Chimera
Page 9
“After we left that night, Mark began explaining the sub-culture to me. He was very much a Dominant and he believed I was submissive naturally. He hit the nail on the head. The more I began to explore the lifestyle, the more I felt I found a place that I fit into. I was no longer a square peg forced into a round hole. There were square pegs everywhere looking for other square pegs. After that night, Mark began to push my boundaries, taking me safely past traditional gender roles and sexual positions into a world that many think of as taboo. I experienced bondage, masochism, kink, fetish, but honestly, what drew me to the group more than anything was the freedom to explore who I was. They welcomed me without judgment even as I evolved trying to learn who I was and what I needed. The core definition of the lifestyle is one that welcomes my diversity, embraces my uncertainty, educates me, exposes me to different things…it was a feeling of family, of love I’d never experienced.”
She can tell she’s losing me. I’m not connecting the dots. My feeble mind isn’t grasping whatever she’s alluding to.
Exasperated, she sighs. “Bastian, I’m submissive. I am in a Dom/sub relationship, an open one, but a relationship just the same, and I have been for years. The bruises you’ve seen on me are from scening together.”
“What? What does that even mean?”
“My Dom is a sadist. He gets off on administering pain. I enjoy it, although it’s not one of my kinks. The day you saw me at my studio, it got out of hand, and today, he grabbed my arm to keep me from falling when I wasn’t secured properly while suspended.”
“A sadist? You let someone beat you?” I’m doing the best I can to keep my anger under wrap. What in the actual fuck is she thinking? Consensual abuse is still abuse. I try to rationalize that I might not understand what she’s trying to convey but there’s no scenario in my feeble mind that makes this acceptable behavior.
“Not exactly, Bastian. Look, if you can’t keep an open mind, then we need to stop the discussion here. I’m not asking for your approval, but as my friend, I am asking for your acceptance. This is the lifestyle I choose to live in. I need to serve; I crave submission. There are times I crave punishment. We discuss everything we do prior, and I know to an extent what to expect, but I have the final say. I control the situation.”
“How are you controlling a situation when you have bruises all over you?”
“Most of the time I can hide the bruises, typically on my butt, my breasts, my legs, some other intimate areas. I don’t like having marks open for the world to see because people assume what you do—that I’m abused. I’m not. I enjoy the marks and the intimacy.”
“So you’re telling me when it looked like you were hit up side the face with a two-by-four, that was consensual?”
“No, that was an accident. They happen. You can’t push the limits of the body and not have an occasional mishap.”
“Is that what he tells you?” My blood is boiling. I can’t believe this beautiful woman believes she needs to allow a man to strike her to gain some sort of sexual satisfaction personally.
“Bastian, this is a personal preference. I would never tell you what position to have sex in or what you should be doing with your partner. Why would you think it’s acceptable for you to criticize my choices? I’m not asking you to participate.”
That last part seems to break a piece of me I didn’t realize I was holding on to: my opposition rooted in the knowledge I was not part of this lifestyle. There’s no acceptance, because there’s no understanding.
“Look, Bastian. This is who I am. I could never return to a vanilla relationship. I need to be dominated as much as I need to submit.”
“Who is it?”
“Who is what?”
“Your boyfriend. What’s his name?”
“He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my Dom. For some, those two words are synonymous, but for me, they’re mutually exclusive, at least at this point in time and in this particular relationship.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what you think it does. I answer to him, but we’re not in love with each other. Who he is, is not important.”
“You won’t tell me his name?” This anonymous style of relationship confuses me. How could anyone be in possession of this woman and not sing it from the rooftops?
“No. He’s in a position in the community that could be affected by public knowledge of his participation in the lifestyle. So no, we do not openly claim each other, or the lifestyle. Those we play with are often in similar situations. You’d never know any of us don’t do the nine-to-five thing and go home to the missionary position. It has to be that way to avoid ridicule.”
I mull over what she just said. She’s right, I’ve known for less than an hour, consider her a close friend, and I judged her immediately. Hell, I’m still fucking judging this shit. It’s insane. Why would any woman allow a man to strike her for any reason? I’ve heard of a little slap and tickle in the bedroom, but never any that left bruises or marks afterward.
“I’m trying really hard to wrap my mind around this, Sera. I really do want to understand. I’m stuck on the black-and-blue face, the obvious finger prints on your arm, not to mention all of the things I can’t see.”
“You don’t have to understand it, Bastian, but you might find release in it yourself. I would strongly recommend you read up on it—and I don’t mean romance novels. I mean seriously study it, Google it, and find some reputable sites. Learn what you can about true dominance and submission before passing judgment.”
“I could never hit a woman, Sera.”
“There are lots of people in the lifestyle who aren’t into sadism or masochism, silly. And it’s possible you might have a submissive side.”
“What are you trying to say?” I don’t know why that last comment offended me, other than if I’m submissive, I could never be what Sera admittedly needs.
“I’m saying, stop putting yourself in a box, Bastian. Explore who you are now. That person is very different from the one you were five years ago. Allow yourself to redefine your persona. You may find some release in the exposure, or in the relinquishment of power, the exchange. A good Dom can recreate who you are by eliminating the cracks that keep you from achieving your best self.
“You’re thinking this is all about something physical. It’s not; it’s so much bigger than that. The kink is just an added bonus, but I know lots of people in the lifestyle that have very vanilla sexual relationships. The very essence is the roles, the respect given to each other. Each responsible for the other in a way not seen in relationships anymore.”
“How can someone be responsible for you when they won’t openly acknowledge they’re in a relationship with you, Sera?”
“It works for us. I made the choice. I knew what I would face when I got involved with him. He was very clear from the beginning we’d never be seen in public, we’d never date, we’d never have a traditional relationship. It would never extend beyond scening.”
“Yet you allow him control over your life? You ask him for permission to do…whatever you want to do?”
“Yes. I need that level of structure in my life. If I ever wanted to date outside of the dynamic, I could walk away at any time. My guess is he would allow me to have a vanilla relationship if I chose and keep him as my Dom, but that’s not a subject we’ve ever broached.”
Dropping my head in my hands, I sigh heavily. I know she can hear my exasperation.
“It’s late. I need to get going.” She stands up and puts her coffee mug in the sink. “I’m really proud of you, Bastian. The exhibit was extraordinary. Please let me know when you hear from Tara. I bet you guys knocked it out of the park tonight.”
I follow her to the front door, open it, and gather her in a hug. “I just want to keep you safe, Sera. I’ll try to mellow out. Thank you for coming to the opening tonight.”
“Always.” She kisses me on the cheek and says, “Bye, Bastian.”
“Bye.”
15
Anger begins to take hold as I embrace what she told me. I don’t know jack about her “lifestyle”, but I doubt it’s a license to abuse people at will, and what little I have been able to ascertain from the visual remnants of her “relationship” are not a sexual act gone awry. And that’s only proof I’ve actually seen, not what she admits she hides with clothes. Her face looked like someone had beaten her with a board; the mark was solid, about four inches wide from the top of her cheekbone to her jaw line. She took one hard whack from something. An accident wouldn’t have been that clean, that clearly defined. It would’ve been more random in pattern.
Obsessing, I drag out my laptop, determined to learn as much as I can about Sera. I Google “BDSM,” and receive sixty-nine million results. Ironically, “monogamous” only yields a little over one million. With no clue what makes a sex site reputable, I click on the first result and read every word I can find. Seeing what’s on the screen fascinates me, consumed by the world she submerges herself in, wondering how people get the courage to join this underground society. The more I ingest, the deeper my thoughts go to the things she’s likely seen and participated in. I admit, the first few sites I find focus more on the kink than the lifestyle. When I reached site number three, I find what I believe to be the first authentic one yet.
This page is different than the others. Yes, there’s mention of sex, but it focuses more on the dynamic between the partners or groups. I can’t imagine anyone craving the responsibility for someone else. The level of care these men and women take on having a submissive or a slave is a full-time job in itself.
My thoughts drift to the last five years of my life. Maybe if I had known about something like this or been a part of it, someone could have saved me. If I had been willing to submit to someone, maybe they could have pulled me out of my hell. Maybe, if someone else had been calling the shots, I wouldn’t be trying to make a comeback, and I would’ve never left the land of the living. I’m not sure what kind of a man it makes me that my initial reaction would be to lean toward the submissive side. Obviously, Sera needs a more dominant male, one to lead her, take charge. My relationship with Sylvie was never like that. We were equals, partners. She had strengths that were my weaknesses and vice versa. We complimented each other perfectly.
When Sera and I are together, I feel that same compliment. It’s easy to be with her, but now I wonder if that’s because she doesn’t see me as a possibility. With no interest in a normal relationship, I clearly don’t exude the male authority she needs. I never would’ve been on her radar. Friendship is always easier than developing a relationship, less threatening, safer.
Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s almost six in the morning. I’ve spent hours reading and am no closer to truly understanding anything other than Sera is not in the type of relationship she thinks she is. I haven’t been able to find a single source that says accidents happen, yet they all say safe, sane, and consensual. She seems to be missing the first part of that. No matter what I read, I can’t find a single instance of anyone telling stories about a mistake that caused someone physical harm. There are too many safeties in place, too many outs for those in the game, too many ways to avoid things like that happening, and if she didn’t call a timeout, then apparently, it’s his responsibility as the Dom to do it himself, to stop the scene.
My head spins from fatigue, too many things going on in one night. I’m exhausted, I need sleep, but I’m unable to pull my mind away from the damage Sera’s inflicting on herself. Closing the lid to my laptop, I force my head to the pillow. My eyes drift shut as slumber finally reaches me.
I wake to the incessant sound of my phone ringing. I could slap whoever the hell is calling me, over and over. I silence the ringer before turning over to go back to sleep, then the vibrating starts on my nightstand.
Fucking Nate.
“Someone better be dying, Nathan.”
“What the fuck do you think using my full name is going to do, Bastian? You’re not my mother. Wake the fuck up. Tara’s been trying to call you.”
“You’re blowing my phone up to tell me Tara’s trying to reach me? Unless she’s leaving her husband and wants to suck my dick, she can wait just like you can.”
“Quit being a cock sucker and call her back. I’ll be over in a few.”
“Nate, do not fucking come over here—”
Silence on the other end. Douche bag hung up. People need to go the hell away and let me sleep. I make a mental note to turn my phone off at night going forward, then the asshats have to make an effort to come to my door if they want to wake me up.
Groaning, I roll over, giving up hope of returning to unconsciousness. Grabbing my ever-buzzing phone, I bark into the receiver without noticing the caller ID, “What?”
“Bastian?” I’d recognize that prim voice anywhere.
“Sorry, Tara. I thought it was Nate calling me back.”
“Oh, that’s probably my fault, too. I was just so excited to talk to you. I thought he might know where you were. Were you sleeping?” She seems confused by the possibility I was asleep at two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Yeah, I don’t keep normal hours.”
“Ahh. Well, this is good news, so hopefully you’ll pull your shorts out of your tush and get excited.” Too chipper this early, too fucking chipper.
“Lay it on me.”
“Well, you already know you and Ferry both sold every piece at the gallery last night. But what you—”
“Wait. What? All of my pieces sold? How’s that possible?”
“Yes, surely you knew that.” She doesn’t allow me time to respond before she continues with her jovial repartee. “Bastian, last night was the single most profitable night in The West End Gallery’s history.” Now she shuts up and just lets that nugget of information seep in for a minute.
While I try to marinate on the words, they really aren’t registering. “That’s not possible, Tara. You need to check your math.”
“I have. Repeatedly. And I’ve confirmed with the bank the transfers have been completed on the largest sums, which we require cash for. Bastian, last night was huge. It was bigger than any of us could have dreamed it could be…for all of us.”
“Tara, not counting KD, I had twelve pieces there, and I’m vaguely aware of what you initially priced them at. There’s no way you made any great sum of money on them even if you did sell them all.”
“Bastian, I’m telling you, they all went to bid and people were fighting over them. Including your parents.”
I sit straight up in bed. She has my full attention. “My parents weren’t there.”
“Yes, they were. All night. Did you not speak to them?”
“No, I didn’t speak to them because they weren’t there. They didn’t show, Tara.”
“Well, your Dad’s bank account says differently.”
Roughly running my hand down my face, I pull on the skin to feel the discomfort and ensure I’m awake. “What piece did they buy?” I can’t imagine they would have purchased anything. They’ve never liked nudes, and while most of my work showcased last night didn’t expose body parts, it certainly alluded to them, and the colors would’ve been too vibrant for their taste.
“Kaleidoscope Dark,” she says point blank. Her voice is deadpan. Zero emotion. Zilch.
“Shut the fuck up!” I can’t wrap my mind around my parents, whom I haven’t spoken with in almost two years, buying that enormous piece, so unlike anything else I’ve ever done, and I know what the price was before they decided to auction. “Sorry, Tara. Sometimes my mouth gets a
head of my brain. Really? My parents bought it?” They have money, plenty of money. They support the arts, but this is huge. I imagine that piece alone went for over six figures because it had Ferry’s name and mine on it.
“Your dad called me this morning to find out if the funds transfer had been completed, and once I confirmed, he scheduled delivery to his house.” She doesn’t say anything for a minute. “Bastian, I have something else to tell you. I hope this isn’t out of line, and if it is, I’m sorry. I promised Nate I’d never tell you what he spent on The Seraphim, but now that things aren’t quite as bleak for you financially, I thought maybe I should tell you.”
“Wait! Don’t break your word to Nate. Whatever he paid, send him a check from my earnings.”
“You realize you’ll know how much he paid when you see the check stub, right?” She snorts at my stupidity.
“Yes, I do, but semantics go a long way. You can honestly say you didn’t tell me what Nate paid, so your word stays good with him but he still gets repaid. I promise my math skills suck, so I won’t do the addition to figure out the exact number.” I hope she hears the teasing in my voice.
“Deal. So do you want to know?”
“Know what?”
“Bastian, seriously? Do you want to know how much money you made last night?”
“Nah, you can just send me a check. I’ll be surprised when I see it.”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever known who has never cared what you made at an exhibit. How do you do that?”
“I don’t paint because I love the dollar. I paint because I love the art. Talk to you soon, Tara.” I smile at the phone. I really don’t care about the money, though. I’m glad Nate will get his money back, I’m glad I’ll have groceries and more money for supplies. But other than that, my needs are pretty simple.
16
I’ve continued researching Sera’s lifestyle as if my own life depends on it. Every free moment I’m not painting or working on a project with Ferry, I find myself submerged in a website or some new book I’ve ordered from Amazon. I think I could write a book at this point, but I can’t find a way to implement it into my own life. I want to be what she needs—God, do I want to be someone she needs, who keeps her safe. The fact is, I’m not an assertive person by nature. An attempt at alpha would be forced.