As She's Told

by Anneke Jacob

  "But what?"

  "But they're about me, what I need."

  "Yes. About you." He smiled slightly, knowing what was coming.

  "They're –" She raised her hands in frustration, "They feel so beside the point. You need someone who –" She turned her face away. "What I need –

  sir, all I need is to know is – are you still angry at me?"

  He reached out and took her gently by the ear. "No, I'm not angry any more." She turned her head to touch her cheek to his hand. "But that doesn't mean everything goes back to the way it was. I've learned more about how your naughty little mind works. I'm going to move faster to restrict what you do, since I trust you less."

  She hung her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  He took her face in both hands and kissed away its distress, kissed and licked the delicate, salty skin beneath her eyes. Then he gave her some orders for the next day, and sent her inside.

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  As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

  Chapter Eight

  Dreamcatcher

  I lay in bed that night on my stomach, hugging the pillow, with sleep as distant and theoretical as an alien lifeform. It wasn't the physical result of the punishment that kept me awake; well, hardly at all. It was the fear still possessing me: the mounting, searing pain, my helplessness to avoid the blows. Anders' angry, implacable voice still resounded in my head, making me cringe against the pillow. I actually held the pillow over my ears to shut it out, uselessly of course. And those long periods in corners, humiliating me down to nothing. My guilt was only barely assuaged by the punishment. I had to keep reminding myself that Anders wasn't angry with me any more.

  And he was already stepping up restrictions, which was probably a good thing; less chance for me to get into trouble.

  I identified one feeling braiding through my subconscious: a thread of relief. He'd tied me down and beaten me, and I had survived it. More important, my desire had survived it; after that experience I wanted more than ever to belong to him. Fantasy is one thing, reality something else, as JulieB had said during that first conversation (the weblog of which I had saved and repeatedly read). Despite my early assurances, I hadn't known for sure that I really could take it. Or even, after the first blow, almost welcome it. Now it seemed to me that I did know. I forced myself to be honest; there was no "almost' about it. I had welcomed it, had in fact needed it. I was finding out what a fear junky I was. Fear, pain, humiliation: you name it, my body took it in through every pore and nerve and orifice and begged for more.

  The beating had been one more giant step toward being owned, choiceless. A state I still wanted passionately, more than any specific piece of bondage or discipline. Though I certainly wanted those, waited with breathless impatience for whatever he would do to me next. Still, the actions and the hardware were only the outward manifestation – intensely arousing, cunt swimming window dressing – for the underlying relationship, in which the seesaw of power tipped only one way.

  There was another thread, thin and fragile-seeming, but still unbroken: the freedom to walk away. Here I was all by myself, with nothing but a waist 104

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  chain and a sore ass to keep me in line. It felt a bit like standing at the edge of a precipice and reminding yourself that you really don't want to jump. In that situation a guard rail is good, a chain link fence is even better. I slept at last, a shallow sleep crossed with dreams. There was a soup of greenish light and foliage through which I wandered, too warm beneath a glass roof. Each plant bore a big red price tag, bright but somehow unreadable. I heard footsteps coming my way, and suddenly knew I wasn't supposed to be there; exams were coming up and I was reprehensibly wasting my time once again.

  The leaves of a slender red-leaved tree were big enough to hide some of me, but my bottom half – the part with no clothes – would show. I tried to pull myself up into the little tree to hide. In the next moment I was on my back holding splintered branches, confronted by welling sap and ruin.

  I scrambled up and ran, horrified, my feet sinking in dirt and sand. The sand stretched out before me, and now I was walking, barefoot, miles yet to go. Ocean Beach, with its usual chilly fog that hid my destination no matter how far I trudged. The sea was grey, and the waves were huge, threatening.

  Surfers crested the waves with panache and triumphant shouts. I thought that anyone who could take such risks must be a different species from me. Then I remembered that they were a different species, or at least I was. They were human; I was not. What was I? Anders would tell me. Anders was waiting for me. I turned away from the water and climbed up the beach to go back to him, but there was a high wall and barbed wire parallel to the shore, uncrossable. Picking my way painfully over stones and grit, I followed the edge of this barrier, searching more and more anxiously for an opening. The ground was steep and rocky, and there were concrete pill boxes, like on the beach at Normandy, and even gun emplacements.

  Fear ratcheted up into a state close to panic. At last I came to two soldiers in uniform with helmets and guns who stood guarding a gate.

  "Let me through!"

  "No. No entry."

  "Please," I begged, "I have to go back!"

  "You can't go back."

  "But I only walked away for a minute, I didn't mean it!" I looked down at my naked body and saw to my horror that the chain was gone from my waist. Frantically I searched the ground. There it lay behind me in the gritty sand, like a tarnished snake. I fumbled to replace it, but the lock was rusted 105

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  and filled with grit and it kept slithering off. The guards were stony faced, silent, guns blocking the gate. "What can I do?" I wailed.

  "You can do whatever you want." The soldier gestured with his gun away from the gate. I turned, and saw empty rocks and mountains stretched to the horizon, their metallic sheen glittering.

  I woke up crying. Then I felt the chain around my waist, smooth and solid, and was overcome with such relief I cried some more.

  The next day the soreness of my ass was a constant irritant, intruding on and eroticising every move I made, particularly as I had no underwear to cover myself. I made do with a half slip, and felt naked and anxious. Sitting down was uncomfortable, but standing and walking rubbed the material of my slip against the welts, and made concentration an act of will. That day Anders began checking up on me unpredictably, showing up outside the library in his truck, dropping in at ten o'clock at night to make sure that I was behaving myself. I had to show him each time that I was wearing only what I was allowed to wear, doing only what I was allowed to do. I was allowed to go from home to school, to the stores near my place and home again; that's all. Anything else required permission. I caught hell one day for going up to a café on Bloor Street with my friends to celebrate Po Ling's new job; I only heard at the last minute and had no time to phone Anders before we all started walking. I thought it would be okay to call him once we got there, but it wasn't okay. I got a stiff whipping out of that, and a new cell phone. When my old one had died I hadn't bothered replacing it; I'd never made many calls when I was out, and all the unused minutes had felt like a waste. Now that I had one again, its only purpose was to report in to Anders, and for him to keep tabs on my whereabouts. He also began monitoring my expenses; one look at the mess my finances were in and he'd taken over. My phone frugality was more than compensated for in other areas. No more impulse buys, no more disorganization. I had to account for every penny I spent, so I spent almost nothing.

  School had reached a fever pitch, and the days went by with only short visits from Anders in which he inspected me, examined my work, gave crisp, specific praise when it was deserved, and grilled me in detail on any insufficiencies. So much for not getting into trouble. Most nights I had to lean over my chair, bottom bared, and count blows from a crop which made remarkably little noise, given how much it stung. Then he'd leave, and I 106

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  would sit down gingerly and try to address what I'd done wrong, try to concentrate and get back to work.

  Those awful dreams I had seemed to set the tone for at least half of my unconscious hours. In my dreams I climbed fences, and either couldn't get back, or fell off the cliffs beyond them. Right into Niagara Gorge in one case. Or I wielded Nikki's bolt cutters on barriers, stepped through the resulting openings, and turned to watch complex structures collapse behind me. Or I was back on that horrible beach. I could never find Anders, and it was always my fault; a moment's foolish impulse had ruined everything. The chain around my waist became a talisman when I awoke, and sometimes I tried to sleep with a hand curled round it, hoping it would act like a dreamcatcher and fend off the nightmares.

  During the day my rational side was uppermost. I knew that waiting a few more weeks wouldn't kill me, and that Anders would hardly let me walk away on a whim. But the dreams left their residue. I felt loose and rattly sometimes, at risk of damage, as if I was in a moving car without a seatbelt.

  This was odd, really, because I could hardly make a move without running into Anders' restrictions. What I wore, where I went, every decision I made was sifted through a screen of his rules, expectations and punishments. Gradually every thought became coloured by the hope of pleasing him, and the growing fear of what he might do if I didn't.

  I'd often had a fault-finding 'watcher' travelling with me. I guess most self-conscious people have their own resident critic, forever sitting in judgment. Not surprisingly, Anders quickly became that unseen onlooker and judge. I never felt entirely away from his monitoring eye. My usual self-criticism was intensified and given a whole new meaning. I was moving and adjusting myself to his invisible presence.

  And in any case I carried him with me, in the chain I couldn't remove, the cellphone that tied me to him, the clothes he made me wear and not wear, the flesh that he pleasured and manipulated and punished. Those words of Patient Griselda became a kind of mantra in my head.

  When Anders examined me he insisted that I tell him anything I thought I'd done wrong, and under such questioning I couldn't hold back; his eye for my deceits was as acute and intolerant as it was for prevaricating politicians.

  Actually, it seemed to me that he already knew what I'd done wrong and was just waiting for me to confess. So I told him about staying up past the 107

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  bedtime he'd imposed, or skipping lunch, or forgetting a meeting. Then I'd count the strokes, try to hold back the tears, and get down on my knees and kiss the whip and his hand when he was done. Our contact during this period consisted only of these brief encounters and frequent phone conversations.

  We never went to his house in those weeks; he'd decided that I didn't have time. He had gauged the levels of distraction and discipline that should produce optimum performance, he told me, and didn't want to disturb the balance until school was over. And he got it right, more often than not. In fact, it was a bit uncanny how right he was. He didn't tease me at all; clearly he'd decided that wasn't going to get me onto the Dean's list. Unless I was already aroused, a quick and painful whipping was real punishment, and brought me to only manageable levels of sexual tension, spread out over the hours that followed as the pain subsided and the heat increased. Since he usually whipped me in the evenings, the lust mostly disturbed my dreams (those were the good ones), and not so much my waking, non-stop days.

  Invasive as all this was, it wasn't enough. I oscillated between longing urgently for more restrictions and chafing against the ones I had. It was frustrating not being able to goof off sometimes, browse in shops, read a book. I liked buying things on impulse – books I'd read that I'd always wanted to own, clothes I admired but could do without. But I wasn't allowed.

  I chafed, and had sneaky teenaged rebellious thoughts. But less and less as time went by. I remembered that it was Anders who didn't allow it. And what he wanted had become the central pin upon which I turned. I began to curl up within his boundaries, like a child in loving arms.

  ***

  >academic help especially seems questionable. This is all quite time-devouring; where is your time to run someone else's life as well as your own? (I do not mention the arrogance.)

  >What self-restraint you have. The time is just a matter of organization. Supplies of arrogance are holding up well. I don't write her papers for her, if that's what you're worried

  >about. How could I? It's not my field. Think of it as mentoring – and motivating – a disorganized student.

  >this is one of the advantages of having a domme for a partner; day to day I am not responsible for another

  >If all you want from subs is play, then of course, your 108

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  responsibilities are minimal. I want something very different.

  >I think you will become tired of dependence and managing detail, and just say, "Go! Decide for yourself how to chop the broccoli!"

  >Sure, as long as I can punish her if she does it wrong. I have very definite ideas on how broccoli should be chopped. ;-)) You have no idea how controlling I am. Whether she will be able to take that remains to be seen, but I can't see it becoming a problem for me in the foreseeable future.

  >I'll look after myself; don't worry about me. Just keep watch on whether I'm missing any dangers to her.

  >I have to be on my guard against the fascination, the temptation to go all out. There are days when all I can think about is the sweetness of her; I can't describe it, even when she is being punished, especially when she is being punished.

  >funding come through yet?

  >No. I'm not holding my breath. Another day, another fucking condo approval.

  >How is your house and all your safety measures?

  >Woodwork's all finished. Structural stuff is done. The building inspector is coming on Wednesday. Sprinkler and alarm systems are in. I hate to think of what happens to the woodwork if the sprinkler ever goes off, but that's extremely unlikely as the wiring is now thoroughly up to code. I'm still working on finishing details. Speaking of details, thanks for that jpeg; it gave me enough to go on. Graham is adding the locks; I should get the finished pieces within a week.

  ***

  Anders arrived at Maia's door on a spring Saturday morning that was behaving more like summer. To her obvious surprise he steered her out the door without books or her bag; just a knapsack of his own. The air was mild and moist; an early preview of the hot and humid days to come. Winter-faded Torontonians filled the streets, turning their faces up to the light like a bunch of sun-starved perennials. Shop doors were open to the air, stands of fruit and vegetables crowded the sidewalks, traffic crawled. Bladers wearing shorts and tank tops whizzed between the cars. They heard half a dozen languages between Maia's house and the streetcar stop. She swung at the end of Anders' hand, looking happy as a child whose school has unexpectedly let out early.

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  "We're going to the Island," he said. "I thought you could use the walk."

  They wedged themselves onto jammed streetcars, and then onto the Island ferry along with what seemed like about a quarter of the city's population.

  Anders led her to the upper deck against the rail, his hand on her waist, thumb on the chain.

  For him the scene brought back a succession of family outings. The islands in the Toronto Harbour had reminded the Thygesens of home. "I used to come out here with my family when we first moved here, five or six times every summer," he said. "Bicycling all over." The islands were flat as a board, easy for even small children to cycle on.

  "I came out a couple of times in my first year, too," she said. "After the CN Tower and before the Science Centre."

  He glanced at her quickly, eyebrows raised. What was this? "Just a tourist thing, you think?"

  She looked a little crestfallen. Someone shoved past them toward the front, pushing her further into th
e rail, and she grimaced. "No, I'm sorry, it's nice out there, I guess. It's just – " she glanced behind her, "I don't – I don't like crowds."

  "Ah." He edged between her and the people behind them, put his arms around her, propped his chin on her head. A teenager immediately took his place at the rail. "Don't like them how?" he asked.

  "I don't know. They make me edgy."

  "Scared?"

  "No, it's just too much – I don't know, stimulation. Too much going on.

  And I don't like strangers shoving into me."

  "An introversion thing?"

  "Yes, that's it."

  He squeezed her. "Okay. Don't worry, we'll be out of the crowds in a few minutes."

  He shielded her from the worst of the jostling as they inched down the stairs and over the gangway. There was a stroller that he normally would have helped with that he ignored in order to stay close to Maia; someone else took care of it. He wasn't the only good Samaritan in the city.

  Once off, they walked away from the shore, deep into the park with its scattered willows, huge, skeletal umbrellas of pale new leaves. As he had promised, the crowd thinned. There were a few large families already 110

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  picnicking under the trees. Grills smoked, children ran and shrieked. A triad of teenagers kicked a soccer ball. Anders and Maia kept going, seeing fewer and fewer people. They crossed a bridge and walked some more and ended up on the lake side, almost undisturbed.

  "Feeling better?" he asked. She nodded. "I've never heard you sound irritable before. I'm glad you told me how you feel, but next time just say it; no sarcasm." She flushed guiltily. "I'm sorry, sir."

  "Never mind for now. I'll punish you later." He felt her body's fearful inward flinch. Then she was relaxed again, her face serene. This was a familiar response by now, one he loved. They strolled on, their bodies close and in as much rhythm as two people of such different strides can be.

  "All right," he said, "Let's talk. About the question of you moving in."