Their relationship essentially ended on Black Tuesday, a day to
be forgotten, but to them will forever live. True after a few
weeks they had gotten up the nerve to have a platonic lunch and
once enjoyed a brief outing to the Wonder Bread Outlet store.
You say, “What?!” But the significance was not the location, but
the fact that they were alone together. That was like the first
unaided step to a paraplegic. This time they decided they could
handle a real lunch together.

Most of the rest of Sandy was in Jim’s imagination. True he had
seen hints of her supple, sensual figure through her cloths, but
only what they allowed to be seen. She was not the wearer of
tight, revealing outfits, but neither did they hide the exquisite
rise of her tempting breasts, delightfully rounded derriere and
elegantly formed legs. Jim ached to explore what he could only
imagine.

“Lady? Find the Lady?”

“No.”

“Three chances to find the Lady, lady. Double your money. Little money
down.”

“No.” I’m still standing there. He’s reaching up. The cracks in
his fingers are black, his fingers are yellow. Filth-yellow.
Gray-yellow. Dirtier than money. I put money in them, smooth money too
old to rustle. It’s gone like that. He’s all business, now, he doesn’t
smile.

“Three cards, lady.” He lays them out. “Which one’s the Lady?
Which one’s the Queen of Joy?”

I point, not with my hand. My small foot, five white piggies,
crushed to a point, points at the middle card. My blue shoe, my blue-green
office shoe points for me. It matches my scarf, my bag.

“No, lady, not the deuce, we want to find the the Lady. Show me
my pretty Lady, I know I lost her somewhere here.”

I haven’t looked, my eyes are just above his head, it could be any
card. He doesn’t have to cheat to fool me. I point again, twitch to the
left.

“No, my lady, we want something softer than diamonds. Not the
seven. Find the Lady. Try, lady.”

I look. He’s looking back. His lost eyes only show their
blackness, white and iris gone in folds of old skin. He’s sweating, same
as me, same as everyone, water glinting in his ruined cheeks, his neck.
He’s not all that old. Maybe forty? Less?

“I guess it must be the third card. That one.”

“You, lose, lady, not there, not that one. So much for double
your money. Too bad. Thought you were a lucky lady.”

I’m still standing there. I wanted to see her. He shuffles up
the cards, glances up the street, forgets me.

“I want to play again.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll play again.” I hold out money. “Three chances. Double my
money. I’ll play.”

“Tell you what.” The money’s gone. “I like you, lady. Why don’t
I show you where she lives.”

Impossible to look at that face, or look away. Gray, street color,
and the inside of the mouth like a wound, like a flayed thing. The wet
stone eyes again, lost, unreachable; broken, unfixable. And the body.
Squat, smashed. The fat, blunt fingers, clever at small things, tricky.
The swollen legs and shapeless trunk.

“I like you, lady.”

“Show me the Queen.”

It doesn’t surprise me. The instant before, I know exactly what I
asked for, what I’m getting, and his hand is on my shin. My leg jerks,
but not away. His fingers are like smooth wood. They catch on my panty
hose. He strokes, lightly.

“There’s the Lady. There’s the Queen.”

My own face twists. Water breaks from my eyes like glass chips.
What could make me want this? What, ever? There are people in the
street, am I this lost? Am I this far from safety, from
cleanness, white sheets? I hope he will reach higher. I hope his thick
thumb finds my dirty, wrinkled part. I hope he presses softly in, past the
labia’s weak protest, deep. My shoulders shake, desperate, and I gasp and
choke. He strokes, still gentle, up, under my pretty skirt’s stiff rim.

“That’s my pretty Queen of Joy.”

Desperate, I stare up the street. If one face sees me I will
become sane, will know I am being groped by a bum and lose myself in
disgust. But no one looks. I realise I am completely safe. No decent
eye will see this ugliness of the street. By this mad act I have
become the city’s filth, as invisible as my starving attacker. He tugs
down my cotton panties, twiddles with my hair. I could dare to moan. I
moan. The louder I am, the deafer the walkers become. Only prurient tourists
hear. I sink to my knees, and he finds the open place. Filth. His
fingernail leaves traces of contagion in my softest flesh. Vile. He
slides all the way out, shows me a bunch of three fingers, shoves that in.

He has his own cock out now, and his stroke with himself is
faster, more casual than with me. It looks exactly like the last cock I
saw, dark-headed, small, twisting a little away from him. I am so full now
that I feel my body is half his. His fingers move independently inside me,
rubbing against each other like a clutch of brother snakes. Then the
fourth slides in. Its nail catches, a little stab. My teeth grind, the
water on my face is half tears, half spittle. I cry out as if for
childbirth or death.

After I come I stay, with him inside me. I watch him, and he
looks down at himself, at the site of his own pleasure. He leaves his
hand sunk in me, moving a little, and pumps up and down on himself. I
look. I want to see this act when desire is finished. I try to know
exactly what grossness I have done. I try to relearn disgust. I can’t.
When his semen flies, two drops land on my skirt. I touch one. His cries
are strained and quiet, and he slumps against the grey wall, then looks up
at me. Now he smiles, and, God, I see his browning, narrow teeth.

“You’re quite a lady, Lady.”

He takes his hand out of me, but I still don’t stand for a while.
I raise the hand that touched his semen to my mouth. My damp hand
shakes. No one walks past. Though no one looked at us, still we have
cleared the street. I struggle up, survey the ruin of my hose.

“Well, Lady, I sure hope to see you. Hey?”

I go. I leave my purse. My face is wet and red, my feet stagger.
I try smiling at a girl I pass. Terrified eyes flick away. Good.
The invisibility’s still working. I’m inhuman for the duration. The sun
hits my body, the stink of trash fills my lungs, and I walk faster and
faster. At the corner I turn, and I must know this street but it looks
different. I put my head down and watch my blue-green shoes click on the
pavement. I turn another way, half run, half drag. I can’t say where I’m
headed. How could I possibly go back to work? How could I possibly hope
to find home?

“I want you to come to the dining hall and have breakfast with me.
Also, I want you to wear a skirt today. Above the knee, I think. And your
stockings and garter belt.”

“Why?”
“You’ll find out after English. You can wear flats if you want, but
bring your heels along in a bag. Oh, and if you wear underwear, it has to be
something that comes off easily. Wear your silk ones with the bows.”
“OK, sir,” she said, wondering inside what he meant. She would be glad
in an hour for having eaten, but right now she wanted more than anything to
crawl back into bed and sleep. She had half an hour before class. But she
obeyed, wondering why all the while.
He was no more tractable at breakfast. He allowed her to get three
bowls of Captain Crunch, something he usually forbade on the grounds that it
was junk, but anytime she asked why he wanted her dressed that way he only
answered, “You’ll find out after English.”

English. Short Story Writing, specifically. The last class she had on
Fridays, the only one she had with him. So many times, that had been the last
thing she did before spending a weekend in erotic submission to him. The
simple thought made her belly turn over.

The whole day she was unable to keep her mind off it. What did he have
planned? A weekend of submission? Maybe. But that was hardly uncommon. So
why all the secrecy? And why the costuming? In classes, she found herself
writing his name and WHY? WHY? WHY? on her notes. She tapped her feet
incessantly and waited for the class to end. She supposed people were
looking at her. She didn’t care.

After lunch, which she ate with some friends, for he was on the other
side of campus, she headed back to her room and got the required heels. Patent
leather pumps, with a locking ankle strap and five inch heels. She wrapped
them in paper towels and put them in a shoe box, which she put in her backpack.
Three more hours! She would never make it.

Well, two more. Class started at two and ended at three. She had an
hour before her one o’clock class, so she tried to call him but the answering
machine picked up. Was he there, grinning broadly at the answering machine,
laughing at her curiousity, or was he really not there? She could picture
either. She wished he would let her see his schedule.

After trying for the third time she decided he was either not there or
not going to answer. She tried to read the short story someone had written
which was going to be discussed in class, but she couldn’t concentrate. She
was too curious about what he had planned for her.

She glanced at her own reflection in the mirror. Deciding she ought to
look nice for whatever he had planned for her, she applied some mascara and
blusher and lipstick. This took up most of the time remaining.

If he blindfolds me after the work I did on that makeup, I’m gonna be
pissed, she thought as she bounced across the quad.
In the last class before English she found herself looking out the
window. Was that him out in back of the building, watching her? It had to be.

No one else would lurk outside so boldly, as if they had every right to be
there. Was he looking at her? Smiling at her? She couldn’t tell.

The hour dragged on. And on. She was growing quite impatient.
Finally the bell rung and she was free.

English was absolute torture, she decided. She sat next to him as she
always did, and kept trying to whisper in his ear. He would merely grin
evilly, and conveniently stretch so that he wouldbe out of range of her
whisper. She passed him notes, as if she was a high schooler. He merely read

them and put them in his notebook. When she dared say something aloud, he
hushed her and suggested that she quiet down and pay attention to class.

The small, androgynous boy whose story was being presented that day
gave her a nasty look. She frowned back at him. Under the table, his hand
touched her skirt and pulled it up slightly, just enough so that he could feel
her leg.

She leaned in close to whisper in his ear, and he let her this time.
“I obeyed,” she said.
“Good,” he said, and grinned again, that annoying satisfied
cat-got-the-cream grin he had that he gave herwhen he knew something he did not
intend to tell her. Sometimes it made her want to scream and jump up and down.
Now was one of those times.

Finally, the class was over. He got up and headed for the door
immediately. She threw her things in her backpack and raced after him.
He was heading into an empty classroom. She ran in after him just as he was
closing the door and turned to face him, breathless.

“Okay, it’s after English. So tell me.” she said.
For answer he merely took her arm and spun her around so that she was

in front of him, facing away. His grasp was not painful but irrevocable. She

felt handcuffs clamped onto her wrists. Then the slight click of the double

lock being engaged on each. These were police handcuffs, and gave her very

little room. Then he bent her over a desk, got something out of his bag, and

spread her legs. She was surprised but pliant, not wanting to resist unless he

hurt her. First his hands untied the bows on the hips of her panties and took

them off.

She felt an assplug slip into her, and an admonishment; “Don’t let go

of that until I tell you you can.”

Then he was taking off her shoes and putting her feet into the

five-inch pumps, locking each ankle strap with a small lock. Afterwards he

scooped up his own bag and hers, took her wrists in the other hand, and marched

her neatly to the elevator. She was grateful he did not make her try the

stairs with these shoes and her wrists cuffed behind her back.

In the elevator, he hiked up her skirt and checked her; she was

already moist in the excitement and surprise.

“What are you doing?” she asked for the first time since after English.

“Don’t ask. Don’t say a word.”

His car was parked in the lot nearby. He got her in the passenger

seat, and then got in himself. He locked both doors, an unnecessary precaution

since she could not open the door anyway, and then put her seat belt on.

Donning his own, he started the engine and drove away.

Anytime she spoke, he immediately responded with an order to be silent.

He hiked her skirt up to her waist and fondled her freely. This was dizzying.

She was restrained, kept in a car, being taken to God knows where, and not even

allowed to speak. It was incredibly exciting.

When he got to the Interstate, he stopped for a moment to put a pair of

Gargoyle sunglasses on her. He had painted these with black paint, and she

could see very little, but no passersby in cars would have any clue.

Without being able to see, she had no real way to gauge time, since the radio

was not playing and he was being fairly silent.

After maybe an hour, maybe two, maybe ten years, he pulled off the

Interstate, and a short time later pulled over completely. He got out of

the car, went around and let her out, and led her forward. She felt gravel

clicking under her heels. Then, up three steps, and onto a porch of some kind.

It sounded like concrete when she walked on it. She heard him fumble briefly

with a key, and then she was being led indoors. Then he took the blindfold

off.

She was in a wood-paneled den, with a fireplace and a few hunting

trophies on the walls. There were two doors leading from the room. One looked

like it led to a bathroom, the other to a bedroom. She glanced around at

the place curiously.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Like it?” She walked around briefly. “It’s beautiful. But how did

you get it?”

“It was my grandpa’s house,” he said. “I’m in the process of getting

it. Some yap about probate. Some other people in the family want it, I think.

But it’ll be mine soon.”

Will it be mine too? she wanted to ask, but didn’t have the courage

to.

He came up behind her and unzipped her skirt, pulling it gently but

irrevocably off her. Then he removed the handcuffs, only to replace them with

leather cuffs. Then he buckled and locked a wide leather collar around her

neck. He removed her blouse and bra, and then locked her wrists behind her

back. Then he buckled another pair of leather cuffs on her ankles.

“Let me show you the basement,” he suggested, as if none of what he had

done before had happened. But she was very wet now, very excited as he forced

her down the rickety stairs to the basement.

There was a door at the end of the stairs. He pushed her through

this and locked it. Inside, the basement was finished. She saw a room on

her which he propelled her into, and she could see in the dim light several

toys up on the walls and a spanking horse and a bed in the corner of the room.

“You like it?” he asked, his voice betraying an edge of sharpness.

“Yes-oh God, fuck me-,” she choked.

“Not yet.” He took her over to the spanking horse, spread her legs and

fastened them to the legs of the horse, then freed her arms briefly to bend her

over the horse and attach her wrist cuffs to the legs on the other side.

She heard him shuck off his pants and then he had a fistful of her

hair, pulling her head up. In his hand she saw a riding crop. Her head could

not rise far with her body spreadeagled and secured down.

His penis was stiff and dancing about, and she was wet and ready for

him. But he forced her to lick it instead, lick it and suck it while he

whipped her ass with the crop. This was a game she knew. She was to suck him

while he whipped her until he came. Until he did, the whipping would get

steadily harder.

She did what she usually did. She delayed him so that he would whip

her harder. Eventually she passed into a sort of out-of-body experience: she

could still feel the whip striking her, but it didn’t hurt anymore. She felt

the cock in her mouth, everything seeming to happen very slowly, and she

thought, I’m a cocksucker. And it seemed very good.

Finally he came, and she licked him clean, feeling tired and limp.

He came around to her welted ass, and rubbed it gently.

“Why so tired?” he asked. She felt his cock slip into her from behind,

but was too well bound to fight it. It felt good, slipping into her dark and

wet depths. Her welts stung as he touched them. They had both broken out into

a sweat.

“So tired already?” He began to pump slowly. “It’s gonna be a long

weekend, sweetheart.”