The lot after lockup

Everyone else clocked out. I locked the side door, took the scrubs top off in the car, and left the collar on. Skirt I could crawl in. My knees don't love asphalt. I stop caring once it starts.

He met me by the dumpsters the building camera doesn't reach, and he brought his phone because I asked him to. Down, he said. I went down. Hands on the paint marks, tag clicking, face hot. He walked me a few meters and I followed on my knees the way I've practiced, which is on carpet, like a person rehearsing. Good bitch, he said, and I made the sound I make, not a word.

He spanked me bent over the bumper, hard enough that I yelped and then pushed back for the next one. Twenty. I counted in my head and missed a number and he started the set again. The red light sat in the car's paint. When he fucked me I stayed in the posture, cheek on my arm, collar tugged when he wanted my throat longer. He came on the collar. I stayed down until he said up.

Then I was Jenna again, shy, laughing once, asking if the video was too dark. It wasn't. I drove home with the collar in the cupholder and a playlist I like when I'm sore and kind. The dogs tomorrow will get the gentle hands. They always do. This doesn't leak into them. I would stop the whole thing before I let it.