A ray of sunlight shines in through the high window set in the basement. Crawling out of my cage, I stretch, before ducking into the adjacent half-bathroom and rinsing my mouth out with hot water. I wish I’d been smart enough to at least pack a toothbrush. Still, Nikolai would hardly want to hang out with me with my breath smelling like a mixture of stale burgers and beer in a bacteria-infested stew, would he? I hold onto hope. I’m resolutely avoiding thinking about what today has to offer. I’m trying to not focus on the wall of whips and chains and paddles, because it fixes me with a strange mix of terror and anticipation, and I don’t understand the way I feel. Surely, I don’t want to be whipped by Nikolai. Do I? My body heats as I imagine the scene. I will be naked, of course, and Nikolai will be clothed. My arms will be tied behind my back and my breasts will jut forward. His eyes will be expressionless, and then he’ll snap his fingers, and I’ll beg him to whip me.
