Story of L

by Debra Hyde

  By the looks of it, Cur had been in his forties then. His hair had begun its thinning, his belly its paunch, his face the clear start of crow's feet. Yet he looked twitter-painted, as if he'd finally found the wicked witch of his dreams.

  So that's how it began.

  And L had witnessed its end. Since then, Cassandra had said nothing substantive about that day, nor had she acted overtly heartbroken. Had she shut away the event and repressed her pain or was she easily capable of cutting ties with others? Both possibilities made L uncomfortable. Here was new territory, as yet undiscovered, a piece of Cassandra's psyche she had yet to decipher. But some things one only came to understand by living through them, she knew, remembering a platitude her mother had often employed. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

  Life, it seemed, was one bridge after another.

  The bedroom door creaked open, interrupting her thoughts. Cassandra returned. Like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar, L blushed and she felt a sudden impulse to hide the album. A single reactive word stopped her, however: disingenuous. L shoved the impulse away, ready to face whatever consequences might come from her prying.

  To her surprise, Cassandra's gaze did not harden when she saw the album in L's hands. If anything, she glowed, amused.

  “Ah, look what you found!”

  “I hope you don't mind,” L said. The words came out hoarsely and she followed them with a throat clearing.

  Cassandra cocked her head. “Well, I suppose not. I did tell you to remain upstairs and entertain yourself.” She approached L and climbed into bed with her. “Open it up,” she said gently, reminding L of her childhood self looking through photo albums with her mother.

  Cassandra walked L through several pages of the album, pointing out friends and lesbian parties and only occasionally mentioning the pansexual parties. “Remember Lisanne, the woman I talked to at the concert? Look—us in our glory days. My God, look how young we were!

  “And look here—Cur! The night we met.”

  L nodded. “I gathered as much.” She gulped and hazarded a question. “Are you sorry about the other weekend? About losing him?”

  Cassandra cuddled L close to her and considered her answer. “Yes, but not like I thought I would. The break was a long time coming, L. I more than expected it, just not during your visit to Sunderland. But it did, and I'm okay.” She sighed, her reminiscent turning melancholy. “I wasn't that night, I know. Cur's passivity and choice hurt. So did having another chapter in my life close. But afterward, I found a weight had lifted from my shoulders.”

  She looked at Cur's photos, silent for a moment, then turned her gaze to L. “And now there's you. A new chapter in my life. One that I had begun to think impossible.”

  “The other darlings?” L ventured.

  “You saw them.” Cassandra nodded to the photo album. “Those that failed miserably never made it into the album. Of those who did, I won't fault. I think my dream demanded too much—of them and myself.

  “But now? It's grown old. Hell, I've grown old. I'd gladly swap infamy and adulation for something older and wiser. Like stature. I'd rather have stature.”

  She shrugged in what L interpreted as a que sera sera gesture, then straightened and motioned L to follow her, saying, “I want your assistance.”

  Enticed from the past, L closed the photo album, knowing that even if Cassandra never took a single photograph of her, she was already part of this history and that knowledge grounded her. She was Cassandra's.

  Cassandra led L downstairs and through the house to a back door. There, L found an enclosed breezeway, cold with winter's approach, the liaison to what was once a barn. At some time in history, some hardy New Englander had seen to it that he wouldn't have to set outside to fetch wood or feed his livestock, and at some time, Cassandra had modernized the structure, turning it into a garage.

  And more. Alongside the first bay, they climbed a wide, turning staircase until they reached its landing and Cassandra opened a door to a whole new expanse.

  What was once a hayloft was now a play space. As a blast of heat took the chill from her, L scanned a sizable room appointed in Persian carpets, Victorian settees, upholstered chairs, and chandeliers that spoke of antique shops and architectural reclamation. And amid this unexpected splendor sat the wares of Cassandra's stock and trade—and the wherefores of her life.

  L tried to take it all in, but, like a boutique crowded with merchandise, it was overwhelming. She caught its essence—a spanking bench there in one corner, a smothering chair near a settee, a Saint Andrew's cross against a wall, flanked by two Chinese lions. But when she found the room's focal point, she knew she had found Cassandra's throne.

  There sat an oversized and overly ornate chair. It screamed Gilded Age excess.

  And, on his knees, his hands clasped behind his back, his back to her and his face obscured by a full leather hood, waited Reese.

  But not, exactly, the Reese L had come to know. She did not find the capable, self-assured, task-driven Reese before her. Nor did she find the helpful transman who had guided her through her questions and concerns. The Reese who knelt there struck her as submissive. Naked, he did not rest his bottom on his thighs but remained upright and bending forward at the waist—a difficult position, L knew, and hard on the thighs. His head dipped slightly—a servant's bow, made modest.

  His body, made muscled and hairy by hormones, bore more than a submissive's posture. It bore the marks of play. Whip marks reddened his back, some strong enough to abrade skin. Swollen welts laddered his rump, many deep enough to bruise. He was stunning.

  Cassandra strode into the room, heading straight for Reese. L pattered behind her, intrigued and curious, yet wary of intruding into this space that had not, until now, included her. But when Cassandra spoke, she dispelled L's hesitation.

  “Reese, here, has decided to take a new step in his submission,” she announced. “Isn't that right, Reese?”

  A nod and muffled assent answered her.

  She placed a hand on his hooded head. Startled, he jolted and moaned, then shuddered. L understood that sensation—a frightening shock that, in the sudden awareness of whose touch was upon you, melted you into a luscious quiver.

  “I'm immensely pleased with his decision,” Cassandra continued. “But to see it through the way I want to, I'll need your assistance.” Clearly, despite what Reese had agreed to, Cassandra would put her stamp on it.

  “I'll gladly help,” L volunteered.

  “Good,” Cassandra answered.

  Together, they brought Reese to his feet and at Cassandra's direction led him to an elevated kneeling station. There, Reese resumed his position, but this time, his hand gripping its railing, fully upright.

  “Legs spread,” Cassandra ordered.

  Reese complied as if by the routine. L gazed at him, drinking in the manhood singular to a transman. A mastectomy had reshaped his chest and hormones had hardened and squared what had once been soft curves. Yet lower, where bio-men bore the essence of their gender, he bore a different being. There, amid a thick thatch of hair, sat a womanly familiarity that L could easily plunder, yet with it, a more masculine companion. Here, hormones had transformed his center of pleasure.

  His clit had elongated and had become a micro-penis.

  As L assessed this wonder, Cassandra began to unlace the hood and, as she carefully removed it, told L what she expected of her.

  “As I said, I'm quite pleased with this step Reese has decided upon. Your part, my L, will be to bring him to orgasm—at least once, more if he has it in him.”

  Reese gasped. L startled.

  “You may limit yourself to fingers, but I'll be most pleased if you take it into your mouth as well.”

  Reese shuddered again.

  He wants it, L realized, flattered.

  She went to him and knelt before his elevated place. His penis had stiffened yet his cunt glistened with want. A scent came to her, the familiar wetness of a woman
but mingled with musk. She had once heard it described as the smell of mancunt and, inhaling it, L found it intoxicating.

  This was Reese's perfume and it had its own savage beauty.

  Memories returned, of perfumes. Her mother's. Cassandra's. Of Cassandra, Cabochard, and ecstasy. Now, she could add a new scent to her repertoire.

  Without a second thought, she slid a finger along the length of Reese's slit and, as he shivered in response, she slid one finger deep and took him into her mouth. He tensed at the intrusion yet a throb ushered L in welcome. She smiled around the smallness in her mouth, happy to know that, despite his self-assured toppishness, he could fall sway to the bottom.

  She tongued his penis and found that it was not all that different from the clitoris it used to be. It had similar sensitivities, spots sweet or dull, and invoked wetness from within. Except for a stronger scent, his cunt was little different than a woman's. Its cushioned flesh hugged her finger and it grew ever slicker. And it beckoned L for more.

  She slipped a second finger in and, delighted by its feel, began to fuck Reese. Tongue and hand at work, she set her sights on fulfilling Cassandra's orders.

  Reese's first orgasm came quickly. It swept through him like wildfire, contractions ablaze, leaving him wilted and L amazed. A first orgasm was like a first kiss: a wonder to cherish as it lingered upon one's lips and in one's senses.

  On its waning, Reese squirmed and cried out. A mild distress.

  Ah, L discovered! He's sensitive after coming!

  She ceased her tongue's caress and instead pillowed his cock. Had Reese always been like this? She had known a couple of women who were left sensitive by orgasm. Or was this a guy thing, the effect of male hormones?

  It hardly mattered. She had made Reese come, given pleasure to the man who had guided her, toyed with her, congratulated her, and shared with her. She cradled his cock in her mouth and, slipping her fingers from his cunt, adoringly stroked his labia. When she sensed Reese ready for more, she renewed her effort, slowly bringing both tongue and fingers back into play.

  And when she did, she heard the electric buzz of something overhead, then felt something soft and wispy fall against her cheek, then against her arm.

  Cassandra was shaving Reese's head.

  Chapter Fourteen: Trust Achieved

  L attended to Reese until the hum of the hair clipper halted. Task done, she slowly slipped away, taking from him the small flicks of her tongue and minute movements of her fingers that had kept him aroused. Head lowered, L smiled, still well familiar with Reese's reaction.

  She wanted to look at him, to see what Cassandra had wrought and discover why Reese had sought it out, but her subservience held her back. Whatever had transpired, it had originated between Cassandra and Reese and she would wait for her invitation to view the results.

  “Stand, Reese. Step back,” Cassandra said. “Let me see.”

  A moment of silence followed—Cassandra assessing her work.

  “Good. Excellent. Another step in your training, my boy.”

  L heard pleasure in Cassandra's words. Clearly, the outcome was to her liking.

  “L, look at my boy. Don't you think he looks the part now?”

  L gazed upward and found Reese devoid of his retro hair but not totally denuded. Cassandra had left him with just a shadow of a hairline and, to L's surprise, Reese sported the start of beard stubble. Speechless, she nodded.

  “Tomorrow we'll start on the chin strap I want for your beard,” Cassandra announced. “I want you butch, but to my tastes.”

  Reese nodded. “Of course, Cassandra.” But his eyes were glued to L. Their glint and his grin implied that she had everything to do with this turn of events. Later, when he turned his car into her driveway, he confirmed as much.

  “Watching you made it possible,” he confided. “Your sense of submission—it's incredible—and it motivated me to deepen my service to Cassandra.”

  He ran a hand over his sheered pate, his expression one of wonder and marvel. L shifted in her seat, aware that her feelings had finally coalesced into something definable: she wasn't comfortable being a source of inspiration. It seemed, well, unseemly.

  Reese noticed. “You're uncomfortable. Why?” His tone assumed that air of experienced guide, the one who had assisted L in her many steps to this very moment. Whatever his personal happiness, Reese remained her mentor in the ways of Cassandra, and she could not hold back the truth.

  “I didn't do this to inspire people,” she admitted. She gazed out the window as she spoke, afraid her honesty would flee in the face of eye contact. “I've only done what Cassandra asked of me.”

  “Or what you thought would work in trying times,” Reese amended. He reached for her hand, placing his over hers.

  “That's what inspired me, L—your instincts.” He stared at her until she met his gaze. “I'm not putting you on a pedestal, L. You aren't perfect; none of us is. But you are capable. And watching you made me realize that, despite what I've already given Cassandra, I was still holding back. I finally decided not to.”

  L sighed, revealed. She liked Reese's common sense, his down-to-earth attitude—especially if it meant she did not have to be a role model. She hated the idea of being an idealized angel in the house. She wanted neither a halo nor a spotlight.

  As Reese saw her to her door, a snowflake floated downward between them, its pattern laced, a simple splendor. Large and well defined, it signaled a wet snow coming. L looked up and saw more snowflakes descending. Reese, however, stared at her until she returned her attention to him.

  “In case you begin to wonder, when I offered to go further to Cassandra, I shared with her my take on servant versus submissive.” He lowered his gaze then, in clear respect for L. “I intend to honor the distinction I promised you.”

  L offered him an appreciative smile. “We have good distinctions,” she agreed. “Thank you.”

  A snowflake landed on Reese's nose, clinging briefly before melting against his warmth. He nodded in both farewell and agreement and, as he turned up his coat collar and turned to his car, he shook his head and joked, “Damn it, I'll have to start wearing a hat now.”

  Home at last, L turned lights on against the fading daylight and upped the thermostat against the apartment's chill. Newspapers at her front door told her the Weirs had noticed her absence and the distant beat of music said at least one of her tenants had stayed in for the evening, familiarities all. Still, the dust and dead air of a weekend away told her that however domestic the reminders, her life had nonetheless changed.

  She placed the newspaper and mail on her coffee table and stood among her belongings, soft with sentiment. Everything, from the soothing sight of her furniture to the punctuating accents of decor, all of it represented the life she had embarked upon after earning her way into academia. Everything represented her personal history.

  L thought back to Cassandra's photo book. That, too, represented a history. The timeline in Cassandra's photos and the rumors L had heard did, generally, mesh. Yes, Cassandra had floated between two worlds, but she had worked as a professional domina—currying clients required visibility. The photos and clippings showed a clear delineation between her professional and private lives.

  Nothing irreconcilable there, L thought.

  And how had Cassandra behaved during L's own steps into submission? However, tentative L had been, Cassandra had always been clear and even-handed. The reward had included not only Cassandra's consistent and uplifting approval but her obvious pleasure as well.

  L sighed. Even now, that process made her swell with love and adoration. Why had she ever feared Cassandra's call?

  Talk. Because of talk.

  Baseless bunk, she decided.

  L turned on a reading lamp and stretched out on her couch with a novel, but her thoughts raced elsewhere.

  So much in so little time, she thought. The weeks have flown by.

  She had learned much about Cassandra in that space of time and, t
hrough her own slide into submission, about herself. How readily she had completed some of Cassandra's directions, how others had daunted her. How she relinquished her jewelry, ready to become a clean slate for Cassandra. How she went to Cassandra's domain that first time, hungry and urgent, but left sated by the act of giving pleasure. And the tattoo. It had at first frightened her, but once she resolved to accept it, she did not look back.

  How she looked at these moments had changed as well. At first, every iota of attention Cassandra sent her way made her leap with puppy love. Fulfilling each command had been like a wild amusement park ride, doable but not without a lump in her throat, a racing heart, or a rush of adrenaline in her blood. But now, the physical thrill had given way to a calmness, a Zen of sorts. Where thrill had once seized her, love and certainty and satisfaction held her.

  Maybe, L thought, I will someday earn my own wisdom.

  Satisfied, she took up the novel again. This time, its words drew her from her own story and into its tale.

  The request came on Thursday, its delivery plain and to the point. I want you. Tonight at 7? Yes or no. It arrived not on ecru rag in fountain pen flourishes, but in a more prosaic, modern form: a text message. Yet the medium diminished neither its message nor its import.

  By its construct, L knew she had the leeway to decide in either direction. Cassandra clearly knew her request might intrude on other commitments. L appreciated the gesture, its genuineness, and nothing stood in the way of affirming Cassandra's inquiry.

  Yes. Gladly, she returned.

  Cassandra sent no follow-up message, leaving L to wonder how she should present herself. Previous experience tugged at her, pulling her toward nakedness, but she knew a boarder or Mrs. Weir encountering their landlord naked and greeting an unknown guest wouldn't work. She did, however, reduce her layers of clothing to a blouse, skirt, and slip-on shoes, sensible enough to outsiders yet clearly a feminine enough gesture to earn Cassandra's approval.