by Saskia Vogel
He liked the way Orly listened. Taking in his every word.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I promise I won’t be careless.’
THE SECOND TUESDAY of the month. Piggy’s regular day of service. His day of days. A day around which all else revolved.
In the morning, he fixed her coffee and brought it to her in bed. Orly assessed his work and then dismissed him. She brushed her teeth and put on a kimono a client had bought her when she was working from Japan, and met Piggy in the living room. There he was waiting with the locked box in which his rope was kept. His rope, a rope he cared for, a rope for him to keep clean and in good shape. She’d chosen it for him. Superman red. She’d said: Star Sapphire seized control of Superman by hanging her gem around his neck. I’m going to make you a harness. When you wear it, your will is mine. She draped the rope around his neck and tied the first knot at his sternum.
To mark the start of the session today, Orly would ask him to kneel. Knees spread, naked but for his leather thong, back of his hands resting on his knees, palms up, ready to receive, eyes down. After years of service, he had learned to be comfortable in his body. Undressed, it no longer made him feel ashamed in front of Orly. She spoke the words she used to call him into service, he responded with his words of devotion and submission, and then she took out his rope. Silken and red. She draped the rope around his neck and tied the first knot at his sternum. Then she fashioned a harness of knots criss-crossing his chest and running between his legs, exerting pressure on his balls as he went about his day. With a loose collared shirt, you almost couldn’t see it, and it was one such shirt he wore when he ran her errands, starting at the dry cleaner’s and ending at the grocery store so the perishables wouldn’t spend too long in the car.
On this occasion, she’d asked for something more. Her last client was to leave at eleven p.m., and she wanted Piggy to clean up after him. Normally she kept her clients out of each other’s sight, keeping a separate intimacy for each. He knew he was lucky that she had a found a role for him to play in her fantasies, that of her loyal houseboy.
Eleven fifteen, he walked through the door to her playroom. They were alone, so he wore only the harness and his thong. With her, he didn’t hate the way his muscles seemed to be lifting from the bone; dips of flesh and papery skin somehow meant nothing with her. He was perfect as Piggy. And she was sublime to him. They’d known each other since she was starting out – perhaps time and proximity were making way for romantic love. He knew it was not part of their agreement, but he’d never stopped hoping.
He stepped on something sharp and hard. Piggy jumped, squealed, and grabbed his bare foot to see what manner of thing it was. Clothespins. Some in piles, others scattered. When he looked up from the floor, he saw her. She had chosen to spend the last part of her day with him. He did not hide his elation, and he thought he saw her smile.
‘There are one hundred clothespins,’ Orly said. ‘Put them in the bucket and clean them. We’ll begin there.’ A blue plastic bucket, the kind children take to the beach, was in the middle of the room.
From her chair, Orly watched him crawl across the floor on hands and knees, searching under the toy chest and the rest of the furniture, aware of each hair on his body, the way his muscles moved, how little of his skin was covered. He hoped it pleased her to see his body, to see him on hands and knees. It must have. There were other places to sit in view of him, but she had chosen the throne – a high-backed leather and oak chair he’d found at a flea market the week after she’d asked what he thought about being her renter. The rent would be cheap in exchange for help around the house, help that was separate from the hours he spent in her service, this she’d made clear. He sent her a picture of the chair along with his yes. It pleased her and her pleasure was his joy.
And tonight he knew it would be easy to displease her. In the dim, warm light, he saw her hands squeezing the armrest, squeezing, releasing. A sign of impatience and fatigue. He knew she’d had a long day, and yet she was here. It made him feel wanted and special, worthy of the attention of a woman like her. A woman with such beautiful hands, slender and strong, the elegant taper of her fingers. He longed to be asked to kiss each and every one. But without her invitation, there would be no kissing, and so he turned his desire to the clothespins. Doing exactly as she asked. No mistakes. Perfect. Like the work he’d done as part of their renter’s agreement.
Orly hadn’t wanted to invite any clients in before her sanctuary was complete, and they’d come to a standstill over the cage she wanted to hang in the corner. The ceiling was too weak for suspension points, but he’d found an alternative: building a custom wooden frame, tall and wide enough for most purposes. Solid handiwork. She’d said so. He’d had help, but sometimes help was what was needed to deliver the desired result. It was one of the things he liked about this world: skill sharing. Carpentry, nursing, first aid, the art of Florentine cross-flogging: the community was stronger when this information was shared. And yes, when Orly wanted to be able to suspend people from the ceiling, he called the handiest guy he knew, a general contractor who was also in the scene.
Orly had been so impressed with his work that she’d given him an extra special treat.
Taking her time.
Binding his balls with a cotton lace.
Nice and tight.
Swell and pool.
Dark and hard.
Thrum of pain, twitch.
The ping-pong paddle.
That’s what you get for being a good boy.
When the clothespins had been left to dry, he cleaned the bondage table with soap and hot water, finishing with hospital-grade wet-wipes. As he sterilized the surfaces, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking it.
How nice this was.
Just the two of them.
In the half-year leading up to this move, when she was busy building her business, and on the road for work, Orly would attend to him over the phone. Trading his services for her time was the only way he could afford it. He knew he wasn’t like other clients who had money to burn, offering lavish gifts and cash in tribute. He’d always had to scrimp and scrounge to see her, and after the financial crisis, even those dollars dried up. She had offered him this arrangement, and he felt flattered by her trust. He tried not to be picky about how she handled the exchange. How many days of service had he passed all alone, his only reward a text message, voicemail or a handwritten note thanking him for his work, criticizing it and issuing instructions for punishments he had to carry out on his own? Orly’s refusal to be available to him when he craved her the most had felt like part of the tease. Reminding him that he was just her plaything. Denial kept him attentive, devoted, and engaged. Sometimes he simply missed her.
As the months wore on, he began to worry that Orly would never have time for him in-person again. He respected the work she put into developing her mail-order business, premium video content, taking care of emails, admin, and herself. He tried not to be greedy, allowed his needs to be subsumed by hers. All he wanted was for her to thrive. Why else would he dedicate so much of his time to her? But he wanted Orly in the flesh, too. She was the keeper of his greatest pleasures. He was devoted to Her.
His goddess.
His queen.
She who is to be admired but not touched.
Sensed but not felt.
His lust could be invoked but not unleashed without her permission. He couldn’t always keep it in, and sometimes he’d wake to find his sheets wet. He’d text her an update. Once she’d instructed him to lick it up because everyone knows ‘all good piggies are clean.’
He thought of that text often.
The sweet indignity.
No one understood him like she did.
If she wasn’t there to watch him come – and when she watched, she watched with glee, peppering the moment with insults, sometimes ruining it all together, cutting his orgasm short, oh – he’d write an email from his special account detailing the texture and taste of his cu
m, what he’d been thinking and feeling, what had pushed him over the edge.
A roll of toilet paper landed at his feet.
He stopped cleaning.
‘What happened here?’
He watched her watching him as he picked up the roll from the ground. Holding it close. Squeezing it. A powdery scent.
Scented.
Orly hated scented toilet paper.
‘My pussy already smells like peach,’ she’d said the last time this happened.
His hands sweated into the soft roll. In the aisle at the grocery store. A child screaming on the floor, a helpless raging thing. He’d grabbed the first paper he had found. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid mistake. He trembled as he told her.
‘Come over here,’ she said. Kind, but firm.
OK. Better.
She was in the bathroom.
He came.
Head down.
She was sitting on the edge of the tub.
‘Sweet Piggy…’
He perked up. She called him by their name.
‘Be more careful next time. You know I can’t stand sloppy mistakes.’
He nodded.
‘You’re safe here. Do you understand?’
He didn’t respond. It seemed too much right now, to feel like this, to be like this with her, welcome and heard. If he moved, if he opened his mouth, he was afraid something would change.
‘Say it.’
He did as he was told: ‘I understand.’
She thanked him. He had done well tonight. Gone above and beyond. Her smile was warm; she seemed to relax. He blushed.
She took off her shoe, her foot red where the straps had been tight, pushing him away, her foot on his chest.
Allowing him to touch.
Fingers between her toes, chipped red polish. Rolling her ankle in circles. Should he, could he ask to kiss the tips of her fingers and her toes?
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Sitting so his face could be closer to it.
Her hum of approval.
His kneading, her pleasure.
Him and her, like it had been at the start.
When she was a novice and he was her only toy or test dummy.
Her cell phone rang.
She gave him a conspiratorial smile.
When she said ‘hello,’ the word belonged to their moment.
Her foot in his mouth, toes gripping his bottom row of teeth. She put her finger to her lips. He nodded. He would make no sound. With pleasure, he’d suffer in silence.
‘No, I’m not busy,’ she said for his benefit, wiggling her toes on his tongue.
The voice on the other end, an insistent staccato buzz.
She turned away from him to listen.
Her toes stopped moving in his mouth. Her foot was heavy. She pulled it out.
‘Of course. I’ll be right there.’
That sinking feeling.
Could it never be just the two of them?
PIGGY IMAGINED ORLY driving away: along the road that ran parallel with the coast. When he’d first driven down here, when she’d asked if he’d like to see the space she was planning on renting, he thought he was driving into a resort. To be so close to the sea, free of the city’s sounds, no crowds. The word ‘dignity’ had come to mind. Orly was restoring his dignity, he thought. He looked at the clock by his bed and put his book aside. He was in no state to be reading. He smoothed his hand over his robe, lay flat on the bed, and shut his eyes. He wanted to stay with her.
She’d be at the harbour by now, approaching the freeway, then driving past the shipping containers and the refinery, its red lights blinking against the night sky. And on to downtown. He wondered if she had put some music on, if she was thinking of him, the classical station, maybe, or the mix he’d made her. If she was listening to the music, was she looking forward to picking up where they’d left off before the neighbour girl interrupted them with her phone call?
He checked the time. She’d be coming into downtown where the traffic would be clogged, it always was. Maybe she’d anticipate it and take the surface streets. He listed the most likely options, picturing her car moving along, stopping at red lights or catching a good flow. Her car was clean. Spick and span. He’d had it detailed himself. She’d have a chance to enjoy how clean it was, driving on her own, nothing asking for her attention but the road. The leather oiled, the carpets freshly shampooed. The coconut scent she liked. He’d found a good car wash not too far from their house. That morning, after he’d brought her her coffee, he’d watched through the window as the car entered the tunnel to be cleaned. It slid between the spinning brushes, their dull rhythmic thud on its body. He remembered how Mistress Victoria had bound his wrists to the spreader bar, Mistress Victoria and Lady Sabina finding their rhythm, the leather tails spinning in their hands. The wet curtain of fabric strips gliding heavily across the hood of the car had given him the chills. He pictured the car gleaming, his own mistress inside. He checked the time. He guessed she wouldn’t park. He guessed she’d pull up to the curb and the neighbour girl would jump in. Orly wouldn’t want to hang around, he thought. She’d want to come back to him. She hadn’t told him to wait up. But she hadn’t told him to go to bed. He checked the time again. She had to be on her way back home.
Sleep came for him. He woke to a low rumble, the car pulling onto the driveway. He checked the time. They must have made a stop along the way. He got out of bed and opened his bedroom door, bleary-eyed but eager to greet her. He heard Orly talking with someone as she entered the house. The neighbour girl. Laughing as they made their way to the stairs. He quietly shut his door. He listened to the women walk down the hall, Orly opening the linen closet to take out a fresh set of towels. The sound of water running, and then nothing at all. He waited.
Then he crawled into bed, hoping sleep would find him again. It did not. So he did what he could to still the large feeling that made your desire seem both within reach and beyond your grasp. There was nothing he could do until morning. And his mornings with Orly had a fixed routine. He saw no reason to hide in his own home.
ORLY BUNDLED ME into her car like precious cargo.
We hit our speed on the freeway and the light began to stream.
She ferried me past the bends.
We rode the tide.
Her hand on the wheel, her hand on my thigh.
I could, if I dared, choose feeling.
A texture inside.
Filling.
Orly took her hand from my thigh to set the parking brake. Where her hand had been was smoldering. She made a show of unbuckling me, pressing her finger down. I watched her watch the hard edge of the seat belt slide along my neck; it was holding me in place. How thin the skin was there.
‘Do you want to come in?’ she asked, as if she couldn’t have predicted my reply.
Orly’s house was silver in the moonshine, its votive glitter on the waves. Light clung to the jasmine and honeysuckle climbing the trellis at the front of her house. The garden respired. The roses were slack with the weight of their curving scent. A breeze rustled the pygmy palms, their heavy swaying fronds. Root and soil, the underside of leaves. Where light will not reach. All is well and all else forgotten. Open your lungs and breathe.
ORLY SAID SHE’D WAIT while I showered.
Only when I was in the bathroom did I realize she’d followed me in.
‘Do you mind if I watch?’ she asked.
I shook my head but turned to the side, wanting her to see but unsure if she’d like what she saw. I was still dolled-up for someone else. I snuck a glance at her in the mirror. She was leaning against the doorframe. Content.
I discarded the dress.
The undergarments.
The paper towel stiff with blood.
I flung them into the corner by the toilet.
When my shoes were all that was left to remove, she said, ‘Let me see.’
I struck a pose. Fists to hips.
‘Lovely,’ sh
e said. ‘Turn around.’
I spun with Orly as my point of focus, and then kicked off my shoes so they landed at her feet. One, two. My dexterous toes.
The full costume on the floor.
In the shower I scrubbed and scrubbed my skin. Scrubbed away the sweat, mine and his, sweat from the seat of the cop car. I scrubbed away everything that had touched me. I rinsed away the musk of bleeding. All that I was shedding. She reached through the curtain and touched my lips. My mouth opened. Water rained in.
When I was done, she wrapped me in a towel. The scratch of terry cloth, softening as it dried my hot skin, slightly sore. She ran the towel up my legs, my torso, cupped my breasts and squeezed. Without meaning to, but meaning it fully, I said, ‘Thank you.’
She laughed and squeezed me again. This time I moaned to show her I liked it. To show her how much I wanted her, I did all the things I knew how to do. Moving in ways I knew to be pleasing. Arching my back and pressing my bottom against her. My bare, clean skin against the towel against her body. The cushion of her breasts. When she didn’t respond, I noticed my expectation. I was waiting for her cue: indications of pleasure that would let me know how to proceed. When I was done, she would think I was spectacular.
‘Stop,’ she said.
I froze. Maybe it was still early enough to pretend we’d never seen each other like this. Maybe we could go back to being just neighbours in a community that didn’t act like a community unless something was spoiling the view. We’d wave at each other on the street, nothing more. I was hiding myself with my arms.
‘This isn’t going to work if you’re afraid to look at me,’ Orly said.
Her eyes were kind.
‘I want you,’ she said.
‘I’m on my period,’ I said.
‘I don’t mind.’
With one finger, she unfastened my towel and let it drop.
My hair was dripping wet. She watched a droplet roll down my torso and then erased its path with her thumb. I sucked it.
She held me close. I stiffened; she held me tighter and murmured, ‘Don’t move a muscle.’
