Story of L

by Debra Hyde

  And L would take the authentic over the imagined any day.

  Reese returned to her. “Take the bucket and pick up the weeds. When you've filled it, you'll find a compost pile behind the shed. Once you've finished with the weeds, use the bucket to spread a thin layer of mulch in the bed. It doesn't need much, just a little to refresh and deepen what's already there.”

  He looked her up and down, smiling at how his clothes fit her. The flannel shirt hung loose, the barrel of his chest thicker than her dainty proportions. The jeans hugged her—the curse of women's rounded hips against those narrow and male; such an injustice, L always thought. The long inseam required a couple of rolls up on the pants leg, a necessity that made L feel clumsy when she walked. But it seemed she looked just fine to Reese.

  He was about to send her forth when apparently an idea struck. “Wait! Hold on,” he said, stopping her with a hand against her shoulder. He unbuttoned all but one of her buttons, explaining nothing until he assessed her again.

  “She used to demand that of me whenever I helped her in the yard. It's an old rule—hasn't been in play for a long time. But when she sees it, I think she'll approve.”

  Reese appeared confident of his plan, so L stepped out into the late-morning light and went to work. Cassandra did not look up as L crossed the yard to the wheelbarrow or as she fetched the bucket, went to her knees, and began to clean up the trail of weeds. But L did not expect acknowledgment. She was glad just to help.

  It took her three rounds of weed dumping before she reached Cassandra, but she neither lingered nor waited for Cassandra's notice. L fetched the wheelbarrow and started the mulching. A quick task, she soon caught up to Cassandra. It took some moments before Cassandra chose to look up from her work, long enough that L became aware of a growing ache in her lower back from the scooping and spreading of mulch. She wanted to stretch, to relieve the ache, but her desire to await Cassandra overrode her want.

  But when Cassandra did look up, tears had welled in her eyes. And when her gaze settled on Reese's single button, they spilled forth. L felt a hard catch in her throat.

  Cassandra struggled to get hold of herself, but the effort made her brusque. “Thank you, L,” she remarked stiffly. “But I think it's time Reese took you home.”

  The words struck L like a slap in the face, stinging her. Did Cassandra really mean it? Or had she stumbled, not knowing what to say to L? But when Cassandra stiffened and said nothing further, L turned to leave, too stymied to otherwise react. Until Cassandra realized her mistake.

  “Wait!” she snapped. “Wait!”

  L stopped but kept her back to Cassandra, her intuition at work.

  “Thank you for being so thoughtful,” Cassandra sniffled. “I wish I was capable of the same, but right now I'm just not.” The last words caught in Cassandra's throat as a choked, pain-filled sob.

  Hearing it, L turned. “I understand. Thank you, Ma'am.” She nodded, her expression one of compassion. As she left, L prayed Cassandra had seen and grasped its intent.

  The ride home was a mass of confused of emotions. Stunned by Cassandra's dismissal, L felt nearly paralyzed by its abruptness. Yes, Cassandra had made a valiant effort to apologize—and L did not doubt her mistress's sincerity—but L could not help but equate her dismissal to the countless fictional tales where an imperious, unswaying dominant irrevocably casts out a sorrowful underling over an unacceptable infraction.

  But wait. She wasn't imperious and I committed no infraction. We weren't acting out a stereotype; we were living real life.

  Tears blurred L's vision and helplessness overtook her. She ached to tender the wounds that racked Cassandra, but how? L tried to blinked away her tears, but one fell, skittering down her left cheek. She wiped it away with her sleeve, sniffling.

  Reese, of course, noticed. L knew him well enough now to know that little would ever escape him.

  “Don't be hard on yourself, L.”

  L looked out the window, afraid that eye contact would set her to sobbing. “I'm not. I'm just so…” So what? Exactly what was she feeling?

  “Bereft.”

  The word prompted more tears. Reese pointed to the glove compartment. “Tissues,” he said. When L had wiped her eyes and blown her nose, he asked, “Bereft of what?” Another person might have struck L as unduly nosy, but Reese's tone was gentle, caring, inviting her to share.

  He wants my transparency, she realized. For her.

  L was not adverse to the idea. It simplified life. “Of her,” she answered. “And of any way to make her happy.”

  Reese raised an eyebrow. “You are being hard on yourself!”

  “I am? How so?”

  “She's grieving. Happiness isn't an option right now.”

  L considered Reese's take as he slowed to a stop, thanks to a red light. He turned to her. “You couldn't possibly know this, but in the years I've been with her, I haven't seen her let anyone get as close to her as you. And honestly, she couldn't have found a better sex-and-service slave.” He grinned at her as the light changed and the car slipped back into motion. “Amazing. It's like you were born to it.”

  L blushed. She hardly felt like a natural. “I just follow my intuition.”

  Reese chuckled. “However you're doing it, don't change a thing.”

  Stoplights and traffic grew more congested now, and Reese wove his car through its mercantile streets, stopping for crossing pedestrians, slowing behind the lagging efforts of other drivers less familiar with the streets’ flow. All evidence of a college town winding down its weekend before nightfall, the tempo around them spelled one thing: L was nearly home. Finally, they pulled into her driveway.

  Reese saw L to her back door. She remembered the night she had arrived home naked. Edgy then, it now seemed almost quaint compared to present complications. L swallowed hard, hoping against the returning threat of tears.

  Again, Reese reassured her. “You did everything right, L. Especially since we returned to Cassandra's. We've had a misfortune this weekend, but it has nothing to do with you—or Cassandra's feelings for you.”

  With his usual aplomb, Reese pulled an envelope from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to L. Now a recognizable routine, L took it from him without comment. But just as she went to unlock her back door, she turned back to him and thanked him for his advice.

  “I'm glad you're part of this,” she said. “I'm not sure I could navigate these complexities alone.”

  Reese nodded, gently smiling. L distinctly sensed that he loved this part of his duty to Cassandra. And truth be told, she did too.

  She weighed the envelope in her hand, ran her fingers over it, and knew by touch what Cassandra had returned to her. But when she sliced into it and slid the lace medallion from its innards, her tears returned. Finally, she sobbed, provoked by the words that accompanied the talisman.

  This is the greatest tribute I have ever received, my L, and I would not rob you of this reminder of me. Tuck it away each night, just as you have since its creation. Keep it close to you, and I will always be near. Always, dream of us—and know that I do likewise.

  Love, desire's reward, was at hand. Finally and at last. Through her tears, despite sorrow's pull and life's uncertainties, L smiled.

  Chapter Twelve: Public Claim

  L did not find Cassandra in her dreams that night. She entered her dream world blithely in love, traveling through recognizable real-life places and those invented and detailed by her imagination. Throughout, she journeyed like a Johnny Appleseed. But where he sowed apple seeds, she exuded love. Children ran to touch her and adults stopped to watch her pass. When the rare naysayer materialized and threatened her path, Reese or Quinn would inexplicably appear and warn the person away.

  Karen was nowhere to be seen.

  L felt her absence but the dream world too soon faded back into sleep and then sleep lifted into consciousness. She opened her eyes, perfectly alert and remarkably calm, wakefulness at once rare and wondrous. With the
dream fresh in her mind, the emotions she had played out within it remained with her—the fullness of love, freedom from care, a path protected.

  L stared out the window and watched the lingering leaves cling to a sugar maple. How had this come to be? She had stepped into submission with only the slightest hesitation and with a fortitude unfamiliar to her. Yet she could not deny the rightness of it, how sure it felt.

  Devotion now defined L, and within submission's context, it felt mature, certain, unwavering. Its fidelity anchored itself at her core, leaving her capable, adept, and inextricably ready for Cassandra.

  Wednesday, the call came by way of her home answering machine. Seeing its blink, L expected the voice of either a tenant or Mrs. Weir, telling her of a leaking faucet or running toilet, maybe a short in a wall outlet, but when Cassandra's voice imperiously sounded from the machine, L staggered, then caught herself.

  “L,” the message began, “I had hoped to have you at Sunderland over the next four weeks. But that's not going to happen now. Regardless, every weekend remains mine. We will meet this Friday at Hippolyte's. You will find a letter waiting for you with the entrance staff. Arrive at 8:30, follow its instructions, and await me.”

  L stood at her answering machine, muted, dumbfounded, draped in the sudden haze of surrender that these long-distance communications provoked. She felt like a schoolgirl who'd spied the object of her crush from a distance: thrilled yet paralyzed. But the moment passed. The mundane broke its magic. A blink of an eye, a sniffle, the need to turn on a lamp against the fading afternoon light, even the day's mail unopened in her hand, drew L from the thrill of Cassandra's command.

  Nothing, however, could keep L's anticipation at bay once Friday arrived. She woke with a pit of excitement in her stomach and tried to push it into the background as she taught her classes and graded labs. She struggled to ignore its pull as she went for coffee with two colleagues in the waning afternoon. But once she arrived home, L lost all resistance to its insistent power. No matter how busy she kept herself—cleaning her apartment, washing dishes, running laundry—L was agitated and distracted. Her only relief came when she showered and groomed herself for the evening. Even then, she had to leave early to keep her agitation at bay.

  L arrived at Hippolyte's, all too aware that she'd attract raised eyebrows with the outfit she wore: that ruffled blouse, its wrap tied to one side, its cut low and unmistakably femme; low-waisted slacks that revealed a bit of flesh, just enough to suggest a midriff; heels just high enough to complement the slacks’ flared length. Her hair was noticeably longer now too, and while she didn't pretend at a complete transformation, L knew how drastically feminine it might look to others. It was the price of submission to Cassandra and it had been worth every hurdle.

  L steeled herself as she reached the security buzzer and pressed it home. No one said I had to be meek.

  The door opened wide and a woman ushered her in. L did not recognize the greeter, which suited her just fine—it meant she'd escaped immediate scrutiny. But her luck ran out when she approached the door staff with her entrance fee. Here, two women she did know scrutinized her as they took her money and stamped her hand. Behind them, a tall husky butch—Bull, she called herself—stood, arms akimbo.

  “You're early.”

  Bull gave L a hard once-over and nearly cowed her. But resolved, L nodded, speechless.

  “Stand over there.” Bull pointed to a foyer corner. “I'll tell you when it's time.”

  Stepping into the corner, L realized that the order had actually come from Cassandra. Bull had agreed to assist Cassandra; therefore, L need not wither before Bull. She only had to submit to Cassandra. Waiting in the corner became an exercise in patience, not humiliation.

  Still, the minutes ticked by slowly. At 8:30, Bull grunted and handed L an envelope. “You're to open it and read it here.”

  L nodded. Inside, strict instructions by way of graceful penmanship told her what to do. And what to do stunned her.

  L looked up from the note and found Bull sporting a thin, lopsided grin. The two women door staffers twittered at L's stunned reaction. They were in on it. Reese had told them.

  “Well, come on,” Bull taunted. “Get to it.”

  L folded the note, returned it to its envelope, and handed it to Bull. She untied her blouse and removed it. The legs of her flared slacks were wide enough that she could easily slip from them, leaving her shoes in place. These, too, she folded and handed over.

  Down to just her heels, L followed the next law of the letter. She stayed where she was, crossed her right hand over her left, clasping one with the other. She stood, hands before her, the tattoo in full view.

  There, she would stay until Cassandra arrived.

  Bull walked away, a satisfied expression on her face while the door staff murmured appreciatively at L's appearance. “I've always wanted to be put on display,” one said to the other.

  Her counterpart shrugged. “It's exciting until your back starts to hurt, or your feet.” They remarked on the tattoo, admiring its intricate lines and very visible nature.

  Fresh arrivals, too, looked her way, cooing their approval or smiling at the sight of L on display. But then Fiona—flirtatious, fun-loving, feisty, Fiona—arrived. She took one look at L naked, at the tattoo, made an ugly face, and spoke words to match.

  “Good God. So it's true,” she seethed.

  Fiona's rancor shocked L. Flitting Fiona had never shown an opinion beyond her need for her next scene and she had never disapproved of L's switching before now. Was she that invested in L as a top? Was she jealous of L being owned?

  Or was her response aimed at Cassandra?

  Fiona fumed and fussed away, leaving L in her turbulent wake. Unnerved, L felt her confidence falter. She stared at the floor, afraid to let anyone see how sharply Fiona's reaction had stabbed her.

  “Don't,” came Bull's voice. “Be strong.”

  L looked up and discovered that, strident veneer aside, a bulwark of solidarity stood before her.

  “If other people don't approve, fuck 'em,” the large woman explained.

  With Bull as a protector, L smiled and stood firm.

  The wait continued to seesaw, some people approving, some turning their noses up at the sight of what must have been a good deal of gossip in L's absence. Bull continued to offer hardy encouragement, rolling her eyes at the occasion pessimist and nodding approvingly during uneventful stretches. Allied, L did not falter again.

  Finally, Cassandra appeared. And she was breathtaking. Fully leathered, she sauntered into Hippolyte's like a tigress in her territory, her skirt hugging the curves of her hips and accentuating her every step. A boldly V-neck jacket fell from her shoulders. Its wide, deeply plunging bodice exposed most of her shoulders and neck, right down to the swells of her breasts. Its buttoned front and belted waist hour-glassed her waist and its sleeves imitated full-length opera gloves, adding a dramatic flair to an already stunning outfit.

  The ensemble made Cassandra a full-leather bombshell.

  Cassandra ignored the gasps that her appearance provoked and beelined right to L. Her leather hand clasped the back of L's neck and pushed her forward.

  “Come” was all she said.

  L glimpsed Reese following behind Cassandra, also in leather. His wear, however, was much more abbreviated: leather pants, boots, gloves and, most provocatively, in a translucent latex shirt. This, in a leather club for lesbians.

  Whether his gender origins counted for anything, L could not tell. If Cassandra was going for the outrageous, then the odds were on her side by bringing Reese into Hippolyte nearly bare-chested.

  Cassandra directed L to the play area. To L's surprise, Quinn and Tara waited there before a bondage table—Tara beautifully naked but for a collar and sandals. Whatever was about to commence, the subservient among them were in full lack-of-dress regalia. And Quinn's and Tara's presence meant that whatever Cassandra had planned, it was significant.

  “Up on the
table with you,” Cassandra ordered. “On your back.”

  L complied, finding the table's vinyl chilly against her skin.

  “As I instructed,” Cassandra said, nodding to Quinn. Without further explanation, she and Reese left L's side. Quinn smirked at L as they departed, clearly enjoying whatever part Cassandra had invited her to perform, and told L to cross her hands just as she had in the foyer.

  “That's right. Cassandra wants the tattoo faceup.”

  Quinn produced a length of rope and draped it over L's upper torso. Tara took one end of it and, together, they threaded it through eye hooks anchored on the sides of the table. Pulling it taut, they wove the rope over L, crisscrossing it down her body and through numerous eye hooks. Quinn left space for L's picturesque wrist and, at the table's end, pulled her legs apart and exposed her before tying down her ankles.

  L felt as tethered as Gulliver. In a dead pharaoh pose. Why? Brief panic seized her. “Where's Cassandra? And Reese?”

  Quinn smiled down at her. “Scrubbing up.”

  A procedure—they intended a procedure of some kind. L whimpered. Quinn's hand clasped her shoulder. Unlike Cassandra's insistent, directive touch, hers was meant to calm and comfort. “Don't worry. It won't be anything difficult or painful.”

  L turned toward her. “And you're in on it. I never thought that would happen.”

  Quinn chuckled. “That makes two of us. But I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

  “Miss what?” L finally felt brave enough to challenge her.

  Quinn grinned broadly and shook her head. She wasn't about to clue L in. At the sound of Cassandra's and Reese's return, she patted her shoulder and her expression softened. L saw that, whatever the onetime resistance Quinn had once held against Cassandra, her loyalty to L and their friendship had outweighed it. L sighed, grateful to find that barrier a thing of the past.