Berlin, a late evening. I’ve been seeing him for over a year and still don’t have the courage to be honest with him. He wants to mold me into his submissive, but I’m not quite ready to change my body for him. Too many questions, doubts, and fear.
It’s not that I hadn’t thought about it. Sure, for a day or two, I’d love to be in someone else’s skin. Small waist, huge breasts, blond hair. I know he wants me as his rubberdoll, molded to his taste. But it’s not me. I like being in my own skin. A permanent change like that is just not in the cards. At least not yet. He’s not the only one I have to think about.
Having popped the question, he looks at me full of anticipation. His eyes undressing me, seeing right through the sweater I wear over my latex catsuit, and imagining my breasts larger; a lot larger. I lower my head, thinking, while he places his hand on my leg under the table. I touch his hand ever so slightly without raising my head.
The honest answer is that I can’t give him an answer, not now, not here. He knows that I see other men besides him. He’s a good client, he hopefully will be for many years. But at the end of the day, he can walk away at any time. In my business, there are no commitments, no obligations, just one date at a time.
This is not a relationship that can grow. We’re condemned to an eternal dance around one another, without any chance of embracing what we have. If we even have something. I’m here because I like him, but I’m also here because he paid me to be here. I would be his submissive because he has the strength to bend me to his will, but I’m also his submissive because he paid. Money is the curse over our future.
Under other circumstances, if there was any chance of joint future, then, yeah, maybe. Maybe I would get breast implants. Maybe I would even go as large as he would like, over time. But I’m not his, never will be, never can be. Not in my business. That’s the pact I made. Companionship, fulfilling fantasies, fetishes, in return for money. The foundations for any genuine relationship is poisoned from the start.
He pulls his hand back from my leg. I fear where this evening is going. This may be our last date. I’d miss him, but it’s the only thing I can do. Oh, if he just hadn’t forced my hands by asking me to change who I am. “No, I can’t do that, I’m sorry.”
He gets up without saying a word. He is disappointed, although not surprised. Following him, I stay a few steps back. I’m not sure he even wants me to be around him right now. I feel terrible. Back in our room, he packs. Then leaves. I cry for the rest of the night. I hate the choices I have to make in my life, they trap me in a hopeless cycle of exhilaration and despair.
The marks I wear on my skin are not the ones my clients have seen. Those have come and gone. The ones that last, are much deeper, they strike at the core of who I am today. I don’t expect them to heal for they make me stronger. I can live with my past, my future will eventually, too.