Where have you been? he asked quietly, tonelessly as I pushed the door to the apartment open as slowly as possible in order not to make noise.
You could hear when I answered that my voice was stuck way at the back of my throat.
Walking around. Went for coffee.
Did you meet anyone?
I couldn't lie if I tried. He always knew.
Yes, I answered, pulling my sweatshirt over my head.
And?
And, I shrugged guiltily, standing there in my ripped-at-the-nipple t-shirt.
Pussy itch got so bad, you couldn't wait.
Yes, sir, I said with my eyes cast down.
Like every other whore I've ever known.
I'm sorry, sir.
You like being a pathetic slut.
I can't help it, sir.
But I can, he said, grabbing hold of my exposed nipple with not half the force I knew he could apply.
Thank you, sir, I said, dreading what lay in store for me.
A slut! he said laughing and shaking his head and letting go my nipple.
The rest of the day passed in an ominous quietude. I had laundry to do, and dinner to prepare, and my daily work-out in the basement gym. He was friendly. For me that made the tension unbearable. I knew he had not finished with me. I couldn't relax knowing the storm wasn't over. It hadn't even begun. But I could tell, balmy as it might be, the weather was heading over in that direction. There was going to be an explosion. I did not know when or how it was going to happen. But I knew anything could set it off.
He went out around three without telling me, and I wasn't sure when he'd be back. But I still couldn't relax because he might return at any minute.
Fortunately I had begun a Boeuf Bourguignon the night before, right before I went out. So I drained off the marinade and set to cooking the stew.
It smelled delicious by the time he returned.
I'd set the table in an alcove off the living room by the French windows, and got candles and flowers. I showered after my work-out and gave myself an enema. I was wearing a sparklingly white sleeveless athletic shirt that fit me like a glove, a pair of brown leather trousers that I knew he liked and a pair of calf-hugging brown boots that gave a good thrust to my hips.
Tonight you want to be a high-class whore, right? Not like yesterday.
I smiled and said, camping, If you'll have me, but I felt my efforts to please him belittled.
We'll see he said and walked over to the liquor table and took some brandy. He didn't offer me any, but then, after he had re-corked the bottle, as if a second thought, he said, Oh, did you want any?
No thank you, I said.
Too good for you anyhow, he said with a wink.
Shall we have dinner, sir? I asked.
I was waiting for you, he said.
How many bay leaves did you put in the marinade? he asked holding a cube of beef and a sliver of mushroom under his nose before he tasted it.
Three, I said nervously.
No you didn't, he said. You only put in two.
I used three, really
He grimaced and took a bite of the beef and chewed with deliberation.
Two, he said.
I knew even before he said it that he did not believe me and there was no way I could convince him, even though I was there and he wasn't. Then I began to doubt myself and worry if I could really trust my own memory, and maybe^Å.
But this is all so trivial, I thought to myself. He's fighting with me over a fucking bay leaf.
Don't sit there sulking in silence, he said, but I could not say anything.
I bet you're a pretty chatty whore when you're out on the street picking up some sweaty het.
I looked down at my plate and didn't say anything.
Well, he insisted.
Sometimes we talk; sometimes, not much.
Just quietly get down to business.
I try to look at him unagressively. I want to get through this without saying anything wrong, with as little bloodshed as possible.
What if I have feelings that I shouldn't have? It got twisted when I tried to think about it. That's what this always came down to. That's the question that haunts me. What was wrong with cruising or making it with a guy who turned me on as long as we protect ourselves? I didn't have sex for money. I wasn't a whore. But I couldn't say that to him. The words just wouldn't come: the thoughts would disappear before they were formulated. I couldn't argue with him. And if I could, he would not accept it. He wouldn't believe me.
It would have been heaven had he relented. There is such beauty and warmth in his face when he is free of the demons that plague him and he smiles at me as if he were giving himself to me.
I daren't, of course, say such a thing to him. He reprimands me saying it is not because he is driven by demons but because I make him angry that he is as he is, and then he says I hear it as a reprimand whenever he tries to tell me something.
I cleared the table as he sat with a cigar and another brandy. I usually don't like tobacco smoke, but this was almost pleasant, sweet and chocolate.
The cigar smoke smells particularly good this evening, I said.
You can open the kitchen window if it bothers you, he said as if dismissing a complaint.
No, I mean it, I said.
He let out a long cloud of smoke slowly, and said, Whatever.
One more time, he cut me off in an attempt to draw us into an affectionate conversation.
When I had finished cleaning up, I sat down across from him on a round leather hassock. I wanted to say something, but my mind was blank. I knew whatever I said, however well intentioned would get twisted into something he would pick at. A spray of icy water trickled here and there inside me. I sat quietly, waiting for him to begin. I was ready to go through whatever he was going to put me through. I just wanted to get it over with, get it out of the way. I was equally prepared for affection or aggression.
What would you do? he began, as if he were posing a philosophical problem for class discussion, slowly inhaling his cigar and sipping his brandy.
Sir? I said.
Don't sir me. I asked you what you would do, he said, patiently but on the verge of losing patience.
Regarding what? I asked, afraid I knew where he was going.
Regarding whaattt? he exploded. You know perfectly well regarding what.
I sat without speaking.
Finally I said, Sir, I can't tell you anything if I don't exactly know what you're talking about.
I arrive at one-thirty in the morning, he said with an anger that was worse because he was controlling it, from the airport, in a taxi, expecting a warm greeting, someone at home, a midnight snack. But it's too much. You don't benefit from my trip to California? It's not your contract I negotiated?
I was silent.
Well, he said, glaring at me.
It's my contract, I said.
Damn right, he said, and a damned good one, too.
Thank you, I said. I wanted to add, You know the money I make goes to you. But I thought better of it and swallowed the words in silence.
All the same, I knew that he knew that I was thinking that.
So what would you do? he came back to the question I hoped he would let go of.
I was silent and looked down.
The paddle? I said, knowing, sooner or later, I'd have to. So just get it over with.
Perhaps, he said, for starters. You like that. A little humiliation. Isn't that what you like? Isn't that why you dress like a whore?
He was getting furious as he spoke, and before he had finished he had slapped my left cheek so hard that I staggered backwards and nearly stumbled into a table lamp. Trying to avoid knocking into it, I fell. He was above me with a riding crop he'd taken from above fireplace.
I was still in my leather trousers. They protected me from the slap on the thigh being anything more than the rich sound of leather slapping against leather.
You pig, he said shaking his head in quiet fury. The nights had become chilly; the days were still warm. He opened wide both French windows and cold gusts blew chill into the room.
Strip, he commanded.
He was right when he said I had an itch pussy. My ass-cunt was throbbing with desire for his cock inside me.
But I knew I'd have to wait for that, wait until he'd tortured and abused me, made me so raw that when he finally took me I would be screaming in pain for him to stop, on the edge of exploding but also unable to.
He was in no rush, and I was even afraid that he would not even bother disciplining me and just leave me to cool off standing in the slave position, stripped to a jock, in a chilly room all by myself.
That's the one, he said returning I didn't know how much later, with two other men, muscled and with a distinct mark of cruelty on their faces.
He had everything, wealth, a loving wife, a shot at being a partner in a prestigious law firm, but he fucked it up because he's got a very itchy pussy. It doesn't let him concentrate on much of anything for very long except how fucking horny he is and how much he wants some hard cock up his ass.
I cringed inwardly ^Ö I did not dare show any outward response -- when I heard him, especially because it was true.
One of his friends approached me, opened my mouth and touched the aback of my tongue with his forefinger. I gagged.
Good, he said. Good gag reflex. Very important in a cocksucker.
You are a cocksucker, aren't you? he said with disdain, addressing himself to me for the first time.
Yes, sir, I said.
Try mine, he said.
Now, sir?
Right now, cunt, he said, pointing for me to kneel.
I obeyed.
Cunt, he repeated under his breath.
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