mirror twin of my own, but instead find the addressee to be:
. “Fuck!Fuckfuckfuck!”I twist fabric, unhook hooks, and wrench the bustier off, feeling absolutelyridiculous. I toss the lush scarlet velvet back into the box, tucking it, hiding it beneath thetissue.I think I threw the packaging across the room because I have to cross the room toretrieve it, knowing my vision is playing tricks on me, Alzheimer perhaps, I am after allforty-five today, or an acid trip flashback…though I’ve never experienced such anepisode before…I suppose twenty-five years post-experimentation that it
happen.With a shaking hand, I pick the packaging off the ground and with eyes half-squinted peek again, reading through the blur:
. “Holy mother of God!”I sit…quickly…on the carpeted floor…to keep from falling down, saying, “Itcan’t be. It can’t be. It can’t be.” And really, it couldn’t be! No one has called meCassiopeia in nineteen years and then, only
called me by that name.
. That wasso long ago, another lifetime. It seems unreal, remembering, that I really was the girl he’dcalled Cassiopeia, not my real name, Charlotte, or the name the frat girls lovingly calledme, Charley, but my slave name. Had I really called him Master? Had I really been a sexslave?God, it seems so incredible…so unlikely…I mean, it happened. In my mind Iremember those days, have thought about those days in the dark of the night, or at least Iused to think about those days in the hours I couldn’t sleep when I masturbated to John’ssoft snores, but I haven’t thought about that lifetime, or Master…in years—God, has itreally been that long? Yes, I decide, because my twin girls are eighteen.