by Debra Hyde
L remembered the pain of her genital piercings, how searing the needle had been, how taxing the experience. Yet she remembered it as a transforming moment, marking her as courageous and accomplished. How could she not submit to this?
“I'm ready,” she declared, her posture reflecting her resolve.
Cassandra put a finger to L's chin and tipped her gaze upward. Their eyes met, Cassandra's greeting L's gaze with pure and unabashed joy.
“Always, you please me,” she whispered before letting L's gaze drop.
In the space of a breath, Cassandra's hand returned, bearing the hollow needle that would pierce her. Reese joined Cassandra, standing to L's right.
“You look beautiful tonight, L,” Cassandra remarked. “You make the hours I spent deciding on your dress worth my every effort. But one thing is missing: a brooch.”
Needle met skin. Pain ignited, flared, and L felt the needle slide forward. Yet she did not gasp until it emerged, poking free of her body's confines.
“The ring, Reese.”
Cassandra pushed the needle free, the jewelry following in its path. Tugs followed—Cassandra wrangling the captive bead into place.
Except it wasn't a mere bead. As Cassandra's hands drew back, L gasped. It was a bead from which an elegant charm hung, bearing the letter C.
“Louis Tiffany must be rolling over in his grave,” Cur voiced.
Cassandra scoffed as she cleaned the piercing with another wipe. “I doubt it. He's probably smiling down from heaven because we didn't buy a knockoff.”
Tiffany? Of lamp shades and little-blue-box fame? L thought she'd go weak in the knees. A mere thank-you struck her as falling short in the face of such generosity. Still, she mouthed them. A kiss met her cheek, a hand lingered there.
“You're more welcome than you know.”
Denied by rules to look directly at her mistress, L turned her head to Cassandra's hand and lightly kissed it, hoping the touch conveyed how very mutual that gratitude was. But if this gesture fell short, L vowed the rest of the evening would not.
A limousine whisked them from one luxurious space to another, trading Cur's residence for another within a twenty-minute drive. Who the owner was and where this place existed, L did not know, nor did it matter. What mattered were the rules: Sitting, naked bottom against the seat, eyes averted, lips slightly parted, speaking only when spoken to, all trials of effort for L. All her life, she had explored the world with her senses, encouraged at first by her outdoorsman of a father, then later by the curiosity of science, with behaviors so ingrained that only by squelching them did she discover just how innate they were.
Narrowing her behaviors to the rules kept her close to Cassandra, enhanced her sense of submission, but it prohibited her from the world as she perceived it. She struggled constantly to keep to the rules, felt clumsy in her effort and, unable to see her own competency, had no sense that others saw her as grace personified.
Worse, the piercing compromised her further. At the least provocation, it would flare into throbbing discomfort, erupting like a volcano that sputtered between dormancy and life. Sometimes, it burned as well. Always, it taxed L.
Yet she saw none of this as a burden. When they arrived at their destination, she passively allowed her cape to be taken from her by hands unknown. She passively kept her eyes low as people commented on her presentation. Briefly, she sighed when Cassandra reached into the gaudy blouse and, tugging free her breasts, set them on display. This was her duty this evening, her assignment, and L had no intention of skirting its demands for her own ease.
Cassandra, however, stepped right into the thick of the evening, glad-handing and chatting up people she hadn't seen in ages, as her small talk went. Finding her mistress clearly in her element, L lingered behind her, knowing the spotlight was not meant for her. Discreetly, she stole glances at the magnificent room they had entered and discovered a residential concert space big enough for a small crowd to gather for an evening of music. Careful to keep her eyes low, L managed to discern cherrywood paneling and carpeting that suppressed the sounds of an audience's movements without, she suspected, interfering with the effusion of sound from the stage.
However spectacular the setting, it was no ordinary gathering for another reason. The crowd was, given the number of naked submissives, of the outré persuasion. And its demographic was older than L was accustomed to, wealthier and far more pansexual too. Service submissives worked the room, offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres, none fully naked but their clothing abbreviated enough to convey their status. More than once, a server mistook L for a dominant and approached her but quickly stepped away upon seeing her exposed breasts and piercing.
No doubt Cassandra wanted it this way. Subverting people's stereotypes—who said clothing equaled dominant?—and the ensuing dramatic shock brought lasting, undue attention to L and, by default, made Cassandra appear all the more wily and sensational.
“Clever, Cassandra. You're always so clever,” one woman said. Her eyes skirted L's torso, the gaze hungry and appreciative.
“Well, I do have my new possession to show off,” Cassandra countered. “The way I see it, a stunning outfit ever so slightly compromised will make her more memorable than commonplace nudity.”
The woman nodded. “You've succeeded. Spectacularly, as usual.”
Cassandra offered her thanks and turned the conversation toward nostalgia. To L's surprise, the women shared conversation included a long-ago stint at a house of domination.
“We were so young then,” Cassandra sighed.
“And you're here with Cur?” the woman asked. “I'm surprised. He rarely socializes with us anymore. I'd taken to think he'd become a shut-in in his old age.”
“Perhaps he is,” Cassandra conveyed, “but every autumn, he begs my return. I'm lucky that old habits die hard.”
In a show of habit made new, Cassandra turned to L, feeding her an hors d'oeuvre and a sip of champagne, then let L retreat into the background. However, when the concert bell rang and L continued to keep behind and to Cassandra's right, until her mistress took her arm firmly en escort and said, “Enough of that Old Guard stuff. I want you at my side, one woman to another.”
A sliver of a smile slipped across L's face and she dared dart upward just long enough to see Cassandra basking in joy. Eyes met, one set quickly deferred, yet not one word passed between them. L's heart fluttered at this fleeting moment of mutual indulgence. Delight was not beyond her mistress, it seemed.
At their seats, L found a floor cushion awaiting her. And a dilemma: it allowed little more room than a chair. She'd have to kneel. Dutifully, L began to spread her skirt out over the cushion and sank to her knees, only to find Cassandra, already seated, leaning into her ear.
“Sit, don't kneel,” she said. “It's going to be a long evening.”
L thanked Cassandra and, keeping her skirt spread as much as possible, sat with her legs to one side, one cheek against the cushion. At least I can keep to the spirit of the rule, she told herself.
From the floor, she saw little. The backs of the chairs were her only scenery and, peripherally, Cassandra's legs were her only familiarity. But it mattered not. She knew her place and accepted it.
Lost among chairs, ignored by the people above her, L smiled in this nearly anonymous space. I know my place. The words would have been foreign weeks ago. Had the transformation been as comfortable as she now felt? Does it matter? she asked.
Cassandra leaned down, handing L a program, and in her delight L almost looked up. She stopped herself just in time and glued her gaze to the program, saving herself from fault. So joy could be a culprit, she warned herself.
The program relieved her of her near misstep. Stress faded as L read Sonata by the Century and marveled at the various chamber group configurations that would pass in front of her before the night was out. Not that I'll actually see any of them. This, too, mattered not.
The concert was a brilliant mélange of sounds and styles. Th
e precision of Bach, simplified compared to his fugues, written as though a secular sonata was beneath him. Even the harpsichord sounded jarring, as if displeased it had to voice this juvenile reduction of contrapuntal inventiveness.
The buoyant, tireless genius of Mozart followed, its song ever playful, as if music made for obligatory, endless rejoicing and revelry. Then, the surprising delicacy of Beethoven, nearly sweet in sonata, the piano soft and beckoning unlike the punctuated drama and fury of his string quartets.
L loved the lulling dreamscape of Debussy, a sonata for harp, flute, and harp, written late in life and all too short because of it. Its lovely sway lasted mere minutes.
Last, John Cage bantered about in abbreviated, rhythmic cadences, sweeping between motifs of jazzy riffs, the playful melodies of a child's piano, and hints of Africa in its rhythms. Surprisingly accessible for so modern a composer, it seemed Cage enjoyed the compositional form far more than the stuffy, ancestral Bach.
And L enjoyed the concert far more than she expected. At its end, she graciously and gratefully took Cassandra's arm, easily able to keep her eyes averted. Who needed to see where one was going with the spirit of music in her soul and love tripping lightly beside her mistress? Not L.
L sensed trouble the moment she set foot back in Sunderland. She couldn't smell or hear it; she caught no sight of it. But it lay in wait, L was sure of it. Her hackles bristled when Cassandra removed the piercing, not because of the pain or bleeding, but because the air felt electric with dread. Cur's luxurious domain felt rife with trepidation.
As Reese led her to her cell, she scanned her surroundings, eyes low but wary and cautious. Gut instinct knew a threat when it sensed it.
The ambush came in the downstairs quarters. The girls hurled themselves at Reese and sent him stumbling. “Cheater!” they yelled. “You cheated!” They tore at his clothes, sending buttons flying, pulling a breast pocket from its seams. They slapped him, hit him. They went for his hair, clawing and screaming like wild animals. Vehemence poured from them, but the moment they had Reese down and disheveled, the instance they had laid that much waste to him, they retreated.
And went for L.
Expecting onslaught, L's instincts took over. She shielded her face with her hands, ready to block whatever assault might ensue.
Except the women didn't attack her. They seized her by the arms, one of them had her by the hair, and they pulled her from the quarters. L resisted; her thoughts on Reese, her allegiance too. But one of them kneed her in the back of her knee, buckling her, while the other pulled her forward by the hair. Forward impetus on their side, they half-dragged her away.
Looking back, L saw Reese stagger to his feet. Defiantly, she broke the rules and stared at him, pouring every iota of her loyalty into that gaze. A smirk of a smile curled across Reese's face as he straightened himself, a clear reminder of her earlier words. “We were expecting trouble.”
And L decided to let trouble lead her. No matter where Cur's women took her, she knew Reese would follow them. Whatever their plan, he would expose it. She would not be long from her mistress.
Whatever their nefarious plan, holding her captive and apart from Cassandra wasn't part of it. They marched directly to her mistress, barging into the space she and Cur shared over a late-night brandy. Intruders, they cared nothing about the quiet ritual before them. Their designs were anything but respectful.
The women shoved L forward and sent her sprawling to the floor. Cur shot from his seat, demanding an explanation. Cassandra turned toward L, shocked by the rough treatment, but L quietly and obediently fell to her knees. By contrast, Cur's girls completely ignored the rules.
“What's the meaning of—”
“They cheated,” spat one of the girls. “This L and that tranny of hers.”
Despite the vile insults, L remained dutiful, poised, and demure. But inside, her gut roiled. It was like entering a childhood friend's home and finding the family in open warfare over some dysfunctional particular.
Reese must have reached the doorway, right behind them, because Cassandra rose, her shock widening. “What happened to you?”
“Jumped,” Reese said. “By those two.” L could imagine him, leaning slipshod against the threshold, nodding toward the girls.
“I repeat,” Cur interjected, “what's the meaning—”
Again, the girls interrupted him. “They broke the rules! They cheated! Make them bear the penalty.”
“What cheating?” This time, Cassandra, sounding cold as ice. Was this how she sounded, L wondered, when confronting challenge? She gulped. It smacked of withdrawn affection. Something her own mother had employed in anger.
The girls tossed something in Cassandra's direction. It sailed a few feet, lost its momentum, and fluttered clumsily to ground. A lump swelled in L's throat. No!
Cassandra stared at the thing, her posture rigid and unyielding. She had no intention of stooping to pick it up.
“We found it,” the other girl claimed, “in her room.” She pointed at L, jealousy blistered across her face. J'accuse! L thought.
“Amanda!” Cur scowled, all too aware that one wrong should not incur another.
The other girl hissed Cur. “What do you expect? You bring that bitch here and expect us to accept it? I don't care what ‘history’ you have with her. You're ours, not hers.
“And look at her! She's still clothed! Another rule broken!”
Reese stepped forward and picked L's talisman up off the floor, then retreated to the periphery of the foray. L stole a glimpse of him and found him holding it protectively, respectfully. It's safe! Thank God.
“I obey Cassandra's whims, Kristen,” Cur replied. Yet his words sounded hollow, beaten down, like he'd voice those words so many times that its litany had grown rote and meaningless.
“Bullshit!”
“You pig!” Amanda again. “You odorous wrinkled old pig! Always holding out on us. And for what? For her?”
Amanda practically screeched at Cur, enough that he withered at the insults. The battle was now fully engaged and, hostage to it, L wanted to weep, her gut certain that this would end badly.
Cassandra, still imperious and unflappable, called Cur out. “When you asked for darlings of your own, Cur, I thought long and hard about it. Because of this.” She swept her arm like a queen before her court, deigning to acknowledge the problem but strong enough to resist stooping to its level.
“I'd seen it before: other dominant women losing their prize submissives by catering to their wants. But you convinced me you could handle it. You vowed you would adhere to our hierarchy and never put them above me.”
She sighed, as if facing an inevitability.
“I knew you deserved the chance to prove me wrong. You'd been loyal longer than anyone else—longer than all of my darlings, many of my friends, even longer than most of my adversaries.”
Her gaze cast downward, L did not see Cassandra glower at Cur.
“But I thought you'd choose better than this,” she mocked, hurling the same tone at Cur's girls that they had thrown L's way. “These girls aren't submissive. They're gold diggers after a sugar daddy.” She leveled furious and terrible gaze at Cur. “And you aren't dominant.”
“How dare you!” Kristen challenged.
Cassandra did not flinch at she pinned her hard eyes on the girl. “I dare because he's mine. He's was mine before you were out of diapers, little girl.”
She returned to Cur. “Dog,” she spat, “I demand you choose. Me or them.”
“You bitch!” Amanda roared.
“You girls like that word,” Cassandra leveled at them. “How uncouth.”
“You want to see uncouth?” Kristen challenged. She turned to Cur. “Slime! Yes you, you blithering scum! I'm talking to you!”
Cur froze. His eyes glazed over.
“You useless prick!”
Cur squirmed.
“Pantywaist! Mama's boy!” Amanda threw in for good measure.
He liked their hounding humiliation.
“You aren't worth the effort it takes to speak.”
But they all knew what a lie the last insult was. Cur was worth a lot—these girls knew it, wanted it, and weren't above heckling him to get at it.
Still Cassandra refused to lower herself. “Choose, Cur. These puny little girls with their ugly mouths or me.”
Perhaps Cassandra's own restraint undid her, but when Cur failed to respond, when he remained frozen in badgered, henpecked ecstasy, she knew his answer.
“Reese, call a livery. Get our things,” she growled. “We're out of here.”
Chapter Eleven: Retreat
Cold silence followed until the livery arrived. Cassandra untucked L's blouse, pulling it up over her breasts and secreting them away. “No more Sunderland rules.” As they walked to the car, she paused at its door and, before entering, put her finger under L's chin and tipped it upward. “No more of that either. Ever.” Relieved of that burden, L met Cassandra's gaze, intending to smile in gratitude. But her expression suddenly sobered. It wasn't kindness that had relieved L, but a hard, unyielding resolve. Cassandra didn't mean no more Sunderland rules. She meant something far more earth-shattering.
She meant to abandon Sunderland itself.
And she intended to do it with a heart of cold steel.
In the car, L maintained her posture and position. That rule had preceded the ruined weekend, but had the ban on speaking without invitation preceded it as well? She scoured her memory for an answer, but with Cassandra seated next to her, rigid and cold as if her silence sealed herself off from a spill of raging anger, L decided it didn't matter. L did not want to tempt an explosion by speaking.
Reese saw to their bags, helped the driver to load them, and discussed the route home before taking his seat up front with the driver. Watching him, L realized that his job, in a time of crisis, was to efficiently and effectively see to logistics, to organize and execute to alleviate Cassandra of all burdens other than that which troubled her most. As the car drove away, as they left Sunderland behind, presumably forever, he sat silent as well. L took that as a cue to follow his lead.
