It Begins with a Call

The phone rings. Before I answer, I know it's him.

I pick up, "Hello?"

Silence. I knew it was him.

Finally, "Today," and he hangs up.

No time, but I know when.

No instructions, but I will guess what he wants.

No place, but I know where to go.

I know I am not to prepare. I have to leave the house as I am when he called.

Oops, almost forgot. I tie a long black scarf on my left wrist.

I am wearing a white knit pullover sweater with long sleeves. I have a black bra underneath, which shows through the weave. I've noticed women react one way to this, men another. I think it's 'obvious' to women, mysterious to men.

I'm wearing some jean shorts, quite short. Lots of bare thigh. I would never go out this way, except to a close friend's house or to the beach, maybe, with a bikini in a bag, but...At least my nails were done today.

All the details, it's him.

His rules.

I am permitted to step into some shoes. They're black patent heels, quite accidently completing the look of a street girl (minus the makeup). The shoes are expensive and almost new. They're really not sturdy enough for a working girl and they're the kind of thing that will get you mugged by a jealous competitor, but they are the first thing I see after the call. Another rule.

Hopefully, I won't be out long.

More realistically, I don't know.

Oh, some perfume. No makeup, but perfume is permitted.

A delicate scent. 'Innocence'.

I know, it's sarcastic in this context, but I have to have something to keep my sense of self. He won't know, or care, but I'll have this one thing.

I call a taxi and have the driver take me to the stroll.

The girls there know me, they know I'm not some new bunny trying to horn in their territory.

They know I won't respond to their possible customers.

That's not why I'm there.

He has paid the right people so that the pimps leave me alone.

Once, one tried to give me a hard time, waving a knife in my face.

He showed up, took the knife away, broke one of the pimp's fingers. The pimp ran away crying.

"That'll cost me," he said. "It's not supposed to happen, but it'll cost me."

He looked at me and suddenly his eyes became tender, soft, "I'm sorry. I've made this safe for you and this ugly scene was an accident." I was still shaking.

I started to talk but he touched his lips with a finger. Quiet. He held me until I stopped shaking and helped me into his car.

That night, after stopping at two stores, he took me home, poured me a glass of wine and helped me sit down on the couch. He left the room.

In a minute, he helped me up, lead me to the bath, which, lit by candles, full of bubbles, was covered in rose petals. A bottle of champagne was iced nearby, with two glasses.

He undressed me, tenderly and slowly, his hands gentle but clinically going over each bit of skin as it was bared.

"I'm checking that you weren't harmed, physically."

I tried to thank him, but, again, he stopped me with a sweet touch of his finger to my lips.

He washed me as softly and carefully as I've ever been treated, every square inch of me. His manner was warm, concerned. I've never felt so cherished, so loved. The wine and the warm water, the bubbles and rose petals, the soft, insistent touch of his fingers are one of my most powerful memories. The anger and fear slipped away.

He helped me out of the tub, dried me carefully, and slipped me into a comfortable nightgown. He tucked me into my bed, kissed my lips, and left without saying goodbye. It was a time for me to rest.

I would have given him anything at that moment and certainly wanted it, expected it, but his message was that I was loved, desired, precious to him, but he felt he would be taking advantage of an artificially created vulnerability if he made love to me then. That is not his way.

When he takes me, it'll be because I've given myself to him.

His requirement is 'utterly, without any reservation.'

His rules.

Back to tonight.

I joined some acquaintances on the street. They look like what they are. I've been able to get to know them on slow nights. Their stories are unique and bear some truth, some elements they wish were the truth, some wishes they have that every human being has...

They think I'm a call girl, with a client that likes to pretend he's picking up a street girl. The people they work for have been paid for them not to ask me to share. It' doesn't mean I don't get questions. I just smile and bring them small gifts, sometimes. The power of things so small, the meaning is in the giving, not the object. Cigarettes, toiletries, some makeup or cheap perfume they noticed, nothing expensive enough for the pimp to be threatened. just the type of thing you might bring to an office party.

A minute of someone recognizing you're not quite a friend, but you're a valued relationship.

It means I don't think of them as less than me. Different, but definitely not less.

The Sisterhood of ... Whatever.

A Limo, obviously rented, pulls up, the window rolls part-way down, a yellow rose appears. It's him.

The girls know this one is mine, watch me rollin' it up to the window, showing what I've got, what I offer to rent.

Knowing it's him, it's still frightening walking up to a dark car.

I take the rose.

"Get in."

I nod for the audience, like we've negotiated a service and a price. The door opens, I slip in, a smile following my breasts.

He offers me a glass of wine, his face expressionless.

He taps the glass, "Jersey."

So, it will be the woods. It's a long drive. I have to wear a hood over my head. I am to feel vulnerable, helpless.

I'm to remember his family had other uses for these woods, but I'm not really afraid. It's not part of our relationship for him to kill me.

Hurt, maybe, but not kill. I go, knowing I might be 'punished'.

My submission is complete, important to both of us.

The limo stops and he helps me out of the back seat. I hear the car leave.

He pushes me up against a tree and cuffs my hands to the tree, above my head. The hood stays on.

I twist in discomfort. The heels aren't made for the dirt of the forest floor. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.

I hear a large pair of shears, feel my sweater cut away from my body and pulled off. My shorts unsnap, fall and are pulled away.

The heels remain..

He still hasn't said a word.

I start to speak and he touches my lips. He removes the scarf and uses it to tie my mouth so I can't even try.

He raises the hood and kisses my lips, my cheeks, my ears. He finally whispers, "My sweet, my sweet, sweet..."

He spends some time kissing my neck, one side, the front, the other side, finally working down to my shoulders, my chest. His mouth worships me as if I'm a goddess, no, an idol to a goddess.

His hands hold my hips, my waist, the swell of my breasts. He rubs my back, tickles my sides, all the while, kissing.

I love the feel of his lips. My vulnerability is delicious, naked in the middle of nowhere, lost in the dark. I feel my warmth join his.

I don't even know if there's anyone else watching us. There was, on one occasion. I don't care, can't care. It's his choice, anyway.

All of it.

I throw my head back, thrusting my breasts forward, hoping he'll remove the bra, find the soft skin underneath it to his liking.

I'd like those lips on my nipples, now.

He gives them a quick pinch through the bra, his hands lingering on the fabric surrounding them, but denying me this pleasure. I cry in pain, then a moan escapes my lips.

He laughs.

It's his way.

I hear his breathing change. The dominance, my helplessness, my submission, all the kissing has aroused him.

Okay, the perfume helped, too. 'Naked woman' didn't hurt, either.

It's my fault, making him hard.

His hand slides inside my panties, finds the softness there.

A snip and I feel them fall away.

The shears clatter to the ground and I hear his zipper open.

He lifts my legs, the rough bark of the tree harsh on my back, but the gasp he hears is a response to the rough way he enters me.

He takes me harshly, the strokes rapid, insistent on his pleasure, ignoring any need I might have.

I am owned, possessed, and I fall into that, his dominance, his use of my body, his taking me.

First one shoe falls away, then the other. The rhythm grows more rapid, more fierce, more animal like.

I feel my legs grasping him, a vain attempt to contain his lust.

I can only grunt my pleasure at his attentions, his movements, the brutal, tense hard feel of his cock inside me. His fingers are steel, grasping my thighs, the muscles in his forearms cradling me, controlling me.

It is the ultimate helplessness, not surrender, as I cannot give him anything. His pleasure is his own, taken by dominance and strength. I shiver with the realization. He feels this, knows it is not my release, but my ultimate capitulation.

To him.

I feel him drive deep within me, his ejaculation goes on and on. I don't want him to stop.

He does.

He puts my legs down, loosens my arms.

"Kneel."

I comply, kicking one of the heels to the side to make room for my knees.

He raises the hood, thrusts his penis between my lips.

No words.

I am to clean him.

I'm nude, except for the bra, dripping with his juices. I'm not finished, yet, either, but he's finished with me. I am miserable and frustrated and horny. I could be mad, too, except I know he wouldn't care.

Wouldn't even be amused.

I take him inside my mouth and clean him off.

Lovingly, the way he taught me. The shaft, the head, his ball sack, then he turns and I clean his bottom.

When I'm done, he removes the hood. The limo is back, the driver, his face expressionless, hands him a towel through the window. He dries his cock, puts everything away.

His zipper grates on the silence. He looks at the driver, who shakes his head, "No."

He doesn't want to fuck me, too. It would be his tip and he'd rather have the money.

One more humiliation before the last one.

He hands me a handcuff key and the used towel.

"Thank you, sir."

They drive off without another word. I'm left in the dark to find my clothes, few as they are.

I find a dirty sweatshirt and a clean pair of panties in my size nearby and get dressed. Someone I don't know comes by in a pickup, gives me a ride to a bus station nearby. If he arranged it, I'll never know.

There's always some accommodation.

The night clerk at the bus station knows me, doesn't pay any attention to the dirty woman who must have had a bad date, again. He remembers what ticket I want without my reminding him.

I don't spend any time on the bus ride home wondering why I do this or if I'll do it, again. I don't care and, yes, the answer is, I will. Sometimes it's a cheap hotel, sometimes an expensive one.

I like the woods, best.

It's late when I get home and my husband has been in bed, asleep, but he sleeps lightly and gets up when he hears the front door.

He meets me in the front hall with a kiss and we walk back to our bedroom.

No words for me, tonight.

"I'm going to take a shower."

"Okay."

He turns and heads back to the bed.

"I left out some antibiotic out for your back."