"He's expecting you," she whispers, as though the walls are listening. "Downstairs. The first door on the left. The black one."
A black door? Well, aren't we the melodramatic one! I try to sneer, desperately grasping for something, anything to bolster my confidence, but it's in vain. His eyes had said there was a price to be paid. The color of the door was merely a reflection of what it held at bay, the price of my liberation. My bladder threatens. I need to pee, desperately. But, bracing myself I turn the knob and enter his lair.
I pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the variance in light, and the details began to separate themselves from the gloom. The room is sparsely furnished, I notice at last. There is merely an odd-shaped bench, alone near the far wall, and a large, leather chair, turned from me now in which I surmise the "Master" awaits. But the walls...oh the walls!
There, in stark relief hangs some sort of a wooden cross...no not a cross...an "X" to be exact. It is comprised of heavy timbers, secured forever to the concrete surface behind, its sturdy facade adorned with a multitude of steel rings and leather restraints. All along the walls I see hooks, each bearing things that make my flesh cringe. I should run, I think, my panic overcoming me. I should, but still I hold my ground.
"I know what you need," He'd written, and somewhere deep inside I fear he was right. As though on cue, the chair swivels in my direction and He comes into view.
He is different now, stronger, more ominous. The grey of His hair frames the deep blue of His eyes, and the cut of His leather vest makes His obvious strength a presence in itself. "You came," He says, a statement, no surprise. "You're frightened, I can smell it, and yet you're here. You've taken the first step."
There is no curl to His lips, not a smile, not a sneer. He just "IS". My bladder threatens to release and shame me even further. "Do you know what this is?" He asks, His hand gesturing at the room about Him, "...what it's for?"
I nod slowly, the details vague, but the import all too clear. I'm to be tested. My fear is on trial. This is a battle I must win...for the prize is life itself.
"Shall we continue?" He questions. "Your choice, Anna.
Silently He nods his approval, then dictates the rules of our encounter. "You will address me as 'Sir' at all times. I will be obeyed without hesitation or reservation. You will submit, immediately, or leave in failure. Is that clear?"
Again I nod, my voice a betrayal. I paste my bravest façade before me, but He waits until it fades and is replaced with the quivering mass it attempted to hide. We must begin at the beginning, visceral, without pretense.
"Undress," He orders simply.
* * * * *
Chapter One: That Morning
"Is that the best you can do, Mr. Johnson?" I reply acerbically.
He sneers. That awful, insolent look of his cuts me to the core.
"Yes Ma'am." He drawls confidently. But there is no deference, not in his tone, not in his eyes.
He knows.
"Then reread the chapter tonight, Mr. Johnson. I'll expect you to be prepared tomorrow."
He smiles, as though I've said something amusing.
"Oh, I will be Ma'am. Prepared, that is." The mask slips, and he allows the carnivore behind to peek beneath my prim and proper visage to the frightened child I hide inside.
"Class dismissed." I choke, my carefully bound persona coming unraveled before him. "Read p-p-pages..."
They pause, their pencils poised, but I can't continue. Instead, I wave my hand in the direction of the doorway in silent dismissal, and my charges scramble for the exit, eager to take advantage of their reprieve. All except one...
He's bolder now, here, alone in the dusty silence. His hand grazes the taut fabric of his jeans.
He knows.
"You didn't give an assignment," he whispers, his voice cutting into my discomposure. "They'll all be talking about that, you know."
"Well, YOU have one, Mr. Johnson," I reply, my voice cracking under the strain. "You know what I want you to do."
He laughs, an ugly sound that gnaws at the final vestiges of my dignity. A tear threatens, and I desperately hold it at bay.
"Yes, Ma'am," he replies once more, but this time he reaches for my hand. Then, brazenly, his eyes brooking no resistance, he presses it against the bulge of his zipper. "I know what you need."
I stand in shocked silence, terror warring behind my eyelids. He knows. Even at the tender age of eighteen, he knows. I'm an open book, and my pages are ragged and worn, dog-eared from perpetual rereading of the same taunting passage.
Finally, he squeezes my hand around his hardened flesh, then drops it discarded to the desk. The disrespect glowers in his eyes, and he turns to leave.
"Later, 'Teach'..." he throws over his shoulder, as though I've been dismissed. And I have.
My knees buckle and I drop heavily into my chair. The dam bursts, and a flood of tears ensue, ruining my mascara, dripping shamelessly from my chin.
Fear.
Even someone as untried as Ted Johnson can see it. I wear my competence like a coat of mail, something to hide behind, something that buffers me from the world beyond, but it's a sham. Underneath there is nothing but terror. The Mr. Johnson's of the world are everywhere, and they always know. They always see through me, and come to prey.
Quivering, I cross and latch the door, secure at last, then unlock the drawer that holds my purse. Reaching shakily inside, I open my tiny make-up mirror and examine the ruins of my face. I look terrible! Large wells of black mascara pool beneath my eyes, and dark trails run at will down my cheeks. I dab at them, my linen handkerchief bearing the blackened mess from my face. But, it's not enough.
Desperately, I spit upon the cloth, then apply it once more to the damage. Pink, abraded flesh now replaces black, and I feel my tentative composure returning. I can cover that with concealer, I think to myself. But how can I cover the conquered look in my eyes?
