clothes with him—at least my jeans, socks, and boots. A conference T-shirt was with them, probably his, since the woman’s would be too small for me.
I realized that I didn’t even know her name.
I walked out into the room, unsure of what to say, or what to do. Should I kneel again? What would happen now?
“You may go,” the woman said. She was placing a business card on the table by the door.
I stood still. Confusion must have been quite apparent on my face.
“You are not ready,” she said, with a shrug. “C’est la vie. But you were fun to play with, and so I have given you a souvenir. Perhaps you will be ready one day, and then you will call this number, and I will see you, and if you prove suitable, I shall finish the cuts. But do not dare call if you are not prepared to give me everything.”
Tears came quickly—how could I still have them to cry? And she shook her head at me.
“There is no failure with me, little girl-boy, only partial success. You have been entertaining, and so we part as so many do, mm? Without rancor, without tears. Surely, you will find other happiness, even if you never call me.”
I hated her, with every fiber of my being. I hated her for teasing me, for playing with me, for cutting my shirt and making me miss my fucking flight, but I hated her for making me leave, oh yes, that was the worst part. Stiffly, determined not to make a scene, I strode to the door. My back and thighs and ass and cunt and tits ached, and I thought, well, at least I have that . I picked up the card in shaking fingers and put it in my pocket. Andy was holding the door open and I was almost through it before I turned and hit my knees again, this time bowing my head all the way to the floor.
“Yes,” I heard her say. “You are welcome.”
* * * *
Andy took me to the airport in a big, shiny rent-a-car. We didn’t say much to each other. And I didn’t look at the card until I got home. It was very plain. It had a New York telephone number on it, and the initials KM. She had written on it, “When you are ready.”
I slid it into the frame of my mirror, where I see it every morning, and every time I check myself out before hitting the bars. I don’t exactly know how I feel about this readiness, what it really means, and whether I’ll ever call that number.
But I do know this: the price of freedom has never been so low.
Chapter Three: Fortunate Bastard
As I knelt, trembling on the polished wooden floor, my back a tight bow, the growling words of my new master came too fast for me to even hope to follow, punctuated by sharp, staccato sounds that dripped with contempt and anger. From time to time, I felt a slight kick—against my shoulder, against my thigh, but I did not raise my head, not an inch, holding myself as still as possible, as Anderson had cautioned me to do.
Finally, the command to look up came, and I carefully brought my body up, not moving my knees, sliding my arms alongside my body as carefully as possible, even though I felt the tingles of worn and sleeping muscles all over myself. Sakai Tetsuo was a handsome but severe man, his eyes dark and narrow, his cheekbones drawn tight over an aristocratic face. He was holding a rod, and too fast to follow, it descended and smacked hard, making a loud crack that cut through the room. I couldn’t help it; I flinched as it struck, and that began the first of many, many beatings. I didn’t know what I had done, or what I had neglected to do. I wasn’t to know for days. It would be three weeks before I found out that my new master even spoke English. All I knew that day was that I was held as beneath contempt—not only because I was an American, but because I was a freak.
And yet, she had sent me there. After all the time it took for her to see me as what I was, she had sent me there.
* * * *
Chris snapped himself out of his reverie as he stood by the door to the room Tetsuo had invited him to. It was a lifetime ago, his first visit
I realized that I didn’t even know her name.
I walked out into the room, unsure of what to say, or what to do. Should I kneel again? What would happen now?
“You may go,” the woman said. She was placing a business card on the table by the door.
I stood still. Confusion must have been quite apparent on my face.
“You are not ready,” she said, with a shrug. “C’est la vie. But you were fun to play with, and so I have given you a souvenir. Perhaps you will be ready one day, and then you will call this number, and I will see you, and if you prove suitable, I shall finish the cuts. But do not dare call if you are not prepared to give me everything.”
Tears came quickly—how could I still have them to cry? And she shook her head at me.
“There is no failure with me, little girl-boy, only partial success. You have been entertaining, and so we part as so many do, mm? Without rancor, without tears. Surely, you will find other happiness, even if you never call me.”
I hated her, with every fiber of my being. I hated her for teasing me, for playing with me, for cutting my shirt and making me miss my fucking flight, but I hated her for making me leave, oh yes, that was the worst part. Stiffly, determined not to make a scene, I strode to the door. My back and thighs and ass and cunt and tits ached, and I thought, well, at least I have that . I picked up the card in shaking fingers and put it in my pocket. Andy was holding the door open and I was almost through it before I turned and hit my knees again, this time bowing my head all the way to the floor.
“Yes,” I heard her say. “You are welcome.”
* * * *
Andy took me to the airport in a big, shiny rent-a-car. We didn’t say much to each other. And I didn’t look at the card until I got home. It was very plain. It had a New York telephone number on it, and the initials KM. She had written on it, “When you are ready.”
I slid it into the frame of my mirror, where I see it every morning, and every time I check myself out before hitting the bars. I don’t exactly know how I feel about this readiness, what it really means, and whether I’ll ever call that number.
But I do know this: the price of freedom has never been so low.
Chapter Three: Fortunate Bastard
As I knelt, trembling on the polished wooden floor, my back a tight bow, the growling words of my new master came too fast for me to even hope to follow, punctuated by sharp, staccato sounds that dripped with contempt and anger. From time to time, I felt a slight kick—against my shoulder, against my thigh, but I did not raise my head, not an inch, holding myself as still as possible, as Anderson had cautioned me to do.
Finally, the command to look up came, and I carefully brought my body up, not moving my knees, sliding my arms alongside my body as carefully as possible, even though I felt the tingles of worn and sleeping muscles all over myself. Sakai Tetsuo was a handsome but severe man, his eyes dark and narrow, his cheekbones drawn tight over an aristocratic face. He was holding a rod, and too fast to follow, it descended and smacked hard, making a loud crack that cut through the room. I couldn’t help it; I flinched as it struck, and that began the first of many, many beatings. I didn’t know what I had done, or what I had neglected to do. I wasn’t to know for days. It would be three weeks before I found out that my new master even spoke English. All I knew that day was that I was held as beneath contempt—not only because I was an American, but because I was a freak.
And yet, she had sent me there. After all the time it took for her to see me as what I was, she had sent me there.
* * * *
Chris snapped himself out of his reverie as he stood by the door to the room Tetsuo had invited him to. It was a lifetime ago, his first visit
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