As She's Told Read online

  Anders flipped one ring lightly back and forth, and my breath caught again. My thighs parted all by themselves. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he murmured, "One good reason, eh, little girl?" Gently he played with the other ring, watched my reaction to this tiny, subtle, powerful sensation, and shook his head, eyes gleaming. Then he settled back down next to me and stroked my hip. "So tempting, but I'd better wait a little. Oh, baby…."

  His arm went round my waist and pulled tight. "I have to rethink the pace, or it'll get away from me. Build in safety…." He was silent for a while.

  I lay still and waited, trusting him. Genuinely trusting him, for some reason. Also feeling like I'd hopped a freight train that was starting to gather serious speed. Inside the car it was safe enough, but where did the track go?

  Did I have any idea who this man actually was? Apparently my body did. The flavours of his skin and mouth, the forest smell of his hair were invading me, locking into ready receptors. Some kind of recognition and bonding was taking place at the molecular level. Just his proximity was 29

  As She’s Told – Anneke Jacob

  keeping me simmering, a stew of unresolved lust. I wanted to fall at his feet, taste and worship his body, just for a start. I also wanted to hide away, retreat behind a computer screen, anonymous and safe. How could this be happening so fast? How could I trust a virtual stranger this way? Never mind all that time waiting and searching. Maybe I wasn't ready.

  My impulses cancelled each other out, held me poised between them, a puny tin toy suspended between enormous magnets. I waited, stayed where he'd put me. Followed my third and most overpowering urge, which was to do as I was told.

  What he decided on, for that moment anyway, was dinner. It seemed touch and go whether there would be enough food for a man his size in my little kitchen. I mostly got by on bags of salad mix, eggs and frozen corn.

  But he found some rice and made a stir-fry, setting me to slice carrots and root through the cupboards for condiments. I thought he was planning to feed us for a week on what he cooked, but most of it disappeared. What was left over was what he thought I'd eat but couldn't. We were both a bit bemused by the differences in our appetites. He must have been about twice my weight, but ate four times as much; there had to be some kind of metabolic logic there. I could find out; it might make a good research project for my final paper.

  He was more or less fully dressed, but I was only in my kimono, a red one he had plucked from the back of my bedroom door and held out for me before heading for the kitchen. When I sat down he arranged it, sliding it partway off my shoulders, opening it enough to see part of my breasts, letting it fall from my thigh. And as we ate his eyes ran along its edge, pausing on the small crescent of nipple that was visible, sliding down to my almost-exposed crotch, then back up to my face, his eyes amused and gleaming.

  "Soft porn," he commented.

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "All right. We've got a couple of ways we could go at this point." I stirred uneasily. He eyed me, but went firmly on. "I could pull back and we could be equal partners for a bit.

  You'd have all your usual level of choice. We could do the vanilla thing, until we've built up some trust…." He looked at my expression and smiled wryly. "No?"

  "Do we have to?" I stopped myself. "I mean – I'm sorry, I will if you 30

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  think we should…." He laughed, and I smiled self-consciously, weaving the edge of the kimono between my fingers. My head drooped, and I murmured,

  "I can't imagine I'd be very good at – well, at equality, you see. With you."

  "I do see." He leaned forward, elbows on knees, took the kimono out from between my fingers and smoothed it on my knee. "The other alternative has the advantage of showing you sooner what you're in for. But you'd be trusting me a lot." I looked up. "We'd still start slow," he said. "Out to dinner, that kind of thing; no bondage, no pain. Get to know each other.

  But we wouldn't pretend I'm not in charge, or that you aren't doing as you're told. I wouldn't find it very easy myself, to tell you the truth. It's practically impossible for me to be around you without taking control. And you, well…" We smiled at that, and then I laughed. "What?"

  "I do know how to be assertive, believe it or not. I learned it out of books." He gave me a look and I laughed. "No, I mean it. Literally. Before that I was doing everyone else's high school homework. It's a useful skill to have, but it's just tacked on."

  "I thought those books were supposed to make you feel different about yourself. Strong!" He flexed a bicep. "Tough! Take no shit!" His eyes teased. "Not effective in your case, eh?"

  "No, it's just like doing a part in a play. Or wait, more like using a cookbook. Step One: Gather 'I' statements. Step Two: Stir and bake voice until low but firm. Step Three: Add listening layer. Repeat." He laughed silently. "So when someone like me comes along…"

  "No one like you has come along before," I said, no longer laughing.

  "Ever." He took my hand and then I was in his lap. When the kiss was over and I was tucked tight beneath his chin I said, "I can't imagine playing that game with you."

  "Better not." His voice was quite serious behind the friendly teasing.

  I whispered, "Just – do as I'm told?"

  "That's right." He kissed the top of my head. "We'll proceed with all deliberate speed, then."

  I sighed, shivered. He stroked my back gently.

  "What's that about?" he asked.

  "Relief."

  He nodded, and held me tight for a minute or two. Then he moved me back in front of my plate. I played with my food, and watched his face, the 31

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  way the bones moved when he talked, the finely-cut curves of his lips.

  "I suspect we'll be moving from soft porn to hard-core and beyond before long. There'll be a whole lot more intensity if we move in together.

  Assuming all goes well." I nodded, feeling my heart beating high in my throat, trying to concentrate. "We'll start with some very simple rules. For the time being, of course, you do as you're told. Never keep me waiting.

  Always, always tell me the truth. And we'll be all right."

  I nodded again, scared. What would happen if I lied? What if I didn't know I was lying? "There'll be much more as we go along. Since I'm neither a kidnapper nor a negotiator –" The light eyes lit and he blew out an amused breath. "– Hey, CNN here we come! – I'll have to think about the choice problem."

  When it was clear I couldn't eat any more he stood me up and rearranged me. The kimono got closed up a little, and the crumpled and folded cord was flattened into its original wide sash. Anders wound this tightly around my middle three times and tied it at the back. Geisha stuff, though not over my breasts and nowhere near as restrictive; there had been lots more torturous bindings under those beautiful Geisha robes. Pauline Réage, eat your heart out. He pulled the kimono sideways again from under the sash, exposing lots of skin over and under the tight bands around my middle. His eyes went to my face. And then his hand was parting the robe at my thighs and investigating me there, coming away very wet. He had me lick his fingers, and sent me to do the dishes. Something I normally wouldn't have done for hours; maybe days. From the sink I watched him skimming through my books, including the ones in untidy piles on my desk. They looked oddly small and comfortable in his big hands. Suddenly I recognized the scholar: that incisive sweep through titles and tables of contents.

  When the dishes were done Anders settled me on the floor facing the couch, sitting on my heels as befitted the costume. He sat with arms stretched out along the back. And we talked. We talked about schedules and time pressures and other practical things. Friends, family. His brother was travelling, last heard from in Dublin, his parents and sister in Denmark. My parents were fixtures in Oakland; they'd only come up once when I'd first moved here. My sister and her husband lived three streets over from them, worked irregular hours,
and leaned on them a lot for babysitting.

  It felt very odd, sitting there mostly naked and talking about my family.

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  "Work and school, lots of it, but people won't be a problem, at least not yet," Anders said. "You've got what? Eight weeks to go? A lot of evenings doing school work, right?"

  "It should get easier once school's over, if I get the right job…."

  "What have you applied for?"

  I told him, and all at once foreboding struck me. A couple of the places were out of town. What if I had to move to find a job? It happened. A dismal vision of long-distance domination opened up before me. Oh, no. The taste of him was already in my system, spreading, reconfiguring my synapses. I had to have more. Anxiously, I looked up at the man enthroned on my couch.

  He was thoughtful. "If this works out…" My eyes were fastened on his mouth, waiting for his next words. I was ready at that moment to jettison jobs, school, my whole career if it meant more time with him. Hell, I was only doing Information Studies because a person needs a job. Well, mostly.

  "If this works out I'm not going to want you to work full-time. Start looking into part-time. But don't withdraw the other applications yet." My heart leapt, and my mind began scampering through the postings I'd seen. But the next question yanked me back. "What else have you done besides those rings, Maia?"

  I sucked in a breath. "Hardly anything. I know the rings seem like a lot, like I must be – concealing something…?" He shook his head. "But apart from ordinary messing around – I mean, I provoked one boyfriend into spanking me for fun, but it didn't even hurt!" I said indignantly. He smiled, and I laughed up at him. "He never did it again. Really almost everything I read, any connection has been on the net."

  "Someone domming you online?"

  "No, never." I thought about the ones that had offered. "God, no. I've been on IRC, and mailing lists, but I mostly lurk. I've been – a shadow."

  He had me list all the groups I'd been on. Mainly d/sTO and one or two other supportive bdsm groups, the ones that discouraged trolling. "What about toys?"

  My face went hot at the mere mention; I shook my head. "I'm afraid to have anything in the house – I'm afraid the Silvas might come in and look.

  My landlords. They live downstairs. There's a piece of clothesline…." He waited. I took a breath. "I didn't really feel I had the right, anyway. Toys, 33

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  anything I did myself, that felt wrong. The rings I did almost on impulse, and felt bad about because – because it was me doing it. Like you said. It shouldn't have been me. I should have waited."

  "Don't worry about it now. If it bothers you that much, I promise I'll punish you for it later."

  I examined his face. He was serious. Some weight in my chest seemed to lift. Crazy but true.

  Going back to his original question, I said, "I admit I was curious. I walked into Northbound Leather once, stayed five minutes and ran."

  "Why?"

  "So – out there. Scary."

  "Hard to lurk."

  "Mm."

  More questions. Contraception. Safe sex. Had I practiced it, how many partners had I had. He told me to get an HIV test, said he'd get one, too. All the complicated issues that this suggested – monogamy, trust – I thought of but didn't raise.

  Then he questioned me so thoroughly about my classes and assignments for the next eight weeks that he probably ended up with a better idea of them than I had. In short order he had estimated the time I'd need for research, preparation, revision, etcetera, etcetera; way more time than I would normally devote to it. Evidently his standards were going to be strict, and he believed in work before pleasure. He wouldn't even see me the next day, Sunday, because I had a paper due Monday that I had barely started on; he shook his head over that.

  "All right, little girl," he said finally, "stand up." The sash had loosened and slipped down a fraction. He rewound it about thirty percent tighter than it had been before, and bent me forward over the table to tie the knot. His hands went underneath the material and explored, leaving me breathless, and then he lifted the robe up and folded it over my back. His fingers slid into me like a spoon through cream. Then he bent over me, pressing his heat into my body, his mouth against my ear.

  "Little by little, Maia. It's going to happen. Step by step, until you're –"

  he shifted his fingers inside of me and I gasped; "—mine. Chattel."

  He lifted my hips so that they were right on the edge of the table and my feet were off the floor. I heard the latex sounds again. Then he was inside 34

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  me, parting my flesh with his cock. Hands on my tits, tight, nipples trapped between fingers, the moaning sounds from my throat, my cunt like hot wax melting, his fingers there, too. The sash so tight I felt it at every breath, pressure of the table across my hips, his slow insistent thrusting, forcing a high rhythmic whimper from me, making my fingers scrabble pointlessly on the smooth table. Big hands crossed my forearms across the small of my back and pressed on them hard as he thrust. My shoulders shifted helplessly, and my back arched and strained; my head turned back and forth, pressing first one side of my face, then the other against the hard surface. I hovered for several seconds, an eternity, in exquisite suspension. And then I fell, mile upon mile, acutely aware of his taut body behind me, plunging too.

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  Chapter Four

  Viking of the 21st Century

  A Monday morning lidded by low clouds. Anders manoeuvred his truck through clogged southbound traffic, with the reflexive dexterity of a man who spent a lot of time behind the wheel. He eyed a Civic in the oncoming lane that looked as if it had been waiting a while to turn left; a lengthening line of cars was trapped at its tail. The frustrated grinding of gears and molars was almost audible. Taking pity, Anders braked and waved the Civic through. Two blocks further on his own lane was blocked by pylons and municipal trucks. He edged around a stationary tractor trailer, made it onto Lakeshore, and saw before him inching lines of metal with their tails of spewing exhaust, all the way to the horizon. Toronto traffic had descended yet another giant step into hell. He was going to be late.

  But nothing could annoy him today. He would have liked to have his foot down and be driving down an empty highway with the wind in his hair, singing at the top of his lungs, but you can't have everything. It was enough that he could see her before him: Maia shy and vibrant in her russet dress.

  Maia sprawled flushed and naked on her bed. Maia bent over the table, those lovely oval ass cheeks framed in the red kimono. The sound of her voice when he touched her. He could almost taste her. And by the end of the day she'd be in his hands again.

  There were two little birthmarks on either side of her belly; they made a diagonal with her navel that absolutely charmed him.

  He made a quick lane change and made it into third gear. The future was unfolding like a huge blueprint in his mind, a blueprint of his own devising. Only the foundations sketched in distinctly so far. Maybe a little bit of detail: part of a floor plan, a staircase. Beyond that, a project subject only to his insistent imagination.

  It was going to happen this time; this time he knew. His blueprint sprouted a bell tower and rang an exultant peal.

  And then the peal's echo became the inevitable warning knell.

  Expectations of delight never failed to activate the dour Lutheran ancestors living in his frontal lobes, his Swedish grandmother's voice leading from the lectern. Life was responsibility, duty, forethought, said the implacable voice.

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  Joy was fleeting. In fact this side of his mind tended to express itself within him in a Scandinavian language that was a mixture peculiar to that lady.

  Anders imagined a discussion with his Mormor about his responsibilities in this situation,
and he smiled. The dangers were more than present to him.

  Maia might not be what she seemed to be, or need what she thought she needed. Hidden motives might emerge over time, or perhaps just mistakes that followed on inexperience. Or covert craziness; there was a thought to gave him serious pause. Anders drove mechanically, his mind churning.

  No, somehow he thought not. Beneath all that shyness and hesitation, that eager, docile outward face, there was something balanced and poised, and not over an abyss, either. Maybe just a few feet off the ground. She seemed to have a very clear idea of who she was and what she wanted.

  He braked and geared down; traffic was piling up again. Where did that assurance come from, deep in his gut? Recognition, moments of connection, again and again. She was okay, that girl; on consideration she seemed remarkably sane, despite being perverted as hell just like he was, with every doubt and crazy feeling that entailed. A lurking sense of humour, too. All those fears, that need for safety might be signs of sanity, given that the world was what it was. Could he rely on his own judgment of her mental state, given how invested he was in the answer? The fast lane was opening up; he pressed the accelerator. His gut said yes, but could he trust it? Ancestors frowned and shook grey heads, pointing bleakly to a spectral vision of his old nemesis: overconfidence, ego. Beware…. He'd beware. But that had pitfalls its own. Maia's fears didn't stop her, evidently; she did what she had to do. She had even managed the piercings, an act of initiative that seemed almost against her nature. And in their online conversation she had expressed her opinions with passion and confidence, and without looking for approval. Mind you, these were her opinions on her need to hand herself over, and were articulated in the anonymity of a chat group ….