by Debra Hyde
Intoxicated and heady, she felt nothing but triumph, and when she reached her destination, the halting flat of Reese's boot on her face did not dampen it. If anything, it fed into her high. Then Cassandra issued her last command of the night.
“Reese, take L home.”
The sobriquet stunned her.
L.
She froze in place. Until a hand closed on her hair and dragged her to her feet. Punch drunk, she imagined a clichéd “come on, you heard the lady” to follow, but Reese silently and implacably implemented Cassandra's direction. He led her away, the dull thud of his boots—Were those Doc Martens?—sure compared to the blind, uncertain patter of her own step.
God, I'm flying. My senses—
All because if a single syllable, that single letter.
L.
The instant Liv heard it, her sense of self shifted. It seized and defined her—no, it redefined her. L: Livia, life, lesbian. L: possession. L: literary inheritor, renamed. A marvel, and Liv reveled in it.
A door opened and the night air struck her, daggers of frosty cold. She hesitated, confused, but Reese pulled her over the threshold and into the elements.
“What—”
“Yes, that's right,” he shot back like a teacher shooting down an argumentative student before the mischief maker could get the words out.
Words weren't necessary anyway. A car idled within earshot, the smell of exhaust proof that it had been left to warm up. Reese opened a door and prompted Liv into it. Unlike her arrival—How long ago had that been? she wondered—she found herself in the backseat, its interior warm. With an order to lie down and a blanket thrown over her for added measure. The situation was clear: Liv would return home naked.
She thought of Reese dragging her up the back steps and hoped the Weirs were fast asleep, her renters as well.
God help me if anyone's burning the midnight oil.
Whatever thrill her nakedness provided, the fear of discovery pounded at Liv in equal portion. She prayed for a long ride home, reasoning that every minute more in the car might be the very minute a night-owl renter might close the book and turn off the light. Every minute meant that fewer eyes that might spy her in this wee-hour erotic return: fewer minds would discern this secret of hers. But the ride progressed without incident, time a constant within its frame of reference. Too soon the car left the highway, exiting it for the local road home, leaving Liv minutes away from her reckoning.
Panic struck when Reese pulled into her driveway, when she felt the car shift into park.
“Wait!” she blurted. “Wait!”
“What?” Reese replied. This time, he sounded open to questions. Liv rushed in with hers.
“Are any lights on? To the right? Upstairs?”
“No. It's pitch-black.”
“We'll go through the back door?”
“Sure.”
“There's a motion-activated light there.”
“Which means what to me?” Now he sounded implacable. “You'd rather use the front door?”
And risk the neighbors?
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
He came to her, pulling the blanket from her, and helped her from the car. Her feet landed on pavement and the cold air around her shocked her naked skin. Reese placed her purse in her hands and asked her to find her keys. Feeling and fumbling, Liv dug them out and handed them over, her teeth chattering by task's end. Then, they walked, Reese leading her, her hand on his arm, his hand hold it secure. When her feet struck the grass, she found it stiff with frost. A few steps more and the outside light snapped on, startling Liv. Its glow seeped through the blindfold, a halo around the edges, graying its black fabric.
“Watch your step,” Reese cautioned as he helped her up the short steps to the back door.
Liv stepped onto familiar, if unseen, territory this time. She had her bearings, knew the terrain. Her step into the unknown was behind her, reward and redefinition its success. Savoring the moment, she forgot her nakedness completely.
Inside, the hallway's scent succored her. The Weirs’ lasagna, a boarder's incense, distant but lingering, furniture polish—Mrs. Weir, her tidiness a lifelong habit—the hint of dust and dry air, all of it the balm of home, the essence of familiarity and security.
Reese fussed with the lock to the apartment's rear door, finally unlatching it with an old-fashioned jiggle. The door whispered a creak and welcomed Liv home. A gentle push from Reese and Liv was there, home.
“Don't remove the blindfold until the sound of my car fades away,” he instructed. He dragged a fingernail down her back, jolting a shiver from her. He laughed. Then left.
Alone, Liv instinctively breathed deep and exhaled. Her body relaxed as the breath's cleansing effect took hold. New awareness followed: of the late wee hour, her body's exhaustion, her readiness for sleep. But when Reese's car rumbled away, when she removed the blindfold and blinked her way to clarity, Liv wondered what the new day would bring her.
What the new day would bring L.
She crawled into bed, her hand sweeping under her pillow. Searching, she touched soft leather and linen thread made unyielding, and pulled it from hiding. Its scent had diffused and, faded, it had become an even more perfect reminder. Laying her head on her pillow, she placed it next to her and drifted to sleep, its perfume her last awareness.
A day later, Liv found a parcel at her back door, wrapped the old-fashioned way in brown kraft paper, a string hugging its width and length. Inside, her clothes and a note.
L: You did well. ~ R
A peer-to-peer welcome? Liv smiled.
In the time between her return home and the parcel's arrival, Liv had wavered between exhaustion and exhilaration. Submission had drained her of physical energy yet its rewards had done just the opposite for her heart and mind. More than once, she had marveled over the wonders of that night and the trek she had taken. Often her thoughts returned to the very moment her lips met Cassandra's cunt. She savored that electric instance, lust's lightning striking. But that moment had been more than a physical apex; its shock had seared her heart, made her ache with something new, something that felt a lot like love. Liv had wanted to fall headlong into its glorious abyss, but Cassandra had called her to work, and submitting to that command had subdued it.
Was it really love I felt? she wondered. Could it possibly be real if the duty of putting her tongue to work could quell it so easily? Each time she recalled the moment, the same feeling had flooded back, but Liv remained uncertain and skeptical.
Did all those torrid affairs ruin me? she wondered. Deeper in her mind, in her heart, the image of Karen tried to surface but she stifled the memory of true love's single touch. No, I can't. I won't compare them.
Bravely, she stiffened, the memory of Cassandra in her head, a sense of submission filling her. I'm ready only for this. For her next order. For whatever she wants of me.
The note arrived the next afternoon, tucked into her Sunday paper. Its appearance unnerved Liv. What if the Weirs had picked up the wrong copy? Would either of them know to deliver a letter marked L to her? Or worse. The thought of Annie Rose Weir, mainline Protestant that she was, reading its contents chilled her. The woman might be old and old-fashioned, but she was sharp as a tack.
Spurred by near panic, Liv considered tearing open the envelope, as if haste would somehow make it safe from calamity.
No, wait. She willed herself to step back from the rush of worry and take a deep breath. She held the letter. It was here, safe. Panic was unwarranted.
Get the letter opener, she told herself. Keep to the ritual.
Slicing apart the sealed envelope returned Liv to confidence. As she slipped the letter out, she smiled. I almost caved! She chuckled, imagining Cassandra grinning at him as she handed over the missive. “Goad her. Trip her up. Think you can do that?”
And Reese's eager nod. “Absolutely.”
Psychodrama should be his middle name, she thought. Liv opened the letter
and examined Cassandra's elaborate penmanship.
You are exquisite, exceptional. I was not wrong in declaring this the night we met. Now comes the final step.
An street address followed, and a man's name—Elwood.
Tell him you are L. Accept what he shows you—or quit this business between us. The choice is yours.
The location was north, a half hour away. Liv grabbed a fleece jacket and raced to her car. But when she arrived and saw its store front, her courage evaporated.
The address housed a tattoo parlor. And to Liv's great relief, it did not keep Sunday hours.
* * * *
That night, anxiety took Liv, tossing her about roughshod in a maelstrom of thought. Storm-tossed visions plagued her: garish images marring her flesh. Cassandra belittling her, degrading her, Reese at her side in tandem, sycophant to her every wish. Cassandra as the despot unleashed. Utterly horrid violations arose too—men taking her, using her, ruining her. Was this Cassandra's real world? Liv wondered. The one gossiped about and despised? And would she become a part of it if she stepped into that parlor?
But what had experience shown her to date? That Cassandra had quelled her and put her void on a lasting hiatus. That however difficult the trial, a commensurate reward followed. That none of the tasks had truly been outside of her ability. And that Liv longed for Cassandra with all her heart.
Flush with that last realization, her breath quick and her arousal hot, she pushed the dissonance away. She refused to let irrational worry paralyze her. Not when her body came alive at the merest of a heart's tug.
Come Monday, however, she discovered she could not as easily quash preoccupation. All through her classes, a sense of loose ends floated within her. The sensation only grew during office hours when no students came by to keep her diverted and the busy work she usually engaged in during that time felt like a joke.
Then, a recall, words said in passing: “I'll be your buffer when the going gets rough.”
Liv fished her cell phone from her bag and hastily sought her contacts list. But haste made for clumsy waste and she mispressed buttons twice before she managed to scroll to Reese's number and press send.
When he answered, she gulped and admitted, “The going got rough.”
Reese chuckled. “Finally. I wondered if it ever would.” His observation was not unkind and he offered to meet her at the diner of their initial discussion weeks earlier. “Twenty minutes?” he asked.
Liv jumped at the chance.
They ordered coffee, Liv decaf—she didn't want any jitters beyond her already active anticipation—and began to talk. Reese leaned toward her, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his cup.
“How can I help?”
Liv found herself so moved by his concern that words lumped in her throat and clogged there. Seeing her distress, Reese pursued the conversation.
“Is it the tattoo? If it's a matter of halakhah, Cassandra would understand. Another avenue is not out of the question.”
Liv shook her head and struggled for words.
“Not that,” she managed. “I'm not Jewish.”
“Then what?”
Liv gazed at Reese, her expression near to dire.
“How far will this go?”
Reese smiled, a picture of empathy and kindness. “You won't be asked to commit crimes or die for the sake of your mistress. She isn't a nihilist.”
It was a pat answer to sadomasochism's worst stereotype and Liv knew Reese was getting the obvious out of the way. But she knew she had to voice her worst fear, regardless of how little tact she could muster.
“But how much of a lesbian is she?”
If her tongue were two left feet, then they had just tripped over each other. Reese burst out laughing and immediately apologized.
“Sorry! Couldn't help it! Is that what you're worried about, after all this time? Her queer credentials?”
Liv blushed. “Not exactly.” Somehow, clarifying her question gave her courage. “It's hard to find the right words.”
Reese sobered back into kindness and reached for her hand. His grip warm and gentle, he coaxed her to use whatever words she could find.
“If I go forward, am I allowed hard limits?”
Sudden admiration washed over Reese's face. “For someone struggling for words, that's one hell of an intelligent question. Yes, you're allowed hard limits. Despite the wild rumors, becoming Cassandra's is not what most women expect. Cassandra will continue to ask for your consent and her practice of reaffirmation will not vanish when you become her darling.”
Liv exhaled in modest relief. Yet tension remained and Reese saw it.
“So what's your hard limit?”
Liv stared at him, her gaze like a wall created to withstand a siege.
“Men.”
Reese nodded. “Mine too.”
Startled, Liv blinked. “Really?”
“Oh yes. Haven't a fag bone in my body. I still love pussy.”
“And Cassandra's never—”
“Never,” Reese assured her. “Remember, she loves pussy too. Far, far more than she's ever liked men.”
Liv stared at her cup of decaf. In the wake of Reese's reassurance, she felt suddenly relieved. Must've been more of a burden than I thought.
When she looked up, she saw inquiry written all over Reese and she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Yes,” she answered. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“Take the bus,” he advised. “I'll meet you there and provide a ride home, just in case you get a really blazing endorphin high from the needle.”
Liv grinned. After all her worry, an endorphin high sounded like the perfect reward.
Her decision made, Liv returned to the tattoo parlor, wondering exactly what this Elwood would look like. She would've preferred the woman-to-woman simpatico of having a woman at the needle, but Cassandra's orders were clear and the time had come to exercise the trust she had finally placed in Cassandra's hands. Still, she could not think of Elwood and imagined everything from a blues brother to a biker to a Bostonian blue-blood, umpteen generations removed. Anything was possible in old New England.
The real Elwood was anything but. Tall, middle-aged, and lanky despite a slight paunch, he was a balding, unassuming man, right down to his dark-rimmed eyeglasses. He looked more bookworm than wild-side tattoo artist.
When she revealed that Cassandra had sent her, Elwood's eyes widened. Suddenly solicitous, he ushered Liv a padded chair. Gently deferential, he insisted on her comfort.
He's submissive, she realized. He's served Cassandra.
That Cassandra had sent her to someone in her loop comforted Liv far more than Elwood's fawning. They had Cassandra in common; her world was theirs and Liv felt safe, secure—or at least as safe and secure as one can feel under the circumstances. Elwood asked Liv to pull up the right sleeve of her shirt, then stretched her arm out on the arm of the chair.
“It's been a long time,” Elwood commented.
“What has?” Liv hoped it wasn't when he'd last done a tattoo.
“Since Cassandra's sent someone to me.” He looked up from his work and added, “Someone special.”
Does she send others here for tattoos? Liv wondered. And just how significant were those marks, compared to what hers would be? Were they semi-darlings or just playthings? Liv wasn't sure how she felt about Cassandra possibly deploying tattoos so casually. But did it really matter? She had consented, taking that final step in Cassandra's many tests.
“I take it she hasn't told you a thing,” Elwood continued.
“Only to ask for you and to accept whatever you give me,” Liv answered. “I'm here, so I'm in your hands.”
“Have you ever had a tattoo?”
“Just one,” she replied. “On my ankle.” She lifted up a pants leg to reveal the small footprint of a prehistoric Eubrontes, a reward she'd given herself on passing her oral dissertation.
Elwood nodded. “Good. The ankle hurts about the same as the wrist. There's just one
thing more you need to know right now.”
Liv gazed at him. “And that is?”
“Cassandra wants you blindfolded.”
Liv smiled; Cassandra was nothing if not consistent. Had she, in fact, been drawn to Liv because of the hood that night?
“Of course she does,” she replied, nodding in consent. “I think I'll be surprised when she doesn't want a blindfold.”
Elwood chuckled. “She does have her ways.”
The blindfold blocked Liv's sight but not her other senses. She smelled the rubbing alcohol, felt its cool radiance upon her wrist—her outer wrist. Not easy to hide, she realized.
“I have to shave the area,” Elwood informed her. “It's a disposable razor, this-time use only.”
The razor scraped deliciously over her skin, its trek wrapping from one side of her wrist to the other. Three passes and it was done, much to Liv's disappointment.
Now I see why men visit barbers for a good shave.
The scent of stick deodorant—baby powder!—came next and Elwood prepped the area with a quick coating of the stuff. Finally, he pressed the stencil over Liv's wrist, giving her a vague idea of its size. It felt like it wrapped all but her inner wrist and she sensed that it was a good two to three inches wide. She suppressed a shiver of anticipation.
How Liv would integrate its appearance into her professional life after the fact, she did not know. But it hardly mattered. It's what Cassandra wants.
Elwood pulled the stencil from Liv's skin and examined the result.
“Just making sure it's on straight and even,” he explained. “Looks good.” He turned to prep his machine and its needles, and ready the ink caps of color.
He'll imbue me, she thought, with Cassandra's mark of ownership.
Owned. Liv had known women who had longed for ownership. Theirs had been a deep ache, a compulsion really, one so strong that she'd seen a woman accept a gay master or straight couple as superiors if no one else stepped forward. Now, sitting blindfolded in a chair, awaiting Cassandra's mark, she felt a deep pool within her—its waters of desire calm and warm. Courage and decision may have brought her to the chair, but desire would keep her there. She ached for Cassandra, and if she had to be owned to receive relief, then owned she would be.