The Word Master (5 page)

Chapter 7.

April sat across the studio desk with a secret smile on her face while she tapped at the keyboard. I glanced at the clock on the wall as it counted down the last seconds before midnight. Without missing a beat, April turned to the microphone and her voice became like a sultry summer breeze over the airwaves.

“Good evening lovers and the lonely, this is your girl April coming to you live from downtown Boston with the Aussie man every girl wants to talk to – Master Jericho James. If you have a question about submission… or if you have a secret, sexy fantasy you want to share, call the open line right now. In the meantime, let’s make this gorgeous guy welcome to our town.”

April’s voice trailed off and my earphones filled with the familiar sounds of ‘Men at Work’ singing
‘Land Down Under’
. The song was a poignant reminder of home, and of a defining moment in my life.

In 1983, a yacht named ‘Australia II’ had won the America’s Cup. I remembered being a kid, watching the final dramatic race on television. That moment had begun my fascination with sailing and yacht racing. The Australian syndicate had played the ‘Men at Work’ hit as the team’s theme song, and now, hearing it again, heralded a reminiscent flood of nostalgia.

April’s eyes twinkled and she winked at me. I gave her a lopsided grin of appreciation.

“There’s more to come,” she said. “I’ve re-programmed the play list. We’re going to play Australian music all night. Do you like INXS, Midnight Oil and Cold Chisel?”

My smile broadened. April seemed to bask in the glow like a flower drawn towards the sun. Her expression slowly changed to become somehow more significant and I sensed she was on the verge of speaking again. She fidgeted, and her gaze wavered. She swallowed hard, licked nervously at her lips, and then brought her eyes back to mine. She leaned forward a little in her chair and took a deep tremulous breath.

“Jericho, I –”

Suddenly Grover’s deep bass voice graveled through the overhead speaker, breaking the awkward, intimate spell.

“It’s like December,” he said with a bewildered kind of awe. “The console looks like a Christmas tree! Take line eighteen. The chick’s name is Tabitha and she has a question.”

The words that had been on April’s lips smudged into an ironic smile. Her enigmatic expression vanished in an instant. She stabbed at the keyboard and then slumped back in her chair with a hollow sigh.

“Hi Tabitha,” April said. “Thanks for calling the station. Jericho is right here waiting for your question.”

There was the faintest sound of a ‘click’ and then a middle-aged woman’s voice filled the headphones. She sounded well-educated, and was softly spoken.

“Hello, Jericho?”

“G’day, Tabitha,” I spoke warmly, my mouth close to the mic. “How can I help you tonight?”

“Well…” the woman was nervous. There was an uncertain waver in her voice. “My husband asked me last night whether I had ever considered submitting to him in the bedroom?”

“And…?”

Tabitha paused for an instant. “Well, I have often dreamed about submitting,” she qualified, “but just not to my husband! In my fantasies it was always someone darker and more mysterious – not the man I married twenty eight years ago.”

I smiled. “So what did you tell your husband?”

“Not that!” Tabitha suddenly chuckled and the tone of her voice seemed to relax. “I told him I was curious…”

“And are you – curious?”

“No. I’m nervous,” Tabitha admitted. “You see my husband has never been the dominant type, not in all the years I have known him. Now, quite suddenly, he seems to have this interest in the BDSM lifestyle. I’m not sure I want to put myself in the hands of a man who doesn’t have the experience to make the reality as arousing as my fantasies.”

I rubbed my chin. “Tabitha, where do you think your husband’s sudden interest in the lifestyle came from?”

“Me, I guess,” the woman on the other end of the line confided. “I read a lot of those books…”

“Well is it possible he has developed this interest because he wants to please you?”

“Most likely,” Tabitha admitted.

“Then you have to give him credit – and you certainly have to encourage him wherever possible,” I said. “If he is doing this because he knows it is a turn on for you, the best thing you can do is at least give him the opportunity to try to please you.”

“Even if he is clumsy, and in turn ruins all my fantasies?”

I frowned at that. It was a good question. I chose my words carefully. “It is very rare that any sexual reality can compare to a fantasy,” I began. “Even in the hands of a skilled Master, it is likely that the unfolding events won’t match up to what you visualized in your mind. That doesn’t mean the fantasy you have should lose its appeal – it just means the reality is going to be different. Not necessarily worse – just different.”

“Hmmm,” Tabitha said. Clearly she wasn’t impressed with the advice I was giving her. “But –”

“Ask yourself this,” I cut her off before she could continue. “Do you want to die not knowing?”

There was a significant pause on the other end of the line. I filled the space, convinced Tabitha was seriously considering the question. “A fantasy is just that – an arousing imagined scene. You say you are curious about the BDSM lifestyle, and that you are intrigued by the idea of submitting. Don’t you want to seize the opportunity your husband is offering you to find out if this lifestyle is something that resonates deep within you, beyond the images you have only ever dreamed about? If you do, you may never have a better opportunity to explore submission,” I said. “What your husband is offering you is a safe, trusting way to experiment. Better those circumstances than with some stranger – or not at all, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Tabitha said softly but firmly.

“Take the opportunity to talk to your man about the specific things that appeal to you, and then stay involved throughout the process,” I cautioned. “Don’t just tell him what turns you on and leave the rest up to him and his imagination. Most men in the situation your husband finds himself tend to come on too strong, too fast. They want to provide the perfect experience without understanding the basics. So take slow steps, and take them together,” I tried to put conviction into my voice. “Learn and earn trust, and understand that it’s a journey, not a destination.”

“But I
don’t
understand,” Tabitha said in a wary breath.

I did my best to explain. “Don’t try to create the ultimate experience the first time you experiment, Tabitha. The journey begins with small, simple steps. Hands clasped behind your back, rather than handcuffed to begin with, for example, or silk scarves as restraints before chains – that kind of thing. It’s about progressing together. In the process, you might just find that some of the fundamental experiences spark new and even more intense fantasies for you.”

It was the best I could do. Tabitha thanked me and ended the call. I sat back in my chair a little deflated. I felt I should have done a better job with the call. April was watching me curiously.

“Nicely done,” she said, not trying to conceal the trace of admiration in her voice. She was looking at me as though she had never really seen me before. “And kind of profound.”

I arched an eyebrow. Before I had time to reflect, another woman’s voice came down the line.

“Hello Jericho?”

April cut in smoothly. “Hi Monique. Thanks for phoning through,” she said hurriedly. “Jericho is ready for your call.”

“Hi, Monique. What can I do for you?”

The caller’s voice was younger and her words ran together in a kind of sing-song way. “Do you think it’s okay to spank a submissive?” she asked in a rush.

“Yes,” I said. “Under certain conditions.”

“Such as?” The question sounded more like the defiant challenge of a feminist rather than the curious enquiry of someone fascinated by submission.

“Well there are several,” I explained. “Firstly I would make the distinction between spanking and beating. No real man beats a woman. As a BDSM Master, my personal preference is never to use physical punishment with a submissive – however I don’t regard a spanking as physical punishment.”

The caller huffed, her tone still a provocation. “What’s the difference between a spanking and a beating?”

“There is a world of difference,” I assured. “By my definition, a spanking is an erotic experience that doesn’t focus on the pain inflicted. It focuses on the submissive vulnerability of the woman I am training.”

“Meaning?” Monique’s tone lost some of its razor edge and became curious.

“Meaning that bending a woman over your lap, and slowly lifting her skirt to expose her panty-clad bottom for a spanking is something that is a seduction. It clearly defines her submission and obedience. There’s no need to take that to a level of violence. The power is in the act of her submission – it doesn’t depend on the extent of the punishment. A disobedient submissive will find being spanked humiliating. It makes her vulnerable. That’s a spanking’s purpose. Beating a woman is the other extreme – it is, in itself, the purpose. The Master inflicts pain as punishment. That’s not my personal style.”

There was a ragged breath of silence. I could sense the caller playing back my words in her mind. “Some Masters beat their submissives.”

“Yes,” I said, “sadly they do. It’s not the kind of control I like to exert because it’s crude and brutal. If a Master needs to dominate his submissive through fear of pain and injury, he’s not very good at his role, in my opinion.”

“Some women enjoy it.”

I nodded as I answered. “Yes,” I agreed. “For a small minority of submissive women, that pain is part of their pleasure. I have no problem with that. They’re just not the women I would feel comfortable ever training.”

“What would you say to Masters who beat unwilling submissives to train them and dominate them?”

“Firstly, I would advise the submissive to leave the relationship. If they are unhappy, and if there is unwelcome violence, then they have every right as a woman to walk away and never look back.”

“And to those men?”

I shrugged as I leaned a little closer to the microphone. “Those men who use unwanted pain to control a submissive woman walk a very fine line,” I said heavily. “If brutality is part of the way they conduct themselves, they need to keep a tight reign on their temper. It doesn’t take much to cross a very clear line. Submission is not slavery.”

Monique seemed mollified enough to have run out of questions. April sensed the thawing of the woman’s attitude and intercepted the call smoothly.

“Thanks for calling WGHX-95.8 talk-back radio,” she said cheerfully. I could hear the muted strains of music in the background, beginning to rise. April kept talking. “Now we want to hear about your fantasies,” her voice dropped an octave and became a husky overlay to the opening bars of the song. “Call us. The lines are open…” Just as she finished speaking the music came up and I heard the start of an old INXS favorite.

April leaned back in her chair and stared across the intimate gloom of the desk. “Do you really believe the stuff you tell these women?” she asked after a few moments.

I nodded. “Every word,” I said. “Not only do I believe it, I practice it. For me it’s a way of life.”

April’s eyes widened slowly, her expression unreadable. “Well you must be popular with the ladies,” she muttered. There was a reedy twist of nervousness in her voice. “Just listening to you is enough to make a girl like me seriously consider the temptation of submission.”

Her words hung in the air. I said nothing. April stared at me for a moment longer and then looked away. There was a flush of color on her cheeks.

Suddenly Grover’s voice came through the speaker above the door, somehow sounding tinny and disconnected.

“I think this is the chick you’re waiting for,” he said. “She says her name is Sondra and she’s on line twenty-eight. It’s a fantasy call. Wanna take it?”

I nodded at April and she thrust her hand in the air and gave Grover the ‘thumbs up’. She adjusted her headphones and set everything to record the conversation while the music played across the airwaves.

“Sondra,” April greeted the caller like she was a long-lost friend. I saw April glance quizzically across the desk at me and realized I must be frowning.

I guess I was. I had suspected April had used her excuse of a visit to the ladies’ room the previous evening to pretend to call the station. I had suspected Sondra was really April.

Or Cecily.

I eliminated April from my short list of suspects and focused on the sound of the woman’s voice as April chatted to her. I had only spoken to Cecily briefly in the producer’s booth. I wasn’t sure I could recognize the inflections of her voice again.

“Hello Sondra,” I said into the mic. “I’m glad you called the station tonight. I understand you have another fantasy you want to share with our listeners.”

The woman’s voice was husky and breathless. “Hi Jericho,” her words were a soft little gasp that wavered. “I’m glad you took my call. There are some things I wanted to tell you.”

“Like what?”

“Like what I’m doing right now…”