Page 1 of Bound To Me

Prologue

My shaky voice went unnoticed as my parents argued in the backyard. I swam with my floaties on my arms, trying to find my Barbie that floated off while I became distracted by their yelling. I didn’t know what they were arguing about—my six year-old brain couldn’t comprehend what “cheating” meant. We weren’t playing Marco Polo, and we definitely weren’t playing a game of Monopoly.

Daddy took Mommy’s arm and pulled her inside. I was relieved that I couldn’t hear the yelling anymore. I finally found Barbie near the little hole that sucked up all my other toys; Mommy said it was the filter to keep the pool clean. Then I heard my Mommy screaming and a loud bang. My little heart started pounding in my chest. I only heard that kind of banging during the Fourth of July, but it was bright and sunny outside.

“Mommy?” I called out.

There was no response. My daddy ran out with drops of red on his shirt.

“Jackie, honey, I have to go. Don’t go inside, okay?” Daddy said, then he ran out the backyard gate.

Daddy was always coming and going like that so I didn’t think anything of it. But he always ran like that before a policeman showed up at our door. Mommy always made me go to my room and she was always crying.

I wanted a snack, so I got out of the pool and called for Mommy. I heard sirens in the distance as I opened the back door.

“Mommy?” I called out.

I searched the kitchen and the living room but she wasn’t there. I went down the hallway and into Mommy and Daddy’s room. I saw the red stuff all over again. And I saw Mommy lying down on the bed. Even my little six year-old brain knew it then: my mommy was dead.

Now

As I watched the snowflakes swirl and gently settle on the ground, I hugged my knees tightly, savoring the serene moment. Winter in New York City was a magical time, with its crisp air and blanket of white, a stark contrast to the mild, snowless winters of my California childhood.

I moved far away from my life in Los Angeles as soon as I could. I was in and out of foster homes from the age of six to sixteen. When I was seventeen, I ran away from my foster parents and took the Greyhound all the way from LA Union Station to Las Vegas. With a fake ID, I worked as an exotic dancer for two years as I saved all my money and lived around different hostels and stayed on friends’ couches. I had to fend for myself, take care of myself, and when no one else was there for me, I had to pretend like I didn’t want to give up and off myself. When I was nineteen, I hopped on a plane to New York City. It had been nine years since then, and I still didn’t have my shit together. I wasn’t sure if I ever would. Not after him.

I met Michael on a BDSM site when I was twenty-three, during my exploration phase. Before him, I had been with several men, and the sex was so dull that I thought that’s just how it was meant to be. I always had to be drunk during those encounters because I was too self-conscious to open up otherwise. In truth, I often drank to numb the constant ache in my chest.

And then I met the perfect man: he was successful, gorgeous, and knew all the right things to say to keep little naive Jackie reeled in. I had always been attracted to older men and craved the sexual experiences they could bring. With him being in his early thirties, I expected a man his age to be beyond mind games and ready for a committed, healthy, loving relationship. He gave me the exact opposite.

I didn’t realize I had been gnawing on my lip so hard that it was bleeding. Thinking about Michael sent me down a deep, destructive spiral, even after years of therapy. The irrevocable damage that he did to me would no doubt leave a permanent scar on my soul, just as his violence left permanent scars on my skin.

I jumped when my cell phone began vibrating on the couch beside me. Since it was an unknown number, I turned it over and ignored it. I looked back out the window, willing my mind to think about something else. YouTube—videos of cats always distracted me when I found myself spiraling. It was my new coping mechanism. Better than drinking, I suppose.

I opened the app just as a voicemail notification popped up. Out of curiosity, I listened, and once I heard it, I keeled over onto the floor and threw my phone at the wall. His voice would haunt me for the rest of my life, his scolding and yelling leaving deep wounds in my brain. I shook my head quickly, trying to get his words out of my mind.

“Hello, my sweet Jackie. Daddy will be out soon…and I want to play.”

Then

I waited at the subway station for the train that would take me home. I had just gotten off work from a trendy restaurant in Chelsea where I served. I hated all the stuffy Manhattanites who looked down at me like I was fucking dirt, but the tips were pretty good, so I didn’t complain. I had just turned twenty-three and had already been working full-time for four years. I barely got by in my shared Park Slope apartment, but I refused to live anywhere besides Brooklyn. I wanted to be where all the fun was—all my friends had parties every other day, and we bar hopped up and down Brooklyn every weekend, all weekend. Even when my shift at the restaurant ended at 10 or 11 p.m., I’d still be ready to party for another four hours.

I was drinking too much. I knew I had a problem, but it was the only way to mask the enormous weight of loneliness and trauma I had felt for almost my entire life. I didn’t know what it was like to feel any different. I had no idea if the pain would ever dull.

As I waited for the train, I swiped through the several dating apps I had on my phone. I met a few men off of them but they were all one night stands. I wasn’t sure if I was looking for much else than that. The one I was the most curious about was the “kink friendly/BDSM” app. I had never done anything remotely kinky in my life, but I was dying to; I thought that was the missing piece in my sex life.

So many of the messages I received on the kink app were either from men who lived far out of the area or from those who sent unsolicited dick pics. Then a message from someone with the username YourNextDom popped up. Intrigued, I opened it.

Hello,SweetJackie. I’m Michael. You’re beautiful.

I clicked on his profile picture.Holy fucking shit. He can’t be real.He has to be fake. He was easily the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. I skimmed through his pictures and he even posted a shirtless mirror selfie. My pussy pulsed.God damn.

Hello, Michael. I don’t think you’re real,I wrote back.

He immediately responded:That’s not a very sweet thing to say, SweetJackie. Why do you think that?

I smiled as I replied:Because you’re too fucking hot. A man that looks like you doesn’t exist.

My heart fluttered when he messaged back:You better watch your mouth. You could get punished for speaking that way to me.

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