Trust Me

by Annabel Joseph

  “Tell her that her rings are beautiful,” said Chere.

  “Tell her I said merci,” the Indian woman replied with a smile. “You both have questions, non? Many questions. But at least you are together.”

  I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. Her companion demanded her attention and they left soon after, allowing a group of teenagers to crowd closer to our table. Chere asked about my conversation with the woman. Instead, I told her about bindis and my travels to New Delhi and Mumbai.

  We left the cafe shortly afterward and walked aimlessly toward the red light district, taking in life in all its raw and ugly glory. We slipped into a half-empty club and drank licorice-tasting cocktails as a pair of dark eyed women belly danced onstage. Their fingers jangled noisy hand cymbals, and golden tassels flew as they tossed their hips.

  Chere watched like she was drinking it in and didn’t want to miss a drop. I did nothing to distract her, only held her hand as the alcohol seeped into my veins and the flashing clang of the cymbals resonated through my brain. I love you, I thought. I love being here with you. I love watching you take it all in.

  I’ve been here before, but it feels less wistful when you’re with me.

  “Gold is beautiful. I should use more gold,” she said. “It’s so vital. Silver is cool and elegant, but gold is...”

  She lost words and started gesturing to the gold painted walls and ceilings, and the gold-edged veils swishing from the dancers’ hips. I could see the lights from the stage reflected in her eyes like miniature stars.

  “What do you like better?” she asked me. “Gold or silver?”

  I shrugged. “I like them both. I like them in combination. They change one another when they’re together.”

  I understood about gold. Some of my buildings had gold trim or burnished bronze fittings, but all my bridges were silver or light metal. Silver was for streamlined strength. Gold was for crazy, gaudy shit.

  “I wonder if I could do that,” she said, turning back to the stage. “Belly dance like those women?”

  “I’m sure you could. Maybe I’ll order you to do it for my pleasure,” I said, sliding a hand up her thigh. “I’ve seen your hips move like that when I fuck you. I’ve seen them jerk like that when you’re under duress.”

  I gave her a look, and she shivered and pressed closer to me. I took her chin hard and kissed her, tasting licorice and sweetness. I wanted to make her hips move. I wanted to make her gasp and struggle for air. I wanted to give her something to remember this by.

  When the belly dancers finished their set of frenetic shimmying, and our small cordial glasses were drained, I pulled her up and out into the street. It was getting late now, and I hurried, making pathways for her amidst the burgeoning tourist crowds. I found a shop we’d passed earlier, its windows full of gold necklaces and chain link chokers, earrings and baubles. It was cheap stuff, metal shit. While she tried on some bracelets, I spoke in French to the man behind the counter.

  “Do you have gold?” I asked. This was the Goutte d’Or, after all. “I need a gold and crimson ring.”

  He studied me and gave a nod. All these vendors had merchandise they didn’t put out where anyone could see it. He produced a gaudy, ruby-encrusted ring from behind the counter, but I shook my head.

  “No. Delicate. For her.”

  I nodded over my shoulder to Chere, who was trying on beaded chokers and peering at herself in a mirror.

  “Ah,” he said. “Attendez. Wait, if you please.” He spoke to his partner and disappeared behind a beaded curtain into the back.

  “Look,” said Chere, returning to my side. She wore a sleek, ebony bead choker that came closer to her aesthetic than anything else in the shop. “It’s like a collar,” she whispered. “Isn’t it?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not strong enough. It’d break into pieces the first time I squeezed your neck.”

  I thought of the summer we’d met, of our date at the Empire Hotel. I’d basically raped her that evening, and snapped a pearl necklace off her neck. Broke it, destroyed it. Pearls had flown everywhere. I wondered if she was thinking about that too.

  She left me to try on a few more chokers, but none of them was half as lovely as her solid, honest, plain, brown collar. They were jewelry. Her collar was the real deal, a symbol of submission that bound her to me. You’re mine. I own you.

  “Monsieur?” The man returned from the back, holding a small gold circle pinched between his fingers. “How about this? Delicate. Crimson and gold.”

  He put it in my palm, and I felt lingering warmth, like he’d just taken it off a mandrel. It wasn’t what I’d imagined in my mind’s eye—it was better, more vital, as Chere had said. I’d pictured a small red ruby in a gold band. This ring had striated garnets, two of them in a line that was both jagged and pleasing to the eye. The band was thin and lightly hammered. Delicate, but vital. We haggled briefly over price, and then Chere drifted back to me.

  “Give me your hand,” I said.

  She blinked and let me slide the gold and garnet ring onto her finger. I realized too late that it was her left hand, the hand for engagement rings and wedding rings. It was merely the hand closest to me. “It’s a collar for your finger,” I said, so she wouldn’t misunderstand. “And a memory of tonight.”

  I watched her study the ring. I felt self-conscious because I wanted her to like it. I loved it. It seemed perfect to me, but she was a jewelry designer and maybe she wouldn’t feel the same. Maybe I should have just written her another poem. Words were ephemeral, mere air. Rings were...

  Fuck. Did she like it?

  “It’s too loose,” she said, looking up at last. Her eyes were shining. “If it’s a collar, it needs to be snug.”

  And I realized her eyes were shining because she was about to cry, and it suddenly seemed like this ring was my heart laid bare in front of her, and did she like it?

  She smiled at me through those gathering tears, and then I knew she loved it as much as I did. The jeweler looked at the ring on her hand, gauged the diameter with a practiced eye, then took it in the back and returned with a perfectly sized band, as if he’d measured her finger. Nice and snug.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she said, staring down at it.

  “You can wear it on either hand. Whatever you like. But I want you to wear it all the time, even when you can’t wear...”

  The shopkeeper was standing there, and very likely understood English. I touched her neck and she knew what I meant. I paid for the ring, and the restless angst that had risen in me at my parents’ house was calmed again. She was mine, all the time. Her collar was back at the hotel, and now she had this ring she wouldn’t be allowed to take off.

  It was clarity. The ring was gold and bindis, and my high self and my low self, and all the deep, emotional things in between.

  Chapter Seven: Commitment

  As soon as we returned from Paris, Price got busy. I tried not to take it personally. He’d missed a lot during his week away, so if he had to work late, and was gruff and distracted when he returned home, I had to accept it like I accepted all the other bad things he did to me.

  But I also thought, you gave me a ring.

  What does this ring mean?

  I chose to believe it meant some kind of commitment, even if our relationship was an infuriating dance of advance and retreat. I hadn’t imagined the look in his eyes when he slid it on my finger. I hadn’t imagined the new closeness that developed in Paris, even if he was in full retreat by the time we returned. He could insist on rules. He could hide behind protocols and training, but I knew that the other man was there, the Price who was full of love and tenderness and poetry. Those thoughts sustained me through every stringent session in the dungeon that week.

  Outside the dungeon, away from my Master’s unforgiving bondage and forms of torture, life went on. Vinod emailed that he would be visiting New York, and invited me to design some pieces for upcoming fashion lines. He sent me megaby
tes of photographs and sketches, and his excitement was contagious. I began to work exclusively on men’s accessories, solid, classic tie bars, rings, cuff links, and I found it a welcome change from the whimsy of women’s pieces. Men’s fashion was so much more straightforward, and I spent as much time in my studio as Price would allow.

  As for my dear friend Andrew, it was nearly two weeks before I could make plans to see him. He wasn’t amused. He glared at me as I walked across the Big Apple Diner, making sure I comprehended his displeasure before he swept me into a hug.

  “It’s been too long, girl,” he said, pressing his blond curls to my cheek.

  “I know.”

  He drew back and looked at me hard. “No, I mean, it’s really been too long. I know I come after your work now, and your fucked-up life with that sociopath you call Master—”

  “Shut up, please. I have a million things to tell you.” I shoved him down into the booth and sat across from him, picking up my menu. As I scanned the familiar offerings, I wiggled my ring finger at him. “Notice anything new?”

  He grabbed my hand and yanked it toward him, gazing down at the strikingly delicate, gold and garnet ring. “Wow, babes. It’s pretty. He gave it to you?”

  “In Paris,” I said, nodding. “After a crazy day. He took me to his parents’ house—”

  “You met his parents?” Andrew’s eyes went wide. “Are they sociopaths too?”

  “They weren’t there, and he’s not a sociopath. He took me all over Paris, to all these out of the way streets and shops and this little cafe overlooking the Sacré Coeur. You would have loved it. There was so much to see, so much to paint. So much inspiration.”

  The waitress came and took our order, and then I gave Andrew a quick and dirty recap of the trip, from my ill-advised viewing of Heart-Lust, to my meeting with Vinod Sushil, to our trip to the Goutte d’Or.

  “So...but...” Andrew looked flustered and grabbed my hand again. “What does this signify?”

  “It’s a collar for my finger. I’m supposed to wear it all the time.”

  “Or you get punished?” He rolled his eyes.

  “You know about our thing,” I told him. “You’re in a power exchange relationship too.”

  “Yeah, but mine isn’t so smothering.”

  “You don’t have rules and consequences?”

  He lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. “Not like you. I hate that I can’t see you whenever I like. This whole once-a-week rule is creepy.”

  “He wants me to focus on work right now.”

  “Bullshit. He wants you all to himself.” The waitress delivered our food, and Andrew bit into his sandwich with barely restrained vitriol, before violently dunking a French fry in ketchup. “I mean, even this,” he said, waving a hand around. “Making us meet in a public place? How many hours did we hang out together at your apartment when we were in school? I mean, what the fuck does he think is gonna happen? I’m super flaming gay.”

  He announced that very loudly. An older gentleman at a nearby table turned to Andrew with a speculative smile, but Andrew was taken, and he wasn’t in the mood to flirt. I watched him murder another French fry.

  “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “We like this place. Does it really matter where we hang out? Why are you getting so upset?”

  “Why aren’t you getting upset?” he shot back. “I mean, your thing with Price isn’t normal or healthy. All this controlling structure, all these rules?”

  “There aren’t that many rules.”

  But there were. I wasn’t supposed to meet with a man, any man, gay or straight, unless it was in a public place. I had to show Price any texts I exchanged with men, including Andrew and Vinod. There were rules about what I wore and where I went, and where I slept, and when I could orgasm. There were rules about speech and posture and how I reacted to punishment, and now there was a rule about wearing a gold and garnet ring.

  “If you don’t see how freaky it is—” Andrew said.

  “We like freaky, remember?”

  He glanced over my shoulder. “Shit. Speaking of freaky, Professor Predator has entered the building. Keep your head down. Maybe he won’t notice us.”

  It was easy for me to blend in, with my plain brown hair and short stature, but Andrew stuck out like a beacon with his huge mop of blond hair. Within moments, Martin Cantor, ex-professor, rejected lover, was standing beside our table with his takeout order under his arm.

  “Hi, kids,” he said.

  I looked up at him in exasperation. We were in a public place, yes. I wasn’t breaking any rules by talking to him, but I’d still have to tell Price that I’d run into Cantor—and based on his mood the past couple weeks, he would likely react in a fucked up way.

  “How are you, Professor Cantor?” said Andrew.

  “I’m good. How are you? How’s the painting?”

  “It’s great. I’ve got a website now, and lots of studio contacts. I’ve been busy.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He turned to me next, his eyes dark and probing as ever beneath his scruffy salt-and-pepper hair. “And Chere Rouzier, what a pleasure. I haven’t seen you since graduation. How’s the real world treating you?”

  He’d seen me at graduation on Price’s arm, and his skewering regard told me everything I needed to know about his feelings on that.

  “The real world’s been treating me well,” I said. “I’ve set up a studio, and I’m designing for a pretty big client. I can’t say anything about that yet.”

  “So big you can’t drop names, yeah?”

  “I guess.”

  Cantor always made me feel defensive. We never would have worked out. “I just got back from Paris,” I said, to change the subject. “It was beautiful.”

  “Ah. Price dragged you there for the architectural conference?”

  “Well, I didn’t go to the conference. But I soaked up a lot of inspiration.” And got punished. And got a new ring that means...something. “It was an eventful trip for me,” I finished lamely. “I was happy to go.”

  “I guess it helps to have rich, powerful friends.”

  Cantor had always been a squirm-inducing combination of nice and nasty. Now I was the one murdering French fries as he stood there with a judgey expression. “So, you and Price are still together?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “All is well?”

  “Everything’s great.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Andrew watched the two of us, a bemused smile at the corners of his lips. He was the one who’d coined the term “Professor Predator” based on Cantor’s inappropriate interest in me. I guess Cantor had been a pretty good metals professor, but now that I’d graduated, all we really shared was an awkward past.

  “Well, okay then,” he said, shifting his takeout bag to his other hand. “I’m back to Norton. You two take care.”

  As soon as the door shut behind him, Andrew burst into laughter. When I frowned at him, he laughed louder and leaned his forehead down to the table, like he was bowed under the weight of all the fuckupedness.

  “It’s not funny,” I said. “Not that funny, anyway.”

  Especially for me, because I’d have to tell Price about our random run-in. I didn’t tell Andrew that, because I didn’t want him to start going off again about Price’s possessiveness and his crazy rules. I knew. I lived by them. My ass died by them. It wasn’t funny at all.

  “He still wants you,” Andrew said when he caught his breath.

  “He’s an old horn dog professor. Whatever.”

  “He’s the same age as your horn dog Master, and you don’t think he’s old.”

  “You’re barely legal, so what do you know?” I said, flicking a finger at him. “And you’re with an older guy too.”

  “Craig is your age, honey, so don’t call him old.”

  “How is Craig?” I asked, to move the conversation along from Cantor. Andrew indulged me by launching into a recitation of their divine life together, with all Craig’s wonderfu
l qualities, and all the things they’d done in bed the night before. I was glad they were so happy. I was happy too. I was.

  I had a ring, and poetry. Yes, there were a lot of rules, but for now, for Price, that was the way things had to be.

  To play it safe, I texted Price that I’d talked to Cantor before I even left the diner. I figured that way he could get over his initial irritation and maybe forget about it altogether before I saw him again.

  He texted back right away. What did you talk about?

  Nothing. We just said hello. He asked what I’ve been doing. He talked to Andrew too.

  How is Andrew?

  I breathed a sigh of relief. He’s fine.

  Then, a moment later, he texted, Did you feel anything for him?

  I knew he didn’t mean Andrew. Did I feel something for Cantor? Hell no. He actually made me uncomfortable, I texted. He asked about you. About us.

  What did you say?

  That everything was great. I didn’t feel anything for him, I swear. I never did.

  That was mostly true. The only reason I’d considered getting into a relationship with Cantor was the crushing loneliness I’d felt while Price was away. I thought a moment and added, I only love you.

  Too risky to say that. Too effusive. Price got freaked out about love, even though he claimed to love me. There was no reply for a while. Then: Be a good girl. Busy afternoon. I’ll see you tonight.

  * * * * *

  We had Chinese takeout for dinner. Price asked them to throw in two extra pairs of chopsticks, and then set them aside until we went to the dungeon. Now the chopsticks were rubberbanded onto my breasts, with a nipple pinched between each set.

  He’d warned me I wouldn’t always like belonging to him. He’d warned me there would be days I’d hate the dungeon. I hated it right now. My nipples burned and my shoulders ached from the rope harness holding my bent arms behind my back. My ass clenched on a huge glass plug that had only made it into my ass with copious amounts of ginger-infused lube. My knees hurt from the hard floor as I tried to focus on my Master. His hand twisted more tightly in my hair.