“So, you want to know why I do it, why I’m like this?” she asked, taking a deep drag and exhaling the smoke slowly through her nose. “I don’t know, honestly. Not fully. I mean, stuff happened early on. And later? I felt like I made it through all that. I stayed sane, true to myself, and pushed forward. I finished High School. A rarity in my family. Then after leaving them all behind, traveling halfway across the country to leave it in the past, I started college. All on my own.” She took another deep drag and then fidgeted with her fingers, looking down.

“I even finished college. Got a good entry-level job. People would have called me a fucking success story. Small town girl makes it big. And by that standard, I guess I did. I was going places, a shooting star, going up, up, up. And then ... life changed.” She stubbed out the cigarette and got another, offering the reporter one. He shook his head and she shrugged before lighting up. The smoke curled in the small changing room.

“That seems like such a simple way to put it. Life changed. How does that sum up leaving that, leaving a law firm, to strip here 2 or 3 times a week? To cover yourself in tattoos? To give up your life and future like that?” he asked, incredulous. She shook her head, already frustrated with his line of questioning. Those outside the kink world rarely could.

“You’re already off base, chasing down dust in the wind, while you’re ignoring the storm. You say I gave up my life, my future, for this. But this, this is fun. This,” she said, spreading her arms wide, “is exercise. It’s a hobby, nothing more. No Sir, I didn’t give up my life or future to strip. I gave it up for him. For this.” She leaned forward, tilted her head down, and threw her hair over her face so he could see the tattoo on the back of her neck. A literal bar code, with numbers, lay there. She snapped her head back and pushed out her chest, noticing his glance at her cleavage before he adjusted himself.

“That’s a bar code? I don’t understand, what does a tattoo have to do with anything,” he asked, his brow furrowed. She almost envied that innocence. Once something like that is lost, it cannot be reclaimed.

“You know what Freud said, right? Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar? Well, this is the opposite of that. Sometimes a tattoo is more than a tattoo.” She grinned and showed him the back of her hand. On it, a tattoo of a keyhole was there, easily visible in dark black ink. She then spread her legs and pulled up the gown she had on, showing the reporter her shaved cunt. She noticed the subtle biting of his lip, the narrowing of his eyes as he looked at her, and the “Daddy’s Girl” tattoo right above it.

“I have several tattoos as you can see, and more that you can’t,” she said, smiling and teasing him. “But the barcode, the keyhole, are different from the rest. They have very specific meanings and are part of the journey my life has gone on.” The reporter looked back at her face, blushing a bit, as she re-crossed her legs.

“And those are? How can a tattoo change your life?”

“They can’t,” she said. “It’s what they represent. The barcode is my registry number. I’m a slave. Willingly, of course. The keyhole? It tells any man who recognizes it that I’m free to use. To fuck as they please.”

“You can’t be serious,” he said, eyes in shock. That statement made her laugh.

“Oh, but I am. When I met him, my life changed. I realized that I had been living a lie up until that moment. And becoming his? That choice, that sacrifice, set me free.”

“You became free? By becoming a sex slave?” he said, clearly not understanding.

“It’s hard to process, so let me tell you a story. You can write it down later, pretty it up, whatever. Let’s call it Jane’s Journey,” she said, licking her lips. “It goes something like this...”

“Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Jane. She was a pretty woman, but she was unhappy. She worked hard, led a good life, and had moved on from dark parts of her life. But at the end of the day, no matter what she did, she felt no joy. No spark. Days, weeks, months, they all blended together. That continued until one day, while out at a bar, she met John. John was older than her by almost 20 years, but was in good shape, just a hint of gray, but most of all, he was direct. John didn’t play games.

See, John came up to her and didn’t just throw a one-liner at her. He didn’t try to get in her panties. He didn’t ask. Men like John, even when they give you a choice, it sounds and feels like a demand. An order. And well, that night, it touched a primal part of Jane that hadn’t been touched in a long time. When he rested his hand on her ass, she didn’t shove it away. She probably could have if she had been firm about it. Later, when he stroked her face, it made her smile. And when his hand dropped to cup and massage her chest, she tried to pull away. He slapped her for that. Then went back to it. Jane didn’t resist after that. He knew her type. He had correctly guessed her reaction. A token protest because society demanded it. But he was beyond what society wanted. What he wanted was her.

And an hour later, in his apartment, he got her. He choked Jane, slapped her, and shoved her around. He fucked her brutally and she took it. In Jane’s mind, history was repeating itself. But this time, she was soaked, wet, and wanted it. She had choice and agency this time around. She felt alive. And after, he cuddled her tight in his arms and Jane felt safe in a way she hadn’t in a very long time. Later, she woke to him pushing her prone, shoving against her ass. She flailed and tried to stop him, but he slapped her and kept at it until he was in her ass. She cried but didn’t struggle as he forced himself deeper into her ass. After several painful minutes of fucking it, he came in her bowels. Then Jane’s head was jerked up and spun around and his cock was in her mouth. She tasted the shit and more, the sheer presumption that she would do it. But she did. She cleaned John’s cock and after, he held her tight again, stroked her hair, and told her how proud he was of her. It was confusing, to say the least.