Beg Me Read Online Free Page A

have hearsay chatter that she wanted more and more thrills. And the old marks on her throat suggest she was a gasper.
    We know she and her boyfriend broke up. He went home to London. Anna stayed in New York with this group.
    We can
infer
that Anna stumbled onto something big, something the group didn’t want her to know. So they killed her and then staged her death scene.
    We know somebody in that group is one smug bastard, wanting Lee to know he got away with it.
    And beyond that? We don’t know much else.
    The truth was that my job couldn’t really start until I was back home in London and interviewing Anna’s boyfriend, Craig, for my own answers.
    I also knew even then that this world, one where Anna got her kicks and which she must have completely understood, was one that baffled me, and I would need to infiltrate it nevertheless. I had witnessed and played in some weird fads, and all too recently I had been lying on the green felt of a poker table, making it while others watched. But I knew next to nothing about the BDSM world.
    I knew that what they did they apparently called “scenes,” and all the “Master” and “Slave” talk from books and movies struck me as a bit silly. Hey, I think of myself as mostly straight, but there are certain girls I like, certain things I like. I sure as hell was never going to like what they call water sports (ewwww!), and I couldn’t understand pain. At least I didn’t understand it yet.
    It scared me to think I might.
    It scared me to think I could possibly grow to like it, whether dishing it out or, worse, taking it.
    But what I had never told anybody, what I had to admit to myself no matter how uncomfortable, was another insight I learned when I investigated the whole craze of strip poker games sweeping the posh set last year in London. Without going into details, I had what I call my “revelation of rope.” I’d never been so vulnerable.
    I came more times than I can count.
    The truth. The truth is I have an exhibitionistic streak.
    The truth is that I was ready for new revelations of vulnerability.

    Breathe. I love how people say it to you like it’s a conscious choice. It takes you a second to realize it can be in many contexts. Breathe to remind yourself you’re living. Breathe to slow down. Breathe because you’ve stopped in panic, fear, surprise, whatever. So. Breathe. Focus on your breathing.
    I had called Busaba and Keith to come out and play—our first transition from me as escort client to friend—and after showing me a couple of the sights, they asked if I wanted to try practicing meditation. “I bet you lead a plenty stressful life,” Keith observed in a teasing voice. Well, not so much—only when rent is due or when people are trying to kill me. Okay, stop thinking and just breathe.
    So here I was in Wat Mahathat, an eighteenth-century temple that goes back even before the founding of Bangkok. Shaved-headed monks in their brilliant orange robes walked in a barefoot line through the compound, and the three of us sat cross-legged in front of a golden Buddha, trying to empty our minds. And I did my best to stop fidgeting.
    I loved the informality of it. The faithful come and go as they please, no severely hard church pews, no images to inspire crushing guilt. When you think about it, the depiction of a smiling fellow, just sitting calmly and
thinking
(or not thinking too much if you want to get technical), has got to be one of the most sublime accessible images in world religion.
    Stop thinking. Just breathe.
    I felt Busaba’s tiny fingers push gently on my spine to correct my posture. A smile flickered on her lips, and then she was back to her own concentration. No rebuke in this quiet place, no holding on to regrets or problems. People told me they walk out and feel refreshed after they go to temple. Faintly, I heard Keith a few feet away recite under his breath what I took for a Buddhist sutra (scripture) in Thai. I sat and relaxed, letting