The Collectors

by Gowan, Lesley

  “Each and every time. Don’t you?”

  “Yes, absolutely. But I’m new. I didn’t know if it became more of a rote thing with time.”

  Jeanne rearranged herself so her legs were across my lap. I began to massage her feet and I thought I heard her purring.

  “If anything in my life begins to feel rote, I hope I still have it in me to change—either the thing or myself. Having sex with a woman who places her ultimate trust in me has never felt rote. It’s always an adventure.” She paused. “And with you it’s been something else. It’s felt different.”

  She looked right at me. I had a hard time holding her gaze.

  “Different good or different bad?” I asked, kind of like a five-year-old.

  “Different good.” She sat up. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

  We went upstairs to the third floor. Jeanne had a massive master suite up there, and I knew there were a couple other bedrooms as well. Anything could be in those, I thought. Another play room filled with equipment. A guest room, I supposed.

  “Where does Mrs. Kirchberger sleep?”

  “She has the whole attic. I put a bedroom and kitchen and bath up there. It’s kind of perfect for her.”

  I wondered if Adele had slept up here in the master suite and whether sex with her felt “different good” to Jeanne. I didn’t want to ruin Jeanne’s mellow mood by bringing up Adele, whether to ask Jeanne exactly why she’d had Adele move out of the garden apartment or to tell her I thought Adele had broken into my place while we were in Paris. Maybe I’d bring it up later.

  We showered and crawled into bed naked. Jeanne pulled out a catalog for an upcoming New York auction she was attending and we went through it together until we both felt drowsy. When we turned out our lights and then turned to each other, Jeanne pulled me close and tucked her arm under me, her chin on the top of my head. It was very nice and cuddly, but I hoped this was just temporary.

  It was.

  When I woke in the morning it was to find Jeanne cuffing my hands together in front. She didn’t say a word and put her finger to my lips to command my silence. Then she raised my legs up and over my head and cuffed my ankles to the posts at the head of the bed. I was thankful for my yoga classes, for I was bent nearly double. I was also exposed in the most vulnerable way. I raised my head and looked between my legs to see Jeanne climbing back on the bed, on her knees, wearing a harness and rubbing lube on a dildo. She began to push her way into me—no foreplay, no words to try to incite me, just her body pushing into me and her hungry eyes staring down at me. I gasped at the entry. I was already wet, having an instant reaction to every move Jeanne made on me. She pushed in further. I gasped again. She went all the way in and stayed there. Her eyes were not only hungry, but they had a brightness, as if she were taking what she wanted and was delighted at what she got. She rubbed herself against the base of the dildo, the motion causing the base on the other side to rub my clit as well. She pulled back and did the same. Then again, and again. The thrusting then became less, the rubbing more, she held her mouth in a tight line and her legs trembled as she started to come. She tried to maintain eye contact with me, but as her orgasm swept through her, her head jerked away and she cried out. She collapsed on me, her weight heavy on my spread legs. I hadn’t come, surprisingly, but didn’t care. I was thrilled with the wake-up call and to be back in service.

  At breakfast Jeanne said she’d be out of town for a few days but would contact me at some point about where we’d next meet. She excused herself while I was still eating and left, kissing me on the cheek on her way out of the dining room. I saw Mrs. Kirchberger shaking her head as she left the room with some empty plates. Was she clucking her tongue, so to speak? What did she mean? Was Jeanne on her way to see someone else? The flash of jealousy terrified me. Remember Adele, I thought. You don’t want to be like her.

  *

  The next call from Jeanne didn’t arrive for a full week. I was starting to get concerned she was having second thoughts about me. In the most hopeful scenario making the rounds in my head, Jeanne was freaking out at how much in love with me she was and decided to cool things down for a while, unsure whether she was ready for a serious relationship. Maybe she was nervous I was someone who might become her Primary. I wasn’t sure yet what a Primary was, but I knew I wanted to be Jeanne’s Primary. The name alone told me it was the number one spot, and that sounded pretty good to me. This best-case scenario concluded with Jeanne realizing she’d be mad to let me go, moving me immediately into her home, and proposing to me. I didn’t know whether a dominant proposed in the traditional sense of the word. I couldn’t picture Jeanne going down on one knee. It would be more likely I would be on my knees when she announced I was to become her Primary. The details didn’t worry me.

  The other scenario racing around like a pinball in my brain was the one I was convinced was the real deal. Jeanne had come to the conclusion I didn’t have the right stuff, that I might be okay for playing around with, but I’m not relationship material. Therefore, calls from her would be far less frequent and our time together far less intimate. This was a bit like closing the barn door after the horse has escaped. I couldn’t stuff my feelings for her back into their initial form, that of a novice simply grateful for any attention from a dominant. I had feelings for her that went way beyond gratitude. If she were dumping me, my heart would be broken. I knew this, even though my heart had never been broken before.

  As it turned out, the situation was exactly as Jeanne had said. She was out of town on business for four days and busy with other things back at home. Apparently, she was not the type who called just to chat, which if I thought it through made sense. She was my dominant, not my gal pal. She didn’t want to know if I bought the shoes I’d seen in the store the day before. She didn’t care to hear how my day had gone. And it didn’t even occur to her to let me know what she was up to. She didn’t call just to “check in.”

  What she did say when she called was she was having some people over on Friday whom she’d like me to meet and to be at her place at seven.

  “And don’t be concerned, “ she said. “They’re not French.”

  “Ha ha,” I said, glad to hear her teasing me. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “No, don’t wear bells.”

  “I was kidding.”

  She was silent for a moment. “On second thought, wear bells. On your ankle.”

  She hung up.

  There had been no message from Adele, no follow-up of any kind to the trashing of my apartment. The silence made me think it may not have been her after all, and I’d put it out of my mind by the time the party at Jeanne’s arrived.

  I greeted Mrs. Kirchberger at the door as if she were a long-lost friend and I got the same response as I always got, which was none at all. She took my coat, for the air was cold now. It was Halloween, and I could see tiny costumed children being herded by their parents up and down the street. I wonder what their reaction was when Mrs. Kirchberger answered the door. Maybe the little ones screamed.

  “Trick or treat,” I said to her. She stared back and took my coat, looking down at my feet when she heard the tinkle of the tiny bells at my ankle. A trip to the fabric store and an evening with needle and thread had produced something I hoped would be acceptable—an ankle wrap with bells dangling from it. The sound made me feel like a cat. I hadn’t bothered with a costume myself, thinking I wouldn’t be wearing clothes for long anyway.

  Once in the study upstairs I saw I wasn’t the first to arrive. Jeanne was in her usual place on the sofa, nearest the fireplace, and with her were four other women. The dominants stood as I walked in the room and the submissives stayed seated, turning their faces toward me. Jeanne kissed me as she always did, on the cheek, and introduced me.

  There was Pat, who smiled warmly and leaned over to also kiss my cheek. I felt a kinship with her, though we barely knew each other. The other dom was a woman named Kevin. It was her given name, she quickly offere
d, lest I think what, I don’t know. Kevin was shorter than me and much more mannish than Pat or Jeanne. She wore a white shirt and skinny black tie and low-slung blue jeans. Her hair was buzz cut, and she had the broad physique of a wrestler, just starting to grow soft. She was older and had a very confident bearing, but in a different way than Pat’s relaxed demeanor. Kevin had a slightly dangerous feel about her.

  On the sofa were Denise and Heather, and there was no question they were femmes. I considered myself femme-ish, but they were the real thing—expert makeup, high heels, perfect accessories, complicated dresses. They both had long brown hair. At first, I had a hard time telling them apart, but Denise was a little younger, perhaps my age, and smiled easily. Heather was in her thirties and just barely acknowledged our introduction.

  We sat, with Jeanne patting the seat next to her and Heather shifting over to sit on a chair, with Kevin perched on its arm. Jeanne poured me a glass of wine.

  “Laura, I wanted you to meet my friends, not only because they are dear to me and an important part of my life, but also because we all belong to a society we’d be very interested in you joining.”

  “We spoke a bit about it with you before,” Pat said, “but I’m sure it seems very mysterious.”

  “Very much so,” I said. “The only thing I know is there is some sort of organization, and part of the structure includes making a submissive a primary to a dominant. Everything else is a complete mystery to me.”

  Kevin, Heather, and Denise stared at me as if I’d just fallen into the room through the ceiling.

  “What?” I asked.

  “How did you hear about primaries?” Heather said.

  I shrugged. “Adele told me about it.”

  They stared harder, but mingled it with looks at each other. Heather seemed particularly taken aback.

  “It’s not something that’s supposed to be shared with anyone until such time as a person is taken into the Society,” Jeanne said. “None of the details of our structure are. But it’s done. Let’s move on. What we do as a group is nothing more than operate as a support to one another, to function as arbitrator when there are disputes among members, to coordinate our quarterly functions, and administer certain rules that have proven to make operating in our world less confusing and more fulfilling for everyone—dominant and submissive alike. Because you are someone with whom I want to spend more time, it is time now for you to be introduced to the Society and become a member.”

  This was not posed as a question or an invitation. It was an announcement of their intention. So far, as had been the case with nearly everything else, Jeanne’s desire comported with my own. Except for that damn night in Paris.

  “How does that happen, if you don’t mind my asking?” I looked demurely at Jeanne and she smiled.

  “You can’t hear the history or too much of the detail of the organization until you become a member, so we don’t have much to tell you tonight. However, the upcoming quarterly get-together is scheduled for next weekend at my country place. I’d like for you to go with me and to submit to the initiation at that time.”

  This seemed a little clichéd, if you were to base such things on how much there is similar to it in the BDSM literature. In my lost and lamented collection of books there were several stories partially set in someone’s country place, and the country place always had an elaborate dungeon. Of course, I reminded myself, those were the books I couldn’t stop reading, so it’s not like cliché is necessarily bad. In this case it might be very, very good.

  “This initiation doesn’t include any form of sacrifice, does it?”

  That got a laugh out of everyone.

  “No, we aren’t an offshoot of the Freemasons,” Pat said. “The only thing that will be sacrificed during your initiation is a little bit of your dignity.”

  I saw a note of pleasure in Heather’s expression when Pat said this, as if she was going to particularly enjoy watching whatever humiliation was in store for me. Presumably, Heather had to go through something similar, but as so often happens when someone becomes ensconced in an organization, there is scorn for the newcomer, as if they were somehow inferior for not knowing all the rules, for not yet being a part of the group. At least I hoped it was as banal as that. I had a sinking feeling there was something personal in Heather’s less than enthusiastic reception of me.

  Jeanne put her arm around me and gave me a squeeze. “Let’s leave off that conversation and concentrate on this evening. Who’s ready for dinner?”

  Mrs. K. served a scrumptious feast of roast leg of lamb, twice-baked potatoes with fancy designs on the slightly browned top, fresh asparagus with a sauce I couldn’t even describe, and a fresh fruit tart I hoped to God she picked up at a bakery and didn’t make herself. The woman was a workhorse. During coffee back in the study I was interested to see Heather sit on Kevin’s lap, Denise snuggle up under Pat’s arm, and Jeanne take my hand. It was like any lesbian party, where long-term couples reach for each other as they relax with other long-term couples. Very safe, very established. And yet this similarity was a veneer, one that would crack the second a submissive tried to assert her will about anything. One that would positively shatter as soon as we walked into Jeanne’s play room and the doms started stringing us up in any way they saw fit. I wasn’t going to test Jeanne’s patience by suggesting we go in there right away, though I already could feel my excitement. I would wait for her, and I knew Heather and Denise would act with the same restraint. The doms were well aware of our eagerness, and even if they were dying to get us in there, it was more important to them to keep us waiting and guessing what they would do. I had been around just long enough to figure that out. I had a love/hate relationship with it—loving the dependence on their decision-making, but hating the patience it called for. I’d never had much in the way of patience.

  Luckily, their collective will must have been to get right to it this evening. Jeanne put down her coffee cup and rose.

  “Shall we?” she asked, and all of us sprang up and followed her to the secret door, waiting while she entered her code under the desk and held the book shelf panel that swung open. We walked in, followed by Jeanne, who locked the door behind us, a sound that still gave me a chill.

  Denise and Heather had clearly been in the room before, probably many times before. They stopped in the middle of the room, standing quietly while the doms poured drinks and took off their jackets. I joined Denise and Heather, holding my hands behind me, feeling like an army private in line before the commanding officers. We were about to be sent into action. I stole a glance at Jeanne, who was settling into her seat, and was surprised to see her wink at me. It was a strangely intimate message, as if she were saying, “We’re about to put on a show, but don’t forget it’s really about you and me.” But maybe she was just winking to say, “You are about to get fucked within an inch of your life, darling. Have fun!” I didn’t yet feel fluent in dominant-speak.

  Pat stepped forward and led Denise and I over to a wall where chains and cuffs were attached to eye-bolts. She cuffed us to the wall and put gags in our mouths. Denise was a little taller than me and I envied her height. I was unable to rest my feet full on the floor. Denise glanced at me with a look of sympathy, but her eyes were also glittery. I could see she got off on this as much as I did. Even saying I envied her height wasn’t exactly true. Each bit of discomfort I felt seemed only to increase my feeling of arousal.

  Heather was left in the middle of the room, standing very erect and looking straight ahead. Pat returned to her seat next to Jeanne while Kevin rose and walked slowly to the armoire that held the equipment. When she returned she was carrying a large amount of rope. She tied an incredibly complex series of knots around Heather’s body, pushing her to the ground during the process so her body could be contorted in very specific ways, none of which looked in the least bit comfortable. I knew that these rope skills were something that some doms worked very hard to master, not only as a way to distress their submissives b
ut also to show off to other doms.

  At one point Heather looked over at Denise and me and gave us the haughtiest look one could give under the circumstances. I noticed she did so when Kevin was busy tying knots behind her back and Jeanne and Pat were talking and laughing about something. It wouldn’t do Heather any good to look proud. I’m sure Kevin wouldn’t like it. Or maybe I was basing that on the books I’d read, where the submissives were forced into a constant state of humility.

  Whatever the dominants might think of Heather’s haughty look, I know what I thought of it. It said she had something personal against me. I wondered if the other submissives were going to be like Heather and Adele—bitchy, territorial, maybe a little crazy. It made my heart sink, not only because I’d have to be around them, but because I didn’t want to be associated with that kind of personality. I’d hoped to be done with social drama in high school. And I didn’t want to think badly of the women I’d soon be spending more time with. Denise seemed nice, at least.

  Jeanne and Pat fell silent as Kevin finished her work. Heather was left on her stomach, essentially looking like a rocker bar. Her head was held up by a rope tied to her ponytail, secured at a central knotted area in the middle of her back. Her legs were pointed toward her head, rope securing them between ankle and the center knot. Her breasts were bound at the base and bulging beneath her. Kevin walked over to the coffee table and picked up a remote, which lowered the chain from the ceiling. When it was all the way to the floor, Kevin attached it to the center knot and then slowly started to raise the chain back up. I heard it creak a little, but no one looked concerned it would break and Heather fall to floor. All three dominants stared intently at the figure as it rose to Kevin’s shoulder height. The strain could be easily seen on Heather’s face, and I didn’t doubt the force of her weight against the suspension was incredibly hard on the body. She didn’t look so proud now—more like she was simply gritting her teeth and trying to get through it.