Story of L

by Debra Hyde

  Autumn had finally tumbled into its fullness. Its Indian summer gone, its frosts lasted well past dawn and nights fell fast and still, void of insect songs. Autumn had always struck Liv as a conclusion, a drawing nigh of dormancy, but this autumn whispered to her in new ways, luring her with possibility and promise.

  A slight gust blew past her, sending her hair into her eyes and leaving her pimpled with cold. She hated waiting at the curb, something so beyond her normal routine that she felt certain that the whole world watched her. Why Reese had ordered her to wait there baffled her. Why couldn't he come into the driveway and fetch her from her back door, the reverse of how he'd returned her that delicious, naked night that earned her this new path? But then, this was not about her comfort. This was about a new trial unfolding before her, and standing streetside was, no doubt, its first step.

  When Reese arrived, Liv saw why he'd ordered her to the curb. Instead of his red compact car—she remembered its turning radius as perfect for her driveway—a dark livery sedan pulled up. An actual chauffeur stepped from the driver's seat, offered her the door, and stood at her ready. Liv took her seat, fussing with her skirt, but, true to his station, the chauffeur stood perfectly poker-faced until she buckled her seat belt. Only then did he close her door and return to the driver's seat.

  Reese sat amid a lap full of papers, at work. Besides him, in the space between the two of them, an appointment book rested, its entries penciled in neatly and with care, but its pages littered with loose ends in the form of countless sticky notes. Liv sat ramrod straight, her skirt bunched about her, a clear sign that she had her naked skin against the seat. Busy, Reese didn't even look up.

  But he did acknowledge her. “I appreciate the gesture, L; it's good you remembered. But you might as well relax. It's going to be a long ride and the last thing I need is for you to arrive, muscles cramped and knotted because of protocol.”

  Cell phone in hand, he scrolled through its screen, thumb-typed a text message, then sought out a contact and made a call. A series of verbal yeses and nos followed, then dates. A voice mail menu, no doubt. Reese was canceling something—the newspaper?—for a month.

  Clear your weekends for the next month.

  So Cassandra was going away for a time. And she had included Liv in the getaway. Liv almost lost her composure, but she fought the urge to grin like a gushing sycophant and smothered it enough that only a sliver crept across her face. Reese, she hoped, wouldn't notice, buried as he was. And if he did, she hoped he'd find it a tempered, reasonable reaction.

  Several minutes into the drive, the chauffeur asked if Reese would like some music. Typing, he answered, “No. NPR news. Or the BBC. Something edifying.” From the brevity of his typing and heavy use of the tab key, Liv assumed that he was working on a spreadsheet. He seemed well seasoned in the work.

  With the world passing by in highway blandness and little else to do, Liv broached a question. “What did you do before you joined Cassandra?”

  Reese did a quick save and glanced her way. Apparently seeing her genuinely curious, he paused in his work. His demeanor softened, giving up some of its concentrated edge. “Financial analysis. For a Fortune 500 company.”

  Liv nodded, unwilling to intrude further. Reese had sublimated his affability for the intensity of his tasks, rendering him removed and remote. He hadn't glanced her way more than twice in ten minutes and what little he did notice, he must've caught from the corner of his eye, a game face if ever there was one.

  As the livery crossed into Connecticut, Reese sent another text message. To Cassandra? Liv presumed so. She leaned against the car interior and sighed. Soon, she told herself, soon. Her heart melted, a sublime joy, so different from the nova flares of loves past. Had submission tamed her heart? Waiting had certainly made her a more patient person. She remained eager, anticipatory, ready, but impulsive? Hardly.

  Waiting had been an exercise in yearning—and in devouring the tidbits Cassandra had tossed Liv's way. But where once such teasing had fueled her hunger and kept her prowling for more, now it satisfied. It met her needs, answered them, then demanded a patient loyalty that she had assumed was beyond her. There, in that quiet patience, she had found bliss and strength. She had discovered the unexpected.

  I am submissive.

  Liv wrapped her hand over her right wrist, over the tattoo, and closed her eyes. Quiet subservience flowed through her, warmed her, and filled her heart.

  I am submissive. An ultimate admission, and hers to savor.

  The car climbed a long, broad hill forty-five minutes into Connecticut, a distant twin to the small mountain south of Liv. On its descent, the driver exited the highway for a smaller parkway. Seeing the road signs, Liv felt like Connecticut was shedding its New England identity for something chic and more metropolitan. No wonder Boston baseball fans called Connecticut Newyorkachusetts, she thought.

  With each mile traveled, Liv felt the pull of home lessen its grip as if it had loosed its moorings and cast her adrift. For comfort, she reached for the purse at her feet and sought out her talisman, cribbing the swatch in her right hand and along her thigh. There, she discreetly thumbed the lace and soothed herself. She closed her eyes, relieved.

  She heard Reese pause in his paper shuffling. She opened her eyes and, turning his way, found him sniffing the air like a dog after a scent. His eyes narrowed, discerningly.

  “What do you have?” he asked, certain but not at all accusatory. Liv knew he expected honest disclosure—and she knew he would know if she at all hedged in her answer. She smiled weakly and handed him the Tenerife lace piece.

  “I made it to keep me close to Cassandra. It soothes me.”

  Reese took the lace from her and examined it. Like her, he ran his thumb over its woven center. When he looked up from it, she saw admiration in his gaze.

  “You made this?”

  She nodded. “It's Tenerife lace. My grandmother taught me.”

  He put it near his nose and inhaled. “Wish I'd thought of something like that when I was jumping through the hoops.”

  He returned it to her, his face soft with understanding, and returned to his work.

  An hour later, the car stopped at a rest area for its facilities. Resuming their trip, Reese placed a phone call.

  “We're in Greenwich,” he said, then paused to listen. “Yes, ma'am,” he acknowledged and ended the call.

  He reached into his briefcase and pulled a blindfold from it. Liv closed her eyes, leaned toward him, and accepted it. The first of what would be many rules followed, but none would make her heart tumble as this one would.

  “From now, you are L.”

  L. A simple letter. Yet it changed everything.

  An hour later, they reached their destination, and when Reese led Liv and they entered a home, she knew from the sound of her heels that she had stepped onto a marble floor. And from its broad echo, she knew she stood amid grandeur, vast at that.

  She stood silent, attentive, in what she assumed was a foyer. What senses she had available to her, she cast about for clues. A hint of flower, indistinct but unmistakable, reached her, conjuring the image of a mixed arrangement in a vase. Likely large and showy, given the echo she had heard when she stepped across the threshold. As she breathed, she sensed air bordering on dryness. Was this domain large enough to make maintaining comfortable humidity levels a challenge?

  Her ears heard nothing until the sounds of approach neared. Several people, one in shoes, the others softly padding along. Slippered feet? Once close, she smelled a man's cologne, heard giggles from at least two women.

  “Hello, Reese,” a man's voice sounded. “So this is her?”

  “Hello, sir,” he answered. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Cassandra's darling,” the man remarked, his voice a mix of assessment and wonder.

  “She is L.”

  Emotion caught in her throat, the thrill of Reese's words almost choking her.

  “L. Yes, well, let's get her down to basic,
Reese.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I'll leave my girls to help you. They'll show you to her cell.”

  Another round of giggles ensued, the man's departing footsteps amid them. One of the women came close and L caught a whiff of a distinct odor. Nakedness. But for their slippers, the women were naked. And their enthusiasm was equally unbridled.

  Eager, ready hands caressed her, petted her like a new kitten. L tensed.

  “May we?”

  “Please, Reese?”

  “Yes, please?”

  Their begs had the air of spoiled indulgence, as if they were used to getting their way merely by begging their daddies for whatever caught their impulsive fancy. Two women, L surmised.

  “Girls, some decorum, please,” Reese demanded, taking L's purse from her. “She hasn't even heard the house rules yet.”

  L relaxed, relieved to know that Reese was no pushover. The girls audibly pouted and, however clichéd their response, it gave L reason to allow a small smile to escape her.

  “You may remove her clothes. But no pawing.”

  Reese was firm on the latter point and gave fair warning as well. “Get carried away, girls, and I'll revoke the privilege.” From the way the girls demurred, L suspected that revocation carried consequences harsh enough to keep them in check.

  Dutifully and, L sensed, a touch dismal, the girls helped her from her clothes. One unbuttoned her blouse, while the other pulled it from her shoulders. Fingers traveled lengths of her back, her arms, her torso, touches that explored, sometimes lingered, but always respectfully and with appreciation. L shivered under this magic, her nipples hardening and her skin pimpling in the late night's air.

  Hands unbuttoned the back of her skirt and tugged at its zipper, then shimmied it from her hips.

  “Why, she's nearly naked underneath,” one of women remarked as, with help, L stepped from her skirt. “Where's the fun in that?”

  Reese cleared his throat. “The matter of her dress—or lack thereof—isn't your concern. She dresses for Cassandra, not little house sluts.”

  The women tittered at this, one of them teasing him with invitations to their bed. “Let me suck that delicious little dick of yours!” she begged him.

  “How about you wank off while we fuck each other?” the second implored.

  Reese scoffed and shooed them on ahead. But he hadn't clearly declined their invitations.

  * * * *

  The blindfold came off after Reese led L through the house and to her cell. Blinking back to sightedness, L found her accommodations more monastic than penal. A square window at the outside wall spoke of an old basement and little natural light. Under it, sat a small rather forlorn-looking fanback chair. A twin-size bed abutted the wall directly across from the doorway. A small armoire sat squat next to the door. Except for a throw rug, the floor was tiled—freshly polished by the looks of its gleam.

  Reese opened the armoire and set her clothes and purse in it. From it, he took a collar, but rather than bring it to her, he motioned for her to sit on the bed while he took the chair and pulled it close. Sitting, he looked her in the eye.

  “I'll fetch you every morning and return you here each night. You should ask any questions during those times.

  “While you are here, your hands are not your own. Same goes for your breasts and all orifices. They are Cassandra's to use as she sees fit. And anyone she lends you to.

  “Deportment: keep your lips soft and available. Don't cross your legs or press your knees together when sitting.

  “Most important: never look up. Keep your eyes to the ground. Never make eye contact.”

  Finally, he leaned forward and placed the collar around her neck. Metal grommeted to leather, it hugged her neck as he locked it into place, its weight just enough to be a constant presence in L's awareness. An O-ring dangled from its center.

  “By day, this collar marks your status as slave. Each night I'll chain you to the bed by it so your last thought then and your first thought each morning will focus on your fettered state.

  “Do you consent?”

  L nodded. “Yes.” She couldn't imagine coming this far and saying otherwise.

  Reese rose and motioned for L to get under the bed's blankets. He reached for the chain and locked L into it. To her surprise, it was generous enough to allow her out of bed. Just barely.

  “In case you have to go,” Reese explained. “Chamberpot's under the bed.” He kicked at something under the bed; hollow metal sounded. As he moved the chair back to its lonely station, he invited L's questions.

  “The man. Who is he?”

  “One of Cassandra's oldest and certainly her most loyal clients. He likes her to visit every autumn to commemorate their first meeting. He spends the month spoiling her with amenities and indulging her in her favorite perversions.”

  “Will he…” she stammered. “Would Cassandra demand me?”

  She choked on her words.

  Reese shook his head. “No. Cur knows Cassandra keeps a darling to herself. And she's well aware of your limit.”

  “Cur?”

  “Her name for him. You, however, will call him Sir.”

  “Yes, sir,” she murmured obediently.

  Reese chuckled. “I'm no more a Sir than you are, L. Any more questions?”

  “The girls.”

  “Cur's playthings. Think Hefner and his girls next door. He can be a real horndog for an old man.” Reese laughed. “He might be Cassandra's submissive, but he wanted his own submissives and she allowed it. What a dissipate!”

  “Are they…um…stationed above me?”

  Reese chuckled again. “You think of everything, don't you?”

  L shrugged. “Just the obvious.”

  “Well, let's put it this way: they're not ‘above you’ per se. But they are mischievous and spoiled creatures and if they pounce and you haven't received specific orders otherwise, then give them what they want. If they're in the wrong, they'll suffer the infraction, not you.”

  He reached into the armoire and fussed about, his back to L. But when he turned, he held her Tenerife lace and, bringing it to her, he slipped it under her pillow and wished her a good night's sleep. The gesture choked L with emotion.

  At the door, he turned out the overhead light, then paused.

  “And, L,” Reese added, “it's possible that Cassandra may someday demand that you pleasure me. You might want to think about whether that's a hard limit. My feelings won't be hurt if it is.”

  Shutting her door, he paused and peered back in, practically leering at her. “If it helps, think of it as a really big clit.”

  Sharing the bed with a length of metal chain made for a restless night's sleep. L tried to sleep facing the wall, the chain puddled alongside her torso, but found herself tossing and turning from the stiffness of staying in one position for too long a time. But other positions provided little relief; the chain's weight against her body saw to that. By morning, she ached, and she fluttered between her last attempts at sleep and painful awareness.

  With the trials of sleep came fleeting, often upsetting dreams. Why the mind rebuked comfort under the body's duress, L did not know, but she woke from the throes of a dream too vivid for her liking. In it, she stood on a sidewalk in a city of her mind's invention. A throng of people surrounded her, walking uniformly but gracefully, parting around her in a motion so fluid that it reminded her of manta rays, creatures she had stood among in the waters of a Florida beach years before. Confused, L wondered why her mind had plopped her in this setting. She looked about. Diminutive vehicles, things too small for practicality, glided along the street, unimpeded by gridlock or, it seemed, friction. Their engines quiet, horns silent, they were little more than a stream of whispers that separated L from the other side of the street.

  People crowded the other side of the street, moving fluidly like their counterparts in the opposite direction. But there among them, haloed in a shimmering aura, stood Karen.

 
The sight rocked L. It unsteadied her, left her weak in the knees, made her heart race.

  Karen. As she was those few years ago when love and adoration had blossomed, petals full and bloom fragrant. She turned and faced L, her smile as radiant as her aura, untainted by the discouragement that had later soured her.

  Beckoned, wanting, L started toward her. People parted and, unhindered, she reached curbside. But stepping into the street was another matter. Its vehicles, rigid in their silent travel, afforded her no room to cross. Scanning the length of the street, L saw no intersections and, when she considered stepping back into the crowd and joining the flow in the hope of finding a crosswalk, a jolt of warning, electric and terse, told her that walking with the crowd meant her assimilation into it.

  Frightened, she gazed across the street at Karen only to find her, smile gone and aura fading, turning away and joining the surge.

  Suddenly, before L's heart could deflate over Karen's departure, the dream became lucid. She had control over it. She could decide its ending.

  And rather than ache after Karen, L waved farewell and let her go.

  Awake, laying on her back, L gazed at ceiling, aware of the chain that lay near her, its tug upon her throat slight but unmistakable.

  This is my existence, L told herself. This, here.

  Not those dreams where Karen would reunite with her and, sometimes, break her heart all over again. Figments all. A subconscious attempt to find a closure that would never fully actualize. Wishful thinking.

  This, however, she thought, looking about—this place, these circumstances, the tattoo upon her wrist and the chain holding her captive—these constituted her new want. These were her reality. Like the dream-self who had bade the past farewell, L consciously chose to embrace what was yet to unfold.

  L heard Reese before she saw him. He arrived at her door and opened it and, before entering, began to speak. Turning toward him, L instantly recognized his litany—the rules from last night!—and, just in time, averted her eyes.

  Flush with hot embarrassment at her near mistake, she kept her eyes glued to his spit-polished shoes. The hem of dress pants suggested that Reese, like L, had a dress code to follow. His, however, struck L as uniformed, service-oriented. Hers, by contrast, with its nakedness, spoke of sexual availability and the vulnerability that came with it.