Swallowtail Ch. 07

Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator's gradual acceptance of submission.

In this chapter: After rising to every challenge Dex has thrown his way, the narrator is pushed to the limit. Perhaps he is pushed too far.

***

Dex has dropped off the radar again. Not a word. It has been almost a month since I last saw her. I wonder whether I've done something to annoy her. Yes, I think, it's quite possible. There is one thing I know of and possibly other slights, real or imagined, that are lurking just beneath the surface. I consider the alternatives but return again to the possibility that Dex might have noticed me—I berate myself when I think of it—tailing her after our last meeting. I'd first thought it unlikely that she'd noticed—it was dark, after all—now I'm not so sure. Given how closely she guards her privacy, following her would constitute a serious breach of some unwritten protocol.

I silently curse myself as I remember that night.

I'd been drifting off to sleep when I heard Dex moving around the bedroom. I opened my eyes slightly, careful not to reveal that I was awake. She had gotten dressed and was leaning against the bedroom door, watching me.

After a moment she left and I heard her at the front door, putting on her boots and jacket.

I'd often wondered how she got to my house and where she went when she left. She had made a habit of popping up on my doorstep and then disappearing after making real whatever twisted fantasy her warped mind had conjured up. At first, these casual sexual apparitions were something I could deal with. They were surprises, usually pleasant. What man wasn't flattered by the attentions of an attractive woman with no apparent strings attached?

But now a pattern had been established. Our skins, as it were, were in the game. There was now an expectation, on my part at least, that went beyond the casual. And so my dearth of knowledge about this occasional visitor had become something that gnawed at my soul.

I reviewed what I knew about Dex (painfully little) and made the obvious inferences. I lived in the middle of nowhere and I doubted that she took a taxi here. Therefore she must have driven. I'd never seen her car; therefore, she must have parked it elsewhere. The most likely spot, I decided, was by the side of the road where so many hikers began their walks on the trails that wound through the escarpment by my house. That was what I would have done in her place.

As far as deduction went, I wouldn't be threatening Sherlock Holmes any time soon, but it was enough to get me on my feet before I was even aware that I'd made a decision. Dex had been gone for a couple of minutes, long enough to have reached the spot where I thought she might have parked.

I pulled on some clothes and hurried out of the house. In the distance, I heard a car starting and then reversing. I was right. She had parked down the road. I jumped into my old Mercedes and backed out of my driveway. I'd read enough detective novels to know not to turn on my headlights.

I was being reckless, driving on a dark road with no lights, but I didn't care. I felt alive with purpose and the thrill of covert action.

So far, I could see no taillights, but I knew that there was a hairpin turn up ahead. I took it a little faster than my car was used to and something groaned in protest. The road straightened out and there, in the distance, I discerned twin red dots like the reflected eyes of a predator I preferred not to meet.

I felt like a shitheel for doing this, but I also felt like an idiot for not knowing the first thing about Dex. At this point in a relationship, I should have known her birthday, for example. I'd have known her favorite color, her friends, her former lovers, just about anyone who had slighted her at any time, whether she was alarmed by the ticking of her biological clock and what she wanted to do about it. I'd have been told about the traumas visited upon her by friends and parents and absolute strangers. I'd have known what foods made her gassy. I'd have known her aches and pains. Whether she liked roses for Valentine's Day or whether she preferred the practicality of longer-lasting flowers. I'd be attuned to her menstrual cycle and know when to walk softly. I'd have known what turned her on and off and where the lines were. The list of things that she didn't particularly like about me would be just beginning, as would her efforts at rehabilitating me.

With Dex, I knew none of these things, but I did know that she'd be angry if she knew what I was up to. For all she talked about trust, she didn't appear to trust me enough to allow me behind her veil of secrecy. Perhaps she was right, given that I was now tailing her.

The traffic light she had stopped at had just turned green. I was still far away, too far to make the light. My career as a surveillance agent was over before it had even begun.

I watched as the car made the turn. It was briefly illuminated by the lights at the intersection. As I approached the yellow light, I could see that the car I had lost was a white Audi TT. The windows were heavily tinted, so I doubted I could identify the driver even if I were leaving nose prints on the glass.

I slowed at the light and watched the taillights of the Audi grow smaller. I considered an illegal left turn but decided against it, frozen as much by the red light as by the stupidity of what I was doing.

I returned home slowly, wondering where I'd gone wrong. While it was certainly possible that I'd been tailing the wrong car, I knew in my gut that it had been Dex.

How a piercer could afford a fifty thousand dollar car was beyond me.

And now I'm at a loss. I've called the various numbers that Dex has used to reach me in the past. Some are pay phones and others are out of service or direct me to voice mail. I leave no messages.

I've even stopped at the tattoo parlor where she works. The inked Amazon who greeted me with something approximating friendliness the last time is aloof and guarded this time. She tells me that Dex is unavailable. I ask when she might be available again and I'm answered with a shrug and a look that effectively shuts down further questioning.

I'm now convinced that Dex knows that I followed her. I wonder how badly my actions have tipped the balance out of my favor. I have, after all, acceded to all of Dex's demands. I think of the things I have done and had done to me. The memories come back in incriminating mental images—risking my reputation by pleasuring her in my office, pleasuring myself for her entertainment, allowing myself to be pierced, and finally allowing myself to be violated in a way I would never have imagined. The sum of these images weighs on my heart. I fear at times that I've sold myself too cheaply. Maybe I should have exercised some control. When I unwrap these memories, I am left with a gift of anger and humiliation.

Christmas is hard. It's not that I ever entertained the thought of introducing Dex to my family or anything. One perplexed person is bad enough. An entire family wallowing in the treacle of shared perplexity is hell.

I know that if Dex were here, the past few months would have a context and I wouldn't feel so adrift. I am ready to flagellate myself for any slight, real or imagined, that I may have visited upon Dex if only to hear some word from her, some explanation for her absence.

But the holidays come and go and now it's the new year.

I begin it in a funk, a profound moroseness born of powerlessness.

Sharon and I remain in the boardroom after the meeting that we customarily hold with our employees at the beginning of every quarter. She is my friend and business partner and the person who knows me perhaps best in the world. I've performed admirably at the meeting. I've smiled and uttered uplifting words. I've exuded confidence. The troops are motivated. They laughed good-naturedly when I spoke sentences that deliberately included chestnuts like "low-hanging fruit" and "working smarter, not harder" and mouthed words like "creativity" and "integrity" and "customer focus".

And now Sharon looks at me. Clearly she's not fooled.

"I'm worried about you," Sharon says when we're alone. "You don't seem yourself."

"Who do I seem like?"

"I don't know." She thinks for a minute. "Lothario channeling Rodney Dangerfield."

"A bug-eyed seducer?"

"A seducer who gets no respect."

"Ah."

Sharon appears uncomfortable. This is a discussion we've never had before because I've never let my dalliances mar the sheen of my professional armor.

"Is it that girl?"

"Dex?"

"What kind of name is that anyway? What is it short for? Dexterous?"

"That's good, Sharon. Maybe. Who knows?"

Her brow furrows with concern. "You've been up and down since you met her. One day you're on top of the world and the next you're like Atlas without the steroids."

"It's been complicated."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I appreciate it, Sharon, but no."

I get up to retreat to the refuge of my office.

"Anytime you want to talk, you know where I am."

I know I won't talk about it. I thank her anyway.

***

It's Friday and I'm looking forward to the end of the workweek. I have arrayed numerous tasks before me, but for tonight, there's a bottle of single malt that I've been saving for the right moment. Tonight feels like the right moment. Here's to me and all that. For Saturday morning, there's a pile of logs by the side of my house that I've been successfully ignoring for months. My father taught me the therapy of hard work and I intend to exorcise the demons that plague me by means of axe and splitter. I want a sharp tool in my hand and the sweat from honest labor. I want to be able to wear my red and black lumberjack jacket without feeling like a knob or an imposter. Sunday, because the exorcising will have left me sore, is dedicated to football.

Earlier in the day, I'd received a call from one of my occasional bedmates whose company I've enjoyed when spousal absence made such illicit enjoyment possible.

"The cat's away," she said.

"Lucky mouse."

Her voice held the promise of the familiar. A familiar body. Predictable choreography and spontaneous verbal outbursts gleaned from the very best internet porn. The final act would leave us both sweaty and exhausted in bed, just as it should be. There would be the usual vague emptiness that would accompany me like a shadow upon taking my leave. There would be the promise of more of the same when circumstances allowed.

I had my dreams of solitary self-sufficiency for the weekend so I begged off as gently as possible. Neither of us was particularly disappointed.

That, I think to myself, is the very definition of ennui.

I try to keep thoughts of Dex at bay for the rest of the afternoon, but she's there at the back of my mind. I tell myself that my appetite for vanilla sexual fare is still healthy and intact despite the flavors I've tasted with Dex. I tell myself that my refusal of a sure and meaningless assignation stems from the desire for solitude rather than some vague sense of commitment to Dex. It wasn't as though she and I had formalized anything. It wasn't as though we'd held hands and proclaimed our love for each other, our earnest desire to go steady or whatever they call it now. And besides, she'd been gone for a month. The torch that I've been holding for her is guttering and belching black smoke. I'd never before felt constrained during the vast tracts of silence between our too infrequent meetings. And yet I can't dismiss the notion entirely. The void that follows any meeting with Dex is filled with such distraction and yearning that, for my part at least, there may as well be some unspoken covenant.

It seems impossible now that Dex has ever felt the same.

I've just managed to work myself into a state of distraction when I receive a text message:

Your place @ 10. D

I stare at the screen. That's it. No apology. No kissy emoticon. Just text. I'm irritated. I'm hopeful. Then I'm angry with myself for my hopefulness. She's dropped off the face of the earth without a word and now she's texting me her imperious commands. I might have had plans.

I might have been longing for solitude. I might have played the role of a mouse.

I might still just to make a point. It's not too late to call Miss Lonelyheart back. But then I picture Dex, my goth seductress, my sexual Pandora. The one with the swallowtail tattoo, frozen in the skin between hip and navel like an insect trapped in amber. I know I'll be there waiting for her and I'm disgusted with myself. The thought of Dex, her depraved imagination and disquieting erotic demands, banishes everything else from my mind.

***

There's no word of explanation for her absence over the last month. I want to ask, to voice my anger and disappointment, but Dex is all business tonight in sharp contrast to her playfulness the last time we were together. She gives me a perfunctory kiss on entering my house. That's it. There's a wall around her, an energy that I'm reluctant to touch. Her demeanor takes me by surprise and makes me uneasy. In the restless hours between her text and her arrival, I'd imagined that she would playfully insinuate herself back into favor, cajole forgiveness for her unexplained absence out of me, but there's nothing like that. I don't know what I expected. I never know what to expect. Tonight she seems unapproachable, as though we have no history together, or if we do, it's largely irrelevant.

As usual, I'm reminded of how I've surrendered control. As usual, the sight of her arouses me.

"You gave me carte blanche last time. Did you mean it?"

She's dressed in black and her pale features are more heavily made up than usual. She's strangely monochromatic, almost two-dimensional.

I don't remember. I may have. It's quite likely that I did. Dex's question irritates me; she has had carte blanche since we've met. There's no need to rub my nose in it. I've gone along with everything she's thrown at me. I've been pierced and prodded, plugged and played. I want to remind her that the last time was a month ago and that things may have changed. I may have moved on, for example.

Instead, I ask, "Where have you been?"

"Family matters."

The words are spoken with such flat finality that I know I've come up against a wall. There's no point in questioning further.

"Did you mean it?" she asks again.

"What?"

"Your consent."

This is where I should draw a line in the sand. This is when I should state in no uncertain terms that I am unwilling to be strung along like a dazed and exhausted fish on the line. "I think so," I say.

"We'll see."

The words, spoken quietly, almost to herself, hang there like a challenge.

"I'm going to my car to get some things," she says. "I want you naked by the time I get back." Her eyes burn with unhealthy intent. Whatever intimate connection we have had seems to have been suspended. Maybe, I think, there's no connection. Maybe I'm just a convenient foil, a punching bag that she throws herself at when she feels the need.

I hate myself for acquiescing again. I sit on the sofa, considering my options. I'm apprehensive. This is how I imagine a prizefighter must feel when, after a long string of easy victories, he goes one round with a fighter of greater skill and power. I'm re-evaluating. I'm alone in my corner, wondering which of the weapons in my arsenal might level the playing field again. I should send her on her way until I've figured things out. Obviously, I'm powerless when she's around.

I hear her boots on the driveway, getting louder. I stand and formulate the words that will put a stop to this. I'm eloquent in my head, stringing together the words that will show that her disregard of me for weeks at a time is an abuse far more cutting than anything inflicted on my body. My defiance flares for a moment and extinguishes as quickly, like the flame of a candle snuffed between wetted fingers.

I shed my clothes. I've entered round two already defeated.

"Good," says Dex as she drops a bag just inside the living room. She approaches me and presses herself against the length of my body, melding her contours to mine. The pendulum swings. This is why I've acquiesced. The cold that has wrapped itself around her while she was out makes me shiver now. Her fingernails press roughly into the flesh of my ass. I move in for a kiss and she averts her face. "Later. Maybe."

My relationship with Dex has never been entirely comfortable, but my discomfort has had its rewards. Against my better judgment and natural inclination, I've allowed myself to be led by this inscrutable, dark princess. My time with her has had its share of apprehension, my absence from her is filled with a yearning curiosity of what might come next.

Now that I've submitted again, I'm hungry for her. It comes as a pang in the pit of my stomach. Although I've never wanted to admit it to myself, with every passing week I've become more attached to Dex and the thrill she seems uniquely equipped to provide. The sexual life I've had before seems pale and mundane in comparison.

She goes to the bag and returns with a length of rope. "Hands behind your back," she says. "Spread your legs."

I comply and watch mutely as Dex squats before me, ties a loose overhand knot, inserts my cock and scrotum, and tightens it.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"It should be pretty obvious."

There's nothing obvious about it and I watch as she winds the rope over the original knot, over and over. Her fingers play over me, intimate yet clinical. Soon my cock and balls emerge from a growing cone of rope and I'm alarmed at how much rope is left. The ropework is tight but not uncomfortable. With each loop, my tender bits are pushed down.

"Is there a line you won't cross?" asks Dex, as though she herself is surprised that I've succumbed yet again.

I've been asking myself just that. I shrug.

"Where will you draw the line? How far will you go with me?"

"I'll let you know when we get there." The words sound stronger than I feel. She has thrown the gauntlet and I've picked it up like a child or idiot, marveling at its elegance and missing the implications. Dex smiles and I study her for any indication of smugness at our roles. I've never taken a back seat to a woman before Dex. In fact, the very notion of surrender has always implied weakness and victimization. It's not what I would have imagined for myself.

She's almost done. My groin is firmly cocooned in rope, with only my distended balls and engorged cock exposed.

Dex stands up, studying her handiwork. "How's that?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?" she asks.

"I can't help but to wonder what you're intent on creating."

"Ah."

"And?"

"I want to test the limits. Test mine. Test yours."

I nod.

"I'm not interested in some needy slave," she says. "There's a difference between taming a lion and creating a pussy."

I don't smile.

"I'm not sure which you are," she says.

The impact of her words bruises me.

I'm not sure which I am either.

She cups my tightly bound package in her hand and walks me to a leather armchair.

"You're good with this?" she asks.

"I'll tell you when I'm not." I hear my voice, cold and flat, as though from a distance.

With a hand on my shoulder, she bends me over the back of the armchair. With her foot, she taps my ankles until they align with the stubby legs of the chair.

"Stay."

I feel the weight of my tightly wrapped scrotum as it hangs, exposed and vulnerable. The thunk of Dex's footsteps on the hardwood announces her return. She ties my ankles to the rear legs of the chair.

"Put your hands on the seat."

I comply. Curiosity wars with trepidation.

Dex ties my wrists together, leaving a length of rope dangling off the chair. She runs the rope beneath the chair and around the back. I feel a tugging at my groin and it dawns on me what she is doing. The rope from my wrists is being tied to a loop she has left between my legs.