Story of L

by Debra Hyde

  “Scene worshippers?” Liv queried.

  “People who like to latch on to prominent individuals in the scene. Sort of like star fuckers, only kinky.”

  “Okay.”

  “Cassandra loved the adulation, the money, but her heart has always belonged to women.”

  “So Quinn told me,” Liv said.

  The hint of a smirk appeared on Reese's face, but he kept it in check and admitted to Liv, “I know how she feels about Cassandra. It's okay. And I know that's her, not you. Anyway…

  “It used to be easy for Cassandra to have a bevy of women to play with and sleep among. So much so that I sometimes wonder if she dreamed of her own Utopia where queer women of all kinds could gather under her benign rule. Wouldn't matter whether they were dyke or bi, butch or femme, or any variety of transgendered. As long as they loved her, they'd have a place.

  “But I'm speculating.”

  Their food arrived, and Reese paused to slice his burger in half and pepper his salad and veggies. Liv settled on a mouthful of BLT, then a couple of chips, and tried to munch as quietly as possible. Loud eating probably would not appeal to Reese.

  “At first Cassandra considered her darlings little more than playthings. Granted, she was young and times were heady; it was easy to be casual and carefree. But her sexual salon didn't last long—the group dynamics got away from her. But that was a sign of the times too.”

  He bit into his sandwich and, apparently finding it savory, lingered over it. Liv assumed that it was as much a test of her patience as it was epicurean delight, so she paced herself, eating slowly so she would not finish too ahead of his tale.

  When Reese continued, it was by way of a brief history lesson.

  “It was the ’70s and the great divide between lesbian and bisexual women invaded Cassandra's salon. It wrecked her little paradise. By the time the ’80s hit, her fantasy island was pretty much a desolate ruin.”

  “So, does she want to reconstitute the idea?” Liv ventured.

  Reese chortled. “No way! She gave up on that idea while we were in elementary school.” Liv did a quick calculation. Cassandra was—what?—roughly 55? Twenty years older than me. The estimate intrigued her.

  “But,” Reese continued, “she never gave up on the idea of a darling. However, it took on new meaning through the years. Cassandra no longer yearns for a plaything—heck, they're a dime a dozen, what with the leather scene being about as secretive as the Freemasons. Casual play is easy to come by these days.”

  “What do you mean?” Liv asked, unsure whether Reese was about to rant about “the scene today” that some people with any amount of longevity were prone to.

  “Cassandra tells me that back in the day—”

  Reese's eyes glinted conspiratorially, as if they both knew they were talking along the lines of walking two miles to school in the snow, uphill, both ways.

  “It was radical enough to simply be sexually active and uninhibited. It didn't take much to be defiant in those days. But…”

  “There's a but?”

  “Believe it or not, the whole world wasn't out swinging at Plato's Retreat or whipping it up in leather bars. Most people preferred conventional lives. There weren't as many play partners to go around back then, especially if you were queer and not living in a large metropolitan area.”

  Clearly, not was operative word here.

  “Can't you imagine? No phone chat lines, no Internet,” Liv mused, wondering what life was like back then.

  “No cell phones, tweeting, or texting.”

  Liv giggled. “Sounds downright primitive.”

  Reese shrugged. “But back to Cassandra. A good decade ago, she molded her idea of a darling into something more like a submissive slave. A woman she'd own, someone who'd be loyal to her, obedient. Someone able to be a comfort to her as she ages.”

  “What about you?”

  Reese stared at Liv. “I enjoy being a service bottom. I like being of use and exercising my competency.” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with this level of transparency. “Cassandra has my loyalty—she stood by me when I stopped fighting my identity and flexed my muscles, so to speak. I will be forever her service submissive. But I'm not the kind of submissive she needs. Plus, it's the old story of I love her, but I'm not in love with her. I'm perfectly happy as a service bottom and I'm more than happy seeing Cassandra resume her search for a darling.”

  “So she never found one?” Liv couldn't imagine it.

  Reese had that conspiratorial smile again. “Everyone wants to be a slave. Until they discover that it isn't all about them.”

  Liv nodded, agreeing. “How many prospective darlings discovered this at Cassandra's expense?”

  At Cassandra's expense? Reese gazed directly into Liv's eyes, smiling. Her addendum pleased him.

  “Seven.”

  Seven? The answer startled Liv.

  “Like I said, everybody wants to be a slave…”

  He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  “Which is why this meeting is important.” Reese gazed at Liv again, a new intensity upon his face. “Cassandra had pretty much given up on the idea. She concluded she'd go into her old age alone. Until she met you.”

  Liv's heart raced at Reese's intimated claim. She knew a dream come true when she saw one, but could barely raise her voice above a whisper.

  “What do I do?”

  Her question practically begged Reese for help. He reached out and took her hand.

  “Cassandra can be difficult. Really difficult,” he shared. “She's kind of…”

  Liv saw him struggle for the right words, deliberately trying to avoid the label “old guard.” She liked that he avoided bandying about the words casually. Even at her age, Cassandra was too young to be old guard leather.

  “Set in her ways.”

  He gazed at her again. “You'll have to jump through hoops, prove yourself. You'll have to give a lot of yourself to get just an iota of her.”

  Liv took her hand from his and straightened in her seat. She stared at him and asked one question.

  “Is it worth it?”

  To her surprise, Reese's face softened and she could've sworn she saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

  “Oh, yes. It's worth it.”

  His voice neared a whisper, as if he could not voice the answer any louder without crying.

  This time, Liv took his hand and held it.

  “Where do I start?” she asked.

  Chapter Three: Hoops

  Reese offered Liv more advice over dessert and coffee, telling her that he would serve as intermediary and guide to her in the process. He answered her questions as well, questions that seemed to flood from her after he confirmed that Cassandra was worth every effort. Did he think she was capable of rising to Cassandra's expectations? Absolutely. Would she be unreasonable in her demands? Now and again, he admitted. Will you help me, Liv asked plaintively, if it overwhelms me? Without fail.

  Cutting into his cheesecake with a fork, Reese glanced her way, smiling, and answered, “We made it to dessert, didn't we?”

  Liv grinned. They had warmed to each in the course of this meal, hadn't they? His strict facade had relaxed into outright amiability, and Liv had thrown most of her caution to the wind and opened herself to him.

  “Yes, we have,” she agreed.

  Reese sipped his coffee as Liv consumed dainty spoonfuls of ice cream in restrained congeniality. Reese seemed to appreciate her quiet social skills, but, unknown to Liv, he sat remembering a former candidate who expressly binged on everything in sight. By comparison, Liv was a delight. Cassandra's instincts were right, he noted.

  After he picked up the tab and as they walked to his car, he told Liv as much.

  “I'll have nothing but good things to say to Cassandra about you.”

  Liv blushed and demurred at Reese's compliment, but he waved her off and waxed serious.

  “Remember what 1 said: it won't be easy. Just because Cas
sandra adores you doesn't mean she'll coddle you. She has days when she can be quite unreasonable. She's far from perfect and sometimes she brings her flaws to her dominance. She's all too human in her erring.”

  Reese took Liv by the shoulders and stared into her eyes.

  “Be persistent.”

  Liv stared back. “And if I waver?”

  He smiled gently. “Tell me. I'll help you. I'll be your buffer when the going gets rough. Part of the job description.”

  Reese paused, then asked Liv if she remained interested in an avenue to Cassandra. She replied in the affirmative, baffled that he would ask. But when he reached into the pocket of his blazer and drew out an envelope, he revealed that Cassandra had demanded it of him.

  “Now and again, she'll ask for your consent,” he confided. “Reaffirmation is part of her approach, she claims. But, truth be told, she also loves having the power of making a darling squirm, especially a darling-in-waiting. Undoubtedly, she'll want to see you struggle.”

  The last part of Reese's explanation sounded like he enjoyed abetting Cassandra in her process—or, Liv wondered, did he enjoy watching it? That night at Hippolyte's, he certainly seemed as much a voyeur as a valet.

  As Reese handed Liv the envelope, his stiff, formal demeanor fell back into place. He instructed her not to open envelope or read its contents until after she returned home—and not a moment before. Like a guard returning to duty, he thanked her for her time, proffered a proper farewell, turned on his heels, and left without any hint of a backward glance.

  Liv blanched in the wake of Reese's departure—and promptly realizing that he had just left her squirming.

  On Reese's departure, Liv found the nearest street bench to sit and catch her breath. Weak in the knees, blood rushing in her ears, she felt like she'd just survived the first drop of a roller coaster. Guide and buffer though he may be, Liv had no doubt who Reese really served. And apparently whatever Cassandra wanted, Cassandra got, right down to teasing her in absentia.

  The envelope rested in her lap, her name emblazoned in a royal blue ink across its ecru stock, floridly ornamented in the trained hand of a calligrapher. Was this, too, Reese's doing, at Cassandra's behest? Or was Cassandra herself the artiste?

  Either way, they were one hell of a pair. Cassandra, haughty and removed during a scene, demonstrative afterward. Reese fleetingly warm and sociable, yet just as easily all business. And always in thrall to Cassandra's wishes. It amazed Liv that someone so service-oriented in his submission could be so swift and adept a dominant.

  A college student raced by, the wheels of his bicycle singing against the road, his speed kicking up enough of a gust that the envelope threatened escape. Mortified, Liv slapped it against her lap, pouncing on it like a cat on a mouse, adrenaline rushing. Her heart racing, she looked up and gazed at her surroundings. Traffic had picked up, pedestrian and otherwise. Cars growled by—a hybrid or two purred—in the afternoon stop-and-go march of this hearty New England town she called home. Down the street, the town's clock tower rang 3:00, late enough for high school students and college students to crowd the area.

  She fingered the envelope, teasing a corner the way a child might poke at a Christmas present, hoping that one accidental tear would earn her permission to open the present ahead of time.

  But no, Liv was no child. She would wait. She would return to her campus office and pretend to conduct office hours, knowing full well that students weren't likely to seek guidance until they saw the sinking grades of their first paper or midterm exam. She would entertain small talk and gossip with her colleagues. She would see her workday to its end and keep to the spirit of Cassandra's command.

  Slipping the envelope into her bag, she left the bench and walked back to campus, the memory of Reese's sharp departure still fresh in her head. Her body hadn't forgotten its effect either. A knot of excitement in her throat, a remnant of Reese's verbal raking.

  And more amazing—her susceptibility to his parting shot. Liv had always thought herself a good bottom, even a reasonably capable switch. But submissive? Not before Cassandra made it possible.

  Submission made her think of a certain abject desperation, a kind of clinging need born of a misery driven so inward that it was no longer recognizable to insight and intellect. But was it? When she thought of Cassandra and imagined various scenarios, she saw herself kneeling and ready and, surprisingly, anything but desolate. She was, in fact, crystalline, pure, as if her desire had emerged from the mess of personal history, recast in a new, untouched beauty. In dueling the void, had Cassandra opened an undiscovered path for Liv? Or had the void itself given way to some other inner entity, something new and profound?

  Liv clutched her purse tighter, all too aware that the answers that might well reside there, and hurried back to work.

  A mug of herbal tea in her grip, Liv stared at the envelope now propped against the vase on her dining room table. A tendril of scent—Cassandra's perfume—snaked across the table to compete with the aroma of orange spice that wafted from her cup. A stainless steel letter opener, a gift from her onetime lover upon completing her master's thesis, sat between her and the letter.

  Grasp me, lift me, it seemed to say. Feel my heft. Employ me, it urged.

  Yet Liv hesitated. She felt like a child with a new box of crayons, not a carton of measly eight or sixteen crayons, but the celebrated box of sixty-four that every kid longed for. The box of immeasurable possibilities. She remembered her first box of sixty-four, how marvelous and magical its possession had been. Having purchased one the night before, she had risen the next morning, taken her crayons into the family room, set them on the coffee table, and turned on the morning cartoons.

  She opened the box. And then she stared at it. She stared at its amazing array of colors, its rows tightly and perfectly packed, their tips uniformly honed. Wonder-filled, she regarded it as the most beautiful exactness she had ever seen.

  The child-Liv knew that the moment she took a crayon from the box, its exquisite perfection would be no more. Its compactness would give way to cluttered assembly. Its molded tips would wear flat. Its clean paper wraps would become scuffed with the colors of neighboring crayons. The box itself would degrade with use, weakening as crayons migrated to and fro. Swipes of color would scuff and mar its innards.

  Yes, one crayon, removed for use, would break this pristine crispness and in a year's time, the box would be trashed. Crayons would break or go missing, and all too soon, the sixty-four would join other older crayons in a tin, remnants from a once perfect moment.

  Liv regarded Cassandra's envelope with the same awareness and wonder. Her name an elaborate adornment upon its face, it beckoned possibility. Imbued with Cassandra's lingering scent, it promised bright newness. Yet Liv dithered just as the child-Liv had.

  Until she remembered Reese's nearly breathless admission. Until she remembered the hint of soft tears in his eyes, the soft melting of his countenance.

  Oh yes. It's worth it.

  Resolved, she reached for the letter opener, took the envelope in hand, and sliced it open. Its contents were more note than letter, but what it said, it conveyed in handwriting florid and certain. You are exquisite and I want you. But I am not an easy mistress. I demand a submission few can achieve. Coming to me will not be an easy process—you must be willing to abide my every command. And at this juncture, I need proof of your intent, your commitment, and your capability.

  The words were pointed, direct, yet they confirmed what Reese had laid out over lunch. He had also warned her that he would watch her from afar to see that she carried out any and all visible requests. Discreetly, of course, he promised. But he visibly relished the notion as if his proxy power was his to savor.

  A shrinking feeling had seized Liv in the face of Reese's delight then, and, reading Cassandra's words now, it claimed her again.

  Return to me a lock of your hair. An inch worth. From the right side, along your jawline, where it will be visible. Place it in
an envelope and leave it in your mailbox.

  Her mind threw itself into overdrive, envisioning the compromising haircut. Her hair barely reached her nape and nothing would hide the apparent and odd result that would come of her compliance. But that was what Cassandra wanted, wasn't it? People noticing.

  Liv didn't care if her students noticed; enough of them were outlandish in their own appearance that she'd probably earn instant street cred in their eyes. But she would need a viable excuse for her colleagues and superiors. She pictured herself with her neighboring professors, their eyes glued to her jawline, their expressions questioning. “Variation on a theme,” she found herself saying to them. It felt so right in her imagination that Liv knew she had her answer, however tight-lipped it might be. And most of her colleagues would further assume it was some new lesbian style that Ellen or Rosie hadn't yet gotten hip to.

  Satisfied and willing, Liv fetched a pair of scissors and headed for her bathroom mirror.

  The next morning, Liv barely looked at herself in the mirror. Nor did she hasten to the cup of tea steeping at her kitchen table. Instead, she rushed to the porch of her house and peeked inside her mailbox. One of five mounted on the front wall of her home, it stood empty.

  The tooth fairy had come. Somehow, Reese had retrieved the return envelope in the night.

  Liv hoped the Weirs hadn't seen the pickup go down. She didn't care whether her other tenants did—college students minded their own business in almost oblivious innocence—but the elderly couple who had sold her the house on the condition that they could live out their days there was another matter. Fifty years of living in one location had honed their watchfulness. They knew the rhythm of their surroundings better than Mother Nature herself.

  In fact, her haste in and of itself broke with routine, and Liv silently scolded herself. Coming up with a plausible explanation for the Weirs would not be the cakewalk that the workplace posed. She knew her neighbors and they knew her. Living side by side for six years in kind and generous terms had created a satisfying and pleasing level of intimacy. But such familiarity now posed a problem, and Liv knew the situation would test her skill of invention.