*
I devoted the rest of the afternoon to work. I unplugged my Internet router and hid the SIM card from my phone. I couldn’t trust myself to not check my messages every two minutes to see if Jeanne was trying to contact me. It was getting ridiculous how much time I was spending on sex—thinking about it, having it, planning for it, recovering from it. I barely had time to eat, let alone write a book-length monograph on an inscrutable artist.
I slogged through a few hours of writing before going out for coffee and a bite to eat. I gave way to my thoughts of Jeanne as I walked. I missed her. I wanted her every minute I thought of her. And I thought of her every minute. When I sat at the table in my favorite diner, I pulled Adele’s drawing out of my bag, trying to figure out the proper response to it, knowing the idea of leaving Jeanne was out of the question. I didn’t feel threatened by the drawing. After all, it showed me stabbing Adele, not the other way around. But clearly she was saying she hated me for betraying her, and this is where I thought she was being dramatic. Didn’t you have to have some kind of relationship with a person before you could betray her? Strangers did not have the kind of trust with each other that is broken by betrayal. I’d had coffee with Adele four or five times. Whatever she felt I’d done to her, it didn’t rise to the level of betrayal, of stabbing someone in the back. It didn’t seem Adele had a very strong hold on Jeanne, who was her patron, after all. A patron with benefits, it’s true, but not her partner, her lover, her significant other. Not as I understood those terms.
A shadow fell over the drawing and I looked up to see Pat standing by my table. Her friendly expression darkened when she saw the drawing. We looked at each other.
“Were you stopping by to say hello?” I asked.
“Yes.” She looked at the other chair and started to pull it out. “May I?”
I got a good look at her as she sat down, something I didn’t do the night she had demonstration sex with Adele. I’d been in such a daze then I could hardly focus when she walked me to the door. I saw a woman who looked even younger than the handsome butch fucking the daylights out of Adele.
“What the hell is that?” she said, pointing at the drawing.
I pushed it over to her. “I wasn’t going to show this to anyone, but since you asked…”
Pat studied it for a minute. “It’s you and Adele.”
“Yep. Adele drew it. She’s quite good, isn’t she? She left it for me at my home, shoved under the door in an envelope.”
A server came by and Pat ordered coffee. She took the drawing, folded it, and put it in her pocket.
“What are you doing?”
“This needs to be seen by people a few pay grades above us.”
“It does?” I was confused, which was beginning to feel like a normal state of mind. “Are you giving it to the police? I don’t intend to stab Adele in the back. You do know that, don’t you?”
Pat smiled. “I know. But Adele clearly feels she’s been wronged and she’s pretty upset about it. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
I stared at Pat for a moment. “I’m getting a little sick of not understanding anything. I understand what Jeanne and I do together; I understand the scene you and Adele performed. You know what I don’t understand? The Byzantine rules you all seem to have. Submissives aren’t supposed to talk to dominants about their issues. Dominants may have Primaries. There are ‘Pay Grades’ above mine —“
“Not pay grades,” Pat interrupted. “I just meant letting the women who keep an eye on these things know about Adele’s state of mind.”
I shook my head in bewilderment. “This is what I mean. It’s one mystery after another. What women? What do they keep any eye on?”
“Well, it’s hard to explain…”
“Don’t even try.” I gathered my things to go.
“Wait.” She reached over and grabbed my forearm. There was a little weight to her grip. She wasn’t asking me to stay; she was telling me to.
“I’m not at liberty to explain things to you. That will come with time and at Jeanne’s direction. Adele should not have told you anything about primaries, or anything else.”
“You seem like a nice person, Pat. And Jeanne? I’m already a little in love with her. But I’m feeling unnerved by all this. I don’t think I’m interested in learning about it.”
Pat kept her hand on my arm and pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans. She hit a speed dial number.
“Jeanne, it’s Pat. I’m at a restaurant with Laura—ran into her here. You don’t mind if I go home with her, do you?”
I was slammed with several strong and competing feelings on hearing this. First was the shock of hearing myself spoken of as if I were property to be passed among friends. Pat could have been asking to borrow Jeanne’s bicycle, from the sound of it. Then I was hurt because Jeanne didn’t care whether Pat had sex with me. But the feeling that rolled over the other two like a fireball was lust. I became almost instantly turned on by the idea of the boyish Pat taking me to my house and having her way with me. Perhaps rules wouldn’t be a bad thing for me, for I seemed to be completely out of control.
Pat handed the phone to me. Jeanne’s voice sounded velvety. “Do you want to please me?”
“Always.”
“Then go do what Pat wants you to do. It will make me happy over the next hour to know you are with her. To imagine what she’s doing to you.”
“All right. But when will I see you again?”
There was a pause. “You’ll hear from me,” she said and hung up.
Pat paid my check and we took the short walk back to my place. She didn’t chat and I didn’t try to engage her. It seemed we had a job to do and we just needed to get to it. In my apartment she had me stand in the middle of the bedroom while she took off all my clothes. She walked around me and took a long look, stopping only to put my hands together behind my back and move my legs a little further apart than they were. She finally stopped in front of me.
“Where do you keep your stockings?”
“Stockings?”
“Pantyhose, that sort of thing.”
“I don’t wear pantyhose,” I said.
Pat frowned.
“But I have tights! Will they work?”
“Where are they?”
I started to move toward my dresser, but Pat stopped me with a hand to my chest.
“Did I say you could move?”
I hesitated. She grabbed a nipple and twisted. I was so surprised, I shrieked.
“I asked you a question.” Pat was looking a little fierce and I felt alarmed. But once again, with the fear came the excitement. She still had hold of my nipple and the feeling shot down between my legs.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I cast my eyes downward, thinking that was the right thing to do.
“Look at me,” Pat said, taking me by the chin. “You don’t move unless I tell you to. You don’t speak unless I tell you to. But if I tell you to do either, you’d better be quick. Do you understand?”
I nodded and looked at her.
“Asking you a question is telling you to speak. What is so hard about that?”
Now she had my other nipple. She twisted it like she was opening a safe.
“I understand.”
“Good. Now, where are your tights?”
“Top left drawer of the dresser.”
She rummaged around for a bit before returning with several pairs of tights, mostly black, but there were also the funky white ones with black skulls like polka dots all over them. Pat took me by the elbow and brought me over to my bed. Within what seemed like seconds she had me tied to the four corners of the bed frame so I was facing down, on my knees, my ass pointing toward the ceiling. My poor ass. It was still marked from my last session with Jeanne.
I heard Pat remove her belt. It was the exact sound I’d heard in my first fantasy about Jeanne.
“I’m giving you ten with my belt. I want you to call out each one.”
I
counted to ten, thinking at first it was not the kind of counting my mother had coached me to do. I quickly realized that thoughts of my mother were the last thing I wanted in this situation. By the third strike I was focused completely on the simplest of elements—the sound of the belt hitting my ass, the shock of pain that followed, the effort to not scream but instead to bark out a number, the concentration it took to remember what number I was on. At one point I skipped a number, so Pat added it and two more to the total.
When it was over, I heard Pat unzip her pants. I was resting my forehead on the sheets, hoping whatever Pat had in mind somehow involved my pussy. It was desperate for attention. When she moved in front of me on the bed, I knew it only involved hers. So I put my lips to her, sank my tongue into her, did my best to make her noisy. She came within a few minutes and I could tell quite clearly how much she enjoyed it. I forgot about the overwhelming desire to have my clit touched. I wanted only to give her pleasure, a way of thinking so new to me, so unanticipated when I entered this life. The desire to please, to serve, was stronger than the desire to be pleased. I wanted both, but I hadn’t known beforehand I would find true pleasure in simply giving pleasure, particularly when it was ordered of me.
Pat untied me and lay beside me for a few minutes.
“I know Jeanne is into you,” she said. “She’s talked about you with me and some of the others. That may be a first for her.”
I didn’t speak, but I was thrilled.
“A dominant is allowed to have sex with any submissive who has willingly entered our society,” she said.
She put a finger across my lips when she heard me about to speak.
“Adele has broken a rule by expressing displeasure to Jeanne about your role in Jeanne’s life, and now by sending you this drawing, trying to get you to do something against Jeanne’s wishes. Jeanne will take care of the situation.”
I felt a little sorry for Adele. I assumed she would be punished or exiled in some way. Probably exiled. It’s hard to punish people who just get off on the punishment.
I raised my hand as if I were in school. Pat smiled.
“You can ask a question.”
“I don’t understand what this society is. Is there a clubhouse? A Web site?”
Pat laughed. “A clubhouse isn’t a bad idea, but we don’t have one. Just think of it as an organized society of like-minded people. I’m pretty sure you’ll become a member yourself.”
I lay there quietly. There were a thousand questions to ask, but now I didn’t feel like asking them. I was content to have things revealed to me bit by bit. It kept me off-balance, a feeling I was growing to relish. It felt exciting. Like an adventure.
Pat kissed my forehead and left, and I slept the rest of the afternoon.
*
Jeanne summoned me to her home the following night. I was curious to see her after my experience with Pat. I wondered if I would find Jeanne somehow different, perhaps less of a magnet for me now that I knew I could enjoy what another dominant did to me. This gave me more power, for I’d be less dependent on Jeanne to satisfy my needs. But I didn’t want more power with Jeanne. I wanted even less.
Mrs. Kirchberger answered the door and led me downstairs. I was perfectly clean, groomed, and dressed for the occasion, but this ritual of preparing myself in her home was part of the whole gestalt. Without it, my experience felt less than—less satisfying, less spiritual.
When Mrs. K. let me into the garden apartment I wondered if Adele had to leave each time Jeanne had me over. Maybe the thing Adele was pissed about was being uprooted so often. I did feel bad about that, though I had no solution to the problem.
As I walked toward the bathroom I passed Adele’s bedroom. The door was closed. This was awkward. I didn’t want to see Adele, but I also didn’t want her walking in on me when I was giving myself an enema. Along with counting to ten to avoid unnecessary confrontations, my mother taught me to face head-on the situations that couldn’t be avoided. They usually proved to be less awful than I’d feared. I knocked on Adele’s door, meaning to let her know I was there and talk to her if she insisted. There was no answer. I knocked again before opening the door and sticking my head in. The first thing I noticed in the pristine room was the missing stuffed animal on the bed. The photos on the nightstand were also gone. I stepped to the closet and found it empty. The dresser also. She was gone. She’d been exiled. I had a flash vision of a bleak Siberian camp for wayward submissives. Surely, this society wasn’t as severe as that.
When I’d finished my preparations, I opened the door to the hallway to find Mrs. Kirchberger waiting. She locked the door behind me and led me upstairs. I tried to start a conversation with her, again.
“Has Adele moved out?” I was climbing the stairs behind her, her sturdy shoes making a clomping noise. She did not reply.
“Look, Mrs. K., I realize you don’t like me. Maybe it has something to do with Adele. But I swear I had nothing to do with her losing her place here. You must realize I don’t have any pull with Jeanne.”
Mrs. K. cast a skeptical look back at me. It was far more expressive than anything I’d seen before.
“Honestly. I’ll tell Jeanne right now that I mean no harm to Adele and don’t want to see her lose what she has. But I don’t think it will work, do you?”
She forged ahead, completely ignoring me. As she showed me into the study, she avoided my eyes. I am done with this, I thought. If she hates me, then I officially hate her. No more sucking up to Mrs. Kirchberger.
The study was empty. I curled up on the sofa and brooded about Mrs. K. and Adele. After about half an hour Jeanne swept into the room from the hallway, two DVDs in her hand.
“It’s movie night, my dear.” She joined me on the sofa. “In honor of our upcoming trip to Paris, we’re going to see a Truffaut double header tonight.” She looked mischievous.
“Trip to Paris?”
“As soon as you can break away for a few days from those undergraduates of yours, I thought we’d fly to Paris and track down some Balthus.”
Given how calm and contained Jeanne normally kept herself, she looked very excited about her news. She was watching me closely, waiting for me to say something.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Just you and me and Paris and all the art you can possibly take in. And maybe some other things as well.”
“What kind of things?”
“Let’s just say I have friends in Paris. And I think you’ll like a little French style dominance.”
I took her hand and leaned in to kiss her.
“Thank you. I feel like squealing and jumping up and down, but I’m trying to act with some dignity.”
Jeanne was grinning and then suddenly was not. “Dignity is a luxury for you. I intend to strip you of it as often as possible.”
Here was the lightning-fast change in tone that played with my head so deliciously.
“While I’m in the other room getting some things, I want you to get naked and stand right here,” she said, pointing to the area in front of the sofa. Within a minute or two she was back, carrying enough rope to secure a small naval fleet. With stunning expertise, Jeanne wrapped the ropes around me until I was hog-tied on the floor. My arms and legs were lashed together behind my back, my breasts were bulging out of the rope wrapped around their base, and my head was held in place by my ponytail being tied by another rope to my ankles. Jeanne moved me around so my face was pointed toward the TV and then she settled in to watch The 400 Blows and Jules et Jim. She rested her legs on my ass and I could hear her drinking something on the rocks and munching on something.
I loved every minute of the discomfort. As the hours went by and the stiffness in my joints and chaffing of the rope grew exponentially worse, I loved it more. When Jeanne moved her foot between my legs she found me wet. When she unbound me after the second movie was over, she found me wetter still. I found I could barely move, but somehow I got onto my knees, draped over the ottoman, and I came inst
antly when she put on her harness and fucked me. Then I came again. I listened to her breathing and could tell she was close to coming herself, but she took a long time before crying out. And still I was wet.
We lay still for a long time, Jeanne draped over me, me draped over the ottoman, and I felt an intense closeness. I couldn’t be making it up. But soon she got up and told me to dress and leave her. She wouldn’t look at me when she gave the order. I think she wanted me to stay.
I was at the door to the study when I thought to follow up on my thoughts from earlier in the evening.
“Jeanne, do you know why Mrs. Kirchberger hates me?”
“Hates you? She doesn’t hate you.”
“Oh, yes, she does. I’ve never been treated as rudely by anyone. She’s never once said hello or even replied to anything I’ve said to her.”
“Of course not. She’s mute.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mute. She can’t talk. She had some rare mouth cancer when she was quite young. Most of her tongue is gone.”
I stood there stock-still. It didn’t seem quite right to be glad Mrs. Kirchberger didn’t have a tongue, but I was very relieved it was nothing personal.
The Collectors Page 7
