First Submission 3

From the other side of the world she had come. Unannounced. They had written to each other of course – two or three flippant e-mails. Nothing more. They had never previously met.

Yet, from his silent greeting to the way he held the door open for her and the way she entered without hesitation, one would have thought that this was a daily routine. It certainly seemed as if he had been expecting her, which was impossible.

Her changing facial expressions mirrored her expectations. He would be surprised. Or he would be delighted. Or he would be cross. But his impassive features gave nothing away. She smiled cautiously at him and received no response.

He had only ever seen one picture of her. It was a good likeness, he now realised. The unnerving intensity of her dark eyes seemed to pose some challenging question. The emphatic eyebrows led his thoughts elsewhere. The chaotic torrent of black hair framing her pale intelligent face. She had the wild look of a Romanian gypsy, an impression reinforced by the embroidered peasant blouse and the long red skirt she was wearing when he opened the door to her.

He made a frugal meal for them both. She dared to speak for the first time but was immediately aware that her voice sounded much too loud. Was he not curious why she had come? He told her he already knew. So they ate in silence.

The meal over, he rose and swept past her into an adjoining room. Increasingly unsure of herself, she sat for a few minutes pondering her motives for this unlikely pilgrimage. Then she rose and joined him in the stygian gloom of a room illuminated by just three large candles. He was sitting in a tall-backed chair of bare black oak, his slender, rather cruel hands rested on the arms of the chair. His eyes were closed.

She made to sit down on a seat facing him but his eyes snapped open and he frowned deeply at her. She stopped, standing there in front of him and held his gaze until at last his eyes travelled slowly down the length of her body and when they reached the floor, he inclined his head a little to his left and stared at a spot beside her.

It was such a deliberate gesture, that she knew it must be a signal of some kind. At last she decoded it and quickly sat with her legs beneath her at the place he was still indicating. She looked up at him, her raised eyebrows seeking his approval. But he was frowning – a little less severely now and then lifted his chin, twice in quick succession as if to say “up,up”. Somehow she knew it meant “kneel”. So she knelt. For a fraction of a second she could have sworn she saw the merest shadow of a smile lighten his face. She wanted to smile broadly at him, but dared not.

He lowered his head and looked down – then looked at her to see whether she had understood. She had – quickly this time – and lowered her own head, her eyes modestly cast down. She had no idea how long she stayed like that. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? All in silence.

Eventually she sensed him moving. He was leaning forward, bending down to her. She was not prepared for the impact of their first physical contact. It felt as if she had been punched in the stomach – hard. It left her gasping. And yet all he had done was to place one finger under her chin and raised her head to that she could look at him. This time, there was no mistake. He smiled at her – a mixture of tenderness and sadness. She saw him raise his left arm until it was parallel with the floor. His hand was extended, palm-down. He made a motion as if pressing something down with his hand. She understood instantly and lay full length, face down, eyes close, arms outstretched ahead of her. She started to tremble.

He looked down at her. He noticed the outer edges of her breasts which were squashed against the floor; he noticed the lyrical curvature of her waist which accentuated the philanthropy of her hips so beautifully; he noticed she was visibly trembling. He lifted one foot and placed it firmly but not oppressively on the nape of her neck. The trembling ceased.

For her part, she felt no menace from the shoe. On the contrary, it calmed her and she began to realise that already, after barely one evening in his company, she trusted him utterly.

She felt a tremor of panic when the foot was removed at last. But the panic evaporated when she felt him twisting a hank of her hair around the fingers of his left hand and lifting her head effortlessly so that her back was arched like an Agincourt longbow. The discomfort showed on her face. He pulled again – violently this time. Yet strangely, she felt no fear at the brutality and suddenness of his action. He dragged her whole body towards him, then yanked her head upwards again so that she was forced to adopt a position on all fours, her face just a few inches from his.

He let go her hair and her head dropped forward as lifelessly as if her neck had been broken. She let it stay where it had dropped, chin on chest. There was stillness between them for hour after hour. When he did speak, his voice was no more than a breath against her cheek.

“Look.”

She raised her head slowly, no challenge in her eyes, no questions to be asked.

“You came to discover who I am.”

“Yes”.

“So. Who am I, then?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears, her lower lip quivered like that of a frightened little girl. The words of her reply were punctuated by stifled sobs.

“You…are…my Master.”

Her forehead touched the floor as she wrapped her arms round his ankles, clasped them with the desperate relief of one who thought she was drowning and had found a rock amidst the bottomless quicksand of loneliness.

For the first time in her life, she felt complete. It was her first submission. And her last.