"May I change my clothes, Master?" she asked.

We were standing outside the arrival gate at JFK. With the sundress exposing her bare shoulders and long legs, she was getting lecherous stares from the male passersby. I was embarrassed. "Look, ah...Jesse, please don’t call me that; my name is Howard. And you don’t need my permission to change your clothes. That life is over for you. I’m a decent person, I don’t treat women badly."

She looked at me with a strange expression. "Thank you, Ma... Thanks, Howard. There are some jeans and a top in this bag. Maybe I could wear them?"

"That would be fine," I said. She just stood there holding the bag. I was confused. "Go ahead," I urged.

She glanced at my shyly and said, "I’m not permitted to open it." It was ridiculous, but I guess once you’ve been whipped for something, you learn.

"Look, I said, you don’t..." then I stopped, frustrated. This wasn’t the place to have this conversation. Bending down, I opened the bag and handed...

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