Sara had been at Oxford for six months when Hermann began to seep into her consciousness. His presence crept up on her, like water being absorbed into a sponge. At first it was only glimpses-the furtive exchange of eye contact from across the lecture hall, the accidental brushing of sides walking through a doorway. She would look up on the walk from her college to the library and see his gaze trained on her. Before Sara knew it, he had become a constant presence in her life. Rather than being surprised to find him looking at her, she began anticipating his glances; she would make sure to walk through the right-hand door of the lecture hall so that he could catch a glimpse of her. Each time their gaze met was a miniature burst of pleasure. Sara savored these bursts and began to crave more.
She began noticing details about his persona that she would not have picked up on anyone else. Hermann was a slight-figured man, and his gaze and his gait exuded an air of utter intentionality. Every motion he made with those elongated limbs seemed controlled, but not contrived. She noticed the subtle asymmetries of his appearance-his exaggerated cheekbones, the unruly tuft of blond hair on the right side of his head. And she began to notice odd details about her own appearance, which seemed to transfigure beneath his penetrating gaze. She saw him eyeing the curve of her waist, the gentle up-and-down motion of her breasts above her corset.
They spoke finally in March. Sara was sitting in the concert hall, awaiting the much anticipated performance by Herr Hans Schlesinger of Austria, who would be performing the overture to Tannhäuser on the piano.
"Is this seat taken?" she heard someone ask, and turned around to find Hermann, gazing at her pointedly.
Before his words registered, Sara noticed the tenor of his voice. It was high pitched and steady, with a slight trace of an accident that Sara recognized to be German. Hermann spoke almost imperceptibly more slowly than most people, but the timing of his words was not such that he appeared disproportionately slow. Rather, when he spoke, the world seemed to decelerate to Hermann's measured pace.
"Yes!" she stammered, the words trailing out of her mouth more quickly than usual. "I mean, no, it's not taken-please, sit!"
"I'm Hermann," he said, taking a seat and crossing his legs.
"Sara. Pleased to meet you."
"Pleased to meet you too." There was a pause. "So...Wagner!" he said, taking a stab at making conversation.
"Yes! This pianist is supposed to be very good."
"Do you make a habit of listening to Wagner's music?"
Sara smiled. "Would it be terribly uncultured of me to admit that I have never quite taken to Wagner?"
"I must admit," he countered, "that neither have I. At risk of betraying the fatherland, I confess that I have found much more emotional depth in the music of French composers."
"Of course, you Germans have your gems as well. But in my humble opinion, the last of the great German romantics died with Robert Schumann."
Hermann feigned shock. "Schumann! Now that is a radical opinion! And Brahms doesn't make the cut?"
It was the kind of conversation Sara was accustomed to having at Oxford. An exchange of ideas, a show of intellect. It was a safe conversation, never getting any more personal than one's opinions on art, history, or philosophy. Hermann's feigned shock at her preference of Schumann over Brahms was itself evidence of the absence of any truly weighty matter in the conversation. Schumann was as radical as it got.
After the concert was over, Hermann entreated, "Would you have dinner with me?" Sarah, of course, said yes.
And so began a courtship that lasted for several weeks at quite an appropriate level of propriety. Hermann took Sara out to eat every Friday night at a respectable restaurant in town. They went on walks together by the canals (chaperoned, of course). And after every Tuesday night Classics lecture they attended together, Hermann would walk Sara back to her college. Their conversations meandered copious topics-how correct was Hegel's conviction that time moved in the direction of universal reason? Was the British empire stretching to a breaking point? Was there value in impressionist art?
All the while, the real conversation between Sara and Hermann was taking place inaudibly, through body language. Hermann's eyes consuming Sara's body. His hand extending across the table toward hers, beckoning. Sara's foot, positioned carefully so that it just touched to Hermann's foot under the table. Herman's hand grazing her waist as he walked her home.
One Tuesday in late April, Hermann walked Sara home as usual. But this time, they found that Sara's housemates were out of town. Hermann lingered at the door, and his eyes asked the query that his words could not. Sara answered. "Would you like to come in?"
"Yes, I would. Thank you."
He followed her into the dark apartment, and she turned on a lamp. "Please, sit." Hermann sat on one end of the couch, and Sara sat on the other. Her heart palpitated in skips and jumps, but she felt strangely removed from her body. She was in a room, alone, with a man. She knew this script, and she knew it was one that placed her in a precarious position. She was teetering on an edge, playing with fire, her reputation and precious virginity hanging in the balance. And yet she did not feel endangered, not with Hermann, whom she trusted implicitly.
Hermann continued the conversation they had been having on the walk to Sara's college. "So you see, Hobbes was right. Men are too power hungry to exist in a society without hierarchy."
"I disagree," Sara said. "Sure, there examples in history of power hungry men, but there are also just as many examples of humans cooperating."
"You're telling me that you've never, even once, experienced that insatiable urge for power that Hobbes describes?"
"Oh, are we psychologizing now?" Sara laughed, but she was taken aback. Hermann's question had broken their unspoken agreement to talk of topics unrelated to themselves. It probed into her innermost desires, and she felt a thrill go down her spine at the thought of opening herself up to it.
"I believe we are all experts on the human mind," Hermann continued coyly. "Share your expertise with me."
"Well then, in my expert opinion, I have never experienced such a desire. Have you?"
"All the time."
"Really?"
"I want...I want to own the world around me; I want the bodies of the people around me to be mine." He made this curious statement without betraying either pride or shame. It was matter of fact, a statement about his reality no more or less emotionally laden than his opinion on Hobbes.
"Is that some kind of Freudian fetish?" Sara asked, not accusatorily but with levelled curiosity.
"Perhaps," he laughed.
Sara hesitated. He had laid himself bare for her, revealing his shameful desires, and had invited her to do the same. She accepted his invitation. "I do not relate to your desire, Hermann, but I have experienced what I might call its mirror."
"What is that?"
"A desire to be possessed. To be swept up by somebody, consumed by them." Sara had never articulated this desire before in words, but she had long been cognizant of it. Lying in bed at night, she had often fantasized about being kidnapped by highwaymen. In her imagination, they would take her, undress her, and have their delightfully wicked way with her.
"Have you, now?" Hermann was staring at her with such intensity, it made Sara feel like an insect under a microscope.
"I...yes. I have, sometimes. Sometimes, I almost forget to be self-possessed. But I can't forget myself entirely as a woman, remember. I have my reputation at stake."
"Yes of course."
He paused, then continued. "Would you like to lose yourself, just for an hour, with me?"
"Excuse me?"
"It seems to me that our desires are complimentary, are they not? My desire to possess and yours to be possessed. What if we were to act out those desires, right here and now? Would you like that?"
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
Sara looked into Hermann's eyes, searching for a trace of insincerity, but she found only inquisitiveness. He waited for her answer.
The offer did, in fact, seem to make perfect sense. Mutual desire, mutual pleasure. A significant part of Sara ached to say yes, but she knew she could not. "Like is not the operative word here."
"But you would like to?" he probed.
"I...yes, I'd like to, but you know why I can't let myself."
"Yes, I know. Of course. What if we laid out some ground rules? I would promise not to take your virginity and not to do anything to you that would stay with you after I leave this room."
This was a different matter. Sara was taken aback. To act out a fantasy, consequence free, had never before been an option. Men were dangerous; submitting to their desires had always spelled doom. But did it have to?
Her mind was abuzz with possibility. Would he undress her? Undress himself? Strike her? Just how depraved was this man seated on the opposite end of her couch? Sara longed to find out.
"You would promise not to knock me up?" she entreated warily.
"Cross my heart."
"And if I told you to stop, you would stop?"
"Absolutely."
Sara teetered for a moment on the precipice, gazing down into the depths of depravity into which she could so easily let herself plunge. Don't look down, she thought, and fell head over heels into the cavern, into Herman's steady hands.
"Alright. Yes. I consent."
Hermann smiled. He slid his slender body across the couch and placed his hand on Sara's leg. His touch was steady, precise; she felt the weight of his hand resting on her skirts. "I hoped you would say yes." He began to talk business. "So, no penetration, as least not in the usual way. How about with my hands?"
"Yes," Sara replied, not believing that she was saying the words. "Your hands can go anywhere."
"And how about pain? Can I slap you?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Do you want me to slap you?"
"Yes"
He looked at her with that penetrating gaze. "Say it."
"Say what?"
"Tell me you want me to slap you."
"I...I want you to slap me," she stammered.
"You're a polite girl, aren't you? Say please."
"Please."
His hand on her leg was unrelenting. She felt its pressure tighten, pinning her to the spot. With his other hand, he undid the ribbon in her hair and took hold of a handful of hair, forcing her head back to look straight up at him. Sara melted within his grasp. She looked into his eyes and gave herself to him.
"If you're a very good girl, maybe you'll earn a few good slaps. Open your mouth."
