Page 29 of Wraith

“Okay,” she says, and her voice has taken on a particular quality that I’ve learned to recognize as the sound of June Wilder making a terrible decision at high speed. “Okay, here’s what we‘re doing.”

“June…”

“I told Evan I was going to orgies,” she says. “And peeing on people.”

I stare at her.

“So Molly thinks I’m into some kinky shit right now. Which means we need to act like I‘m into some kinky shit right now. Are you following me?”

“I’m following. I’m just not agreeing if you’re telling me you’re going to pee on me.”

“You don‘t have to agree. You’re cuffed to a radiator.” She’s already pulling her t-shirt over her head. Just like that. No hesitation. The shirt comes off, and she’s standing there in a bra that’s both practical and devastating, and my brain — which has been through a lot in the last twelve hours — briefly stops processing anything except the fact that June Wilder is undressing in front of me.

“What are you doing?”

“Making this look real.” She unclasps the bra. Drops it on the floor. “You can’t look like a guy who broke in and got subdued. You need to look like a guy who’s here on purpose.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m going to strip you now.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” She’s already working off her sleep shorts, shimmying out of them with an efficiency that suggests she’s thought this through and decided that modesty is a problem for people who aren‘t currently trying to sell a sex-party lie to a motorcycle club bartender. “I’m going to strip you.”

The shorts hit the floor.

She’s in nothing but the skimpiest pair of panties.

Standing in the middle of her studio apartment in the morning light with her hair still half-destroyed from sleep and there are bruises on her ribs and her hip and I’ve seen this body before, I’ve touched this body before, but that was a different version of us and this is now, and now she’s crossing toward me with the focus of a woman who has made a decision and is not interested in feedback.

“June, I really don‘t think we need to do this.”

She kneels. Her hands go to the waistband of my jeans. “Molly’s going to be through that door in about fifteen seconds. Do you want her to think you broke in and I subdued you, or do you want her to think you’re here because I’m a freak who’s into this shit?”

“I want option three.”

“There is no option three.” She unbuttons my jeans. “Now shut up and let me work.”

The jeans come off. She’s fast. Efficient. My shirt follows. My socks. And then I’m sitting against the radiator in nothing but my boxer briefs and the cuffs and the shackles, and June is grabbing the whip from where it’s still sitting on the table and the key is turning in the lock and the door is opening.

“Be a good boy,” June says, loud enough to carry, and she brings the whip down on my ass. “Keep your head down and play along. I got this.”

“Just don’t fucking pee on me, okay?”

“No promises. And from now on, you address me as Mistress June.”

She whips me again.

It stings.

I make a sound that is undignified.

“I’m coming in,” Molly calls from the doorway.

“Come in, Mistress Molly,” June calls back, and her voice has taken on a breathy, performative quality that makes my face heat despite myself. “I’m just finishing up with my sub. He’s a feisty little bitch.”

The door opens.