Across the Table
by Jonathan Quince
Monday, December 15, 2003 00:21:12
“I want to be your slave,” she breathed in my ear, “your little slut. Why are you rejecting me?”
I broke away, pushing her body away from mine. I’d known that Vivian was, ah, an extraordinary girl; why had I let myself come to the point of making out with her? Most of the problems in my life have started this way; I’m not exactly a wizened monk, but I should have known better.
She tried to snuggle back against me. Grabbing her arms above the elbows, I set her firmly on the floor at arm’s length. She pushed back towards me; I rocked her back forcefully.
Sometimes, problems are best solved by distance. Distance, after all, equals time; and time is an antidote to emotional decision-making. I wasn’t quite ready to buy the time I really needed by throwing her out of my home, but a few seconds should let me catch my breath and keep the blood flowing to my brain. I stepped around to the other side of the room, moving too quickly for her to follow me. Good, the table was between us now; it was a low coffee table, but it wide enough to obstruct any pootsy-mootsy on her part, and she would instinctually know not to make herself look stupid by running after me.
I turned my back towards her; looking out the window, I spoke out towards the darkness of the night. “Vivian,” I said sternly, “you have been playing games with me all evening. You know that I do not do this, which is probably why you want it. I ordinarily avoid games, but since if you want to play, it’s my move. As such, I am going to pretend that you did not just say that. Now you will be forced either to repeat it, slowly and deliberately, so you can’t just claim it popped out spontaneously and you didn’t really mean it; or else you will also have to pretend that you didn’t say it, which means you will have to stop playing this little game.”
In the past four days, I’d met her three times already. And already, on two of those occasions I’d had to explain to her that she is a naïve young idiot seemingly bent on making a fool of herself. What was I supposed to do further? Should I condescend to explain, yet again, the difference between fantasy and reality? Or that she was trying quite deliberately to make trouble — in this case, trouble with me — and that I was not going to be the second one to tango?
No. She might be young, but she isn’t five years old; and I’m also young, besides. I made the mistake of inviting her into my house. If I really felt like doing the right thing, I’d throw her out with as much force as necessary and explicit orders not to return. But I was tempted to see where this might lead.
The silence stretched uneasily; I could feel her staring at my back, then at the floor. Then she surprised me.
“All I want is for you to own me for awhile” she said. Her voice cracked; I detected — sincerity? desperation? fear? “I’m not fucking with you. What do I have to do, sign one of your g——damn forms?”
(Ahhh, yes; those forms. I’d made the mistake of showing those to her before unleashing them on the world at large.)
I spun on heel to face her. “And if I do reject you?”
“Don’t,” was all she said.
Although I am even-tempered, I ordinarily have an excessively low tolerance for bullshit; so long as anger does not flare, patience can be vice as much as virtue. I certainly was not in the mood for someone to be putting on airs and playing games with me. Reaching across the table, I cupped my hand across the side of Vivian’s neck.
“Do not play games with me,” I growled. Pivoting my wrist, I forced her chin up so her eyes involuntarily met mine. “Is this what you want? Do you even know what you want?”
She nodded a “yes” and dropped her gaze.
Patience has its limits. I am not in the business of saving naïve girls from themselves. Sliding my hand up the side of her head, I tangled my fingers in her hair. One sudden motion landed her belly-down on top of the low table. She gasped for breath and tried to raise her head.
I tightened my grip and dragged her face up so that it was inches from mine. I could see the beginnings of tears glistening in her eyes; her breath hit my cheek in short, quiet gasps. “Are you sure?” I asked.
She bobbed her head up and down, trying to nod.
I gave her head a violent jerk. She gasped. “Say it!” I commanded. “I will not tolerate indecision or little games. You shall not change your mind. Either you are in, or you are out; ‘yes’ means yes and ‘no’ means no.”
I could tell she was fighting tears. She did not answer immediately. The seconds ticked by; I let them fall like grains in an hourglass as the muted tick of a clock counted them off in the background.
I waited.
“Yes.” It finally came.
“Good,” I said. I paused; a bubble of indecision floated across the surface of my mind. I squashed it.
Releasing her was hard. Moving my hand across the back of her cranium, I dragged her head back as I slid my fingers out of her hair. I drilled holes in her eyelids as she tried to look at the floor; presently, she acquiesced and looked at me.
Her indecision was gone. I searched her eyes for it, and I found only resolve — resolve tinged by fear, but resolve nonetheless.
“You are going to learn some respect,” I told her softly. “Respect for me, yes; but that means that you shall have to learn some respect for yourself. You just told me that you want to be my toy; and you see, I am a very demanding person. I demand that my toys meet the highest standards.
“You shall not be a whore, or a slut, or a bitch. To the outside world, you shall show no deference except as I command you. If you are mine, you are nobody else’s; and if you are to serve me, you must hold yourself aloof to others. Poise yourself with the grace of a ballerina, the quiet competence of a worker ant, and the cultured intellect of a scholar.
“Go home now, and prepare yourself. Pack three dresses, formal yet understated and subtle. Nothing flashy. At least one must be white. If you do not have the proper attire, I will see to it that you are furnished with it. Bring a kit of basic makeup and a toothbrush, but no other personal effects; other than that, you will use what I have here. If you need more, you will earn it or you will do without.” My voice droned on in my ears, clicking out a basic list of instructions. The details were unimportant to any but the consummate perfectionist; and much as I strive to be such, I didn’t need to think about it further.
Inside my head, the bubble of indecision floated back up. I pricked it irritably and told it not to return. I had never been involved in anything like this before, but what was done had been done; it would go as far as I allowed, and I would see to it that I made this relationship fruitful.
I bade her return tomorrow and dismissed her. As the door clicked close behind her, I spoke softly aloud.
“Do you have any idea what you just stepped into?” I didn’t know if I was talking to her or to myself, and I really didn’t care. It didn’t matter.