The Slave

by Laura Antoniou

  Having a code to use so that you were free to pull against the bondage or whimper “no, no, no” seemed to be a great idea. But having all these possible ways to orchestrate what was happening seemed, well, contrary to the point.

  I have nothing against all the good reasons to do things that way, Robin wrote in her newest journal. It makes sense for most people. Hell, it probably keeps them from all kinds of sad and angry scenes that have nothing to do with SM. But I want to feel that I can’t stop it. I want to be really mastered, taken over by someone who isn’t going to stop doing things because I’m not getting off on it. Someone who knows enough not to endanger me, unless that was what was intended....

  But still, feeling another person’s hand, listening to a voice as it whispered hotly into her ear, pulling against restraints and moving with the thudding impact of a whip were all so wonderful! Her first spanking taken as an adult was electrifying, an experience in blinding joy. The first time sturdy leather cuffs were buckled around her wrists, she had nearly melted with the rush of heat that sped through her. Every new episode made her shake with excitement, made her literally drip with her neophyte lust.

  She had tried to find potential partners through the phone line. Taking Bob’s advice, though, she had been extremely wary of meeting anyone, especially any of the men.

  “Once they get you alone and in bondage, they can do anything they want,” Bob had cautioned her, his voice earnest and harsh. “And you know what happens if you get hurt. You’ll get all the blame. No court will want to hear about a woman who was willing to meet a strange man and let him abuse her. And that’s assuming that you survive the experience.”

  There was a part of Robin’s mind that rejected Bob’s paranoia. It all sounded like the advice that her mother gave her before going out on dates, minus the bondage, of course. But there was a kernel of truth in what he said, enough to keep her from ever giving out her real name or her telephone number to any man.

  But Bob never said anything bad about any of the women who used the line. So, when a woman with a girlish voice and the phone line name of Dominique volunteered the information that she didn’t live far from Robin’s campus and that she could easily drive down for coffee or lunch one day, Robin accepted. It seemed all right. They would meet in a public place, and Robin still didn’t have to give out her name or where she lived.

  How deeply Bob’s warnings had sunk into her became apparent only after “Dominique”―who turned out to be a middle-aged woman in a battered Volvo who insisted that Robin call her “Peggy”―sat down opposite Robin in the coffee shop and asked, innocently, “So, Perv, waddaya want for lunch?”

  Robin stifled a giggle and shook her head in exasperation. “Robin,” she said firmly, reaching across the table to shake Peggy’s hand. “Please call me Robin.”

  Lunch led to a long afternoon of discussions, as the two women revealed their interest in their sexual subculture. It was a real eye-opener for Robin, who finally found out that Mistress Dominique was a lab assistant in a clinic, and a divorcee with two kids and a houseful of cats. And that Mistress Dominique, who had a whole stable of phoneline slaves, had only actually met two of them.

  “Oh, it’s all a scam,” Peggy said at one point, amused at Robin’s astonishment. “We’re only doing this to amuse ourselves, right? These guys don’t really want a woman who really has the power to order them around. They want a woman who will order them to do exactly what they want to do, no more, no less. But I like telling them to do things like put clamps on their dicks and ice cubes up their butts, and I like hearing them whimper and whine and say ‘Yes, mistress, right away, my mistress, thank you, goddess!’ and stuff like that. So we both get what we need, it only costs a phone call, and we don’t have to clutter up each other’s lives with reality.”

  “That’s very pragmatic,” Robin admitted. She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice

  “Hey, it’s not all that way, kiddo! That’s just how we handle it on the phone.” Peggy took a piece of paper out of her purse and began to write on it. “Now if you’re looking to meet more people who really do this shit, ’stead of just yakking about it, try these places. I got friends in all of them.”

  And that started Robin off into the world of “people-who-really-do-these things.”

  At first, it took more bravery than it did to call the phone line. The list that Peggy had made included three organizations that were accessible with a train ride into the city. Two had mixed memberships, men and women. One was all women. Robin kept their names and addresses and meeting times sandwiched between her campus ID and her social security card in her wallet, and wore the paper thin from folding and unfolding it. She talked to other women on the phoneline, asking if any of them had ever gone to these places, and what they were like.

  And instinctively, she avoided discussing it with Bob. Somehow, she knew that he would tell her it was a bad idea. In a way, she felt like she was betraying him. He had, after all, taught her so much about his particular world. And he seemed genuinely concerned about her welfare and happiness. But Bob never met people; he couldn’t be a master for her, not really. So she kept him out of her discussions about going out into the real world and hoped that when the news got back to him that he wouldn’t be hurt.

  But his repeated warnings about the dangers involved when meeting men had done sufficient damage. Every time she tried to imagine what meeting a whole group of people with these interests would be like, images of overbearing, domineering, and abusive men came to mind. Other people told her about meetings, bylaws, dues, and tedious details, or they enthused over parties and events. But no one could really tell her what the people were like. And there was no way to find out but take the plunge and go herself.

  Finally, she heard about a Saturday evening event hosted by the women’s organization. Her mouth so dry that she could barely ask for the train ticket, she purchased a two-way fare and stared at the ticket and the address all week.

  She decided to tear them up at least a dozen times. But she found herself at the train station anyway, and rode the way down into the city in an absolute daze.

  What a waste, she was to say to herself for weeks afterward. So many hours of anguish, all that panic, tearing through my closet for the “right” clothes to wear, wondering what would happen when I walked into the room, all of this over a Saturday night at a bar, with mostly women instead of mostly men.

  Because that was what the evening turned out to be. The woman at the door, dressed in black jeans and a halter top with a leather jacket over it, had taken Robin’s money, stamped her hand, and given her a drink ticket without a second glance. And once inside, there was nothing more terrible than a long, polished wood bar with three bartenders wearing white T-shirts and leather vests energetically pouring drinks for a crowd of mostly young women who were mingling, feeding the jukebox, playing pool, or trying to dance in the narrow space that could only laughably be called a dance floor.

  In her black jeans and black blouse, Robin hardly stood out. She went to the bar to get her complimentary drink, and while the server tipped a glass under the spigot for a draft, Robin glanced around her. No one was paying her the slightest bit of attention.

  Well, she thought, pulling the cold mug into her hand, so much for walking in and feeling all the eyes in the place on me.

  Most of the evening faded into a blur. She drank, got change for the box and played some music, and even danced a few times, each time exchanging nothing more than first names with the woman she danced with. No one offered any more information, and Robin couldn’t bring herself to ask.

  But she did begin to notice more and more during the night. Some women wore small whips on their belts, some of them small enough to be thought of as key chains. And among the labrys and Venus symbols on necklaces and earrings, there were also little knives and tiny handcuffs.

  Some women were more explicit. There were women there in leather vests with “colors” on them―patch
es proclaiming their affiliation with a motorcycle group or another leather-related women’s group. One symbol had a Medusa on it, her eyes glinting bright green, her chest almost bursting out of a leather jacket. Another had the double Venus symbol with riding crops standing in for the vertical line, and a pair of handcuffs acting as the two circles.

  Handcuffs also hung from belts and jackets.

  This is so great, Robin thought. I can’t say a bloody word to any of them, but it’s so great just to watch them! Just to know that they’re here, that they come out and party. But how can I actually meet one of them? What do I say? “Hi, I’m new here? Say, have you read this magazine? Where did you get those great boots?”

  In the end, it was Maria who solved that problem. Robin was turning back to the bar, debating on whether or not to have another drink, when a gloved hand caught her wrist. Robin looked up sharply, directly into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and gasped.

  “Good reaction,” Maria had answered, withdrawing her hand. Her hair was cropped cruelly short, and was the intense, thick color of fresh cream. Her lips were slightly pursed, drawing their natural tightness in to a sensual knot of crimson flesh. When those lips moved again, Robin froze to watch them.

  “What are you looking for, sweetness?” Maria asked, drawing each word out.

  Robin knew what the set-up was for, and resisted it with every bit of strength she had, but knew when defeat was imminent.

  “You,” she whispered.

  “Correct!” Maria leaned forward and gave Robin the first passionate kiss she had ever received from a woman. Robin, who had gotten quite enough stimulation for one night, smiled when Maria released her; and then, to her utter horror, fainted.

  * * * *

  People talked about it for months, of course. What a fairy tale way to start a romance, more than one wit offered. Of course, in the case of Sleeping Beauty, a kiss was what woke her up, not what made her fall into a dead faint.

  But it was nothing less than destiny that brought them together. That one kiss in a bar led to a date, which led to another one, and then another one. Maria didn’t live in the city either, but she had a car, and by the time she came up to Robin’s little college town to visit her, they already knew that they had something going. That night, in a cheap motel off the expressway, Maria tied Robin’s hands together for the first time, wrapping them in many layers of a long cotton scarf, and Robin finally felt the rapture of surrender under the touch of another human being. And learned all about the kinds of love that two women could share.

  Several weeks later, at Maria’s house for the weekend, Robin bent carefully over her new lover’s knee and took her first spanking―a long, hard ritual that made her cry and kept her sobbing, her face buried in Maria’s lap with her arms wrapped around her legs for longer then she could have imagined. That night, in bed, Maria was able to coax Robin to orgasm with the lightest of touches, and it became harder and harder for Robin to go back to school during the week.

  Other things seemed to pass out of her life as well. It took weeks before she realized that the box under her bed hadn’t come out at all since she started actually sleeping with Maria. And when she thought about it, she took the phone book with all her notes about numbers from the phone-line and tossed that into the box as well. She had no real use for any of it. She felt a little guilty about leaving some of her “regulars” without a word of explanation, especially Bob. But she had a real relationship now―no more fun and games over the phone.

  She joined the group that had hosted the bar night. Its name was WISE, Women Into Sadomasochistic Expression, and their symbol was a witch silhouetted against a full moon, riding her broomstick while whirling a long whip over her head. They had monthly meetings, most of which Robin couldn’t attend because of the travel time it would take. But now she would get their newsletter and be able to say she supported the organization that Maria belonged to. The mailings were regular, but despite Robin’s deepest hopes, were not filled with fascinating instructional essays and stories about women and their SM activities. Oh, there was always a brief synopsis of their last meeting topic, but most of the space was taken up by announcements for future events (especially fundraisers), and notes about which actions had or had not been taken by which committee. There always seemed to be some upcoming crisis, something that required the members to show up and vote.

  Robin didn’t much care. She stopped eating at local restaurants and forced down cafeteria food in order to afford more train tickets to go see Maria. She vanished every weekend that she could, and noted long weekends with joy. Over winter break, she went to live with Maria instead of going home for the entire time, cutting down her Christmas visit to three days and talking vaguely about a ski trip with some girlfriends at school. The family believed every word, filled her suitcase with their presents, and sent her back into Maria’s arms for the happiest New Year she had ever had. That New Year’s Eve, Maria gave her a little box that contained a narrow black leather collar, with golden “M” on the front. Robin received it on her knees, with tears of gratitude and happiness streaming down her face.

  “I never accepted a slave before,” Maria told her, bringing their bodies together in a long, hot embrace. “You’re Maria’s girl now.”

  “I’ll love you forever,” Robin vowed.

  The tail end of her junior year and her entire senior year seemed to mesh together into a crazy pattern of work and study and her life with Maria. Maria was always more than supportive of Robin’s schooling and her eventual job. “Despite,” she would say, her blue eyes dancing in irony, “my overwhelming lack of artistic appreciation. Luckily, I can just sit back and appreciate the appreciator.”

  And Robin would blush.

  But Maria’s support proved to be priceless in that all-important final year of undergraduate work. She would gladly drive Robin to art shows and galleries and studios and auction houses, where Robin could not only look at the actual works, but talk to the artists, restorers, dealers and clients. She spent patient hours wandering around and looking at anything from broad canvases splashed with bright colors to boxes and files full of ancient photographs, from kinetic sculptures made of found materials to authenticated masterpieces of Impressionist origin.

  When Robin spent three weeks in Italy with several other students, touring more museums and galleries in those days then she had in the past six months, she still found time to write to Maria every day. She had to! Maria had instructed her to do just that before she left. And each envelope she posted made her sigh in pleasure. She was being good. She was doing what she had been told. Every day, from dawn until long after nightfall, she belonged to the world of art. But every night, her mind and body existed only for the memory of Maria’s touch and her voice.

  * * * *

  Robin graduated with more honors than seemed appropriate. Her parents flew in to watch her, unaware that in the same audience, not far from where they sat and applauding wildly every time their daughter’s name was mentioned, was a woman with short cream-colored hair and intense blue eyes who just that morning had beaten their smart, pretty daughter so hard that Robin’s every shifting movement onstage was accompanied by twinges of delightful pain.

  It had been Robin’s idea. “For the rest of my life,” she had explained to Maria’s amused patience, “I want to remember this day as a day where even though I was getting out of school and receiving all this attention, underneath I was still your slave.”

  “Oh, I’ll give you something to remember,” Maria promised. And she did, with a beautiful braided flogger, its tails a bundle of black snakes, its touch a massive, heavy thump! which sent Robin’s body pressing against the edge of the couch she had been braced on too many times to count.

  “We’re so proud of you,” her mother said at dinner, smiling as her father laid their generous graduation present before Robin, the slender envelope containing what would become moving expenses and first month’s rent and security. “We always knew you�
��d be the smartest one in the family!”

  They spent the next day together, Robin acting as a tour guide through the campus. She introduced them to some of her teachers, all of whom had nothing but those warm, glowing words that seem to come out only on sunny graduation days. She rarely left them alone, and rushed back to their sides when she was called away by some business they assumed to have to do with getting out of school. They protested that they could just be on their way and leave her to her work, but she insisted on making sure that they had a lot of her company and attention. And when they finally had to leave, Robin grinned and kissed them and bade them farewell, waving at their taxi as they went back to the airport.

  They never knew that all during their day with their daughter, her few absences were to meet with Maria in some semi-private space so that Maria could add other delightful torments to Robin’s day. By the time she lowered her arm from energetic waving, she ran back to find Maria sitting on Robin’s bed in the dorm (a single room at last). And only after some truly abject begging would Maria consent to removing the dildo and butt plug she had inserted earlier, and only after Robin showed some absolutely devoted attention to Maria’s boots and then her cunt did Maria give her the cream that would take the burning sting away from Robin’s aching nipples. Maria had massaged them with a heavy coating of something used to soothe aching muscles. For the final hour with her parents, Robin’s nipples had ached so much that she could barely keep still. The sensation faded, but it was still more the thought which held her attention.