A Lady Pays Her Penalties

by Ashley Zacharias

  She raised her head slowly and looked out the window with some trepidation. Sure enough, she saw a car pull into the driveway across the street and her neighbor, a middle-aged woman with two half-grown boys, get out and begin lugging groceries into her house. Apparently, Mrs. Jackson believed in getting her Saturday shopping done early before the stores were crowded.

  Leslie crouched down as low as she could while still peering over her windowsill. The boys undoubtedly ate a lot; Mrs. Jackson had to trot back out to her car to take half a dozen loads into her kitchen before she finally locked her car and retreated to her house for the last time.

  Leslie wished that she were free to take care of such mundane chores. Making a bed or washing dishes had never seemed so appealing. Anything would be more exciting than spending the entire weekend crouching in her barren living room, her arms bolted to a plank, terrified to do more than peek over her window sills at the lovely late-fall sunshine outside.

  Turning onto her back was a tricky business for several reasons. First, she did not dare return to a kneeling position. It must be nearly nine-thirty by now and she would attract a terrible amount of attention if anyone saw how she was restrained. Second, she could no longer retreat all the way into the corner. Her arms were outstretched so the closest that she could get to the corner was an arm’s length. Third, she had little leverage available to turn herself over, especially when she had to be careful about kicking her legs too violently and bouncing the heavy plank against her back and shoulders. She would be wearing it for a long time and bruising herself now would greatly increase her discomfort later. Fourth, no matter how she turned, at the point where she was sideways, her upper torso would be an arm’s length off the floor, just high enough to expose her breasts to public view and, worse, wave her uppermost arm well above the window sill, maximizing the likelihood that she would attract the attention of anyone passing by.

  If her neighbors discovered her in this situation, she would have to sell her house and move to a different neighborhood to escape the humiliation. These people would be gossiping about her for the rest of their lives.

  She squirmed as far into the corner as possible, raised her head to glance out the windows and make sure that no one was in sight, then pushed herself over and flopped onto her back. To do that, she had to draw on all her strength and flexibility to twist and bend her torso far enough.

  She lay for a minute, sweating from her exertion, listening for noise from outside, and watching all three windows for curious faces.

  As she lay there, she experienced increasing discomfort. The sharp edges of the plank were digging into her spine and shoulder blades. The plank would have been resting firmly on the rows of cap head nuts that held the U-bolts in place, but for the chains that connected her ankles. When she relaxed her legs, her ankles pulled against the plank and twisted it, pressing the lower edge sharply into her back.

  She laid quietly on her back for as long as she could stand it, maybe an hour, maybe two, then maneuvered herself back onto her face and knees. Getting off her back was an operation that required even more effort than getting onto her back in the first place. Then she rested facedown against the floor for as long as she could stand that. She found that she could not stay face down for as long as she could stay face up.

  The hours passed ever so slowly and ever so uneventfully. Flipping herself was the most exciting thing that she could do in these restraints and she dared not do that any more often than was absolutely necessary because, every time she flipped, she risked discovery and further exhausted herself. On top of that, she was cold, thirsty, and hungry. But she suffered most from boredom. The hours were agonizing. And that was the point. She could have left a radio playing but that would have defeated her purpose of punishing herself with hours and hours of tedium.

  Instead, she listened to the quiet roar of distant leaf blowers rising and falling as husbands swept them back and forth across their lawns, the frighteningly frequent hiss of cars passing her house, and the occasional bird call. There was nothing nice about these birdcalls; all the songbirds had migrated south long ago, leaving little but the raucous caws of crows.

  She amused herself for some time speculating about what would happen later tonight. Anything? Terrible things? A quick episode or hours of abuse? Would it be as bad as she planned? The third stage was the one part of her ordeal that she could not control in every detail; someone else would be deciding exactly what happened to her. For a control-oriented woman like Leslie, that was a punishment in itself. She understood her own psychology and had designed a punishment to maximize her mental suffering as well as the physical.

  Throughout the afternoon, like the bass continuo in a Bach concerto, her stomach rumbled audibly and cramped intermittently as her thirst and hunger grew more acute by the hour. She would give anything for a cheeseburger. Or a bowl of pho: Vietnamese noodle soup. Or a bucket of fried chicken. Yeah! That would really hit the spot! KFC rules! When she was finally free, she was going to buy herself a whole bucket of chicken. And sushi. She would kill for a plate of sushi. If nothing else were available right now, she would even gobble down sea urchin sushi. Who cared if it were reputed to be the worst tasting food on earth?

  If there were food within reach right now, she would be powerless to stop herself from plunging into a frenzy of utter gluttony, even knowing that she would have to shit in a plastic bucket, naked, in plain view of her neighbors. That was how hungry she felt. She congratulated herself for having ensured that she would have not a crumb of food within reach.

  She was almost as thirsty as she was hungry but she dared not drink again until sundown. She already had a small, nagging urge to pee and did not want to have to hold a full bladder for another half dozen hours. She was suffering enough without adding that agony.

  Then she realized something else. She had a half bottle of water open, but what about the other bottles? Would she be able to open a water bottle with only one hand?

  She wriggled over to her case of water, managed to get a single bottle out, and began working on it.

  No dice. No matter how she held it, no matter how she contorted her hand, there was no way for her to get enough grip on both the bottle and the cap and twist hard enough to break the plastic top free. Only when her hand was aching beyond endurance, did she stop and admit defeat.

  That detail had escaped her when she was planning the weekend. She berated herself for her failure to anticipate everything.

  Her shoulders were already aching dully from having her arms stretched akimbo for a few hours. By tomorrow evening, they would be killing her.

  The house was still cold, but the sun shining through the window helped her feel warmer. It was not much of a mercy but she clung to whatever she could get. She wished only that she dared to squirm to the center of the room so that she could bask in the sunshine, but she would be too exposed there. That, like the key on the wall and the robe crumpled on the foyer floor, was a comfort that was visible but unattainable. She forced herself to stay in the shade, as close to the corner of the room as she could get when her arms were firmly stretched akimbo along a heavy oak plank.

  Sometime in the middle of the day, she drank the remainder of the bottle of water that she had opened the previous evening. It was not enough to alleviate her thirst; she had to get some fluid into her dry mouth. Her urge to pee would grow stronger soon but she would have to hold it until late in the night when there was less likelihood that her neighbors would be looking though her brightly lit windows.

  To pass the time, she counted breaths. How long did it take her to breathe? Three seconds? Four? Five? When she turned over, she was panting from the effort, but after she was lying on her back for a while, her breathing was probably less than a dozen times a minute. Maybe she was breathing six or seven hundred times in an hour.

  She counted seven hundred breaths and told herself that she had just brought herself an hour closer to the next stage of her punishment.

  S
he hoped that she was right but she knew that it did not matter. She was stuck where she was until dark and Craig followed the instructions in the next envelope.

  Then things would get worse.

  She began counting another seven hundred breaths.

  * * *

  Alex Chapman was at home, just about to start getting ready for his date with Leslie when he heard a knock on his front door.

  The man standing on his front step identified himself as Craig, Leslie’s friend, and offered his hand.

  Alex shook it.

  Soon after they had begun dating, Leslie had mentioned her friend, Craig, and had assured him that they had never been lovers. Alex was not sure how he felt about that. He disliked the idea of dating a woman who had another significant man in her life. No matter what Leslie said, Craig was not her family and could not really be like a brother to her. In his experience, men and women could not be platonic friends; there was always an undercurrent of sexual tension between them. The only question was how deeply the sexuality was sublimated.

  Alex got the impression that Craig and Leslie’s mutual sexual interest was not as deeply sublimated as she claimed.

  After they shook hands, Craig handed him a sealed envelope with his name and address written on the front in Leslie’s hand. “I don’t know what’s in this envelope,” Craig said, “but Leslie has asked me to be sure to give it to you personally before six o’clock this evening. I don’t know if you were expecting it or not.”

  “I was expecting to take Leslie out this evening,” Alex replied. “We have a date. I’m to pick her up at her house at seven.”

  Craig shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that.” But he was pretty sure that Leslie wasn’t going anywhere tonight.

  “I’ve got a reservation for dinner at La Grotte Méditerranée.” His attempt to pronounce the French words was rather bizarre, but criticizing Leslie’s boyfriend’s diction was not part of his mission.

  “I think she has something different planned for this evening,” Craig smiled and shrugged, “But that’s between you and her. All she asked was that I give you the envelope. I’m pretty sure that you’re supposed to open it before you go to pick her up.”

  What the hell was this? Had she written him a “Dear John” letter? They’d only dated a half dozen times, it wasn’t like she owed him anything but surely he deserved better than being handed a letter by the other significant man in her life.

  Alex waited until he was alone again before tearing the envelope open.

  The letter inside was nothing like he could have expected. His astonishment grew with every sentence that he read:

  Dear Alex:

  You can’t guess how much I have been anticipating our date this evening. But I’m asking you to do something different than you had planned and, in the process, will let you see a different part of me.

  I love going out with you. I love your tenderness and consideration. Almost all the time I want you to keep treating me as well as you have been treating me during the past two months. But, once in a while, I need something different. Once in a while, I need the opposite of tenderness and generosity. On rare occasions, I need to feel used.

  Tonight is one of those rare occasions. I want you to come to my house and use me for your sexual pleasure. You will find a key to my front door in this envelope. Wait until dark, then let yourself into my house.

  You will find me in my living room. You will see that I have put myself in a situation that ensures that I will be unable to stop you from using my body in any way that you wish.

  It is important that you do not try to talk to me, do not try to rescue me, do not try to console me. Take as much pleasure from me as you can in any way that you want for as long as you want. When you are sated, leave.

  The greatest kindness that you can do for me tonight is to show me no kindness whatsoever.

  You can think of this as a test of your strength. I know that you can be kind and generous. In the weeks that we have been dating, you have consistently put my feelings ahead of yours and I appreciate that. Now I need to know if, for a single evening, you can ignore my feelings completely and think only of yourself. I need a man who can do that when asked. Can you be utterly callous when I need you to be?

  I’m not asking you to rape me. Rape is an assault where the rapist’s focus is on the victim and her pain. I am asking you for the opposite. Do not focus on me. Do not pay the slightest attention to me. You must ignore me utterly and focus entirely on yourself. Going out of your way to cause me pain would be as much an error as going out of your way to avoid causing me pain. Do what you want without thinking about anything that I might be feeling, good or bad.

  Realize that whatever sexual acts you perform on me cannot constitute rape because I am giving my unambiguous, unqualified consent right now, in writing, for you to do whatever you wish to me as long as you do not cause permanent injury.

  This is not a trick. I am absolutely sincere in wanting you to be utterly callous when you are using me. And, when you are finished, whether you take five minutes or five hours to extract as much pleasure as you can, you are to leave me in the same helpless state that you found me.

  I will consider any act of kindness toward me, no matter how insignificant, to be evidence of your failure.

  Let me repeat to make sure that you understand, I do not need to feel used very often, but when I do need it, I really need it. Tonight, I really need to feel completely and utterly used and then casually discarded.

  I hope, after tonight, you will still want to keep dating me and will still be able treat me with the consideration and generosity that you have shown in the past.

  When you come into my house, you will find a few useful supplies in the dining room.

  Thank you in advance for treating me like a piece of raw meat tonight,

  Love,

  Leslie

  There was a house key in the bottom of the envelope.

  Alex cancelled the reservation at the French restaurant. On the phone, he told the maitre d’ that something had just come up and he had been forced to make other plans for the evening.

  He read the letter again, just to make certain that he understood exactly what was expected of him. She had certainly made things clear and she certainly sounded sincere. During the next hour while he was waiting for darkness to fall, he sat at his kitchen table with the letter in front of him and worked hard to develop the appropriate mindset.

  Leslie was asking him to play a role that was entirely foreign to him and he wanted to get it exactly right. He had to make himself completely self-centered. He began by making a mental list all the sexual things that he would like to do to a woman who would permit anything.

  The list alone was enough to make him hard. That was a big step in the right direction.

  He read the letter a third time to reinforce that he was not deluding himself with wishful thinking. He really had been given written permission to do anything he wanted to Leslie short of violent assault. He could turn his most perverted fantasies into reality tonight. He could feel his lust beginning to slip its leash.

  * * *

  As Alex pulled into Leslie’s driveway, he was surprised to see her curtains pulled wide-open and bright lights blazing in her living room.

  Her letter had said that she would be waiting in her living room so he glanced through the window after he got out of the car. He could see that the room was bare but for a white plastic bucket on the floor. Maybe her roof was leaking and she had moved elsewhere. Was she in her bedroom?

  He had to repress a desire to ring the bell and wait for her to answer. Intellectually, he knew that that would be the wrong thing to do. She had put her house key in his hand because a callous man with a primal hunger for raw meat wouldn’t stand on niceties. He stuck the key in the lock, released the bolt, and walked in as though he owned the place. That was the attitude that she had requested.

  He heard a moan from the living room so went th
ere first.

  The sight amazed him. Leslie – lovely, shy, clever Leslie – was kneeling in the corner of the room, arms outstretched, head down on the floor, and butt raised high toward him as though offering herself for his use. His first impression was that, beyond all his expectations, she was waiting patiently to be used for his pleasure. Incongruously, there was a board with studs on it lying across her shoulders. As he walked across the room to examine his prize, he suddenly understood the purpose of the board. He arms were attached to it, rendering her helpless to cover herself or protect herself from him. He followed the chains from the end of the board to her feet. Not only was she helpless to use her hands, but her legs were being held apart, forcing her crotch open: an irrevocable invitation to be fucked.

  She was not gagged. If she did not want him to violate her, she was free to tell him so.

  She moaned again – her position must be uncomfortable to the point of being painful – but did not speak. She did not ask to be released, did not ask why he had entered her house, did not ask him to leave. Her letter was no forgery; it must be a true and accurate statement of her desires. He followed her lead and did not speak, either.

  He was in no hurry. He stood for a long time and stared at her ass. On her knees, fully bent with her legs slightly parted, he had an unobstructed view of the woman’s puckered pink asshole and long glistening slit. Though he had made love to a few women, including Leslie, and had seen his share of them naked, he had never before been treated to such an explicit view of their most private parts, especially so brightly illuminated by the glare of two naked bulbs.

  Leslie had permitted her body to keep no secrets from him.

  He felt as hard as granite and wanted to throw off his clothes and violate her body immediately. But the windows were a problem. He was keenly aware that he was exposed to public view. Did she expect that he would enjoy exhibiting himself to the world? Or did she expect that he would squeeze himself into the single sheltered corner where she was kneeling?