True Submission

by Claire Thompson

  That was the first dangerous thought. What was she thinking when she decided to give Stockton the slip? How stupid to imagine she could ever do anything in the realworld the way the heroines in those novels did. Yet somehow that night, feeling tired and sick at the notion of four long hours with that bully, she thought she could defy the men who controlled her.

  She had pretended to dress for Stockton, this time in a Catholic schoolgirl plaid skirt complete with knee socks and penny loafers. Greg, who always checked her outfit before driving her to her job, sneered, “You look like such a dope. A thirteen-year-old piece of trash. That Stockton’s a pervert, huh? Still, who gives a fuck, his cash is as green as anyone else’s.”

  When Greg dropped her in front of Stockton’s hotel, telling her he’d be back at midnight, why in the world did she think she could get away with her harebrained scheme? She’d called up to Stockton’s room, making her voice sound weak and froggy. “Uh, hi, Mr. Stockton. It’s Ashley. Yes, I know I’m supposed to be up there but I got sick, sir. Yes, I’ve been throwing up and stuff and I’m really sick. I’m really sorry, sir, but I wouldn’t want to make you ill, sir. Okay, bye now.”

  She fingered the roll of bills in her pocket. Usually the money was handled between Greg and the john, but Stockton was different. Stockton was one of the few that paid her directly, which in this case was a good thing. Where most of the men she entertained liked the fantasy that she was there of her own volition, Stockton liked the humiliation of making her take money. “Because you’re just a whore, so here’s your money, whore,” he would say as he tossed it on the floor. He always had small bills and he would crumple them and make her scramble to collect them.

  Greg hadn’t been crazy about the setup, but he went along with it as Ashley had never shorted him. Counting on this, Ashley knew she would be able to hand the money she’d retrieved from her tampon box over to Greg and he would be none the wiser.

  So she thought. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl. That night at midnight, she was waiting in front of the hotel. She’d spent a lovely evening at the huge bookstore near the hotel until it had closed at 10:00. It had three floors, filled to the ceiling with shelves and shelves of books. She’d never even dreamed there were that many books in the world, never having thought much past the limited displays of her local supermarket.

  She’d passed the last two hours happily reading in the bus station not far from the hotel. Now she stood nervously, fingering the money in her pocket. Her mouth was dry and she had to pee. If she could just pull off the last part of the deception, she was home free.

  Greg pulled up and Ashley climbed in, the wad of bills now damp in her fist. Greg looked sidelong at her and pulled out into traffic. Silently she held up the money and he looked a little surprised but still he took it. He was quiet, keeping his eyes on the road as they drove. Daring to glance at him, Ashley saw that his expression was grim and he was clenching the steering wheel.

  Apprehension began to seep into her gut like acid. Her little trick had seemed to go over so well but suddenly she was unsure. As they pulled into Greg’s driveway he said, “Get in the house, bitch.”

  Ashley swallowed and it was as if ash were in her mouth. What had she done? She waited in the living room while Greg poured himself several ounces of scotch. He came into the room holding the glass and swirling what was left of its contents.

  “So how was your evening?” His voice was cold and flat.

  “Uh, okay.” He never asked. This was not good.

  “You put up with ole Stockton, eh? Gave him a good time?”

  Ashley bit her lower lip and nodded. Suddenly Greg was right up next to her, breathing his hot-liquor fumes in her face. Slamming his glass down on a side table, he closed in on her as Ashley stepped back, averting her face.

  “Liar,” he hissed, grabbing her upper arm in a tight grip. “He called me. Wanted to know what the fuck the deal was. You were sick, he said. Some crap about puking your guts up. That’s what he said. Said he wanted someone else then. Didn’t appreciate a last-minute cancellation. What’s it about, bitch? Are you really that fucking stupid that you thought you could get away with it?”

  Greg grabbed Ashley by the hair, pulling her head back. “You got your money,” she managed to gasp. He was hurting her, his fingers still pressing sharply into the muscle of her arm as he pulled her hair.

  “Yeah, I did. Been saving your lousy tip money, eh, bitch? So I didn’t lose money on the deal, but you fucked me over just the same. You let down a client. You ruined my rep. You stupid whore. I told you, I make the decisions around here, not you.”

  “Oh, Greg, please, I—”

  “Shut up. I don’t want your stupid-ass excuses. You don’t have an excuse. You are my property. You have nothing to say. Nothing.” He let go of her hair and arm, standing back as she stumbled and righted herself, her face pale with fear.

  “Now strip,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “It’s time for your punishment.”

  Ashley stood still, fear pulsing off her like a radar. He’d never hit her. Threats, insults, yes. But he’d never hurt her up until then. When she didn’t respond immediately, he tugged at her blouse, sending a spray of little buttons around the room. Off came the plaid skirt and she was left standing in her bra, panties and knee socks with the penny loafers.

  Ignoring her body Greg snarled, “All of it. Get naked. It’s time I took you in hand. Treat you like a whore should be treated. This is my fault too. What the fuck was I thinking, trusting you? You don’t understand anything but the back of my hand, do you, bitch? You’re no different than all the rest. We just pretend you have class, but you and I know you’re just a low-life lying piece of shit. Now, you’d better be naked when I get back. It’ll go way worse for you if you’re not. I promise you that.”

  His face was mottled red and the tendons stood out on his neck. Ashley felt almost faint with fear. Why, oh why, had she been so stupid? To think she could get away with anything, ever.

  Ashley stared at the front door for a minute. She could make a run for it. She could get out of here—tell the police he was abusing her. She glanced at the ripped blouse on the floor and the crumpled little skirt. She heard Greg rummaging in his things—he’d be back in a second and he’d ordered her to get naked.

  Who was she fooling? Where would she run to? He could probably get her arrested for prostitution—the pimps never did the time, the hookers did, she knew that. She’d better take what was coming to her and hope it wouldn’t be too bad.

  Ashley’s hands were trembling so hard she could barely unhook her bra. She was just kicking off her panties when Greg marched back into the room, wielding the dreaded thick piece of rubber hose.

  Ashley clutched herself protectively as he thundered, “You’re getting the whipping I should have given you a long time ago. Just to show you who’s boss. You’re mine, bitch. Mine. You do what I say when I say it. You do anything else and I’ll fucking kill you. You go to the police, and I’ll hand you in for prostitution in a New York minute. Now take what’s coming to you, whore.”

  Greg glared at Ashley, showing no interest at all in her naked body, in the high luscious breasts or curve of her young hips. The first blow landed across her ass. Ashley jumped and her hands flew to her bottom. He hit her again, this time her back, then her thigh, her head, her face, her arms, her legs. When he was finally done, she was on her side on the floor, curled tightly, instinctively offering less body surface for him to harm, her head buried in her arms.

  “Disgusting pig, clean up your mess.”

  Ashley realized with dim horror through her pain that she’d peed on the floor in her terror. If death had beckoned at that moment, she would have seized it gratefully. But though hurt, she was very much alive.

  Greg dropped the hose next to her and strode off to his bedroom, slamming the door. Ashley cried quietly for a time, and then finally hauled herself off to her own bedroom after scooping up her clothing. She wished fervently that th
ere was a lock on her door. But there was no escape. Greg owned her, pure and simple.

  In the bathroom sink, she washed her body with a soapy washcloth, gingerly touching the spots he’d hit with the hose. She couldn’t bear to face herself in the mirror, instead keeping her eyes focused on the sink, the washcloth, her body, until she had washed herself sufficiently. Dropping the wet cloth in the sink and leaving her soiled clothing in a pile, she flicked off the bathroom light. She collapsed onto her bed, her mind a blank, her spirit broken.

  Chapter 2

  It was in the coffee shop at Bradley Bookstore where she first saw him. Now that she’d discovered the bookstore, rarely a week went by that she didn’t find a way to get to it and spend a lovely morning reading and sipping coffee. She would sit and read, lost almost immediately in another world, oblivious to those around her. They didn’t even make you buy the book, though she usually did anyway, wanting to take it home with her.

  Several months had passed since her beating and Ashley had been careful to tow the line. Though Greg hadn’t had occasion to beat her again, something had changed between them and for the worse. Perhaps it was seeing her naked. Men respected you less once they saw you naked, she had decided. It diminished you somehow and gave them some kind of right over you. She didn’t really understand the dynamics of it, but it wasn’t the first time she’d experienced it.

  Now Greg was much quicker to touch her. He still never tried to have sex with her, which was just fine with her, but he would hit her now, several times a week. Usually not hard—just a slap to her cheek or a shove into the kitchen counter to make a point. He rarely hurt her, but it always scared and humiliated her. The fact of his physical dominance was now shoved in her face in a way that had merely been implied before.

  The result was that she retreated farther into herself, rarely speaking and rarely even meeting his eye. She still carried this fear in her when she left the house, but there was something else at work as well. A little kernel of freedom when she stepped away from Greg’s house, some of the tension she held as a part of herself eased.

  And when she went into the bookstore, she felt almost safe. It was almost easy to forget her life and her situation when she walked into the large, brightly lit building, filled from top to bottom with fantasies and tales of other lives that were nothing like hers.

  She looked up from her novel to take a sip of coffee, now cold but still delicious, and saw him looking her way. He was probably thirty or so, with dark hair and clear brown eyes. He smiled a little and nodded his head just slightly before looking back down at his own book.

  She liked his look, clean and fresh in a spotless white T-shirt and faded denim jeans. He looked comfortable in his skin, sitting easily with his large hardback propped against one knee. She stared at him a while longer, feeling free to do so as he seemed absorbed in his book. She liked the line of his broad shoulders and the slight bulge of his biceps against the short sleeve of the T-shirt. Did he hit his wife or girlfriend? She doubted it—he looked too kind. Was he gay? Probably. She grinned at her scattered thoughts and bent her head back to her book.

  Forget about him. He would never have anything to do with a whore like me.

  He was back a few days later sitting at the same little table when she ordered her coffee and bagel. He looked up as she passed by and said, “Excuse me, I was noticing your book.”

  “Oh,” she clutched the paperback, Catch-22, in her hand. She had only just read the first few pages while standing in an aisle but it had captured her attention. She liked the opening sentence, the way it was a twist on her favored romance novels. Her heart skipped a beat at his voice, low-pitched and pleasing. His eyes were kind.

  “Uh, yes,” he said, smiling, looking a little nervous himself. “I’ve seen you here from time to time. I, personally, love this store. And I love that book. It’s one of my all-time favorites. I’ve read it something like ten times.”

  “Oh, I just started it. I liked the first sentence,” she managed, her voice coming out a little froggy, causing her to clear her throat as she blushed a little.

  “‘It was love at first sight,’” he supplied, grinning. She smiled back, surprising herself as she accepted his invitation to sit at his table. “My name’s Andrew. Andrew Nolan.” He held out his hand as she set down her coffee cup on his table. Slipping her hand into his extended one, she suddenly felt very shy. She liked his grip, firm but not crushing. His hands were large with long narrow fingers, the smooth ovals of his nails clean and well manicured.

  As Ashley sat down at his little table, she clutched the paperback protectively against her chest. She found herself relaxing though as Andrew talked easily, putting her at her ease. He talked about the bookstore and how much he enjoyed coming here on his days off. “I’m a book nut,” he laughed. “I’d probably rather read than just about anything else. Just about anything else,” he smiled, his light tone belying the innuendo.

  Ashley looked away, and then into her coffee cup. Her heart was fluttering in a ridiculous way and she was aware that her steady diet of romance novels was probably coloring her perception of this little meeting. She answered in what she hoped was a neutral voice. “Me too. I love to read.” Looking around the bookstore she gestured with one sweeping arm. “I couldn’t believe it when I found this place. And they actually let you read while you drink coffee or tea, and you don’t even have to buy the book if you don’t want. This is what heaven must be like.”

  “A rather modest idea of heaven,” Andrew said, grinning. There was a pause and then he said, “Well, you picked the right book there. Have you read it before?” As Ashley shook her head no he said, “Maybe after you’ve read it or read a few chapters, we can talk about it. Heller actually coined that phrase, a ‘catch-22’, from this book. It’s even in the dictionary.”

  Ashley didn’t like to admit that she didn’t know what it meant, so she just nodded and smiled. Time later to look it up in her well-thumbed dictionary. Instead, she asked him about what he was reading and they talked in general about the sort of books they liked. At first, she hesitated before admitting that her favorite genre was still romance. She sensed this was “women’s reading” and hence worth less in society’s eyes than the more serious fiction like Catch-22. Maybe if she’d been holding one of those he wouldn’t have stopped her at all.

  But what the hell, she decided. She wasn’t going to let all her secret heroines down by denying the special place they held in her heart. And so, she admitted to her secret passion. Instead of deriding her as Ashley had half-expected, Andrew answered seriously, “Those romances sell more than all other genres put together, did you know that? I think it’s the universal message in them. That love conquers all. That we can survive and rise above difficulties if we act with courage and passion. I think that’s a beautiful message, don’t you? Maybe if more men read romances there wouldn’t be so many assholes in the world.”

  It was this comment, more than his good looks or easygoing, pleasant manner that really hooked Ashley. Though she wouldn’t have been able to articulate it as well, that was exactly what drew her to the timeless themes in her romance novels. And to have a man say it.

  After that first meeting, Ashley found a way to come to the bookstore whenever she could. Andrew didn’t reappear until three days later, and Ashley almost laughed aloud with relief when she saw him, dressed in his jeans as before, his dark hair still wet as if he’d come straight from his morning shower to the bookstore. She had almost given up on seeing him again, and had cursed herself a thousand times in the intervening days that they hadn’t exchanged phone numbers or made arrangements to see one another again.

  Then reality had caught up with her and she’d berated herself afresh. It was all very well to discuss books in a neutral place like a bookstore café but there was no way Andrew and she could be anything more. He’d told her he was a lawyer and had asked what she did for a living. She was vague about it, stammering that she was between jobs and he
hadn’t pressed.

  Now that she thought about it, he had kind of hinted about seeing her again but she had evaded him, the hideous fantasy of his showing up at Greg’s door with flowers in his hand suddenly blooming in her brain. “You here to see the whore? You pay me first.” She could hear Greg’s gravelly twang now. No, obviously that would never do.

  Yet how her heart soared now as she took in his presence and she walked closer, hoping he’d look up and save her the embarrassment of having to speak first. As if he’d heard her wish, Andrew looked up and pleased recognition registered in his face. He waved her over.

  “Hi there,” he said, sounding genuinely delighted to see her. “I was hoping you’d be around. I was so mad at myself that I couldn’t get here earlier in the week. You big dope, I told myself, here you met this gorgeous, smart woman and you let her get away without even a phone number. This damn case I’m working on is just eating up my time right now. I didn’t even get out of court this week any time before seven o’clock. Sit down, sit down. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Ashley sat slowly, overwhelmed with Andrew’s speech. It had never occurred to her that he, too, was kicking himself that they hadn’t made any future plans to meet. He seemed so clearly pleased to see her and so relieved as well. But it wasn’t even that amazing fact that had riveted her to his words. No, it was his description of her—”this gorgeous, smart woman”—that really captured her attention. Yes, men had always found her attractive, at least when she wasn’t hooked on crack and nothing more than a skeleton, but smart? No one had ever accused her of that.

  She must have fooled Andrew somehow and yet still, the adjective delighted her. Smart. Ashley Cole, smart? She grinned at him and answered his last question. “Sure. I’d love a regular coffee with lots of cream and one sugar. That is, um, if you don’t mind.”