I lay in bed that night on my stomach, hugging the pillow, with sleep as distant and theoretical as an alien lifeform. It wasn’t the physical result of the punishment that kept me awake; well, hardly at all. It was the fear still possessing me: the mounting, searing pain, my helplessness to avoid the blows. Anders’ angry, implacable voice still resounded in my head, making me cringe against the pillow. I actually held the pillow over my ears to shut it out, uselessly of course. And those long periods in corners, humiliating me down to nothing. My guilt was only barely assuaged by the punishment. I had to keep reminding myself that Anders wasn’t angry with me any more.
And he was already stepping up restrictions, which was probably a good thing; less chance for me to get into trouble.
I identified one feeling braiding through my subconscious: a thread of relief. He’d tied me down and beaten me, and I had survived it. More important, my desire had survived it; after that experience I wanted more than ever to belong to him. Fantasy is one thing, reality something else, as JulieB had said during that first conversation (the weblog of which I had saved and repeatedly read). Despite my early assurances, I hadn’t known for sure that I really could take it. Or even, after the first blow, almost welcome it. Now it seemed to me that I did know. I forced myself to be honest; there was no ‘almost’ about it. I had welcomed it, had in fact needed it. I was finding out what a fear junky I was. Fear, pain, humiliation: you name it, my body took it in through every pore and nerve and orifice and begged for more.
The beating had been one more giant step toward being owned, choiceless. A state I still wanted passionately, more than any specific piece of bondage or discipline. Though I certainly wanted those, waited with breathless impatience for whatever he would do to me next. Still, the actions and the hardware were only the outward manifestation – intensely arousing, cunt swimming window dressing – for the underlying relationship, in which the seesaw of power tipped only one way.
There was another thread, thin and fragile-seeming, but still unbroken: the freedom to walk away. Here I was all by myself, with nothing but a waist chain and a sore ass to keep me in line. It felt a bit like standing at the edge of a precipice and reminding yourself that you really don’t want to jump. In that situation a guard rail is good, a chain link fence is even better. I slept at last, a shallow sleep crossed with dreams. There was a soup of greenish light and foliage through which I wandered, too warm beneath a glass roof. Each plant bore a big red price tag, bright but somehow unreadable. I heard footsteps coming my way, and suddenly knew I wasn’t supposed to be there; exams were coming up and I was reprehensibly wasting my time once again.
The leaves of a slender red-leaved tree were big enough to hide some of me, but my bottom half – the part with no clothes – would show. I tried to pull myself up into the little tree to hide. In the next moment I was on my back holding splintered branches, confronted by welling sap and ruin.
I scrambled up and ran, horrified, my feet sinking in dirt and sand. The sand stretched out before me, and now I was walking, barefoot, miles yet to go. Ocean Beach, with its usual chilly fog that hid my destination no matter how far I trudged. The sea was grey, and the waves were huge, threatening.
Surfers crested the waves with panache and triumphant shouts. I thought that anyone who could take such risks must be a different species from me. Then I remembered that they were a different species, or at least I was. They were human; I was not. What was I? Anders would tell me. Anders was waiting for me. I turned away from the water and climbed up the beach to go back to him, but there was a high wall and barbed wire parallel to the shore, uncrossable. Picking my way painfully over stones and grit, I followed the edge of this barrier, searching more and more anxiously for an opening. The ground was steep and rocky, and there were concrete pill boxes, like on the beach at Normandy, and even gun emplacements.
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 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 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 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 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.
‘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 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.’
She nodded. ‘All of it.’ She paused. ‘Probably word for word.’
‘Hmm.’ He wondered if they remembered the same words. ‘I need to make sure you’re clear on all this. Because once you’re there it’ll be harder for you to back out.’ Anders looked down at the dark head. ‘Not impossible.
There’ll still be escape points. But as I take you over I think you’ll find it more and more difficult even to imagine operating on your own.”
“I don’t want to – to operate on my own.’
‘I know that. But if you move in with me it’ll be a complete phase change. It’ll be a big step.’ He laughed. ‘Well, it is a big step, moving in together.’
She laughed up at him. ‘So the advice columns say.’
He considered what he had to say. ‘I really will control you, Maia,’ he said at last. ‘I’m not talking metaphorically. I’m talking micromanagement.
What’s happened so far is nothing compared to living with me 24/7.’
She pulled herself closer to him. ‘Sir, what should I – what do you expect me –’
He shook her slightly. ‘You should stick to the subject. Wicked girl.’
He kissed her head.
‘I’ll expect you to do what I tell you to do, of course. Learn to serve me, exactly as I want. Accept what I inflict on you. Be what I make you.’
‘Please, sir, I do want to move in.’
‘Wait. I appreciate that you want to make the decision without needing to know the details. But I’m not consulting you, I’m warning you. Do you understand?’
She looked up at him, the thin shadows of the branches above them tracing lines across her face. Thoughts flickered behind her eyes.
‘Yes. All right.’
He caressed her shoulder gently as they walked. ‘Maia, if you move in with me, I’m going to keep you like an animal on a very short tether. You’ll have no autonomy at all in that house. Not much outside of it. Remember, there’ll be constant restraints, rules, humiliations, punishments. All the time, do you understand? You’re not going to draw a free breath.’ She was trembling beneath his arm. He held her more firmly and kept her moving.
‘Following rules doesn’t mean you’ll know what’s coming, either. I’ll be arbitrary, and sometimes I’ll be cruel.’ He could hear her breathing. ‘I’ll still look after you, Maia. That won’t change. I’ll still take great care, not to damage you. But you have to understand. This is for real. You’ll be a belonging, a piece of property. I’ll do whatever I like with you. We agreed to play no games, and I won’t play them.’
She stumbled to a stop, and he faced her, holding her by the arms. He could almost see the heat radiating from her. Her head hung, and her body heaved with each breath. Slowly she raised her head, and looked at him with unfocused eyes, in the grip of profound, helpless arousal. ‘Please…,’ she breathed.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he said, and he sat down and pulled her into his lap.
Loving her, and his luck.
They sat there in silence for several minutes, rocking a little while she calmed down. Then he boosted her off his lap, pulled off his knapsack and found a good spot beneath a tree. Laying out a little lunch, grilled vegetables and cheese on thick bread, he said, ‘That wasn’t the final decision, you know. I expect you to go home and think about this. When you’re not blinded by lust.’ He pulled out a carafe of water and gave it to her.
She sighed. ‘Yes, sir.’ She straightened out the blanket. ‘I’ll even talk it over with Nikki if you like; she’ll argue with me until her voice gives out.’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, she gave me the third degree the other day on the phone about what I was doing to you. Got a bit raspy. It’s only fair to have counsel on both sides of the case. Go for it.’
‘But I have to give notice to the Silvas when I pay my rent on Monday, if I’m not going to have to pay for an extra month. As it is they’re going to get a couple of week’s rent for nothing.”
“This is more important than a month’s rent. If you’ve got any doubts at all, don’t give notice. I can cover it if it turns out you need more time.’
She looked about to speak, but she stopped herself. They ate their sandwiches, Anders sitting against the tree and Maia leaning back against his shoulder. The speckled light beneath the tree was faintly green, and one bird was repeating itself at odd intervals above them.
‘Do you ever wonder…’ said Maia.
‘Wonder what?’
‘Why we’re like this.’
He looked down at her, amused. ‘Are you looking for secret trauma after all?”
“No, no,’ she said, ‘I think it’s inborn, myself.’
‘Uh-huh. Genetic, you mean? Or a product of electromagnetic waves and undercooked fish while in utero? It does seem to run in my family, if Karl and I are anything to go by.”
“Anyone else?’
‘Not that I know of. Though who knows what the older generation gets up to behind closed doors.’
She put her sandwich down. ‘I don’t know. If it’s genetic, what’s it for?
What’s the survival value of having a bunch of people that like to be tied up and whipped, or vice versa?”
“Damned if I know.’ He gave this some thought. ‘There might be some genetic advantage to being dominant, I suppose. Men would probably have had more offspring. But being dominant is hardly sex-linked.’
‘No. I suppose it might have been an advantage in men and then got passed down to daughters.’
‘True. What about being submissive, what would that get you?’
She mused. ‘Stay out of fights? Out of trouble?’
‘But submissives like being in trouble.’
She giggled. ‘So we do.’ She wriggled back into a more comfortable position against him. ‘I suppose there’d be some advantage to high pain tolerance. And don’t pain centres cross over with pleasure centres? Maybe getting off on pain is the next evolutionary step.’
‘Oh, paralyzed by lust on the battlefield. A big evolutionary advantage.’
She laughed. ‘No, no, lusty warriors. Getting off on blood and mayhem.
Wait, we’re back to doms now.’
‘The two sides can’t have different evolutionary origins. Why do doms like to dish out exactly what subs like to take? They wouldn’t fit together as well as they do if they weren’t somehow cut from the same cloth.’
‘And so many people switch,’ she added.
‘Right. Do people into bdsm have more kids? I doubt it. More likely less. Maybe it’s just a trait that showed up in the genome, and doesn’t have any reproductive advantage one way or the other.’
‘Mmm. Maybe. Awfully common, though.’ She stroked her bottom lip with her finger. ‘Okay, but here’s something else I don’t get. Why do we all like the same things? Well, not all, but it’s so consistent. Is there some sort of gene for getting off on black leather?”
“That part’s conditioned.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ She sat up and faced him. ‘I had no access to porn when I was a kid, or to other people that were into this. I was completely isolated till I was sixteen and got my own computer. And yet when I finally managed to see some stuff, some of it matched my fantasies.
In detail. How could genes be that specific?’
Anders watched her intent face, framed by hair that was curling wildly in all directions. Half her sandwich lay forgotten on the blanket. ‘I still think it’s got to be at least partly culturally determined,’ he said. ‘Twists on popular media, for instance. The tied-up heroine. Dungeons and chains.
Dracula.’
‘Reynardine.’
He grinned and pulled his knapsack over. ‘Reynardine, right. Here, eat up, it’s time to go.’
She picked up her sandwich. ‘I’m full; do you want it?’ He finished it in a couple of bites, his mind on her question, while she tidied up.
‘So,’ he mused, ‘you think the whole set of sexual behaviours and responses is a genetic package?’
‘It seems like that to me. At least some of it. I know it sounds impossible, but look, what about the way twins separated at birth like the same things and use the same gestures? Maybe it’s something like that.’
‘Ah! Interesting thought.’ Anders eyed her with respect. ‘Intriguing.’
He considered for a minute. ‘How to separate what is learned from what is inborn. The hoary old nature-nurture debate. All right.’ He glinted at her, and shifted into a professorial, strongly accented Danish voice. For a moment she looked apprehensive, then her eyes lit and she relaxed. ‘Here is the experimental question,’ he pontificated. ‘Is bdsm practiced differently in different countries? We know that it is; observe Japanese bondage culture. Is the difference cultural or genetic? Aha, we live in a multicultural society.
We must find out if perverts prefer the fetishes of their ancestors, or adhere to those of their peers when they immigrate to new lands.’ She was giggling helplessly.
‘For instance,’ he continued, ‘does a second generation Japanese-Canadian prefer traditional rope bondage to leather harness?’
‘We’ll have to ask one. I’m sure we can find someone on ds/TO.’
‘Then we can write this up for posterity.’
She got up, but he was still sitting cross-legged on the ground, looking at her. ‘Come here a minute,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘I’d like to be amused on the trip back.’
In a moment she was back in his lap. He took hold of the back of her head and the kiss began. Slow, deep. Then deeper. His other hand pulled her jacket over her lap, and then slipped beneath her dress, between her thighs and up to her naked, slippery pussy. Anders could feel her whimper against his tongue as he penetrated her with two long fingers, then three. His thumb pressed and manipulated her clit: gentle, subtle. She squirmed, and he felt her hip press against his rigid cock. Wet flesh contracted around his hand.
When her every breath was a moan and her body was drawn up and tight, he drew his head back to watch her. Withdrawing his fingers, he lightly traced the flesh around her clit, flicked it once and felt her flinch, paused, flicked again, felt her shudder, and drew his hand from beneath her skirt. She gave a small cry, sounding lost. ‘Get up.’
Slowly, silently she got to her feet, looking at the air in front of her. His arm round her shoulders, he put his fingers to her mouth. Obediently she sucked them. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
***
The trip back was like something out of one of my arousal-laced dreams. My clit was aching and hot, and the closer we got to the dock the more confused and self-conscious I became. After coming that close, just walking was keeping me on the edge. I felt like every one of the hundreds streaming past us off the newly arrived ferry could see my arousal; I had to be shimmering with it, like heat distortions over hot tarmac.
It was also reminiscent of the last time he’d done this to me, except that when I’d walked around like this at school I’d been further from the edge.
Now I was so close I was afraid I might actually come in the middle of a crowd and humiliate myself. My breasts ached, too, though Anders hadn’t laid a finger on them. I had the most intense urge just to plaster the front of my body to his.
Fortunately it was still early and the ferry back wasn’t too full. We stood at the rail again, this time looking toward the city, and he smiled down at me, his eyes wicked.
‘I love seeing you like this,’ he said. ‘And on public transportation, too.’
We had to stand packed together on the Dundas streetcar, and he managed to maintain the agony with some surreptitious touching. When we reached my apartment at last, he brought me right back to the verge, and then I spent what seemed like forever on my knees, sucking him while he kept my nipples in a painful grip. But as I had six hours more work to do that day, he did finally finish me off. When his tongue touched me I had to clamp both hands over my mouth to muffle my screams.
It wasn’t until after I’d recovered, and Anders had finished one of the beers he’d stored in my fridge, that he got out the crop. He looked at my startled face.
‘You forgot about this, didn’t you?’
‘Almost. Yes, sir.’
‘I wanted to wait until after you came. It’ll hurt more now. Over the desk chair.’
Ten blows, each hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. Taking care to speak clearly, I counted them. When he was done I expressed my genuine, if pained gratitude, along with a promise never to speak sarcastically to him again, and was on my knees when he left.
As I had promised, I forced myself to think about all the ramifications of the move. The next day I even sat down and wrote out each of the pros and cons. I called Nikki that night and let her try to talk some sense into me, after which I dutifully expanded my list on the ‘con’ side. The thing about lists like that is you have to weight the items, or several trivial things can look more meaningful than the big important stuff. The big important stuff in this case – love, trust and an absolute need for what Anders had to give me – outweighed everything else. Really, I wanted this with a passion that made logical exercises completely beside the point. This time when I told him my process and gave him my decision, he didn’t question it. I was vaguely hoping for some sort of celebration, but although he sounded very glad, he made me stick to the schedule. We went back to brief visits and supervisory phone calls for another twelve days. I counted them. I started counting the hours, too, but they looked too huge, so I went back to days, until the last couple.
And then at last it was over. Every paper complete and on time, every assignment finished. To my shock I made the dean’s list. Discipline works on me. Anders took me out to a great restaurant on King Street to celebrate.
We went through my stuff, sold most of what little furniture I had to the Silvas, packed up the rest that Saturday and piled it into his truck. And somewhere en route, as we crossed the city’s boundary between west and east, the last shreds of my freedom slipped out the open window, flitted up Yonge Street, and were gone.
