As She's Told (17 page)

Fear ratcheted up into a state close to panic. At last I came to two soldiers in uniform with helmets and guns who stood guarding a gate.

"Let me through!"

"No. No entry."

"Please," I begged, "I have to go back!"

"You can't go back."

"But I only walked away for a minute, I didn't mean it!" I looked down at my naked body and saw to my horror that the chain was gone from my waist. Frantically I searched the ground. There it lay behind me in the gritty sand, like a tarnished snake. I fumbled to replace it, but the lock was rusted 105

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and filled with grit and it kept slithering off. The guards were stony faced, silent, guns blocking the gate. "What can I do?" I wailed.

"You can do whatever you want." The soldier gestured with his gun away from the gate. I turned, and saw empty rocks and mountains stretched to the horizon, their metallic sheen glittering.

I woke up crying. Then I felt the chain around my waist, smooth and solid, and was overcome with such relief I cried some more.

The next day the soreness of my ass was a constant irritant, intruding on and eroticising every move I made, particularly as I had no underwear to cover myself. I made do with a half slip, and felt naked and anxious. Sitting down was uncomfortable, but standing and walking rubbed the material of my slip against the welts, and made concentration an act of will. That day Anders began checking up on me unpredictably, showing up outside the library in his truck, dropping in at ten o'clock at night to make sure that I was behaving myself. I had to show him each time that I was wearing only what I was allowed to wear, doing only what I was allowed to do. I was allowed to go from home to school, to the stores near my place and home again; that's all. Anything else required permission. I caught hell one day for going up to a café on Bloor Street with my friends to celebrate Po Ling's new job; I only heard at the last minute and had no time to phone Anders before we all started walking. I thought it would be okay to call him once we got there, but it wasn't okay. I got a stiff whipping out of that, and a new cell phone. When my old one had died I hadn't bothered replacing it; I'd never made many calls when I was out, and all the unused minutes had felt like a waste. Now that I had one again, its only purpose was to report in to Anders, and for him to keep tabs on my whereabouts. He also began monitoring my expenses; one look at the mess my finances were in and he'd taken over. My phone frugality was more than compensated for in other areas. No more impulse buys, no more disorganization. I had to account for every penny I spent, so I spent almost nothing.

School had reached a fever pitch, and the days went by with only short visits from Anders in which he inspected me, examined my work, gave crisp, specific praise when it was deserved, and grilled me in detail on any insufficiencies. So much for not getting into trouble. Most nights I had to lean over my chair, bottom bared, and count blows from a crop which made remarkably little noise, given how much it stung. Then he'd leave, and I 106

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would sit down gingerly and try to address what I'd done wrong, try to concentrate and get back to work.

Those awful dreams I had seemed to set the tone for at least half of my unconscious hours. In my dreams I climbed fences, and either couldn't get back, or fell off the cliffs beyond them. Right into Niagara Gorge in one case. Or I wielded Nikki's bolt cutters on barriers, stepped through the resulting openings, and turned to watch complex structures collapse behind me. Or I was back on that horrible beach. I could never find Anders, and it was always my fault; a moment's foolish impulse had ruined everything. The chain around my waist became a talisman when I awoke, and sometimes I tried to sleep with a hand curled round it, hoping it would act like a dreamcatcher and fend off the nightmares.

During the day my rational side was uppermost. I knew that waiting a few more weeks wouldn't kill me, and that Anders would hardly let me walk away on a whim. But the dreams left their residue. I felt loose and rattly sometimes, at risk of damage, as if I was in a moving car without a seatbelt.

This was odd, really, because I could hardly make a move without running into Anders' restrictions. What I wore, where I went, every decision I made was sifted through a screen of his rules, expectations and punishments. Gradually every thought became coloured by the hope of pleasing him, and the growing fear of what he might do if I didn't.

I'd often had a fault-finding 'watcher' travelling with me. I guess most self-conscious people have their own resident critic, forever sitting in judgment. Not surprisingly, Anders quickly became that unseen onlooker and judge. I never felt entirely away from his monitoring eye. My usual self-criticism was intensified and given a whole new meaning. I was moving and adjusting myself to his invisible presence.

And in any case I carried him with me, in the chain I couldn't remove, the cellphone that tied me to him, the clothes he made me wear and not wear, the flesh that he pleasured and manipulated and punished. Those words of Patient Griselda became a kind of mantra in my head.

When Anders examined me he insisted that I tell him anything I thought I'd done wrong, and under such questioning I couldn't hold back; his eye for my deceits was as acute and intolerant as it was for prevaricating politicians.

Actually, it seemed to me that he already knew what I'd done wrong and was just waiting for me to confess. So I told him about staying up past the 107

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bedtime he'd imposed, or skipping lunch, or forgetting a meeting. Then I'd count the strokes, try to hold back the tears, and get down on my knees and kiss the whip and his hand when he was done. Our contact during this period consisted only of these brief encounters and frequent phone conversations.

We never went to his house in those weeks; he'd decided that I didn't have time. He had gauged the levels of distraction and discipline that should produce optimum performance, he told me, and didn't want to disturb the balance until school was over. And he got it right, more often than not. In fact, it was a bit uncanny how right he was. He didn't tease me at all; clearly he'd decided that wasn't going to get me onto the Dean's list. Unless I was already aroused, a quick and painful whipping was real punishment, and brought me to only manageable levels of sexual tension, spread out over the hours that followed as the pain subsided and the heat increased. Since he usually whipped me in the evenings, the lust mostly disturbed my dreams (those were the good ones), and not so much my waking, non-stop days.

Invasive as all this was, it wasn't enough. I oscillated between longing urgently for more restrictions and chafing against the ones I had. It was frustrating not being able to goof off sometimes, browse in shops, read a book. I liked buying things on impulse – books I'd read that I'd always wanted to own, clothes I admired but could do without. But I wasn't allowed.

I chafed, and had sneaky teenaged rebellious thoughts. But less and less as time went by. I remembered that it was Anders who didn't allow it. And what he wanted had become the central pin upon which I turned. I began to curl up within his boundaries, like a child in loving arms.

***

>academic help especially seems questionable. This is all quite time-devouring; where is your time to run someone else's life as well as your
own? (I do not mention the arrogance.)

>What self-restraint you have. The time is just a matter of
organization. Supplies of arrogance are holding up well. I don't write her
papers for her, if that's what you're worried

>about. How could I? It's not my field. Think of it as mentoring – and
motivating – a disorganized student.

>this is one of the advantages of having a domme for a partner; day
to day I am not responsible for another

>If all you want from subs is play, then of course, your
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responsibilities are minimal. I want something very different.

>I think you will become tired of dependence and managing detail,
and just say, "Go! Decide for yourself how to chop the broccoli!"

>Sure, as long as I can punish her if she does it wrong. I have very
definite ideas on how broccoli should be chopped. ;-)) You have no idea how
controlling I am. Whether she will be able to take that remains to be seen,
but I can't see it becoming a problem for me in the foreseeable future.

>I'll look after myself; don't worry about me. Just keep watch on
whether I'm missing any dangers to her.

>I have to be on my guard against the fascination, the temptation to
go all out. There are days when all I can think about is the sweetness of her;
I can't describe it, even when she is being punished, especially when she is
being punished.

>funding come through yet?

>No. I'm not holding my breath. Another day, another fucking condo
approval.

>How is your house and all your safety measures?

>Woodwork's all finished. Structural stuff is done. The building
inspector is coming on Wednesday. Sprinkler and alarm systems are in. I
hate to think of what happens to the woodwork if the sprinkler ever goes off,
but that's extremely unlikely as the wiring is now thoroughly up to code. I'm
still working on finishing details. Speaking of details, thanks for that jpeg; it
gave me enough to go on. Graham is adding the locks; I should get the
finished pieces within a week.

***

Anders arrived at Maia's door on a spring Saturday morning that was behaving more like summer. To her obvious surprise he steered her out the door without books or her bag; just a knapsack of his own. The air was mild and moist; an early preview of the hot and humid days to come. Winter-faded Torontonians filled the streets, turning their faces up to the light like a bunch of sun-starved perennials. Shop doors were open to the air, stands of fruit and vegetables crowded the sidewalks, traffic crawled. Bladers wearing shorts and tank tops whizzed between the cars. They heard half a dozen languages between Maia's house and the streetcar stop. She swung at the end of Anders' hand, looking happy as a child whose school has unexpectedly let out early.

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"We're going to the Island," he said. "I thought you could use the walk."

They wedged themselves onto jammed streetcars, and then onto the Island ferry along with what seemed like about a quarter of the city's population.

Anders led her to the upper deck against the rail, his hand on her waist, thumb on the chain.

For him the scene brought back a succession of family outings. The islands in the Toronto Harbour had reminded the Thygesens of home. "I used to come out here with my family when we first moved here, five or six times every summer," he said. "Bicycling all over." The islands were flat as a board, easy for even small children to cycle on.

"I came out a couple of times in my first year, too," she said. "After the CN Tower and before the Science Centre."

He glanced at her quickly, eyebrows raised. What was this? "Just a tourist thing, you think?"

She looked a little crestfallen. Someone shoved past them toward the front, pushing her further into the rail, and she grimaced. "No, I'm sorry, it's nice out there, I guess. It's just – " she glanced behind her, "I don't – I don't like crowds."

"Ah." He edged between her and the people behind them, put his arms around her, propped his chin on her head. A teenager immediately took his place at the rail. "Don't like them how?" he asked.

"I don't know. They make me edgy."

"Scared?"

"No, it's just too much – I don't know, stimulation. Too much going on.

And I don't like strangers shoving into me."

"An introversion thing?"

"Yes, that's it."

He squeezed her. "Okay. Don't worry, we'll be out of the crowds in a few minutes."

He shielded her from the worst of the jostling as they inched down the stairs and over the gangway. There was a stroller that he normally would have helped with that he ignored in order to stay close to Maia; someone else took care of it. He wasn't the only good Samaritan in the city.

Once off, they walked away from the shore, deep into the park with its scattered willows, huge, skeletal umbrellas of pale new leaves. As he had promised, the crowd thinned. There were a few large families already 110

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picnicking under the trees. Grills smoked, children ran and shrieked. A triad of teenagers kicked a soccer ball. Anders and Maia kept going, seeing fewer and fewer people. They crossed a bridge and walked some more and ended up on the lake side, almost undisturbed.

"Feeling better?" he asked. She nodded. "I've never heard you sound irritable before. I'm glad you told me how you feel, but next time just say it; no sarcasm." She flushed guiltily. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Never mind for now. I'll punish you later." He felt her body's fearful inward flinch. Then she was relaxed again, her face serene. This was a familiar response by now, one he loved. They strolled on, their bodies close and in as much rhythm as two people of such different strides can be.

"All right," he said, "Let's talk. About the question of you moving in."

She looked up at him. "Is it a question? I thought – I thought it was a – a given –"

"It can be. Or not. I want you there." His grip on her shoulder shifted and tightened. She turned her face against the side of his chest. "I know you want to be there. But I want to be sure you know what you're getting into."

Their bodies had pulled so tightly together that they'd lost their careful pacing, crossed treads and halted in their tracks. He held her hard for a minute, his chest tight. Then he took a deep breath, turned her to his side again, his arm now lighter on her shoulders, and they walked on. "You remember our first restaurant conversation."