by C. B. Hunt
“Not yet. How can I have a Sloe Gin Fizz without the gin? She’s laughing at me!”
“Let her laugh. I’d bet she’d give her right arm to be in your boots.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Can’t you tell? She’s got the hots for me. Did you just roll your eyes?”
“Yeah. Why would she ever be interested in you?”
Snorting, he resumed our game. Ray was a humble man who was gifted with a personality that attracted people, both men and women, to his side. In his late forties, he was still very attractive with dark brown hair cut into a high-and-tight and lightly frosted with gray. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled and matched the color of the ocean on a sunny day.
“I’m a great catch, remember?”
“So you say. If you are such a great catch, why aren’t you married?”
“I was married.” He inhaled sharply and took a sip of water. “I lost my wife and two daughters several years ago to a drunk driver. My eldest was your age. Since then, I’ve never had the desire to find anyone else and threw myself into work and raising a family of young Marines.”
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” This was a side of the man that I had not seen before. The story of his loss made him more human and less of a superhero, and also helped me to appreciate the philosophy that supported his leadership. Having had a daughter my age, it was also a little easier to understand why he felt it necessary to impose certain restrictions on me. The circumstance of her death also helped me to understand his aversion to drunkenness.
“It’s not something that I share. Your turn. Tell me something about your life that I don’t know.”
I narrowed my eyes as I looked at him skeptically. “Why don’t you just come out and ask. You want to know why I hurt myself.”
He nodded and reached across the table to placed his big hand on top of mine. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you. Only tell me if you’re comfortable. I just need to understand why someone like you who’s cute, intelligent, funny, and resourceful does something like this. And why stabbing?”
“It helps me feel.”
“You mentioned that, but I still don’t understand. Hey, look at me. I’m not judging you. I’m trying to grasp the mindset so I can figure out a way to help you. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Please, give me a chance to prove that I’m trustworthy.”
“It’s not something that people openly discuss. Most cutters hide their scars with long sleeves or pants, or they cut on the torso where the slices can’t be seen. Since I have freckles, they are natural camouflage for stabbing.”
“What provoked you to do this? How did it start?”
Had I not been trapped between Ray and the wall, I probably would have run to escape the conversation, but he made it impossible just to get up and leave.
“I grew up being reminded on a daily basis that I had been an accidental pregnancy, survived an illegal abortion attempt, and that my birth and continued existence destroyed my parents’ hopes and dreams. People who aren’t wanted have no right to make demands or be happy.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“That was what I was taught to believe. The only emotion that I was permitted to express was gratitude. And it was to be directed toward them for being allowed to remain under their roof and eat at their table. Of course, they had me paying room and board since I first started babysitting when I was twelve.”
“Excuse me?” He looked shocked. “They made you pay to live in their home?”
I shrugged. “It taught me financial independence and they couldn’t take anything away from me since I bought everything myself. They tried to fine me when I got in trouble, but by then CPS was watching—thanks to one of my teachers. Now you know why I’m a bit of a workaholic.”
“That does explain your work ethics. You’re afraid to make eye contact with me. What else happened?”
“My mother was involved in the occult and let her friends use me.”
His face tightened. “Explain.”
“That’s where I learned how to stab. Since I wasn’t permitted to cry when they cut and burned me, I learned to go away so I wouldn’t feel the pain or the fear. Eventually, I stopped feeling anything. One day, I accidentally jabbed the tip of a pair of scissors into my palm and watched it bleed. It was almost like the cut allowed poison to drain from my body.”
“Was there sexual abuse?” he asked in a whisper.
“It depends on of how you describe sexual. Was I raped? No. Did they touch and shove things into me? Yes. If there was an orifice, it was filled.” I felt my emotions drift away like I was reading a script instead of sharing my past. Disassociation was one of my coping mechanisms and helped keep me from going into the abyss of despair.
“Dear God. Sweetheart, forced penetration of objects is rape. There is not another name for it. How old were you when this started?”
I couldn’t look at him. That word made me feel dirty and guilty like I should have been able to stop the assault. After a moment, I answered him. “I was five. I told my mother what was happening in the best way I could, but she slapped me across the face and called me a whore. I didn’t even know what a whore was but was too afraid to ask. All I knew was that every time the big silver bus pulled up in front of our house, I would have to make myself go away.”
The medication must have started to take effect because I found myself being able to share things that I would never have dreamed of telling anyone. I shared my parents’ disappointment in my birth and refusal to celebrate my birthday or acknowledge my existence during holidays while my siblings were treated with gifts; my father’s provoking me to demonstrate my courage by putting a loaded gun to my head and pulling the trigger; and the endless lies they told to teachers about the bruises, cuts, and burns on every part of my body. The pressure in my chest grew as I noticed tears in his eyes. They confused me—no one had ever cried for me before.
“Is there more?” he asked after a moment’s silence.
I took a deep breath, feeling brave thanks to the codeine. “I survived as best as I could. As I got older, I threw myself into academics because school was something I could control. I saved enough money to buy an old car so that when I was old enough, I was able to get a job at Sea World. That was when I got involved with role playing games. Have you heard of Dungeons and Dragons?” He nodded. “I was smart and creative, so I was picked up as a dungeon master pretty quickly. I didn’t know that the group was involved with BDSM.”
The expression on his face bewildered me. It wasn’t judgmental or confused; rather it displayed interest. He obviously had heard about the lifestyle.
“You were underage. How exactly did you get into such a group, and what part did you play?”
“As you can see, I am rather curvy, so I passed as being older than I was. I expressed interest in the culture and was taken on and formerly trained as a service domme. There was no sex, but it gave me an outlet for my anger and fear.”
“Was it supervised? Someone could be seriously hurt if you were in that emotional state.”
“There was always supervision, plus the club owner knew about my background. It was strange though. As time went on, I stopped being satisfied with bringing the clients to their knees with physical pain and learned to break them with words. The DM said that wasn’t what they came for, yet they returned and always asked for me. I made a lot of money mind fucking them.”
“You served a role that’s known as a soft Domme. There are all kinds of dominants in the BDSM world.”
“There are? The only thing I know is from the service side and master/slave.” The BDSM culture was considered taboo and no one spoke of it unless they were involved in the underground groups. How would he know about this lifestyle?
“There certainly are, my dear. We have domestic discipline, dominance and submission, and another subset that is starting to catch on that resembles a Father/daughter relationship.”
&
nbsp; “That’s gross. Incest is too real for many of us that we don’t need to pretend about it.”
“It’s not sexual, at least not where I stand, nor does it have anything to do with an actual child or being interested in minors. My girls need a parental figure, and I give that to them.”
I tried not to allow my amazement to show. “You’re in the lifestyle?”
“For many years. A Daddy Dom is a nurturer and helps to bring the little girls out of their big girl shells and gives them the praise, direction, and confidence that a good parent should supply. Women who never had a decent father figure or respectable male role model seem to need Doms like me even more.”
“I’m floored, Ray. I never thought for a minute that you would be involved in a kink.”
“I told you that I don’t have any sexual interaction with my subs. I also don’t consider it a kink; I’m more like a type of life coach.”
“This is way too weird. Please tell me that you’re yanking my chain. Dominants serve one purpose in the industry and that’s to command and punish.” I shook my head vehemently. My experiences with male dominants had not been the best as they were typically demeaning, self-centered, and arrogant to a fault.
“Those who live in the lifestyle aren’t interested in the industry and don’t live this way in exchange for money, power, or self-gain. The industry is to a lifestyler like a prostitute is to a marriage.”
I was offended. “I was not a prostitute. I supplied the needs for my clients because there was nowhere else that they could have them met where they would be safe and kept in confidence.”
“You got paid for administering discipline, correct?”
“Yea, so?”
“In the lifestyle, the payment is the reward of seeing the submissive grow and thrive. Your clients couldn’t get what they needed at home with their partners, so they came to you. You probably didn’t see them unless they came with money in hand, did you?”
I felt a flush rising through my body when I realized the truth of his example.
“Let me show you the difference between the mindsets. Give me your hand.” He held my bandaged limb cradled in his palms and touched his lips to my knuckles. “There you go. Kissed and made all better. Now, close your mouth before something flies into it.”
I didn’t try to pull my hand away as I stared at him. There were no sexual connotations or anything that felt inappropriate. In fact, it felt more natural than any of my prior experiences, but it also wasn’t acceptable. “I’m not a submissive.”
“You are more of a submissive than you will ever imagine. Do you think I haven’t been watching how you respond to direction and praise? You light up like a happy puppy dog when I tell you that you did a good job and then eagerly jump on the chance to please me again. I can’t help but wonder if this recent incident of intoxication was a subconscious effort to find your place in the dynamic. I think you would thrive if you had a dominant around to take care of you.”
I pulled my hand away, leaned back and crossed my arms. “I told you that I was having a moment of feeling lonely and was being stupid. It had nothing to do with BDSM, and I’m not a submissive.”
He leaned over the table to close the space I had made between us. “It has to do with belonging. A submissive has an innate need to belong to someone. That is what initially gives her a sense of value and worth. After what you shared, it’s no wonder that you hunger for my praise and seek validation.”
“I do not.”
“There’s nothing wrong with either, sweetheart. A good leader gives both without having to ask, and a good Dom will also reward good behavior. I didn’t offer much praise or acknowledgment this week, did I?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I lied. He had been unusually busy and highly stressed, barking orders instead of asking for assistance. Even knowing the reason behind his lack of attention, I felt a little unappreciated for all the work I had done for him.
“No fibbing. I was distracted last week with the conference and our visitors from the States and a bit of a bear on several occasions, too. Wasn’t I?”
“No biggie. You had a lot on your plate. I planned your schedule, remember?”
“That’s no excuse to make you feel either ignored or mistreated. I’m sorry. I’m going to be more aware next time, but I need you to promise that if you’re feeling neglected that you’ll say something. Even one of your smart-ass remarks will do.”
“I don’t do that.”
“I’ve heard you snap at the staff sergeant that he could try saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ so don’t tell me you don’t. Promise?”
“You don’t owe me extra time or anything. I’m your subordinate, nothing more.”
“You are much more, and I don’t want any more arguments. Do I have your promise?” His voice was firm and decisive. I didn’t have much of a choice when he dug in his heels and refused to budge.
“Yes, Daddy, dearest.” My remark was facetious—a mockery of the role he claimed to play. The minute the words left my mouth, I knew that they would return in a matter of time.
“Good girl. Eat your burger.”
“What are you doing?” I asked, taking a sip from my virgin sloe gin fizz as he pulled my plate before him.
“I’m cutting the burger into quarters so that you only need one hand to pick it up. You are a bit indisposed right now.”
This was too much to take at one time. Emotion rose from my stomach to my throat and was released with a loud snort. The prior flooding of tears was replaced by chortling laughter so intense that it hurt. How Ray managed to keep a straight face while he calmly cut the hamburger, I’ll never know.
His blue eyes twinkled. “Do I need to feed you as well?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me. I happen to be very good at it.” He held a french fry and wagged it in front of me. I snatched it from him.
“Not without a load of ketchup. What other things are you good at?” I asked, stuffing a quarter of the burger into my mouth.
He reached across the table to wipe my chin. “Teaching manners. That begins with not talking with your mouth full.”
“You’re bossy.”
“Thank you.”
“Nothing gets to you, does it?”
“It depends on what it is. If my blood gets boiling enough to make me react, there is always a good reason.”
“In your opinion,” I said with a snort.
“My opinion is all that matters.” He snorted back.
We chatted as we always did when we shared a meal, and the ease of his demeanor and comforting presence quickly dispelled my emotional turmoil. Several senior officers who had witnessed my embarrassing drunken display the evening before stopped by our table and teased me about my bandaged hand. To my surprise, Ray again rescued me from further humiliation and stated that I had an overuse injury because he worked me too hard. His inquiry of which one of them would care to assist him while I recovered resulted in their quick departure.
“That’s the second time you lied for me.” I shook my head. “You can’t tell me not to lie if you do it.”
“Would you rather have me tell them the truth?”
“Well, no.”
“Then say ‘thank you’ instead of looking for loopholes from your accountability.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re full of it, Missy. Let’s go home and talk where we have more privacy. I’ll tell you about my plan there.”
“Do you want me to call Les?”
“I’ll take the car myself.”
“You know how to drive?” I was astounded.
“Pft.” He grunted. “Of course I can drive. Having a driver spares me from the agony of having to parallel park. If you like, my house has a studio apartment that is vacant right now, and you’re welcome to stay. We can swing by the barracks to pick up whatever you need to be comfortable.”
“You mean it?” I tried not to sound
excited. His house was a beautiful modern Japanese-style house located on a hill a couple of miles from the base. I had accompanied Les there several times to pick up Ray for a meeting but had never been inside.
“What if someone finds out? Will you get in trouble? I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.” I hesitated with his offer. My fear of people and their motives was strong, especially knowing that there were always those who had more ambition than common sense.
“I discussed this with the senior staff a while ago, and none of them had any issues. Even the lieutenant from the Staff Judge Advocate’s office commented that there’s no difference between you renting a place out in town verses rooming next to each other when we travel.”
“But enlisted aren’t allowed to live out in town unless they’re married.”
“I’m sure the Sergeant Major will authorize the move if you expedite his clearance and access.”
“I’d do that for him anyway. He’s decent to me, and I’m happy to do anything he needed,” I reminded him. It was true. SgtMaj Robinson was one of the nicest people I had ever met and always treated me well.
“That’s beside the point. Well?”
“It’s up to you. You’re the boss.”
“It’s nice to know that you remember that fact now and then.”
“It’s the meds. I can’t be held responsible for anything bratty I do when drugged.”
“Nice try, kid. Let’s get you home.”
Ray’s place was about a twenty-minute drive from the base. No matter how many times I’d passed through the area, I still found the area fascinating. Central Okinawa was fairly flat with narrow roads framed by open sewage drains called benjo ditches that were just wide enough to snag a tire if you weren’t careful. The tiny tropical island contained a medley of sights and smells and, in a matter of minutes, you could drive through a small traffic packed city and then alongside a sugar-cane field where water-buffalo were used to pull wagons. Both the ancient and the modern resided within the region, from the immense city of Naha to the tiny remote villages in the mountainous northern jungles. Temples and dojos mingled between contemporary apartment buildings and military bases, and was not unusual to see the locals wander through town dressed in either western clothing or traditional kimonos.