrists still attached to the bed post. He'd grab me by the waist and force me onto my knees. He'd pull his arm back and slap my ass. He'd slap me so hard I could feel the heat soar up into my arms. And he wouldn't stop until I apologized. I'd hold out until the pain was too much to take.

"I'm sorry, Master," I'd cry out. "Please forgive me, I'll do what ever you want, Master."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise, Master."

He'd stop the hits, but keep his hands tight around my ass, pulling my cheeks wide apart.

"I believe you," he'd respond. "But this will teach you to be more careful next time."

Then I could feel the head of his cock massage my asshole. He'd lubricate it first with the juices from my pussy. Then he'd slowly push inside. I'd squeeze my ass tight around it until he'd groan. Then he'd push in further, and further, and further. Until he was completely inside of me. He'd get comfortable with the motions before picking up pace. I could feel a tight, sudden pain when he'd push in too far. As his hips moved faster, I could feel his balls slapping against my ass. I braced myself against the pillow, pushing my head against the back board of the bed, grasping tightly to the rope around my wrists. Sweat would begin dripping into my eyes. My hair would cling to my neck. As he'd become rougher, I truly felt like he owned me. I truly wanted him to do anything to me. To abuse me. To use me. To hurt me. My grunts and groans would become louder and faster as the pain became harder to bear.

"Are you going to be more careful next time?" he'd ask through short breaths and erotic grunts of his own.

"Yes, Master," would barely escape from my lips.

"What was that?"

"Yes, Master," I'd repeat a little louder.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, Master!"

"I still can't hear you!"

"Yes! I promise to be more careful next time, Master." Then I'd begin begging. "Please believe me, Master! Please, I beg you, please believe me!"

When my cries and pleads finally became forceful enough and honest enough for his satisfaction, he'd lean forward on top of me. He'd squeeze my tits with one hand and finger my clit with the other. Then he'd press his face against my neck, his chest against my back. I could feel his heart pounding. It beat in-sync with mine. We would become one in those moments. In those moments of undeniable passion and intensity. Sometimes he would come inside of me, inside of my ass. Other times, he'd pull out at the last minute and come on my lower back. Sometimes it would spray on my neck and into my hair. When he'd finish, he'd massage his cum into my skin with his hand or cock. Then he'd lay on top of me, holding me, our breathing as one. Our bodies as one. Our spirits as one.

Scott pulled himself out of my mouth and slid his cock down my body, from my chin to my thighs. He left a thin trail of liquid on my chest, which quickly became cool once it touched the air. I was still leaning back in the chair, comfortable and secure. He gently parted my legs. I rested my heels on the edge of the cushion, knees bent, so my pussy was wide open to him. He gently massaged the insides of my thighs, then moved to my groin, then to the tiny hairs that had began growing again on my bikini line. I felt a swarm of butterflies emerge in my stomach as he leaned in to kiss my naval. I felt energy flowing from the tips of my fingers and toes as he began to circle my clit with his thumb. My pussy tightened and I was about to lean my head back and close my eyes when I caught him staring at me. The look on his face was completely subdued, honest and reflective. Neither of us said anything. I analyzed the shape of his jaw. His chin, which was perfectly smooth but pink from a recent shave. And his lips. The lips that I could not help but be attracted to since the first time I saw them.

"I love you," he whispered.

I couldn't help but laugh. Soft, but unexpected and rude.

"No, I mean it," he retaliated, "I really love you."

I smiled. He leaned in for a quick kiss. A peck, the kind a boyfriend gives his girlfriend when they're surrounded by family. Then he removed his thumb and replaced it with his warm tongue. He played with my clit, just barely touching it. Then wrapped his lips around it, sucking, kissing, nibbling. I could feel my wetness dripping onto the chair as he began to work faster. The gentle tickle created a magnificent warmth through my body. After only a few minutes, I knew I could come, but prevented myself from doing so because I didn't want him to stop. He knew how I liked it. He knew the best places, the best technique. He knew the right speed and the right pressure. He knew how to make me want to fuck him.

"Scott," I mumbled through heavy breaths, "I want you inside me."

I could hear him fumbling for a condom while he continued going down on me. I could hear him tear the wrapper with one hand and unroll it onto his cock. I could hear him moan as he pushed inside of me. My wetness lubricated his cock more than the condom. It allowed him to move inside of me smoothly, efficiently, perfectly. I pressed the heel of my left foot hard into his ass. I used the toes of my right foot to grip the skin on his side. He reached for my ankles and swung my legs over his shoulders. He never ceased the grinding of his hips. I lifted my head so I could watch us. So I could watch him fuck me. It was beautiful. He flipped me over, slowly so he wouldn't exit my body while doing so. He bent me over the back of the chair and climbed onto it behind me. He continued thrusting and grinding. I had to brace myself against the wall. This was always my favorite position because it allowed him to enter me completely. Because I couldn't see his face and his emotions remained a mystery to me. He fucked me harder and faster so my head repeatedly bumped into the wall. The chair against my stomach was making it more difficult to breathe. My knees began to burn and my thighs began to cramp. His grunts and gasps told me he was about to come. I waited, wondering where he would do it. Would he come into the condom and remain inside of me even after he finished? Or would he quickly pull out, rip the condom off, and come on my back? That night, I was hoping he would do the latter. But instead, he slowed down. He stopped. He pulled out. I turned my head to him.

"Did you come?" I asked.

He shook his head. Then he scooped me up in his arms and stood, holding me tightly. He carried me to the bed, as if we were newlyweds entering the hotel room we had reserved for the first night of our honeymoon. He gently laid me down on the fresh sheets. I could smell the spring scent of detergent on the pillow cases. The sheets felt cool under my body. Soft and clean, like grass after the morning dew has evaporated but the sun hasn't yet emerged. I kept my legs spread, ready to continue. Scott re-entered my body. He lied on top of me, but held himself up so I wouldn't be uncomfortable. He kissed my forehead, my cheeks, my chin, then eventually my lips. Even as his hips fell back into the repetitive motions of sex, he continued kissing me. We never kissed during sex. We'd bite, lick and suck, but never kiss. He didn't pick up speed the way he normally did either. He didn't push himself all the way in. He just continued at this comfortable, gentle pace. Then he held my hand. He locked his fingers between mine. Our sweaty palms clung together. Suddenly, I felt like I was his girl. And he was my man. A tight, threatening knot developed in the pit of my stomach. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. It became difficult to breathe, as if I were trapped in a Manhattan subway station on a humid August afternoon. I became light headed and the sounds of us, of the room, started to echo. I felt like I was drowning. Suddenly, I realized what it was. In that moment, Scott was not fucking me. He was not having sex with me. He was making love to me.

Scott and I never once went on a date. We never went out together in public. We were a secret. A private, passionate combination of loneliness and erotic desires. But he was more than a fuck-buddy. He was a good friend. We had conversations that I had only dreamed of starting with my boyfriend, but knew I couldn't. We could spend hours together in complete silence, just holding each other, and that was fine. And the sex was amazing. Physically, he satisfied me completely. He gave me what my boyfriend didn't. He made me feel beautiful.

In that moment, I felt like I loved him. I felt like I could love him forever. I wanted to run away with him and spend the rest of my life in his arms. And I suddenly believed him. I believed that he loved me. I believed that he loved me for who I was, not just for my tits and ass. I no longer felt like a possession, a piece of meat. I felt like his body inside of mine was a true connection, not just an orgasm. And this sudden realization sent a thousand knives through me. My eyes began to water and I allowed tears to slide down the side of my face onto the pillow beneath me. I was confused. I was uncomfortable. And for the first time ever, I wanted him to stop.

For a brief moment, Scott pulled his lips away from mine and lifted his head to get some air. And with a complete lack of control, I pulled my hand away from his and slapped him hard across the face. He stopped, shocked, still inside of me. A look of utter confusion in his eyes. He couldn't tell if I was just playing or not.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"You're being too gentle . . . Master."

"Maybe that's how I want it right now." His voice was serious. Not pretend-serious, not sexy-serious. But downright, honest-to-God serious.

"Bullshit," I challenged. Then I slapped him again. Harder. Time stopped. I saw an infinite number of thoughts and feelings pass behind his eyes. Hurt, fear, confusion, disbelief, love, hate, passion, lust. Then anger. With a sudden force that I had never experienced before in, he wrapped one hand tight around my neck and used the other to cover my mouth. He pressed down on me with the full weight of his body and pinned my thighs open with his knees. Then he fucked me. He fucked me so hard it felt like a metal baseball bat was breaking me from the inside out. He fucked me so fast that I could no longer feel the motions. All I could feel was my insides being torn, my organs being smashed, the skin lining my pussy ripping from rawness. Keeping one hand over my mouth at all times, he grabbed the hair on the top of my head and yanked so my chin hit my chest. Then he threw me back into the headboard. He leaned in to bite my neck. The pain from his teeth was unbearable. It shot through me, paralyzing, almost knocking me unconscious. I imagined Jesus being nailed to the cross. I tried to pull away but had no strength compared to his. When he leaned back again, I saw a small drop of blood on his bottom lip. I knew it was mine. Every time he banged into me, an unfamiliar and torturous cramp swallowed every nerve of my body. Never ceasing the thrusts of his hips, he let go of my hair and slapped me hard across the face. Then again, only harder. So hard that I felt a sudden pain in my eye and I realized he had knocked my contact lens out of its proper place. He was giving me what I gave him. Letting me know how it felt. Then he grabbed my neck again. My mouth was still covered, but he adjusted the positioning of his hand so it blocked my nasal passages as well. I couldn't breathe. That's all I could think about in that moment. I was not receiving any air. My lungs were swelling. I was crying. I was bleeding. I was bruising. I felt myself scream, but no sound escaped my throat. I thought I was going to die.

"Is this better?" he growled.

I couldn't respond. I had no way to.

"Is it!"

I blinked my eyes rapidly, as a substitution for the nod I couldn't give. My lungs were begging for the air they were no longer receiving. Blood was frantically pumping into my brain.

"Now listen to me closely." He instructed in a low, threatening tone. "I'm going to come. And when I do, I'm going to release my hands, and you're going to tell me that you love me. Do you understand?"

I blinked again. He continued ramming into me, merciless. Then his voice turned into loud moans of pleasure and excitement. His muscles tensed, his jaw clenched, as his fluids begged to be released. He quickly removed his hands from my neck and mouth and placed them on my breasts, squeezing them both rough in his fists.

"Tell me that you love me," he demanded through his orgasmic moans.

"I love you," my voice was barely audible, not even a whisper.


"I love you."

"Say it again!"

"I love you!"

"Say it again!"

"I love you!" I cried out in desperation, tears streaking down my face, praying to a God I didn't believe in to make him stop.

And he finished. He collapsed but stayed inside of me. Our bodies pulsated from the event, throbbing around each other. He cradled my head in his arms and pressed it against his own. He buried his face between the sheets and my ear. He saw my tears and gently wiped them away with his fingers. He held me like I was his child.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into my ear.

I wanted to say "Don't be," or "It's okay," but I remained silent.

"You bring out the worst in me," he continued.

I felt his warm body against mine. His gentle hands caressing my skin. His honesty. His pain. His love.

"I know," I answered, "I know."

I didn't hear from him for a week. I expected that though. I wanted to give him some time. I wanted to give myself some time. I had spent that week contemplating the experience. Wondering why I preferred for him to hurt and violate me than to hold and love me. Why it felt so wrong for a man to be gentle. Why I couldn't get turned on unless it was rough. I didn't see my boyfriend at all during that week either because the bruises on my neck and between my thighs needed time to fade away in order to avoid an interrogation. So I could avoid telling the truth.

Scott finally called me on a Thursday, about 3:00am.

"Hey, baby," he always began our phone conversations the same way.

"Hey," I replied.

"Did I wake you?"

"No, I was just getting ready for bed."

After some general small talk and the sharing of our past week, he said, "We can't do this anymore."

"I know."

And I did. I understood. I agreed. I had come to the realization that two negatives don't make a positive. That it was a bad idea to have two fucked up people taking their issues out on one another in bed.

"You don't know the power you have over me," he stated. Honest. Sincere.

The silence over the phone was long. But not uncomfortable. That's how it was with us. Finally, I told him the truth.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Silence again. Neither of us wanted to hang up. We kept assuming the other would have the balls to do it first. And he was the one that did.

"Good night," he said.

"Good night."

I waited to hear the click on his end. Even then, I didn't remove the phone from my ear until the dial tone began to beep.


Julia Morizawa has been writing since her early teenage years, but her published work has primarily been within the poetry realm. Most recently, she wrote a short screenplay titled, "Sin & Lyle," which she also produced and directed, and was released on DVD in 2006. She first began writing erotic short fiction in 2005, but left most of her stories unfinished. She recently picked it back up again and has begun exploring the print and online world of erotica. Julia is twenty-two years old and currently resides in Los Angeles. More information may be found at:

The Slave
© 2007 by Julia Morizawa





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