by Alison Tyler
I watched as Anthony played with the paddle between his hands, motioning with a nod for me to read the rest of what was written on the page. The flagellation scene. What had I started? Here was my world crumbling around me. Words were letting me down again, making me shake and tremble.
‘Keep reading,’ Anthony insisted.
And I read on to find my heroine, the sweet girl in the story, poised on the brink of endurance. I read of her being tied face down, ass bared and ready, to Anthony’s four-poster bed. I knew that when I reached the end, when I reached the point in which the girl in the story and the man in the story came together, it would be my cue to strip my clothes off, to bend over Anthony’s lap and take the punishment he was poised to mete out.
I deserved the punishment, didn’t I? I’d cheated, I’d gone behind his back. If I’d been up front with him, if I’d at least told him what I was doing – getting a second opinion, as it were – I could have explained myself ahead of time to ward off exactly this type of scenario.
I read further. Read exactly what it was Anthony planned to do to me, my body, my naked ass. Read on to find out what would happen afterwards, when tears ran down my face – tears of embarrassment more than of pain – and he stood me up before his bedroom mirror and had me stare at my reddened ass cheeks, had me take in the look visibly, as if I were some work of art and he the commissioned artist.
He played with the paddle in his hand. He slapped it against his palm, slapped it hard enough to make a solid jarring sound, a noise that made me jump. There was a second page to his story that I hadn’t yet finished reading. I found it difficult to concentrate with the steady rhythm of his paddle smacking against the naked skin of his hand. I had a hard time making my mind dance around the words that spoke brightly to me from the paper: exposed, spanked, punished, then having all the guilt erased with more pleasure than I’d ever known.
That was the final promise in the last line of the page. Explain myself. Explain and apologise for my cheating heart, and then experience a lifetime of pleasure in one single night.
I wanted what was on those pages. Desperately, I wanted what was in the journal. Tie me down. Cut my clothes loose with a knife. Turn me loose inside and out. Your touch could set me free; it could. I know it. Make me burn for not trusting you, for not believing in you. Then wash it all away with pleasures that I have never possessed, never let myself experience outside the privacy of my mind.
Anthony didn’t speak. He was playing me, playing with me. That’s all there was to it. He was tormenting me because he liked to do so, because he could. He knew exactly what he was doing. He had known all along.
Maybe I didn’t need to say anything. There was a happy thought. Maybe I didn’t need to explain myself. Perhaps, I could get by with just staring into his eyes and thinking about what needed to be said. Nora says that soulmates, true soulmates, don’t need to talk. That’s what she says, although she also admits she’s never found a true soulmate, just a true ‘fuck mate’. If Anthony and I were actually meant for each other, we wouldn’t have to discuss the past because it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he knew.
The paddle hit the palm of his palm. Once. Hard. Then again.
From his expression, I learned even more about him. I learned that he was patient, that he could wait and that he was cruel. The way his eyes picked up the flame of the candles on the coffee table. The golden glow of fire in his eyes told me secrets, made me promises.
‘Read it again at Nora’s,’ Anthony said suddenly, not mentioning dinner. Not explaining. Without changing his expression from one of patience and understanding, he set the paddle down on the table – red side up this time – picked up my coat, and helped me slide into it. While I watched in stunned silence, he scooped up the rest of the translated pages, shuffled them together and handed them to me. I felt numb. Confused.
‘You’re not ready yet,’ he said as we walked outside, as he led me towards my own car. He didn’t sound angry. As I replayed the words in my head, I realised that he didn’t sound anything except resigned. If this were Byron speaking, he’d have been furious. I had to get used to this new way of talking, of thinking.
My head felt heavy, as if it were filled with sand. I felt trapped, moving in slow motion, unable to defend myself, unsure what I needed to defend.
I wanted to argue. I wanted to disagree emphatically, shake my head and stamp my feet. Throw a tantrum right there in the middle of the street, so that he would be forced to deal with me. I knew somehow what Anthony would do if I pitched a fit. He would throw me over his shoulder and carry me back into the apartment. He would treat me like a bratty child. But he was right. If I were truly ready, I’d have done what his story told me to do. I would have followed each step precisely, fully giving myself over to him. Anthony had spelled everything out for me.
What the fuck was I waiting for?
I let him walk me to my car. I had parked across from his building, and when we got to my siren-red Prius, he leaned against the side of the car and looked at me. Looked me over, the way a lover would, up and down my body, in the most sexual way I’d every imagined. He had an expression on his face as if he were adding up a long list of numbers – numbers of ways we could fuck, numbers of ways he could take me. There was total silence as he gazed at me. Nora would have been bold. She would have copped the same attitude, returning his stare without flinching.
I’m not Nora. I wanted to run and hide.
With his arms folded across his chest, he continued to take me in. As if he were measuring me for future fittings. Then he nodded his silent approval and moved aside so that I could unlock the passenger door.
For one wild moment, I thought he would climb into the car, thought he might let me drive him home with me. Home. I had no home. Back to Nora’s house, then. But that wasn’t a sane person’s thought. Where would he and I go for privacy? What if Nora walked in on us? Would she join us as I’d joined her and Dean? What would Anthony say if I told him about that night?
I thought about the things we might do together. And then I thought maybe he would go to Nora’s club with me, that we would christen the Cinéma Vérité room for ourselves. Or perhaps venture down the hall to the black-walled Slave to Love. Clearly, that was more Anthony’s speed. I could just picture him putting the fuchsia cuffs on me, positioning me exactly as he wanted me, taking charge.
But no, he stepped away and watched as I took off my coat and put it inside, put my purse on the floor, then he stepped back and closed the passenger door for me. It was the move, somehow, of a gentleman. Chivalrous.
Aside from everything else, he had manners.
Anthony smiled at me, his head cocked, as I walked to the other side of the car and unlocked the driver’s side door. I thought he’d say something. I thought he’d have to say something. But he didn’t. He watched me get in. He let me drive away, into a darkened city without him.
Because he knew.
Chapter Eighteen
‘People don’t fucking behave like that.’
Anger coloured Nora’s normally pale cheeks a dusky rose. Nora always gets upset for me when she thinks someone is doing me wrong. It’s great to have a friend who is so intensely loyal, but I couldn’t bask in this outrage. For once, I didn’t agree with her. ‘Come on, Eli,’ she insisted. ‘People don’t invite you to dinner and then give you the silent treatment. Not people who like you.’
‘You’re wrong. Anthony does like me.’ No, like wasn’t the right word. It wasn’t that he liked me. It was that he wanted me. But on his terms. This was his way of testing me, the way I’d gone to Marcia behind his back to test him. Nora shook her head fiercely, looking as if she were going to launch into a counter-argument, but I continued, ‘He felt that I’d challenged his integrity.’
‘You mean his ego. His huge ginormous inflated ego. You don’t need another man like that, do you? Not after Byron. What you need is someone who adores you. Check out the line-up of my new male bart
enders. They’re all young, all gorgeous. Any one of them would bend over backwards to please you. In fact, one of them is a practitioner of that really difficult type of yoga. He did this thing on the bar earlier that shocked us all, bending backwards in order to deliver the drink. He would definitely be a man to consider. He could probably blow himself if you asked him to.’
‘Why would I ask him to do that?’
‘I mean, just to show you how flexible he is.’
‘He’d bend over to please you,’ I corrected her. ‘I have no say as to how long these contestants stay or go. There’s no reason for these hopefuls to try to please me.’
‘There is while you’re dressed like that.’
It was Halloween. Finally, Halloween. And I’d given in to Nora’s begging and dressed how she wanted me.
‘I’m not going to fuck someone just because he thinks I could help his career.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Is that why you’re with Travis … or Dean?’
‘I can’t help either of them.’
‘Not true. You can help anyone you want to help, Nora.’
‘I don’t need to help either of them,’ she insisted. ‘That’s not why they’re with me.’
‘So why do you think I’d want to be with someone for the same reason?’
‘I didn’t,’ she said lamely. ‘I just meant, since you are decked out like that, you might want to take advantage of the costume. Live it up a little bit.’
I knew what she was saying. In Nora’s world, a fuck session would fix everything. My mood. My frame of mind. It would make all my problems with Anthony disappear like pixie dust. This was how she’d helped me deal with the first night of breaking up with Byron. But this time, I didn’t want to hide from my problems. I wanted to confront them. Somehow, being dressed up like Nora helped me with this attitude. I felt strong and empowered. Nora, meanwhile, looked only a bit like me. She had on a wig to cover her short hair, and she was wearing a black suit, but it was so tight-fitting it could have been made of that shiny spray-on vinyl. She had on a pair of reading glasses with clear lenses, and she held a book under her arm, a great big book like one that I would read, except this one was The Joy of Sex. ‘I’m a professor of sexology,’ she’d told me earlier when I’d asked for an explanation for taking a few liberties with the outfit I’d suggested.
I’d let her trick me out exactly how she wanted to. I was dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. The sexiest Little Red Riding Hood in the world.
Now, I shook my head ‘no’, when a wolf came up and growled at me about my goodies, ‘not interested’ was the look I gave him.
‘How did he find out, anyway?’ Nora asked.
This was the first I’d told her about what had happened the previous night. I’d needed to process the situation myself. But when Nora had asked where Anthony was, I’d broken down and told her.
She waved to the bartender nearest our table, and we each ordered a Flirtini.
‘Come on, how? Did Marcia tell him?’
I shrugged. It wasn’t important. What I did wouldn’t have been less wrong if he hadn’t found out. What was important was something I didn’t even think I could say aloud to Nora. So how was I ever going to be able to say it to Anthony?
‘Normal people just don’t act like that,’ Nora insisted again, which was an odd statement for her, as she doesn’t put much stock into ‘normal’ anything. ‘They don’t pick a fight with you and then nicely walk you to your car, stare at you the way you said. Look at you longingly. They don’t stay quiet like that, waiting for you to make amends. Waiting for you to do what they want. How did he let you know he’d found out about Marcia? In some fucked-up story? What a stupid fucking thing to fight about.’
‘It didn’t feel like a fight,’ I said softly. My cape was cumbersome, and I pulled it off and set it next to me at the bar. Beneath, I had on little tight red dress, something that I would never have felt comfortable in if Nora hadn’t been right next to me. She’d picked the form-fitting scarlet dress for me to wear, and high-heeled red Mary Jane shoes. I had a hat on, too, of course, a fedora that was more shocking pink than actually red, making me the hippest Little Red Riding Hood of all time.
Nora lasted as long as she could in the suit. Even a tight suit like this one made her feel ill at ease. At midnight, when she had to announce the contestants for her new show, she hurried off to change into her real costume. Now, her bright-pink panties were clearly visible through the sheer white nurse’s uniform. She’d gone with Nora the Naughty Nurse after all.
Aside from our little bet, why was I dressed up like this? I longed for my comfortable uniform, my black slacks, cashmere sweater, sensible black shoes. Why was I even here?
That was simple. Nora had insisted that I come to the party. There were too many things going on, she said. The announcement at midnight of the winners. The launching of the perfume. Besides, I’d promised. She needed to have at least one person nearby who she could trust. One person who she knew didn’t want anything from her. That person was me.
And I did honestly feel a bit special for the fact that Nora had shrugged off all of her admirers in order to talk with me. There were photographers who wanted to take her picture in a line with all the up-and-coming bartenders. There were fans who wanted her to sign their bodies with lipsticks and ballpoint pens. There were investors who hoped to woo her into agreeing to another deal with them. Nora had eyes and ears only for me, loyal beyond loyal.
‘It was a fight,’ she insisted again. She’d just come back after changing her outfit, but clearly she wasn’t ready to change the conversation. ‘He pushed you, challenged you. And when you wouldn’t explain yourself, he stopped talking. Aggressive behaviour. Then passive aggressive.’
‘But it didn’t feel like a fight,’ I said again, trying to sound insistent. ‘I liked being next to him on the sofa. I was turned on watching him play with the paddle. I didn’t feel angry. Just intimidated. I didn’t know what to do.’
More than that, really, I chided myself. Be honest now, Eleanor. It was much more than that. I knew exactly what to do, and, as usual, I had fled. When was I going to stop running away from the things I wanted? When was I going to silence the frightened voice inside my head and go after the experiences I truly desired. Like being draped over Anthony’s knees, his hands on the waistband of my panties, pulling them down my thighs. His fingertips playing over my naked skin before bringing the paddle down hard. I’d liked the sound it made when he’d simply slapped it against the palm of his hand. I got wet simply from imagining the sound it might make when it hit my ass.
I shut my eyes tight, but the image didn’t leave. It was so easy for me to imagine Anthony doing things to me. Tying me up. Spanking me. Fucking me.
So why was that so hard to admit to him?
Worse things are said aloud every single day. I thought of Byron and his admission that he didn’t love me. I thought of his insistence that I was the one who needed psychiatric help. That I had somehow driven him into the willing arms of Gwen. Byron able to say those hurtful things, without having the decency even to blush. This wasn’t something evil or harmful or even all that shocking.
Then why couldn’t I even say it to Nora. Why couldn’t I look at her, turn rose red if I had to, and say, ‘I can get wet simply by looking up the word “spank” in a dictionary. Of reading that word aloud. Sometimes, when nobody’s nearby, I look up that term in Wikipedia. And I lied before. I do read blogs. It’s just that I mostly read spanking blogs. Late at night. When nobody’s up. Or in my office, when people think I’m focused on some new research assignment.’
But this was the kind of thing I ought to have been telling Anthony. Here he was, giving me the opportunity to experience a fantasy that I’d only … well, fantasised about, and I’d fled like a frightened mouse.
‘Next time, you leave,’ Nora insisted. ‘Case closed.’
‘That’s what I did this time,’ I told her emphatically. ‘Ne
xt time, I won’t.’
Next time, if Anthony agreed to give me a chance at a next time, I’d suggest the activities myself.
The band started up again with a punk version of ‘Monster Mash’. Nora, unable to politely keep an Elvis impersonator at bay any longer, asked him if he really wanted a rectal examination right there, in front of God and everyone, and the man scurried away from us with a hurt expression on his face.
In the time it took for Nora to lose the geek, I got control of my voice. Made it say the words that most wanted to escape. Words are my friends. Words can set you free. ‘That’s what I did this time,’ I repeated. ‘I won’t fail myself again.’
As I spoke the words, I saw Byron enter the club, despite the fact that he’d been banned. He was in costume which he probably hoped would allow him to go unnoticed, but I recognised him immediately. Every year that we’ve been together, he’s dressed as a woman on Halloween. This is a way for him to let his alter ego out, a way for him to get in touch with his feminine side. That’s what he’s always claimed. I think he just finds it kinky to put on ladies’ lingerie.
He didn’t look good enough to pass as a woman, but he’d managed to pass by Nora’s bouncers. When she turned and saw him, I felt her stiffen.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Let me.’
‘Are you kidding? I can get Travis to help.’
I shook my head, and then started to walk towards Byron. He was Gwen-less, which backed up what Nora had told me about reading his blog. That I’d been right. Gwen had only really been interested in the excitement of having an illicit liaison.
‘You look amazing,’ he said when he saw me.
‘Yeah? You think?’
‘You look different,’ he said next, ‘not just the outfit. Something else.’
I felt different, but I wasn’t going to tell him why.
‘I knew you were going to be here, and you weren’t taking my phone calls, so, I thought …’
‘What do you want, Byron?’
