The Collectors (2 page)

I'd come three times by this point in the fantasy. I couldn't go any further. As usually happened after I came, the world I lived in so enthusiastically while aroused slipped away, leaving me uneasy, as if I'd done something wrong. I had been convinced I was the only woman in the world who got off on the thought of pain, even though my books made it clear I wasn't. Because of Adele, I knew there really were people like me. And now she knew who I was.

*

“I’m glad you came to coffee tonight,” Adele said after class on Wednesday. “I was afraid you might not after last time.”

So much for not bringing the subject up, I thought. But I was glad she had.

“Did you think I was judging you?” I said.

“I thought you might judge yourself, convince yourself you couldn’t possibly explore your desire to be dominated.”

I leaned back in my chair. She was right of course. I was so certain my sexual fantasies classified me as perverted that I’d never brought them up with anyone, let alone with a lover. To have Adele address them so directly took my breath away.

“You don’t need to feel ashamed, Laura. You should feel proud. So many people don’t own their sexuality.”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said.

“Are you afraid?”

I was afraid. Afraid of getting into something that was all wrong for me, certainly, but even more afraid of missing an opportunity to see if it was right for me—as I dreamed it was, as I hoped it was.  “No, I’m not afraid. Not really. But I don’t know if you’re asking me about something specific or not. I don’t know what you do; I only know what I’ve read.”

“And you’re a bit like Alice in Wonderland. If you pop through the hole, you might find things much different than you ever could have imagined.”

Now I did feel afraid. There was no character in
Alice in Wonderland
that turned me on in the slightest. “Isn’t what you and your mistress do like what’s in the books?”

“Some of it is very similar. I don’t read the books, actually, since it seems pointless when I’m actually living the life. I guess I’d say you are dealing with human beings and all of their differences and all of the chemistry that goes into their dealings with each other. There’s far less sameness than you find in the stories and novels you’ve made such a study of. You’ll see.”

I dropped my eyes. She hadn’t extended an invitation exactly, but more the hint of one.

“I’ve told my mistress about you. I told her I shared a little about my life because I guessed you wanted what I did. I told her I knew it was true when I saw your face in the bathroom. When you saw my ass you started breathing with your mouth open.”

“You told your mistress that?” I felt like the top of my head would come off.

“She’s told me to ask you to join us at her home. She’d like to meet you.”

All was quiet as I lifted my eyes and looked at Adele once more. I think my mouth was open again. I know my breathing was rapid.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t want to meet my mistress?” Adele sounded like I was turning down an audience with the Pope.

I could tell Adele was a little worried I wasn’t going to take the bait, but she needn’t have been. I was stalling for time, but I wouldn’t pass this up, any more than I’d pass up a million dollars placed in my lap.

“You’re being invited to have dinner with us so we can all get to know each other. She may ask if you’d like to watch a scene, which you can decline. You need to remember that you can always decline.”

No, no, no, I thought. If I put myself in this situation, in the home of a mistress, I want all decision taken out of my hands. But I didn’t say that to Adele. Maybe I was even more submissive than she was. Maybe I was so low (high?) on the submissive scale they didn’t even have a name for what I am. A sub-submissive. But what do I know? I wouldn’t know how much I didn’t know until I started participating.

“When am I invited?”

“This Friday. We can leave together after class if you’d like.”

I hesitated again, reluctant to reveal how insecure this all made me feel, afraid somehow I wasn’t good enough to be treated badly. The paradox didn’t escape me.

“You can ask me whatever you like,” Adele said.

“Who will be there on Friday?”

“I only know of my mistress and me, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be others. She wouldn’t tell me unless it served her some way to do so. She sometimes does have friends over.”

I hoped not, at least this first time I was to meet her. As insecure as I felt about meeting her, I was terrified to meet a whole group of dominants. I remembered the long, long scene in
Macho Sluts
where the femme submissive was used and abused by a half dozen snarling butches for what seemed like eternity. I could recite everything they did to her, and I’ve climaxed many times reading that story. But did I want to be the Roxanne to Adele’s mistress and her friends? All I could say was, not yet.

“Well?” Adele said.

“Tell your mistress I thank her for the invitation and look forward to meeting her.”

*

Another two agonizing, masturbation-filled days dragged by. The same mixture of dread and anticipation dominated my thoughts and feelings, my dreams and fantasies. The simple fact that a real dominant, a woman who could control everything about me (I was sure of that much, at least), not only knew who I was but asked to meet me, took all my imaginings to a new level. I was on fire. And I recognized in myself more of my submissive sensibility. The mistress was granting me the favor of her dominance. I wasn’t granting her anything. She would only take, and she would only take from those she favored. I hadn’t even met her and I was becoming desperate to learn whether she’d give me a second look after the introductions were made. Somehow in this fever, I managed to forget about Adele.

Life drawing class was a nightmare, ninety minutes of fidgeting and breaking bits of charcoal and tearing off sheet after sheet of newsprint. Not only did the instructor give me a withering look, but the model did also, her eyes moving in her perfectly still body, locking on to mine in clear annoyance. Adele, on the other hand, seemed quite composed. She was doing lovely work on her drawing. The only time she took any notice of me was when I sat at the foot of my easel and refused to draw anymore. She looked at me with a little pity and a bit of a smirk.

“Are you nervous?” she said.

“Not nervous. I just wish I knew what was going to happen.”

Adele smiled. “It’s the not knowing that’s at least half the thrill. I never know what she has in store for me.”

“What’s your mistress’s name, by the way. I keep forgetting to ask.”

“It’s Jeanne.”

“Is she French?”

Adele smiled. “I don’t know. If she isn’t, she should be.”

When class was finally over, we changed clothes at the studio. It was eight o’clock and the downtown area was lively with Friday night bustle. Adele hailed a cab, and we soon pulled up to a gray stone building in the heart of the city’s poshest neighborhood. The tree-lined street was filled with stately townhouses built a century ago. Whoever Jeanne was, she had a lot of money.

I was a little nervous about my clothes. What does one wear to a flogging? I refused to put on anything that made me look like a tramp. My fishnets and stilettos are fun for a night out with the girls, but to wear them when meeting a real live mistress seemed ludicrous. Perhaps disrespectful. I’d settled on a sleeveless sheath dress and strappy, low-heeled sandals. Simple, and, hopefully, elegant. This was important if the mistress I was about to meet was French, or even French-ish.

Adele used a key to open the door, and we were met in the foyer by a middle-aged woman whose severe face did not move in the slightest as she took in the sight of us. My heart sank, for though I didn’t have a clear idea of what my ideal mistress would look like, I did know she wasn’t supposed to resemble Mrs. Danvers in
Rebecca
. This woman looked like she’d have a hard time loving a puppy. I didn’t want to think what she’d do with a cane in her hand and a bottom within reach. Adele put a reassuring hand on my forearm.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kirchberger. Will you let my mistress know that my guest and I have arrived?”

Mrs. Kirchberger motioned for us to move into the living room to the right before leaving us on our own. I started to speak, but Adele put her fingers to her lips and shushed me. Nothing gets my hackles up like being shushed, and I hated Adele a little bit.

“What?” I said.

“We’re always to sit here quietly while we’re waiting.”

“How long?” I was whispering now.

Adele just shrugged and I could get nothing further from her. I worried we were in for a long wait. I could think of many scenes in the literature (I referred to it as if it were a field of study, like the Victorian novel), where the submissives had to wait endlessly for their mistresses, usually in circumstances far less comfortable than my present one. It had never occurred to me I would actually enter a world where I would regularly have to wait. I was terrible at waiting. Really terrible. What if I were gagged and bound and made to wait on my knees on a hard floor, a blindfold keeping me from knowing day from night? I wouldn’t last ten minutes before going loco, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it. I would be all alone in an immense room—blind, mute, bound, helpless. I felt a stirring between my legs and started squirming on the sofa. Adele cast a rather doleful look at me.

I soon exhausted my fantasy and began taking in the details of the room. Something told me I shouldn’t wander about to admire the fine oil paintings and sculptures that decorated the large room, but I could easily see they were created by very advanced and accomplished artists, some of them recognizable. Every piece of furniture, every fabric, every last touch was gorgeous, yet the room looked more comfortable than decorated, more personal than perfect. Whoever created this room was complicated and talented.

Mrs. Kirchberger reappeared and motioned us to rise. Adele sprang up, obviously eager to see Jeanne. I was eager as well. The long wait had done nothing to lessen my curiosity. Mrs. Kirchberger led us up the front stairs. At the top was an open area with floor to ceiling bookshelves crammed with mismatched volumes of all sizes. It was a well used library. I could see at the end of a hallway there was a formal dining room, presumably with a kitchen nearby. And in between was a closed door that Mrs. Kirchberger opened. This was the point of no return, I sensed. She would be behind this door and I knew my life was about to change.

The room we entered was a luxurious study with a rich mahogany desk and chairs at one end, a fireplace with sofa and chairs at the other. The walls were a deep red, the natural woodwork ornate and gleaming. My gaze covered all of this searching for Jeanne, but Mrs. Kirchberger had shut the door behind us and there was only Adele and I in the room. I was so disappointed! The idea of another long wait almost defeated me.

Before I could complain to Adele, a door opened in the wall behind the desk—a hidden door perfectly camouflaged by one tier of a wall-length bookcase.  As if by magic, the woman I’d spent years struggling to visualize walked into the room and my heart seized up. I took a deep breath trying to loosen the tightness in my chest, but she crossed the room and stood in front of me before I found my composure. Adele moved closer to us.

“May I present my friend, Laura Thomas. Laura, this is Jeanne Beaudreau.”

Jeanne took my hand and shook it warmly. “I am so delighted you were able to join us this evening. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

She kissed Adele on the cheek and ushered us over to the fireplace seating area, gesturing for Adele to take one of the chairs while she settled on the sofa next to me. I wondered if this upset Adele at all and realized I hoped it did.

“Adele adores her life drawing class and has told me all about your coffee chats afterward.”

She didn’t have an accent, but I almost believed she did. There was something very Continental about her. Her clothing perhaps most of all. Her slacks were expensive, perfectly tailored, black, and they lengthened her already long legs. Her blouse was a crisp whiter-than-white cotton, with an open collar. She didn’t wear a scarf, but I could imagine her wearing one, or an ascot perhaps. She was neither handsome nor beautiful, but something much more than either. Her face had great character, with signs of a life fully lived. Her brow and her jaw were strong but softened by the thick, glistening hair that fell in layers to her shoulders. She looked to be in her forties, with her body as lean as a much younger woman’s. She was entirely captivating, and I had to concentrate intensely to hear what she was saying.

“Adele is a very talented artist,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m at the cave drawing stage compared to her.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true,” Jeanne said. As she rose to serve us drinks I noticed Adele sat very quietly. She wasn’t relaxing toward the back of the leather club chair, but perched toward the front, her hands resting on her lap. Perhaps she’d been trained to sit like that. Jeanne would know she was behaving appropriately, but no one else would notice she was under Jeanne’s command. I felt a little smug, like a student knowing more than everyone else on the first day of class, thanks to all the reading I’d done over summer vacation. I was feeling like an honored guest and a bit above Adele in station. But I didn’t aspire to be higher than her—only lower.