I was a little nervous about my clothes. What does one wear to a flogging? I refused to put on anything that made me look like a tramp. My fishnets and stilettos are fun for a night out with the girls, but to wear them when meeting a real live mistress seemed ludicrous. Perhaps disrespectful. I’d settled on a sleeveless sheath dress and strappy, low-heeled sandals. Simple, and, hopefully, elegant. This was important if the mistress I was about to meet was French, or even French-ish.
Adele used a key to open the door, and we were met in the foyer by a middle-aged woman whose severe face did not move in the slightest as she took in the sight of us. My heart sank, for though I didn’t have a clear idea of what my ideal mistress would look like, I did know she wasn’t supposed to resemble Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca. This woman looked like she’d have a hard time loving a puppy. I didn’t want to think what she’d do with a cane in her hand and a bottom within reach. Adele put a reassuring hand on my forearm.
“Good evening, Mrs. Kirchberger. Will you let my mistress know that my guest and I have arrived?”
Mrs. Kirchberger motioned for us to move into the living room to the right before leaving us on our own. I started to speak, but Adele put her fingers to her lips and shushed me. Nothing gets my hackles up like being shushed, and I hated Adele a little bit.
“What?” I said.
“We’re always to sit here quietly while we’re waiting.”
“How long?” I was whispering now.
Adele just shrugged and I could get nothing further from her. I worried we were in for a long wait. I could think of many scenes in the literature (I referred to it as if it were a field of study, like the Victorian novel), where the submissives had to wait endlessly for their mistresses, usually in circumstances far less comfortable than my present one. It had never occurred to me I would actually enter a world where I would regularly have to wait. I was terrible at waiting. Really terrible. What if I were gagged and bound and made to wait on my knees on a hard floor, a blindfold keeping me from knowing day from night? I wouldn’t last ten minutes before going loco, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it. I would be all alone in an immense room—blind, mute, bound, helpless. I felt a stirring between my legs and started squirming on the sofa. Adele cast a rather doleful look at me.
I soon exhausted my fantasy and began taking in the details of the room. Something told me I shouldn’t wander about to admire the fine oil paintings and sculptures that decorated the large room, but I could easily see they were created by very advanced and accomplished artists, some of them recognizable. Every piece of furniture, every fabric, every last touch was gorgeous, yet the room looked more comfortable than decorated, more personal than perfect. Whoever created this room was complicated and talented.
Mrs. Kirchberger reappeared and motioned us to rise. Adele sprang up, obviously eager to see Jeanne. I was eager as well. The long wait had done nothing to lessen my curiosity. Mrs. Kirchberger led us up the front stairs. At the top was an open area with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with mismatched volumes of all sizes. It was a well used library. I could see at the end of a hallway there was a formal dining room, presumably with a kitchen nearby. And in between was a closed door that Mrs. Kirchberger opened. This was the point of no return, I sensed. She would be behind this door and I knew my life was about to change.
The room we entered was a luxurious study with a rich mahogany desk and chairs at one end, a fireplace with sofa and chairs at the other. The walls were a deep red, the natural woodwork ornate and gleaming. My gaze covered all of this searching for Jeanne, but Mrs. Kirchberger had shut the door behind us and there was only Adele and I in the room. I was so disappointed! The idea of another long wait almost defeated me.
Before I could complain to Adele, a door opened in the wall behind the desk—a hidden door perfectly camouflaged by one tier of a wall-length bookcase. As if by magic, the woman I’d spent years struggling to visualize walked into the room and my heart seized up. I took a deep breath trying to loosen the tightness in my chest, but she crossed the room and stood in front of me before I found my composure. Adele moved closer to us.
“May I present my friend, Laura Thomas. Laura, this is Jeanne Beaudreau.”
Jeanne took my hand and shook it warmly. “I am so delighted you were able to join us this evening. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
She kissed Adele on the cheek and ushered us over to the fireplace seating area, gesturing for Adele to take one of the chairs while she settled on the sofa next to me. I wondered if this upset Adele at all and realized I hoped it did.
“Adele adores her life drawing class and has told me all about your coffee chats afterward.”
She didn’t have an accent, but I almost believed she did. There was something very Continental about her. Her clothing perhaps most of all. Her slacks were expensive, perfectly tailored, black, and they lengthened her already long legs. Her blouse was a crisp whiter-than-white cotton, with an open collar. She didn’t wear a scarf, but I could imagine her wearing one, or an ascot perhaps. She was neither handsome nor beautiful, but something much more than either. Her face had great character, with signs of a life fully lived. Her brow and her jaw were strong but softened by the thick, glistening hair that fell in layers to her shoulders. She looked to be in her forties, with her body as lean as a much younger woman’s. She was entirely captivating, and I had to concentrate intensely to hear what she was saying.
“Adele is a very talented artist,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m at the cave drawing stage compared to her.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” Jeanne said. As she rose to serve us drinks I noticed Adele sat very quietly. She wasn’t relaxing toward the back of the leather club chair, but perched toward the front, her hands resting on her lap. Perhaps she’d been trained to sit like that. Jeanne would know she was behaving appropriately, but no one else would notice she was under Jeanne’s command. I felt a little smug, like a student knowing more than everyone else on the first day of class, thanks to all the reading I’d done over summer vacation. I was feeling like an honored guest and a bit above Adele in station. But I didn’t aspire to be higher than her—only lower.
Jeanne spent the next fifteen minutes asking me all about my graduate studies in art history, and the conversation continued in-depth and with enthusiasm throughout dinner, which was served by the tireless Mrs. Kirchberger. It turned out Jeanne was a serious art collector and our areas of study and interest ran along the same lines. I couldn’t help but notice that every time Jeanne exclaimed at something I said, Adele looked a little sad. She picked at her food but drank thirstily from her wine glass.
I was raised in an artistic family, and I’ve spent much of my life in galleries. I can easily do this kind of talk, and at some point I lost track of the fact I was in the home of my friend’s mistress, supposedly, hopefully, being auditioned for an introduction to dominance and submission. I felt instead like I was on a date, and Jeanne was effortlessly seducing me with her stories and attentiveness. There was just the strange presence of Adele, the silent and sulky third wheel in the room.
After the meal, Jeanne finally turned to Adele. “Go let Mrs. K. know we’re ready for coffee in the study. We’ll meet you there in a little bit.”
Adele slid from her chair and left the room. Jeanne’s hand moved toward mine on the table and she gave it a squeeze. “I can’t believe how much we have in common. It’s a thrill for me to discuss art with someone who knows what they’re talking about. Would you allow me to show you my collection?”
This smacked a bit of the age-old pickup line about etchings, but would be far beneath someone like Jeanne. She actually wanted to show me what she’d clearly spent years amassing—a very impressive collection of modern art. As we moved from one room to the other, I found myself hoping the pretend part of the evening would soon come to a close and we could start getting on with the business at hand, which was for this woman to act like a mistress. She
gently put her hand on the small of my back as she moved us along. She held doors for me. She looked intently in my eyes as I spoke about her pieces of art. When we walked down the hall to go back to the study, she gave me her arm and I took it, as if we were entering a ballroom. Adele was seated in her previous place, poised at the front of the chair, while Mrs. Kirchberger was placing a coffee service on the large table between the chairs and sofa. She quietly left the room and closed the door. No one spoke as Jeanne nodded to Adele, who stood to pour the coffee and pass the cups around before returning to her chair. I was uncomfortable with the sudden silence after so much lively conversation, but it didn’t seem like my silence to break. I concentrated on my coffee.
After a few almost unbearable minutes of silence, Jeanne spoke to Adele.
“Undress, please.”
Here was another magic door opening. All seemed normal, and then bang.
Adele stood at once and reached behind her neck to undo her zipper. Her dress was off in a moment, her bra and panties an instant after. Jeanne motioned her over and Adele came to her side, fell to her knees, and remained still while Jeanne reached into the drawer of the end table and pulled out a collar and leash, fastening the collar around Adele’s neck. Adele now held her head high and stared at me, even as Jeanne seemed to tighten the collar one notch beyond comfort. Mrs. Kirchberger entered the room just as Jeanne rose from the sofa holding the leash. She turned to me with her other hand extended.
“It’s been a delightful evening. I do hope you’ll join me for dinner again.”
Nonplussed wouldn’t describe what I felt. Paralyzed might. It was as if I had been given a puzzle involving a nonsensical sequence of objects and I was supposed to figure out what came next. Jeanne gave my hand a slight tug, not to pull me to my feet but rather to give me a hint as to what I was expected to do.
“Mrs. K. will see you out, if that’s all right?”
I looked at Adele. She looked serene, waiting patiently to be led to some darkly atmospheric room furnished with everything Jeanne’s excellent imagination could think of to use on her, waiting only for me to get out of her way.
“I had a wonderful time,” I said, my voice a little squeaky. “I hope we’ll see each other again.”
Mrs. Kirchberger led me out of the study, down the stairs, and out the front. As she closed the door on me without a word, I felt my face warm with humiliation. I felt like I’d done something wrong and my punishment was an early exit from the house. It was not the sort of punishment I’d been hoping for.
Chapter Two—The Auction
I’m a collector myself, I wanted to tell Jeanne. I collect lesbian BDSM novels and stories, and I collect them more out of a desire to be close to the subject than a driving need to acquire this or that piece. My collection was the only thing between me and a complete vacuum, for I’d always been a submissive with no dominant in sight. A world of real possibility rushed in the instant I met Jeanne, and suddenly my collection of books seemed to be merely a collection of books.
It had been three weeks since the dinner at Jeanne’s, and I hadn’t heard a word from her or Adele. I went to some of the drop-in drawing classes to see if Adele was there, but she never was. I walked by Jeanne’s house several times, but found no clue about its owner. I assumed I had flunked my audition and even thought they’d both fled town to get as far away from me as possible. That was a little grandiose, but I was so miserable I invited each and every thought about them to take root in my crazy brain. I pulled out a chair and invited them to stay awhile.
I was supposed to be writing my dissertation on Balthus, and all I could think about was Jeanne and my missed opportunity. I’d gone over and over the different ways the evening could have gone if Jeanne had wanted me. This is the one that excited me the most:
Mrs. K. enters the study and takes Adele by the leash, leading her out of the room and out of our way. Jeanne locks the door behind them and turns to me, the first imperious look of the evening on her face. The cocktail party graciousness is gone.
“You have thirty seconds to take everything off,” she says and watches as I scramble to take off my dress and underthings. I don’t hesitate; I just do it. I want only to please her. I remain standing in front of the sofa, my hands at my sides, and I watch as she moves toward me. She kicks aside the shoes and dress that lay at my feet and then takes hold of my necklace, pulling me by it to the center of the room.
“What is this?” she asks, still holding the necklace.
“What is what?” I am frightened by the cold look in her eye. I don’t know what she is talking about.
She tears the necklace off.
“I told you to take everything off. Is there something about those simple words you don’t understand?”
“I’m sorry.” I truly am.
Jeanne throws the necklace aside and steps away from me, pouring herself a drink from the cart behind the sofa. I remain stock-still. A long minute passes before she stands before me again.
“You’ll discover the times you find it necessary to apologize to me are the times I find it necessary to punish you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Hold your hands behind your back.”
As I do so, I see her take something out of her pants pockets. It’s a long piece of leather, much like a moccasin lace, and she walks behind me and ties my hands together with incredible speed. The binding is tight, slightly uncomfortable, but does not cut into my skin. I feel another leather string going around my upper arms, tying them together also, forcing my shoulders back and my breasts out. I have fairly large breasts. I know they look good like this, and for a second I think my breasts are going to give me some bargaining power with Jeanne, and in the same second I’m reminded that I have no power over Jeanne whatsoever. In one motion, she pushes me to my knees and pulls an ottoman over with her foot. When it is in front of me, she shoves me onto it, my torso draped over the velvet upholstery, my breasts squashed flat, my head hanging over one end, my ass in the air over the other. I hear Jeanne remove her leather belt.
Sadly, I could go no further in my own fantasy. With Jeanne’s face and voice now in mind, I could not presume to know what she would do to me. The fact is I don’t create these scenes. That’s not my role. Write them, and I’ll read them; dominate me, and I’ll submit to you. I had no clear idea at all what Jeanne would do to me if I were ever to be summoned by her. I only knew the very thought she would do something extraordinary excited me almost to the point of orgasm.
I picked up a book that had just arrived in the mail and took it into my bedroom, less than enthusiastic about what I would find in its pages.
*
Autumn was taking hold in the city. The air seemed cleaner, the sky bluer, and my body clock, set forever to the school year, helped me focus and get serious about my thesis. But I was lonelier than I’d ever been, still desperate to see Jeanne. The practical side of me got on with things. The other side was frustrated and sad.
One night as I was entering my building after an evening out with friends, I heard a car door slam behind me. I turned to see Jeanne walking toward the building.
“Good evening, Laura.”
I was so shocked all I could say was, “What are you doing here?” How did she know where I lived?
“I’m here to see you, of course. Aren’t you glad to see me?” She looked like she knew I was glad to see her. Jeanne did not suffer from lack of confidence.
“I’m sorry. I’m just startled. Would you like to come in?” My mind swept through my apartment. It would be passable. The bed was even made. Maybe she’d throw me down on it.
“Not tonight, but thank you. I’ve come by to ask if you’d accompany me to an auction tomorrow night. I could use your expertise.”
She handed me a thick, glossy catalog. “I thought you might study what’s available in oil, mid-century European or American, and let me know if there’s anything worth picking up.”
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p; I knew from our conversation weeks ago she didn’t need my advice about anything. I knew she could teach me a thing or two. In fact, that’s all I thought about, but not in terms of art, I have to admit.
“I’d be honored to,” I said as if she’d asked me to present an award or something.
“Wonderful. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven and we’ll have a drink before we go to Sotheby’s.”
Jeanne kissed my cheek and walked back to her car, a new Saab that looked like it was right off the showroom floor. I watched, open-mouthed, as she drove away.
An hour later, I was curled up on the sofa with my cat and the catalog when Jeanne called.
“Have you reviewed the material?” she said. No preliminaries. No announcing who she was in case I didn’t recognize her voice. She probably knew I heard her voice in my dreams.
“I’ve just started, but so far it looks pretty run-of-the-mill.”
“Yes, well, keep reading. The gems are always hard to find.”
“I will. I’ll be ready by tomorrow evening.”
I wondered what she was really calling about.
“Are you alone, Laura?”
“Yes, except for my cat.”
“Is the cat on your lap?”
“Yes.”
“Take the cat off your lap.”
I put Martha on the floor beside me. She performed some immediate grooming and then sashayed away.
“She’s gone,” I said.
“Good. Do you know what I’m doing now?”
“I can’t even guess.”
“I’m sending you a photo. I’ll call after you’ve had a look.”
The call disconnected, and in a minute I heard a text message whoosh in. The photo attached to the message made me suck in my breath. Adele was on her knees, her hands bound behind her. She wore a wide collar that kept her chin high, and she was blindfolded. Nasty looking clamps were on each of her nipples, linked together with a chain and weighed down with pieces of iron. Jeanne’s finger was curled around the chain, pulling on it, causing the look of pain on Adele’s mouth.
The Collectors Page 2
