Tallulah Tempest

by Robert Scott Leyse

  “Sure, I’ll focus on the here and now,” she says, her voice acquiring the ominous quiet tone again, dripping with menace—it’s as if she hasn’t heard a single conciliatory word I’ve said. “I believe you mentioned a maid’s coming over. I believe you omitted that choice little detail from your self-serving speech about trust, declined to provide an adequate explanation. I’m still waiting to hear it, assuming it’s not too much trouble and you’re willing to be honest.”

  “I can’t believe that’s what this is really about,” I respond, leaning closer to her face and emphatically gazing into her eyes, allowing a note of exasperation to creep into my voice. “I said the maid will clean the carpet after you’re gone and you don’t need to trouble with it, period. That’s all I said, there’s no mystery or hidden meaning or evasiveness. You want an explanation? It’s that I don’t want my guests, and you in particular, scrubbing my floor—I would think you’d appreciate that I don’t expect you to burden yourself with menial labor. I believe in being hospitable, pure and simple, and don’t want to impose cleaning responsibilities upon my guests. Not to mention that if I thought my guests should do such things they’d be nuts to want to come here, or speak to me, again. So what’s wrong with being hospitable? What’s the problem? I’ve already told you about wanting to be a good host, treating guests as I’d wish to be treated, and aren’t sure what you mean by an adequate explanation.”

  “What’s wrong with another girl coming over to replace me?” she shrieks, lifting her head from the floor and spitting on my chest. “You have the gall to ask me that? You have the indecency to declare, to my face, that you want another girl to look after you? You talk about trusting you and then turn around and make it impossible?—you violate my trust while looking me in the eye, not even trying to hide it? You say you don’t know what I mean by an adequate explanation?—you say that while refusing to provide one acceptable reason why another girl needs to come over here, as if this is all a child’s game, unworthy of serious consideration? You have the gall to mock me and be smug about it? You say you don’t like bimbos and then treat me like one? I hardly know what to say, damn you! I’ve never been treated like this—never! Does that make you proud, knowing you’re ripping my heart out? It that your idea of a grand accomplishment? I…I ought to go home, I ought to get my dad to come rescue me, I ought to vanish for good, I ought to cry! You…you’re unbelievable! Aaahhh! Release me now! Let me go, damn you! I could just...!” She’s furiously seeking to twist out from under me, too choked with rage to speak for a few moments; then, taking a deep breath, swallowing hard, and raising her head again, fixing incredulous and contemptuous eyes upon me, “You have the gall to lie by omission! But, wait, you think omission’s a cute trick, don’t you? You think I can’t see through it! So much for your opinion of me! You obviously think I’m brain damaged! Calling her the maid? That’s rich! What you mean is some slut! Going to come over in a skimpy uniform, isn’t she? French maid stuff, Barbie doll stuff, submissive plaything stuff! Going to clean up my mess while shaking her ass in the lace, doing a strip act! Like that stuff, little man? Like obedient sluts? Like to pay girls to clean floors and get naked while you watch? Sick irresponsible unfeeling creep!”

  “Tallulah, settle down and listen to me for a change, and no more spitting if you don’t mind—it’s uncalled-for and beneath you, you’re better than that,” I respond in a stern tone, surprising myself as I do so; at the same time I’m wondering how she can possibly believe the half of what she’s said and whether I’m, indeed, going to have to stay on top of her for hours and hours, wait in vain for her to become too tired to resist giving up. “The maid is Carla and she’s fifty-nine years old and has four grandchildren and I can assure you I don’t want to see her in a skimpy anything. There’s no replacing of you whatsoever, no funny business, no deception. Carla’s my maid because she does a good job with no nonsense, period. A professional housekeeper’s coming over to put things in order and that’s all. You’re welcome to stay and meet Carla if you’d like, she’s a nice person, but you’ll need to behave and be civil—she’s a grandmother and entitled to respect. You’ll see there aren’t any lies by omission, or any other lies. I haven’t lied to you, am not putting you on in any way, so you should drop the matter and stop imagining things and dragging us into unjustified drama, throwing pointless fits. When I speak of trust I mean it, I’m not about to jeopar…”

  “Well, that woman isn’t touching my mess—I forbid her to clean up after me and do my job!” Tallulah cuts me off, a look of earnestness and determination displacing that of incredulity and anger in her eyes—I instantly perceive she’s less anxious in her thoughts, even if she’s still worked up. “The maid may not be a plaything, I see I was wrong about that and accept your explanation and thank you, but you’re forgetting an important thing and might still be trying to wiggle free. So let me inform you of something: I’m the one who’s solely to blame for the mess on the carpet and l need you to be man enough to make me take full responsibility for it and clean it up and make restitution!”; then, lowering her voice and speaking very slowly, “Listen carefully, Justin, and make sure you understand, or we’re going to have a big problem. No maid’s cleaning the carpet, do you hear? I’m going to march into the kitchen and get cleaning supplies and bring them out here and scrub nonstop until your carpet’s as spic and span as the day you bought it and I can feel proud I’ve done right by my man.”; then, raising her voice to a shout again, “You’re either going to have the guts to make me clean up after myself or you’re going to have to sit on me all night! You’re either going to show me you care or I’m going to make the nastiest scene you’ve ever seen and go home and you’ll never see me again! Let’s see whether you really don’t want me to get away, or if it’s a lie! Let’s see whether you’re prepared to back up your talk about seriously getting to know each other, or if you’ll bolt! Let’s see how far we can go with trust!”; then, lowering her voice again, “Justin, this is who I am and you’re going to need to accept it, instead of dismissing it as pointless drama. If, for some reason, you’re disinclined to take me firmly in hand and make me be a responsible human then I’ll be moving on. So there you go: if you only want me for one night, like last time, you’ll get your wish. But if you’re being honest about wanting me back, then… Well, do it, Justin! I’m not asking you to cut your head off—not asking you to sacrifice your self-respect, that’s the last thing I want. I’m asking you to bear down on me and be a man and be proud to be a man, so I can be nice to you like I want to with all my heart and make you feel like a king. It’s up to you.” When Tallulah finishes speaking she’s looking me in the eye meaningfully and hopefully—her expression’s not unkind.

  “OK, my beautiful maniac, have it your way,” I say, flattening out on top of her, pressing her firmly against the floor, and bringing my lips to hers, not daring to release her wrists. I honestly don’t know what to expect when I finish kissing Tallulah, whether her words will be kind or harsh; but I do know she’s kissing me in her customary all-of-her-soul-in-it manner—reciprocating with ardent lip pulsations, tongue twistings, mouth pressings, and while breathing deeply, softly moaning, alternately tense and relaxing under her skin, pulling me into the ebb and flow of her depths. I must admit I prolong the kissing for a reason besides the fact I’m enjoying it: I’m processing the information Tallulah’s provided me with via words and tones of voice and glances and the aspect of her visage—as in her need for discipline’s an unavoidable component of her personality and that I do, indeed, need to accept it if we’re to truly get to know one another; as in how she was both demanding I heed her desire for discipline and appealing for me to do so, apparently genuinely afraid of having to be angry should I refuse; as in how forthright her enunciation and eyes were, at once insistent and trembling—strong and unflinching but without seeking to conceal vulnerability; as in how radiant she was with the energy of her emotion, very deliberately bringing the full impact of her
beauty to bear upon me; as in how her expression, both inviting me to taste of bliss and warning of possible additional strife, shot straight to the pit of my stomach, tingled the top of my head. Am I afraid of what will happen once I stop kissing Tallulah?—whether the room will explode into sharp angles again, whether her nails will resume thirsting for my blood, whether her voice will rain acid upon my ears? Since I’m fully prepared to indulge her request for discipline I’m less uneasy on that score but still can’t be sure: who knows whether she’ll bring up last year again, whether she’ll decide I’m being untruthful about the maid, whether she’ll seize upon something entirely new? I must say there’s a positively electric interval of being inundated by an equal measure of stimulation and apprehension: kissing a girl who’s not only relishing it but who very well might resume raging, for unforeseen reasons, after one’s finished is like feasting in an oasis before journeying through an inhospitable desert.

  But sometimes kissing has a life its own, abides by its own mysterious laws of emotional motion, right?—sometimes kissing, after enveloping one in waves of tingling dissolution, bringing what must be the euphoria of heaven to earth, cycles around to a point at which one’s lips seem to part from those of one’s adored of their own accord, as if in obedience to the rhythm of inner tides independent of one’s will; and so I’m lifting my lips from Tallulah’s without necessarily deciding or wishing to do so, warily gazing into her eyes to gauge and anticipate her reaction, and what do I hear? “This is what I wanted—some serious attention!” she announces mirthfully, playfully turning her head from side to side with blithe regard in her eyes. And when she lifts her shoulders from the floor to the extent she’s able to do so and glances at me as if expecting to be released I rise from her without an instant’s hesitation, also as if guided by a will other than my own, or at least partially so. And as soon as she’s seated upright beside me she’s wordlessly gazing into my eyes—her eyes, still happy but also very intent, are plainly saying, I believe it’s time to give me what I need.

  “All right, listen carefully,” I state in a cold and detached tone, bringing disapproval into my expression and standing. “First of all, you stay on the floor,” I continue, placing a foot on Tallulah’s shoulder. “Up on your knees with head bowed, in suppliant position, with no fidgeting. (She does as instructed.) Good, glad to see you’re capable of following at least one order. And you’d better be capable of following more orders, assuming you’re fond of self-preservation and don’t wish to find out how unkind I can be. Now, don’t you dare lift your eyes to me and offend me with your glance or rise until I deem you worthy and grant permission. And you do not receive permission until I’m satisfied you fully comprehend my instructions—my instructions are your bible, every detail must be indelibly engraved upon your heart. You’ve conducted yourself in a manner unbecoming a mature and responsible woman, made a mess the likes of which ought to inspire you to hide your face in shame, and I require you to make things right—atone for your atrocious lack of respect for my property, the insult to my pride. If this carpet isn’t as spotless as the day I bought it within the hour you’re going to be bound to the bed frame and flogged with my belt until you faint. A beast like you must be taught to accept hospitality with grace and decorum and gratitude, instead of lowering herself to indulge in actions that redefine the meaning of abhorrent. A beast like you must not be permitted to believe she can come over here and flaunt every rule of acceptable conduct in the book, cavalierly carry on like a disgracefully selfish spoiled brat, without serious reprisal. A beast like you must be made to realize revisiting grade school antics as an adult, far from being the least bit cute, is demeaning to me and yourself alike and only calls for the administration of extreme disciplinary measures. Mark my words: if you fail to do as instructed and scrub my carpet with vigor, until you’re on the point of passing out, you will be whipped like a beast and I won’t feel a trace of pity, or be moved to leniency. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tallulah half-whispers in a tremulous voice, nodding without raising her head.

  “Prove it,” I say in the same cold tone. “And speak up, so I can hear you without straining my ears. I’m not leaning down to catch your words and you’re not to attempt to make me do so, in the mistaken belief you’re able to manipulate me an iota and influence the outcome of this situation. If you try any manipulation nonsense, regardless of how subtle, you’re getting taped up like last year, except this time you’ll be face-down on the mess you’ve made instead of on the clean kitchen floor, which is too good for you. Nod if you understand. (She nods immediately.) OK, now back to my instructions concerning your duty: prove to me that you comprehend every word. Speak clearly and audibly.”

  “Sir,” Tallulah responds, her voice quavering with excitement, such that she’s compensating by consciously spacing out her words, speaking slower than usual, “I’ve behaved atrociously, in a manner unbecoming a grade school child and that’s far more serious and reprehensible for an adult to do, and completely unforgiveable, and there’s no excuse. As you’ve instructed, I must clean your carpet with great speed and attention and make it as spotless as the day you bought it or I will be punished as I deserve, with lashings of your belt while tied to the bed frame. As nothing will erase my misbehavior, cleaning up the result of it is the best I can hope for, if I’m to be worthy of your time and attention in the future. I’m eager to place myself in your hands and surrender to your guidance and make the utmost effort to be deserving of a small part of your respect, there’s nothing I want more. A beast like me must be dealt with harshly and without pity, so I learn how necessary it is to behave acceptably.”

  “You need to amend your last statement,” I command, tapping her shoulder with my foot. “Saying you’re going to behave acceptably is too vague. You must be more specific, lest I suspect you’re trying to hoodwink me with loophole-laden words. You’re not going to put your own spin on those words later on and self-servingly decide what’s acceptable. You must clearly stipulate what behavior is acceptable with the intention of strictly adhering to the specifics. Bear in mind that what you say will be a binding verbal contract between us and that violations of the said contract will be dealt with severely.”

  “Sir, you are correct,” Tallulah says, unmistakable quiverings of pleasure rippling through her body, lightly flushing her skin, as she tenses her hands against her thighs and spreads their fingers, still downcasting her glance. “It was not my intention to be vague but I was and there’s no excuse for such an oversight. My unacceptably vague statement must be amended, as so: I must be respectful of your person and property at all times without exception, never causing offense by means of word or glance or gesture or deed. Behaving acceptably is being a considerate, caring, and loving girl at all times, always eager to please, in the hope of acquiring a smidgen of your respect and affection. I live for nothing else.”

  “You may rise and look at me now, Tallulah,” I say, moved to the core of my being at the sound of her soft submissive words, sight of her acquiescently kneeling before me—I’m astounded, semi-dazed, shivering, and also feeling mildly ashamed of myself. I know I’m far from entitled to such humility and self-effacement on her part, still wondering why she derives very obvious satisfaction from such situations—why she appears to need them. Because Angie, Ella, Steve: this is an excursion into unknown territory on my part. I’ve never voluntarily and systematically disciplined a girl before—never willfully adopted the stern disapproving manner, intoned the haughty words, commanded a girl to kneel at my feet. Any harsh words I’ve spoken in the past to hellcats craving discipline have been spoken in self-defense, in a desperate attempt to forestall further flare-ups on their part—spoken entirely out of fear. I may have taped Tallulah up last year but, if you recall, I only did so to stop her from continuing to attack me—stop disorientation and disorder from wholly engulfing my ability to think. I repeat: this is the first time I’m disciplining a girl, as she wishes—I ha
ve no previous experience in this area. So how am I coming up with this approach, putting on this unfamiliar personality? I’ve slipped into the part of stone-faced icy-voiced disciplinarian with an ease that’s surprised me, as if I’m an old hand at it. But perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised: I’ve faced off with enough hellcats thirsting for rough treatment that, even though I refrained from administering it, I’ve certainly discerned a great deal of what it is they require, whether I’ve wished to or not. In fact, they’ve always screamed instructions as to how they wish me to conduct myself and reproached me incessantly for declining to heed such instructions, never ceasing to repeat them. So of course I have a good idea of what they expect of me, the variety of domineering act that pleases and excites them—it’s training that’s, so to speak, been rammed down my throat. But calling Tallulah a beast, when she’s as opposite from being such as a person could be and couldn’t be such if her life depended on it? It’s as if someone else has spoken those words—I refuse to believe those words are mine. It’s the part I’m playing that’s responsible for those words—I’m on automatic pilot, improvising on the fly, being carried along by the necessity of calming Tallulah in the manner she’s demanding to be calmed. Saying such a thing absolutely goes against the grain: it’s the last thing I want to say to her. Instead, I want to tell her how much I adore her—how charming and irresistible and breathtakingly beautiful she is, with her curls streaming down the radiant skin of her shoulders and back, and her delicate hands pressed against her silk smooth thighs, and her lissome figure, without a line out of place; and how strong and courageous and dignified she is, which is screamingly evident despite her suppliant posture; and how individual and untamed she is, innately bulletproof against all manner of social pressure, impossible for anyone to subjugate and manipulate. So, yes, I’m standing above Tallulah; I’ve granted her permission to raise her eyes to me and rise to her feet; I’m feeling nothing but affection and admiration for her, of the opinion she has no business being so humble on my account—that she ought to stand up proud and boldly look me in the eye and fling this ritual aside, so we can embrace and kiss and happily make our way to bed, where we’ll lift each other towards heaven again, as we’ve already done twice. But then, reminding myself she has no intention of abandoning the ritual and that there’ll be hell to pay if I show myself disinclined to carry on with it in any way, I will myself to continue acting the part of disciplinarian and say, “No dallying, irresponsible girl! No cutesy attempts to mollify me, coy looks or pursing of lips! You march into the kitchen, gather what you need to clean up your disgraceful mess, and come back here and get busy! And by busy I mean busy until your fingers and arms and shoulders and back ache so much it feels as if they’re on fire and you’re ready to beg for the clemency you know you don’t deserve and aren’t going to get!”