Through weeks of therapy, my attacks had been reduced from category five hurricanes into simple cloudbursts. They were still there, they were still uncomfortable, but they weren’t nearly as powerful as they used to be.
It made it easier to untangle my thoughts and stress as I untangled the roping on one of my outfits, my fingers fumbling on the model’s hip. I could hear the chattering of the crowd behind the curtain.
When I stood up, my heart was racing. I’d have to walk out after my models, smile for the cameras, and all of those people… they’d be judging me.
I’d been over this with Dr. Brinkman a few times — all of my fearful feelings, about not being good enough, about why I shriveled when I had to show my work to strangers.
He provided a beautiful grain of insight to all that — and it was that growing up, my family had been all about appearances. My mother gave me love and validation in direct proportion to how I looked to the world; how good my reputation was. So now, as an adult, I felt like I was unworthy of love unless I had the approval of strangers.
After chewing on that for a few days, it felt like something untied itself in my mind. It was like getting a massage for my thoughts, working out the kinks.
I was still nervous, but now I had tools to fight that self-sabotage. One of those tools was appreciating my own work.
Twenty-two outfits on gorgeous models were lined up before me: One for each of the 22 major arcana cards. All of the looks followed the Tarot and BDSM theme: Ropes, chains, and straps with studs peeked out under luxuriously long, soft fabric. Some of my showstoppers had an ombre color pattern and lace touches.
Every single one of the models had a differently designed collar.
Pride swelled in my chest at my collection. I’d outdone myself and I knew it.
When I closed my eyes, I could still see Professor King’s look of surprise when she saw it in the classroom.
“Bravo,” she’d said.
With that word, it was like she was releasing me from her constant pushiness. And once I was out of it, I realized that it had flung me into the heavens; into a nirvana of creative achievement.
She’d pushed me beyond my limits.
Tears sparkled in the corners of my eyes as anticipation shimmered through the air. I’d pushed my limits a lot during this semester — in and outside of the classroom. I’d pushed myself to make new friends and meet new people in the BDSM community. I pushed myself to see a therapist. I pushed myself to manage my relationship with my family better. But most of all, I’d pushed myself to improve my relationship with Adam.
Adam. He was out there with everyone else, waiting to see the pinnacle of my achievement. He’d seen plenty of pictures of my works in progress, but never the final work in motion.
I was sure it would blow him away and make him proud.
But there was another feeling trailing that hope, and it was pride in myself. I was emitting it like there was a reactor inside me, pressing happiness out through my pores.
I’d never felt so happy and fulfilled.
The music began, the announcer said my name, and the first dress — designed like The Fool card with its zig-zagging crimson ropes walked beyond the curtain.
The crowd went quiet, and all I could hear was the fluttering of camera shutters.
When the model returned, the one wearing my piece based on The Magician parted the curtain and stepped through, her decorative chains clinking on every step just like they were supposed to.
Again, there was a furious fluttering as pictures were taken.
Look after look stepped through the curtain and then returned a few seconds later.
The crowd made no noise except a faint fluttering.
It was only until the last look went out there — my ombre showstopper with intricate lace and chains — that the crowd broke into a loud applause.
I knew that dress based on The World card was incredible. It was something that came from the creative part of my mind, the part that Professor King had worked tirelessly to unclog.
The announcer said something — it was getting lost as the sound of rushing water filled my ears. There were so many emotions flying through me in that moment that it felt like I was having an out of body experience.
Then I watched as my models lined up and began to march onto the runway.
This was it. This was when I was supposed to get in line behind the models and follow, pausing at the end of the runway to take my bow. In a way, it was like signing my name at the bottom of a magnificent piece of art.
I did this. I created it. I was the one with the courage to show the world my taboo.
I took two steps to stand behind The World dress, and my vision went black.
My eyes snapped open in a dimly-lit hotel room. I was lying on top of a bed. I tried to move my hand to scratch my eyebrow, but it was bound.
So were my feet.
“Huh— wha?” I cried, beginning to panic as I struggled against the ropes. They bit into my skin painfully.
These weren’t the same as the silk ropes Adam used on me during playtime. These were hard and bristly, unforgiving restraints. They felt like what Kirk used to use on me when we’d have our encounters; ropes that he’d gotten at the hardware store.
For a moment I froze in panic, feeling the tides of anxiety within me rise. Did Kirk get out of jail? Did he snatch me from the show?
Then all of my thoughts came rushing back to me at once: The show. My pieces. My grades.
Adam.
Adam would notice I was missing. He’d know something was wrong with that cop sixth sense of his… wouldn’t he?
Using the techniques I
