Slow Surrender

by Cecilia Tan

  I could hear Becky’s voice in the hall as she came toward our door from the elevator, singing one of her favorite songs. I picked up the clothes, went into the bathroom, and stripped down to a T-shirt and my white cotton underwear and started putting the stockings on. This turned out to be more complicated than I expected.

  “Becks?” I called into the hall, holding the bathroom door open a crack.

  “I’m home!” she yelled back from where she was still getting her coat off. “Rina, the most amazing thing happened!” She came running up to the door and held up a white square of cloth, slightly smeared and stained-looking. “Look at this!”

  “A handkerchief?”

  “It’s his!” She rubbed it on her cheek. When she said his like that, I knew she meant her rock-star idol. She had her mystery man and I had mine.

  “How do you know it’s his?”

  “At the Madison Square Garden show, you know how he always wears a mask, right? He kept wiping his forehead and then throwing the handkerchiefs into the crowd!”

  “But you weren’t at that show.”

  “No, no, I wasn’t. But one of the other girls was, and she got two, and she put one into a raffle for charity that the Lord’s Ladies were running, and I won it! I won it! I never win anything!” She positively bounced.

  “That is awesome!” Her glee was infectious and I found myself grinning. “But, hey, can you help me with this?”

  “Of course. What do you need, Rina?”

  “Um…” I opened the door all the way so she could see the disaster I was making. Among other things, one of the stockings was twisting around my leg like a barber-pole stripe.

  “Here. Sit.” She dropped the lid down on the toilet and I sat. She took the stocking off and bunched it as she went, then handed it back to me. “Just let a little of it out at a time as you go up your leg.”

  “Aha! I knew there had to be a trick to it.”

  “You’ve really never put on stockings before?”

  “Well, only a few times. I always just kind of tugged at them until I got them on all the way, like you do with dance tights.” I started pulling it up my leg and she put a hand on mine to slow me down a little.

  “I didn’t know you danced,” she said.

  “I used to, just for fun, when I was in high school and a little in college. I wasn’t very good at it, though.” I shifted as I got the stocking most of the way up my thigh. “And dancing was something feminine, so my mother approved.” That was before I’d figured out that I’d never be feminine enough to please my mother.

  “You’ve got the garter belt on backwards,” Becky pointed out.

  “How can you tell?”

  “There’s a little bow that goes in front.”

  I shimmied the belt around while she bunched up the other stocking.

  “I had ballet and violin lessons,” Becky said, “but so did every girl I knew. I started both when I was five and quit ballet when I was ten.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could spend more time on the violin. Ugh,” she said. “That was my mother’s idea, too.” She fastened the stockings to the dangling bits of the belt and then made a face.

  “Rina, those panties totally don’t go.”

  “Well, I wasn’t gonna borrow those from you,” I said. Then I blushed furiously as I realized panties hadn’t been on his list of things to wear. Maybe he intended for me to go without. I felt a deep thrill between my legs thinking about it.

  Becky was still sitting on the bathroom floor. She looked up at me seriously. “What’s this all about, Karina?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You getting dolled up like this.”

  I tried for indignant. “I’m not allowed to get dressed up?”

  “You told me it was for a play,” she said. “So why are you getting dressed here and not at the theater?”

  Oh, I was so busted.

  “Look, I know you’re having money troubles,” she went on.

  “What does getting dressed up have to do with…? Oh.” I was already blushing like crazy between thinking dirty thoughts about James and being caught lying to her, so I doubted it could get worse. She was implying that I would only be getting dressed like this for one reason. “You think I’m hooking. Is that it?”

  “Can you seriously tell me you’re not?”

  “Jeez, Becky, I’m just trying to—”

  “Karina. I know we haven’t known each other that long, but when a woman who doesn’t even own a skirt suddenly wants to put on a whore-y outfit, you gotta wonder.” She was giving me a look over the top of her glasses a lot like a disapproving librarian. “Right? I know there were those girls in Palladium Hall caught last year. I read that Manhattan call girl book. What’s the real explanation, if that’s not it?”

  I sighed. “I met a guy, that’s all.” Her expression didn’t change. “Just for fun.” Argh, even worse. “It was his idea.” Oh, fuck. Could Becky be right? I admit I thought he was probably filthy rich, and he’d told me to ask him for help if I needed it. Just what kind of “help” did he mean? Was he going to pay me to be his whore?

  Becky nodded. “I don’t know what’s worse—if he hasn’t offered to pay you and thinks he’s going to get away with it, or if he’s going to stuff a couple hundred in your bra when you’re done.”

  “I really don’t think that’s what it’s going to be like,” I said. But what if she was right? What if I was being as oblivious to the way things were with James as I was with Renault? I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

  Wasn’t that the point, though? I didn’t know what to expect, and that was part of the fun. I was tremendously attracted to him; my whole body felt alive for him in a way it hadn’t for Brad or anyone else. So far, I hadn’t felt scared or weirded out by him at all. He felt more like a prince than a pimp. I had to go with my feelings.

  “He’s really very nice,” I said, which came out sounding lame and a bit like a lie since I had no idea if he was nice or not. “It’s okay, Becks. We’re just having a little fun. Experimenting.” Jeez, now I made it sound like we were doing drugs.

  She sighed and got up. “Well, when will you be home?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t even know where we’re going. I’m supposed to call him at seven.”

  “Okay, say he takes you out or to his place or whatever. Tell him you have to call me at eleven p.m. sharp or I’m calling the police.”

  “What? I can’t tell him that!”

  “Lie and say I’m your mother. Come on, Rina, you’re good at little white lies. He’ll fall for it. It’ll keep him on his toes knowing you’ve got someone waiting up for you.”

  “You’re not actually going to wait up for me, though, are you?”

  “Well, I’m going out, but I’ll have my phone.”

  I could see how it made sense to have a check-in with a friend if there was even the slightest chance things could get sketchy. But I didn’t want to go overboard. “What if I forget to call you? I don’t want you to put out an APB if I’m having a nice time.”

  She sighed again and leaned against the bathroom door frame. “Set an alarm on your phone. I’m serious about this, Karina. Call or text me to say you’re okay. If you’re not okay, don’t call. Or if he’s listening and you’re pretending it’s okay but really it’s not—” She snapped her fingers, her eyes brightening. “I know! Let’s have a code word!”

  “Becks, I really don’t think we need to get all James Bond about this.”

  I think her enthusiasm was only heightened by the mention of James Bond, though. “No, really,” she insisted. “If everything’s fine, use the word sunrise somehow, and if it’s not, use sunset.”

  “Uhhh…”

  “You know. Like if everything’s all right, you could say ‘I might not be home until sunrise’ or ‘Don’t forget to sign us up for that sunrise yoga class.’”

  “I thought you were supposed to be my mother.”

  “You wo
uldn’t take a yoga class with your mother?”

  “I wouldn’t tell her I’m going to be out all night with a strange…guy.” I’d nearly said strange man which was surely what my mother would’ve considered him, but changed at the last moment to guy. Although guy didn’t really fit him. Brad was a “regular guy.” James, though? He was basically the same age as Brad but was nothing like him, or the couple of other men I’d known. I really was leaping into unknown territory, wasn’t I? Maybe that was the point. I didn’t know anything about his life, and he didn’t know anything about mine. Maybe tonight we were going to sit and talk and find out all those things, though I seriously doubted it. He had asked me to dress a certain way, a way that Becky thought was whorish and that even I had called “sexy secretary.” Even if whorish hadn’t been his intent, though, I thought he probably picked the outfit because it turned him on.

  I hoped it turned him on.

  Becky cleared her throat. “So are you going to do it, or not?”

  “Sorry, daydreaming.” I shook my head and stood up. “Do what?”

  “Call or text me,” she said, exasperated.

  “Oh, right. Yes. Okay.” I picked up my phone and set the alarm for 10:55 p.m. Then I realized the time on the phone was showing 7:01. “Shit!” I fumbled with the recent call list, trying to pull up his number.

  It rang. Becky rolled her eyes at me and went back to her room. My heart was rapid with panic as it rang and rang.

  Then, thank God, he picked up. “Karina?”

  “Yes, it’s me!” Calm down, I told myself. Try to make it sound like you thought you were right on time, not late. I put on my “sexy secretary” voice. “Um, hello, Mr. Rich.”

  “Hello,” he said, his voice warm and almost dripping through the phone. I think he was amused that I sounded flustered. “I’m in the car outside. Come downstairs.”

  “Right now?”

  “You have sixty seconds,” he said with a chuckle, but I didn’t think the laugh meant he was kidding. He hung up.

  Quick, girl! I stripped off the white cotton briefs, pulled on the skirt, and jammed my feet into the pumps. There was no time to figure out what shirt to put on. I was wearing a black Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt, a long one that was soft and comfortable. Maybe it would just look punk with the skirt and all. Maybe it didn’t matter because we were only going to play in the car or because he was finally going to collect that blow job I expected to give. Or maybe it was his fault for not specifying. These thoughts were all crowding my head as I rode the rickety little elevator down to the first floor and hurried past the mailboxes in the vestibule.

  The same black car as before was sitting at the fire hydrant, and the same young man who had driven before was standing beside it in a well-cut suit, no hat this time. He opened the passenger door as I approached, then shut it after I climbed in.

  My date was in the backseat, of course, taking in my appearance with a cool sweep of his eyes. He had one arm along the back of the seat, but he didn’t look relaxed.

  “Did I make it?” I couldn’t help but ask. “In sixty seconds?”

  “And if you didn’t?” he asked, a slight smirk coming onto his face.

  “Um, I wouldn’t get my wish?”

  He laughed and knocked twice on the glass that separated us from the driver. The car began to move. “If there is a chance to win, there must be a chance to lose, too,” he said. “There should be a penalty for failure.”

  Something about the way he said the word penalty made me feel melty between my legs. He put an emphasis on the word that made it sound dirty and delicious. He had a very careful way of speaking, each word coming out at a deliberate pace, and again I heard just a hint of a British accent.

  “What sort of penalty?”

  “Well, ideally it would be something you don’t particularly like but something I do.” He reached up and tugged on one ear as he mulled it over. “We’ll have to discover those things as we go along. What is considered a penalty for one person might be a reward for another.” He gestured toward my legs. “Spread them a bit apart, if you please.”

  I separated my knees until the hem of the skirt was taut.

  “Tell me what you like, Karina.”

  “What I like?”

  He gestured for me to continue, giving no clues as to how to answer the question.

  “I like pre-Raphaelite art.”

  “Indeed? I would love to discuss it later.”

  “And…and Thai food, and real ice cream.” Ugh, that made me sound like I was five, but it was difficult to think with him so close. I wanted to crawl into his lap and bury my nose in his collar, among other things.

  He nodded as if my answers were acceptable and encouraged me to keep going.

  “And…” I tried to think of how to say what I liked in sex. This was my chance to express that, and I knew it. But I didn’t really have a good answer. What I did know was that what little sex I’d had, when it wasn’t outright painful or uncomfortable, had been mostly disappointing. Brad had been the ultimate example of that, which gave me one saucy thing to say. “I like guys who can get it up and keep it up,” I said.

  That startled another laugh out of him and he pressed his fingertips to his lips as if he were holding back more. He cleared his throat and said, “I see.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you like, too?” I asked.

  “Oh, but you already know,” he said. “I like telling you what to do, and I like it even more when you obey. I like it when you succeed and I like rewarding you. However, when you fail, I also like enacting penalties. So, you see, it’s a win-win game for me, so long as you continue to play.”

  “Huh, okay.” I suddenly remembered he preferred me to say yes instead of yeah or okay. “Yes, I think I understand that,” I amended.

  “Good.” His tongue darted out to moisten his lips before he continued. “Then I want you to reach under your shirt and pinch one of your nipples as hard as you can.”

  “Oka—damn, I mean yes.” Why couldn’t I remember that?

  “Two pinches, then,” he said, penalizing me already.

  “One on each side?”

  “If you like.”

  I reached under my shirt and held each nipple loosely between my thumb and foreknuckle. I took a breath, then squeezed. “Ouch!” I hadn’t even squeezed particularly hard, but they were sensitive. In the moment after the pinch, though, I felt a lovely warm flush spread over my skin. Did he know that was what it felt like?

  “Good,” he said. “You know, I don’t even know what your breasts look like.”

  That was true. I hadn’t undressed for him. He hadn’t touched me. And I hadn’t seen what he looked like under his clothes either. This is half the mistake I’d made with previous guys. I’d always been told it was better to wait, but all that meant was I wasted a bunch of time getting to know someone who turned out to be a dud in bed. Somehow, I had the feeling this was different. “Would you like to see them?” I asked, my hands already on the hem of my shirt.

  “Yes, please, my sweet. I would like to see your nipples now that you’ve pinched them.”

  I lifted my shirt just enough to expose my dark nipples and I saw him swallow. He hid it well, but there was that slight shift, a tiny movement that exposed how tightly wound with desire he was. My own need seemed to rise in response. I wasn’t used to that feeling. It was heady and delicious.

  He nodded and gestured at me to cover myself again. “Thank you. Now, you were eight seconds late. I think you should pinch and hold them for eight seconds as your penalty.”

  I sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m not sure I can.” That sounded like a long time to be in pain.

  “Does that mean you want me to do it instead? I assure you I won’t go easy.”

  “No, I…What if I can’t stand it and I let go? Does the timer start over or can I do it in pieces?”

  He pondered a moment. “The timer starting over seems a fitting penalty for failure, doesn’
t it?”

  “I suppose.” I swallowed. “In that case, maybe you should do it.”

  “You want me to pinch your nipples?” He arched an eyebrow, reminding me of Becky.

  “I want…to feel your hands on me,” I said.

  His smile was warm and genuine. “I approve of honesty. Come here, then.”

  I slid closer to him on the seat, thrusting my breasts toward him.

  He slid his hands under the shirt and grazed his thumbs over my nipples. They hardened eagerly under the caress, and my breathing went ragged.

  “You like being touched like this,” he whispered, now that I was close to him.

  “Y-yes,” I said. None of the guys I had been with had known what to do with my breasts. They’d either squeezed them too hard or their caresses had been more annoying than pleasurable.

  “This is your reward for being honest with me about your desires,” he said, teasing me with his thumbs, gentle sweeps up the curve of my breasts and then again lightly over the nipple. I shivered, my arousal surging. That was the way I touched myself when I fantasized, only it felt even better when he did it. His mouth was close to mine and I imagined kissing his lips, which looked lush this close up. In the shadowy light of the car, his eyes were almost gray. I could see a dark dot on his ear like he’d had it pierced but wasn’t wearing an earring. “And now the penalty.”

  He squeezed then and I cried out, my voice sounding loud in the closed space of the car. When my cry trailed off, I realized he was whispering numbers into my ear. “Four…five…” He seemed to be squeezing harder as the numbers went higher, and I realized I was clinging to his shoulders. “Eight,” he breathed, and let go, and I held on to him tighter.

  He held me also, for a few moments, now that his hands weren’t torturing me. His arms felt muscular, surrounding me with strength and that delicious scent. Then he sat back and I composed myself, putting a few inches between us, trying to gather my wits again. The flush I’d felt the last time was stronger, covering my entire body and centering between my legs.