As She's Told

by Anneke Jacob

  No pleading for attention, either.

  The next movie was It's a Wonderful Life, and with commercials it must have been at least two and a half hours long. I listened, and I watched when Anders got up to pee, and I thought. There was plenty of time to revisit my shameful display, my pointless and pathetic leg-humping. I thought of his hands having difficulty pulling me back, and felt my face go hot again beneath the bridle. Was I that creature? Yes, it seemed so. He could have stopped me with a word, but I knew he loved it, loved reducing me to nothing but a frantic, primitive, urge, all higher brain regions turned to jelly.

  Only memory storage remaining, for the sake of later humiliating retrieval.

  On my back, feet up on the bars, I lay and stared at the Christmas tree lights, blinking on, off, on. He'd shoved the little sleigh behind the tree, out of the way, the shafts down against the wall. Not shafts for a human slave, with hands with which to pull, but shafts to be attached to a draft animal's harness. I could feel their drag, heavier and heavier; my thighs would feel it tomorrow. Between my thighs I felt it now. I turned to my side and sucked back escaping saliva, wiped up a drop or two from the black surface with my forearm. Jimmy Stewart's friends were serenading the newlyweds in the rain.

  I watched the black and white TV shadows play over my master's face. He had his feet up on the coffee table, not on me. I wanted to be under those legs and feel their warmth and weight. But I also wanted to be where he had put me. Where I seemed to fit, like a mollusc in a shell. Gently I ran an undifferentiated lump of a paw across the bars, one side, then the other.

  Eyed the bars above me, the small cage door through which I'd come. My bounds.

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  I was let out at some point on a leash so that I could crawl into the bathroom and use the litter box. But I was back in the cage before Jimmy Stewart could miss yet another chance to get out of Bedford Falls.

  I don't know if Jimmy Stewart ever got out – that's one of the least satisfactory things about the movie, in my opinion – but I did eventually get out myself. I got to crawl around blindfolded on a leash, sniffing for hidden cookies and chocolates. The whip let me know when I was 'cold,' but I got to eat what I found. Unable to see, I was distanced from any self-conscious worry about how I appeared, and foraged away, deep into animal mode.

  Then I was blinking in the sudden light, and having my face wiped. My master glanced at his watch.

  "All right," he said. "You'd better call home."

  I stared, squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, not a refusal but a confused attempt to reorient myself. Call home? Of course. We'd discussed it days ago. I attempted my first words in several hours, and a croak came out. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Master … it's… I… " Helplessly I shook my head again. "Uh – "

  He smiled and stroked my shoulder. "Here, I'll help. Think about work yesterday. That student who called at the last minute. How you helped her.

  Remember?"

  I nodded.

  "What did you help her with?"

  "Uh…um…hydrogen…engine …"

  "Data. Good. What did you get me for Christmas?"

  "The – the mantelpiece."

  "Yes, you wonderful girl. What books did I buy you?"

  Gathering speed, I named them.

  "What's your mother going to say to you?"

  "Um…eat organic."

  "What's your dad going to want?"

  "Oh, you know… for me to apply to – to one of his contacts for – for some high-powered job."

  I'd been boosted back up the evolutionary ladder. My master settled me on the floor by the desk, one mitt off so I could hold the phone, and chained me to the filing cabinet. At least my parents weren't expecting a webcam visit over a computer link. Anders dialed for me, and then left me to myself.

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  It went okay. I managed to keep my chain quiet, listened to stories of my nephew's brilliance, and handled not-so-subtle interrogations.

  "I get a lot of exercise, mom. Yoga and aerobics. And we're going to go skating.”

  “Skating through all that snow and ice? Surely that's not safe."

  "Not rollerblading, mom; ice skating. Some Winnipegger you are.

  You've been in California too long."

  "Oh my god! You're right!" For a time we explored the insidious influence of the west coast on northern souls, her own in particular. Then she was back at me. "I hope you're staying out of the grocery chains, Maia. I know there are very good organic markets there, plenty of options for vegetarians. Something called the Big Carrot on Danfield, no, Danforth…?"

  Anders, in the kitchen, was carefully slicing something that looked to me like it had recently been on the hoof.

  "Sorry, Mom; nice try. But he usually buys organic meat. Anders? My mother wants to know if you buy organic meat."

  He took the phone and discussed naturally-raised beef and free-range poultry with her, one rough jeaned leg pressing between my breasts. He and my mom had an affable long-distance acquaintance over such topics. Then he handed the phone back to me and the leg was gone. I swallowed and took a long breath. Normal voice, normal voice. "How's Daddy?"

  "Impossible. I can't get him out of his chair even for a walk. Heaven knows what his arteries look like. And he's smoking those cigars again.

  Dan? Dan! Come talk to your daughter." A pause. "No, I won't bring you the phone, it's too noisy in there. You can walk this far.”

  “Hi, Daddy."

  "Hi, honey. How's work? Great. Listen, there's someone I'd like you to talk to. He's from a very good firm…."

  Dinner, a kind of smorgasbord, was very late. I knelt beside my master with my hands fastened behind me, ankles locked together, nipples stretched once again in pretty filigree, with dangling bells. A bit of herring dangled above my nose. "Come on, puppy." It was the signal to beg. I stretched and arched and extended my tongue and was rewarded.

  But after that he picked up a book and read while he ate. I nudged his leg with my head to remind him of my presence. He teased me, holding the food too high and flicking my painfully extended nipples. I had to whine and 317

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  whimper and pant to be fed at all. Then he wouldn't deliver until I managed to ring my nipple bells for him.

  That night, bloated with so much rich cuisine, I floated just on the surface of sleep. Steam swirled around me; that and the clang of metal doors seemed to reflect the state of my digestion.

  A whistle shrilled. "All aboard!" Time to get on and go.

  No! Panic surged. Where was Anders?

  Frantic, I turned my head to search, and discovered him right beside me.

  His leg was against my side. There was the reassuring pull of the leash at my collar, the platform hard against my hands and knees. He had me safe.

  Relieved, I settled down and observed the maelstrom of moving feet rushing for the train. High heels clacked, pant legs swished, last minute luggage was rolled and hefted. A long pair of legs dressed in suit pants dodged through the crowd. They stopped two feet from my face, shiny wing tips pointing my way. I looked up the line of trousers to the double-breasted suit jacket, further up to the high face crowned by a fedora, interposed between me and the sky. A whistle blew; wheels began their slow revolutions. Jimmy Stewart leaned down to ruffle my hair. Then he turned and stepped onto the moving car. I wagged my tail and watched him go.

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  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sea change

  I sank to my knees, careful to keep my coat up, out of contact with my slushy boots. Hat, scarf, and coat went neatly onto their low shelf. Then the special twist with which I took my boots off without rising. I glanced at my watch as I removed it. Well within the time allowed, despite Vera's sluggardly ways. Dress and slip were over my head with no effort but a shiver, and the moves to ge
t stockings off were now second nature. I unsnapped the leather over my breasts and watched my nipples harden in the chill by the door. When everything removable was neatly shelved and behind doors that shut with a snap, I crept forward to don collar and cuffs, see what else was laid out for me, and read my orders for the afternoon.

  Anders wasted no words. Each afternoon note was divided into three sections with thick horizontal strokes of his pen. The top section listed what was required before I left the bench. The middle part was what I'd have to do or put on once I'd eaten. And the last covered the final locking up to wait for him. I read it all carefully; errors were a stupidity that he never overlooked.

  First was the nose ring, as usual. No attachments. Today he'd left a chain to run through the ring at the small of my back to each ankle. This was something he'd come up with that forced me to crawl from place to place, but also allowed me to stand on one leg to reach things like the kitchen sink.

  After I ate there would be pots to scrub, furniture to polish, and the leather corset to be cleaned and conditioned, which, done properly, was going to be a long job. No reading today. Better get going. And when I was done? The orders concluded: Bridle. Mitts. Cage.

  I looked at the little piles of black leather and metal on the bench, and they looked smugly back at me, their locks glinting. Soon they'd have me. I glanced off to my right at the uncompromisingly clean and rectangular lines of the cage. Soft and wayward flesh did its internal, shuddery dance.

  Into the kitchen I crawled, chain jangling, clipped my hair back without a thought, and hunkered down on folded knees over my bowl, aware of the eye above me.

  Distress over this routine was long since in abeyance; I was a creature that ate out of a dog dish, that's all. A creature that had no right to eat any 319

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  other way. The occasional exceptions, like dinners out, and Christmas, only broke up the routine enough to maintain humiliation at a low but steady background hum.

  I identified, too, with the creature that routinely used the litter box; I even embraced her. This was what I was entitled to, and I knew it. But the litter box was a more recent innovation than the dog dish, and the daily normalcy of the ladies' room at work kept the humiliation fresh. I couldn't keep my head up as I crawled behind the toilet and squatted, feet sunk partway into the yielding grit.

  A few minutes later I was leaning on the sink on one foot, the other crooked up and dangling from the chain, hands in soapy water. Between pots I squatted down carefully to change legs, straightening one and folding up the other, the smooth chain running through the ring at my back. The big pots I saved for the right leg, which was stronger. Apart from a little hopping sideways with the counter's support to put the pots away, all locomotion involved crawling; no way would I risk a fall, and in any case I'd been forbidden.

  It was a struggle to get everything done with the required level of quality before four o'clock. By three o'clock my anxiety was rising, and I had to consciously slow my movements so as not to miss any of the woodwork I was polishing. At three fifty-six I was at the sink washing leather conditioner off my hands. Then I crawled rapidly to the bench and checked my orders one last time through the straps of the bridle I was arranging on my face. Once the bit was ratcheted carefully to the depth required, I pulled a mitt over one hand, snapped it shut, wriggled the other hand into the other mitt and, with the opposite wrist, manoeuvred the strap with the lock hardware into place and home. Then I was crawling for the cage, glancing at the clock. One minute to go. I hustled in and, using two mitts on a bar, shut the door behind me, and heard the clunk of the lock.

  Done. In relief I lay back, then sat up again in panic. Had I remembered to put away the cloths I'd been using? Yes. I settled once more.

  Reddish sunlight seeped through the blinds in the kitchen. No doubt the melted snow was re-congealing, smooth and treacherous. Icy roads, perhaps.

  A momentary anxiety stirred about Anders, which I pushed out of my consciousness with a practiced mental flick. I pictured Vera walking out the door at five (right on the dot, I reckoned) and going flying, heels well over 320

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  head. The Keystone Kops image was amusing for one second, then I visualized the landing and felt ashamed of myself.

  Curled on my side, my head resting on my arm, I felt the slide of escaped saliva and tried to suck it back. The bit was the heavy, curved one that pressed my tongue; a domineering and intrusive object. My mouth didn't belong to me, though sometimes I was allowed to act as if it did. But not under the occupation of this ruthless piece of machinery.

  Orange light from the kitchen turned the honey-coloured wood of the fireplace to deepest amber, the varnish giving an illusion of depth. It was a beautiful thing, and I was proud of my part in bringing it to life. Now that it was in place, it was obvious that the room had been arranged around it, that this was the keystone, the one thing that the space had needed to be complete. I'd already spent some hours beneath Anders' legs, feeling the fire's heat on my flank and his on my back. Sadly, it wasn't the open fireplace of my unconscious expectations. The reality was that those sucked heat out of the house. Also, wood smoke emissions had an impact on air quality. No, the beautiful art-deco fireplace framed an advanced-combustion insert. Lowest possible emissions. Guilt free (and soundproof).

  Light from the kitchen suddenly faded as the sun slipped below the top of the back yard fence; now the room was full of shadows. One small lamp glowed, the only light my environmentally-conscious master allowed while I was waiting for him. The light wasn't for my benefit, but so that the webcam could maintain its view of me.

  An itch began to niggle beneath my harness at the waist, a place hard enough to reach with fingers available, impossible without. I wriggled, sat up, clenched my fists with frustration, stared at my useless paws, then wriggled again. Even animals had claws and teeth to scratch with, damn it! I recalled a Billy Connolly story about some drunk madly humming in order to scratch an itch inside his head. I tried it, but it only made my itch worse. It took some determined thinking about other things, but it stopped finally.

  I continued to sit, crouched beneath the low bars, eyes on the place where my master would later appear. Would he take me out right away, or leave me in longer? Would he give me the focus of his eyes, the warmth of his voice and hands? Would he stroke or punish? Or would he ignore me like an unnecessary appliance?

  Even in the short time since Christmas, the cage had transcended its 321

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  novelty status, and had become established as the most basic of slave owners' equipment. I'd spent many long hours kennelled: afternoons, evenings, weekends. The sound of snapping fingers, the casual pointing flick, and in I would crawl, hear the door clang behind me, feel the pull at my insides, watch my master go on about his business. I'd follow him with my eyes up the stairs until his feet ascended out of sight, or would watch for glimpses of his long back as he stirred and chopped in the kitchen. Or I'd gaze fixedly at the top of the basement steps and listen to his workshop noises. Or I'd watch him go out the front door and listen to the silence he left behind.

  I felt in some odd way in the heart of where I was meant to be. This smaller strongbox within the larger one, nesting containers, with me the little doll in the inmost box. No freedom, none. Safe.

  That didn't mean it wasn't hard. I was what I was, and this was where I belonged, but I was no puzzle piece dropped into its slot, no insensible wooden doll ensconced in toy heaven. Anders' toy was a thing of longings and fears. At that moment, a longing for his presence. I wanted him. I took a deep breath to feel his web tighten around me, pressed a thigh against the bars, and felt a little better. Just another hour or so, and he would come.

  Was he okay? Not icy roads this time, but mood. The stagnation on the supportive housing front was dragging on. Two of his homeless friends had been rousted out of a makeshift shelter unde
r a bridge, with nowhere else to go but the hostels they loathed, where bedbugs reined and their stuff got stolen. It ate away at him, I could tell, though he tried not to show it. Anders did come at last, and I got a caress or two when he took off the bridle. Then he fed me leftovers on my mat in the kitchen while he showered. I ate mechanically, swallowing past a lump of disappointment. He was obviously going out for dinner, and I was not. I got to stretch a little, ankle chains off at last, and make use of the litter box. I got to whimper on all fours while the chastity belt was removed and replaced with both plugs. Then I was back in the cage. My master squatted down and looked me over, the hint of a smile on his lips. A big hand reached through to cup my cheek and run a thumb along an eyebrow. I kissed the palm, making an effort neither to pout nor to tear up. He knew what I was feeling; no point in making a nuisance of myself. But I couldn't help pressing my breast into his fondling hand. "Have you been a good girl today?"

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  If I'd been bad enough would he stay home and punish me? I reported what little there was: I'd forgotten to tell a student about a scheduling change. She was going to be inconvenienced and probably annoyed, and I felt bad about it, but that was hardly major punishment material.

  He tweaked my ear. "We'll take care of that later." Once again I was nested in silence.

  ***

  Svend scraped the last of the black bean sauce into the last half bowl of rice. Their change and fortune cookies lay between them on the table. "Well, when?" he asked.

  Anders' face was expressionless. "That depends on what you're prepared to see."

  Svend shrugged, swallowed. "Whatever you're ready to show me." He eyed his brother. "Up to you. But you aren't likely to shock me. I broke into your porn files years ago." Anders swore, and had a momentary urge to tackle the smirking face in front of him, get it into a headlock like in the old days. They looked at each other and laughed. "I really did corrupt you, didn't I? Just as well. Have you been delving into kink behind my back, then?