You look up at Her from the floor of the restroom. Another woman comes in and walks around you both. She makes her smirk obvious.

You moan. Those boots were the first thing you noticed, before you even saw Her face. A dozen of them had shown up all at once, standing at the bar, making friendly with the staff, all in leather. But Her boots were so shiny, you thought you could see up Her skirt. It made you blush. Your girlfriend thought she was just doing a good job flirting that evening.

You had gone up to Her when She was next at the bar. She laughed as you asked where you could get boots like that. You said they were almost like a mirror, and She told you they were. Right there, at the bar, She told you to get on your knees. That way you could see your own face in them. The other women in leather were watching. Your girlfriend was on her phone. You obliged.

You really could see your face in the toe of Her boots. You could smell the polish too. You thought it was cool, and then you looked up to see Her grinning above you.

You know She’s grinning above you now. You can hear it in Her voice, but your vision is blinkered by the damp floor and the tread of Her boot. You moan and gasp as the pressure grows into pain.

She was gentle the first time you did this. You had asked if Her and Her friends – the other leatherdykes, She called them – came to this bar often. She just told you to be there again in two weeks. No contact info, no name: She wanted you to take it on faith.

You did, but your girlfriend wanted to come with. She would have gotten anxious if you told her why you were going out. You grimaced and reminded yourself that it was your fault. The attempts you had made to be polyamorous over the six years together had left her increasingly insecure that you loved her. She didn’t want to see that tested. You had no choice but to say sure, why wouldn’t she be allowed to go to the bar with you?

But She was there, and She noticed your not-quite-smile as you walked in. She noticed your girlfriend talking to you about whatever she was talking to you about and She knew what to do. All it took was a wink and a nod to get you into the restroom with Her. All it took after that was Her grin to get you to the floor. She put the boot to your head without you asking, gently putting the pressure on till the words came out of you.

When She first called you that, you tried to tell Her off. It was in this restroom again, the third time you met. She slapped you. You hit the corner of a stall door. Your girlfriend accepted your story about slipping on a spill. You suppose she thinks you’re just that clumsy.

You still came to meet Her a fourth time. She called you that again. She never had asked your name. You took it, like you used to take it from the boys walking home from school. You always hated them and they accused you of being a lesbian for it. You can’t deny that now, hearing it from Her, whimpering as your stomach twists in the same way it did decades ago. She pressed Her thumb into the scar She left through your eyebrow. You apologised. You begged. You wanted Her to spit in your mouth, like She had been about to do.

The next time you saw Her you asked for more: more pain, more spit, more of Her. She laughed at you.

Your girlfriend was sick that night. You knew that you were in for a long conversation the next day – that you were going to apologise for leaving her alone with a fever. But when She laughed, the rest of your life felt like nothing. It was all so trivial, this sense of a life you were building. You offered to give Her more of you. You told Her about how your girlfriend had asked you to propose, how she had bought the flat you were living in with money from her parents, how you were working while she was going back to uni, trying to finish her degree this time. You listened to Her laugh and you giggled along. She gave you Her number after you told Her, explicitly, you wanted to cheat.

You giggle. It was months of hiding your phone and lying about why you were smiling. It was months of pretending you were covering late shifts at the restaurant when you were booking shifts off just to see Her. Your girlfriend didn’t understand why the money was running out. You pointed to vague economic unease and encouraged her to get a job. It could be part time so she could still study. It could be weekends so she didn’t have to work after class. You put in a good word with your head chef and she ran out of excuses. She was almost excited, until you reminded her that you were weekdays only. That was when you started inviting Her around to yours.

You still went out to the bar, but your girlfriend had become too tired to join you. Her grades were getting worse and she needed to rest to get back on track. That was fine with you. In fact, you commended her dedication and told her you were so proud of her putting her own needs first. She told you she was increasingly anxious, starting to have panic attacks now that you were spending so little time together. The marriage was going to cost money. Even the rings she wanted were going to cost more than either of you could afford. You suggested something she could get you that was in her budget, if she didn’t spend her tips – something that would let everyone know you were taken.

You giggle again and pull a black leather collar from your jacket.

You kneel at one end of the bar. She tightens the collar around your throat. A leatherdyke hands Her a carabiner. Another hands Her a leash. She clips it to the collar and tugs you to all fours. You see the bar staff point you out. They think it’s just a scene.

She tugs you forward and you crawl behind her. You focus on Her boots. That’s what you have instead of a future: Her boot in your face, forever. You used to be able to see grandkids visiting you, doing puzzles with your girlfriend – your wife, even – on the coffee table, enjoying everything you had built for yourselves and the people you loved, all that would echo beyond your life. Now you see rubber treads. You see yourself begging to be stamped on harder, harder until it kills you.

The other leatherdykes watch you progress towards your girlfriend. You got her to take work off tonight for this. You think it’s going to be her last date night for a while. You can’t imagine her finding anyone else. Decades will pass and she’ll be working the job she’s still working now, paying the bills for the flat she’s still living in now, struggling to finish a uni degree like the one she’s failing now. All you can imagine is her fantasising about her dream wedding every night in the same bed where you had your ass violated for the first time, screaming “Daddy no, Daddy stop, Daddy please,” until you came. You giggle. Your girlfriend notices.

She gets up from her seat as you are led forwards. You can see her legs shake. She must be having a panic attack again. She can’t even run away. You giggle again and giggle harder as you realise how you don’t have to deal with this anymore. This is going to get worse for her for years, dealing with GPs and waiting lists for mental health services and you’ll be in Her flat, serving Her and Her friends, waking up bruised and going to bed happy. There will be no more teasing out her conflicting desires and expectations and anxieties, no more bad dates and petty comments and silent walks home, only suffering in pleasure at meaningless whims of your Daddy. You’d rather a split lip over another split bill.

You sit up on your heels and give your girlfriend this dazed, lopsided smile. She’s never seen it before. You realise this is going to be what sticks with her from all this. This is the face you’ll be wearing in all her memories of you in the coming months. There’s no denying the real you, now that she knows what you look like experiencing pleasure beyond pleasure. It will cut through every moment that mattered to her as she realises that all this effort over all these years was traded for better sex.

You stare up from her to Her. You giggle and that makes Her laugh and your insides twist up to the point where you think you might piss yourself. If She said she found it funny, you would. Next week after the moving is done, She’s said you’ll be broken in. You can’t even imagine what that entails, but the thought gets you hot now and that’s all that matters.

You look up at your Daddy and giggle again. She looks at your now-ex-girlfriend and shrugs with a smile before leading you out of the bar. In the cab to pick up your stuff, She fingers you under your clothes. You don’t need to stay quiet because She’s choking you hard enough that you can’t make a sound. As her fingers tighten around your throat and the pleasure builds and builds into an endless moment of joy, you realise there’s nothing but this – there’s not even you.