In the manner of Gregory Maguire, who provided us with a version of the childhood standard The Wizard of Oz through the eyes of the "wicked" witch, I have re-written my favorite BDSM story, Both Master and Slave written by Martin Sharpe (published in 2001 by Silver Moon Books in Great Britain), from the point of view of the submissive, rather than the Master, who was Mr. Sharpe's narrator. I hope that fans of the original book will accept my version for the tribute that it is meant to be.
*
I was embarrassed to be crying whilst riding along on a city bus, but the tears were impossible to contain or stop. I had, however, collected myself enough to realize that my fellow riders were pointedly ignoring my distress, just as a vaguely familiar looking gentleman moved to sit next to me, offering his handkerchief. "I know you," he said. "We met at that party Bob had a couple of weeks ago. You're a professor or teacher, and your name is --"
"Rebecca," I said, remembering him now that the connection had been explained.
As I used his linen handkerchief to mop up my face, he said, "Any friend of Bob is a friend of mine, and no friend of mine should be crying alone on a lovely October afternoon."
All the riders who had managed to overlook my tears were avidly watching the two of us, so it took little persuasion on his part to convince me to get off the bus with him so that we could have a coffee at a small café near the bus stop. I am a very curious person, and expected others to be curious as well, so I was sure he was wondering what had set me off so publicly. I felt he had earned the right to hear my sorry story by his chivalrous response to my distress. When he asked me to tell him what was wrong, although I knew he could not really help, I decided that outlining the problem aloud to a disinterested person might help me wrap my mind around the terrible situation in which I found myself.
"My name is Rebecca Parsons. I lecture at one of the city's many universities, the one from which I graduated, and then did my Master's degree work. Strange as it may seem, since my field is English literature, I am caught up in the cultural background of the Shakespearean era. I believe the physical and social environment influenced his writing, and I am researching documentation of that period to support that belief." "Of course, as a lecturer, I worry about the students I am teaching. Some of them have such a difficult time getting to grips with their subject, but all of them are so vulnerable to drugs, depression, or just the daunting prospect of trying to find jobs after graduating with degrees in the arts!"
It was pleasant to just to air out all these feelings and concerns that had been brewing inside me like a toxic stew. I was relieved to see that my mentioning of my work and my interest in English literature had not caused that glazed-eyed look men so often assumed once they discovered I was not an air-headed wage worker who lived for Friday and Saturday nights at the local club. In fact, he seemed to be listening to me with fierce concentration, coaxing me to open up more and more. After running through all the usual introductory information one typically shares to give context to one's conversation with strangers, I was down to the kernel of trouble that was making me cry. His concern, and the fact that he essentially was a stranger, led me to continue.
"It all seems so serious now, but I barely noticed it while it was happening. The night before I was due to defend my thesis, my fiancé at the time said he just had to speak with me about a great opportunity he had discovered. Although I appeared to be listening as he laid out the situation, I didn't really understand a lot of what he was saying, and I was not paying a lot of attention to the things I actually understood. The upshot of his conversation was that he needed me to sign something that would make me rich because I'd be a partner in the enterprise. I wasn't really interested, but I knew he wouldn't leave until he got what he wanted; I signed it to shut him up."
"Without reading it?" he asked.
I nodded, "I just wanted to get rid of him so I could get back to work. And then we sort of drifted apart. He had to go back home to set everything into place. I'd get letters from time to time, telling me how well everything was going, and then the letters changed; you could tell he was worried. And then I got another letter, from a lawyer, saying he had killed himself. It was all so horrible, and so sad. Apparently, the venture capitalists he was working with were very nasty, and not at all understanding about his failure to deliver on his promises of high financial returns."
I was surprised that he then reached out and covered my hand with his before prompting, "And then you got another letter --"
"Yes -- from a loan company. I'd guaranteed the original loan that had set my fiancé's plan in action. I talked it over with my bank, and it's hopeless. No matter how they work the figures, I can't afford to live and pay off the loan."
"I don't earn all that much," I went on. "Higher education is being starved of cash. There's no tenure anymore. The country's best minds are scattered all over the universities of the world. I'm lucky to have a job at all. If I hadn't signed that bit of paper --" I broke off, feeling ridiculous for being poor, and for making excuses for it to a man dressed in a Paul Smith jacket, Calvin Klein shirt, wearing a Tag Heuer watch. Anyone who looks at this man closely could see that he isn't poor -- far from it.
"I'm going to be homeless," I wailed, lost in my returning embarrassment and shame. "The finance company will hound me for every penny I earn for the rest of my life. I expect you think I've been an idiot." "No, I don't think you have been or are an idiot -- naïve perhaps," he kindly replied. "Have you ever thought," he said, "I don't know how to put this without offending you, but you're an attractive woman -- "
"I know the economy is a lot tougher than the politicians pretend. And I know women can make money through sex. One of my students is a table dancer. Another works as a prostitute's maid, giving prices of all sorts of disgusting perversions over the phone," I interrupted.
"We all have to do what we can when we run out of money," he said. "I've seen 'The Full Monty.' I'd be a stripper if it was a matter of survival."
"I don't have that choice," I said. "It would be bound to get out. Think of the headlines: 'Student Stripper' would be bad enough, but they'd call me 'The Stripping Professor.' No university would ever touch me. No parent would entrust me with the welfare of a vulnerable teenager if they found out I was a sex worker."
"They wouldn't like you being bankrupt, either," he pointed out. "How much would it cost to clear your debt?" he asked.
"Nearly thirty thousand dollars," I replied, surprised to hear him let out a small sigh and look relieved. "It's impossible," I went on. "I suppose thirty thousand dollars is nothing to a man like you, but -- "
"On the contrary," he corrected. "It takes me a long time to earn thirty thousand dollars after tax, and I can do a lot of things with that sort of money. On the other hand, life's about more than business. If I see something I really want, I don't expect to get it for nothing." He paused, and watched as my curiosity was reflected in my eyes.
