Her corset is black velvet. Mine is purple silk.
        Both reach just below our breasts, supporting them to make them look full and welcoming.
         The corsets are the only garments he has allowed us to wear, except for the matching high-heeled boots.
        Her red, curly hair and my dark, straight one are both combed back, a style that accentuates her round, cheerful face and my slender, thoughtful one.
        The Man is in his well-cut designer suit. The playboy bunny on his tie is the only concession to the nature of the club we’re heading for.
        He leads us on identical leashes attached to identical collars. Holding hands locked into identical cuffs we tiptoe behind him past the smiling bouncers at the door and towards the bar.
        The place is tired still. Quiet wolves in leather cling to their drinks.
        The three of us make their heads turn.
        The Man buys us Champagne, which we sip silently. His mind is elsewhere so I look at her and she squeezes my hand. We both know he’s making plans.
        Finally he puts down his glass and leads us downstairs into an empty room.
        A set of chains hangs from the ceiling.
        He places us underneath.
        She and I stand opposite each other and wait while he links the chains to our cuffs and hoists our arms up over our heads until our bodies stretch.
        I feel the touch of her breast on mine and a whiff of warm air on my cheek as she exhales.
        He ties a rope around our waists and pulls it tight, ties our lower bodies together until the moist pearls between our legs rub against each other.
        There’s a tickle on my back, like a small, wet insect crawling. The Man is writing onto my skin with a felt pen.
        When he has finished he ruffles my hair encouragingly and steps behind her.
        His hand moves quickly as he writes on her as well, his smile a mixture of concentration and amusement.
        Then he is gone. And with him the light.
        Feeling only our own softness we stand in the dark.
        When will he return?
        We have no way of knowing.
        Small noises buzz in the corners.
        Are we still alone in the room?
        It is too dark to tell – until a spotlight goes on.
        It blinds our eyes and makes the darkness behind it even darker. Curiously we blink and strain our ears.
        She sees them first and lets out a gasp.
        Then I see them too.
        Slowly they approach, reluctant to believe their luck they wait at some distance, their eyes resting on us.
        They read what The Man has written – and then they smile – and come closer.
        Glowing eyes, flickering tongues, sweaty lips, fury chests, smells of stale beer and half dried saliva blur into one creature.
       Warm hands, cold hands, hard hands, soft hands, small hands, big hands, old hands, young hands – they glide over our arms and thighs, our necks and shoulders.
        One finger ventures inside me and I flinch.
        As I do my most tender spot rubs against hers and she sighs and flinches as well, which in turn makes me sigh. The more we try to get away, the more we rub against each other and the deeper our clits kiss.
        Some paws open trouser buttons and encourage the lust of the wolves until hot liquids hit us and run down our skins.
        ‘He must come back,’ I cry.
        ‘He will,’ she replies.
        But when – oh when?
        Again and again we move and squirm to escape the forces unleashed on us and our flesh connects until we shiver from head to toe and our knees give in and we bemoan our little deaths into each other’s ears.
        Then it all stops
        The Man is back, his own lust hidden underneath the elegant grey of his trousers. At one word from him the wolves disperse into the dark recesses of the dungeon.
        He opens the rope around our wastes. My arms are still stretched to the ceiling but my body melts into his and he closes his arms around me, makes them the safe haven I wish his heart could be.
        ‘Turn around,’ he says.
        While she obeys, I hesitate. What else does he have in mind?
        ‘Turn around,’ he repeats.
        ‘But …’ I say and he puts his finger on my lips.
        ‘Shh, dear, it’s going to be fine.’
        How can she not protest? How can she trust him?
        She’s known him longer than I.
        If she could learn, maybe so can I.
        I turn around.
        We stand back to back while he pulls tight the rope.
        Her shoulders are hard and cramped from being forced up for too long. Her butt is soft and cool against mine.
        He strokes our foreheads, runs his fingers through our hair.
        ‘It’s going to be fine,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll be back in time.’
        Then he is gone again.
        We both feel the other tremble as we stare into the darkness where the wolves are gathering.
        He’ll be back.
        He’ll be back in time.
        He must.