I didn't realize it at the time, but following him, moving forward almost blindly, but always behind him, would be the norm when we were out together during the next year. When he reached his door, he unlocked it.
As a matter of course, I stepped around him, moving forward. Before I could put a foot over the threshold, he grabbed a hank of hair and dragged me back into the street. "Not so fast," he told me through gritted teeth. "Wait for orders."
"Sorry," I said, truly meaning it - but whether I was sorry I wasn't behaving as he wished or sorry I was in this situation altogether, I really couldn't say. I stood motionless, eyes on the pavement.
"That's better," he said. "Let's see you showing a little respect. Kiss my boots and ask permission to go inside."
"Do I have to?" I asked.
"Do it," he said harshly. "Or stop wasting my time and fuck off."
I looked round anxiously. The front door was set a couple of feet in from the pavement, but it still was clearly visible from the road. A man was walking a bull terrier towards us down the sidewalk.
"Can I wait till he's gone past?" I asked.
"I suppose so," he grudgingly responded.
The man with the dog glanced at us curiously as he passed us, no doubt wondering why we were standing motionless by an open door. He said, so only I could hear, "Smart man; cleverer than me, anyway."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Keeps his bitch on a leash," he responded. "Get down on your knees."
I dropped down quickly, hoping to do what I must to get inside before anyone else passed our way. Calling on some vague concept of slave relationships, I kissed each of his boots in turn, and asked: "Please, Sir, may I enter your flat?"
"You may, slut," he replied. "But stay on your hands and knees."
I was so anxious to get behind closed doors that I immediately crawled inside and up the stairs that were adjacent to the door. If I'd stopped to think about it, I would have been self-conscious, moving my ass awkwardly up the stairs. When I reached the landing, he came up behind me, and grabbed my hair again. Sliding his open hand across my skull, capturing tufts of hair between each of his fingers, he used my hair like a leash, pulling me up and back until I rested my ass on my heels, still on my knees.
He slapped my face lightly, saying, "There's a bathroom behind that door. Piss. Shit. Make yourself presentable. When you're ready, I'll be behind that door." Then he let go of my head, opened the door he had indicated, went inside, and closed it.
I was at a loss - I had been offered a bathroom, but despite my fear and anxiety, I did not feel the need to eliminate anything - even though I was thinking far enough ahead by now to wonder if that decision would come back to haunt me. "Press on," I told myself quietly, using the sound of my own whisper to ground me in the here and now.
I crawled to the door, reached up to turn the knob, and then I entered the room on my knees. Just inside the door, I stood up, taking in the scene. It was a big room; obviously two flats had been knocked into one large, open space. He sprawled across a huge leather sofa, with an open box of Havana cigars, a bowl of fruit, and a glass of lager beside him. He opened a large pocketknife, and began to peel an apple taken from the fruit bowl.
"Let's try that again, shall we?" he said softly. "Go outside, knock and wait. The moment I tell you to come in, you're to step inside, close the door behind you, turn and face me, curtsey and wait for further instructions. Understood?"
It seemed as though my mind was scrambling over treacherous terrain, and any minute could fall into an abyss. I could feel my shoulders drooping at the thought of behaving as ordered, especially with the ever-present knowledge that this was just the beginning of a year of service. That thought stiffened my spine - I was doing this to help myself, so I agreed with a soft murmur.
He barked in response, "Speak up! Every time you address me, you will refer to me as 'Master'. You may call me 'Sir,' 'Lord' or 'Supreme One,' but I like 'Master' best."
"You're not serious," I said in disbelief.
"You're not serious, Master," he rejoined.
"I can't," I insisted.
"I can't, Master," was his only reply.
"But it sounds ridiculous," I explained.
"It sounds ridiculous, Master. I won't tell you again."
My raging inner conflict was showing all over my face: the adult in me, the lecturer in me, and the respected literary scholar in me all were being shoved out of the way as the slave in me rose to the surface.
Taking a calming breath, I said, "Sorry, Master," and left the room, closing the door behind me. I then immediately knocked on it.
Obviously not feeling any sense of urgency about this business, he did not respond for some time. I imagined him slicing and beginning to eat the peeled apple, drinking some lager, and perhaps even lighting up a cigar. Before I could follow the thought of fire in the hands of a Master to any terrifying conclusions, I heard him say, "Enter."
I opened the door, turned to close it securely behind me, and then faced him to curtsey. I felt silly, inexperienced, and embarrassed, but he almost immediately began issuing orders that required my full attention, and moved me past the emotions of the moment.
"Stand over there," he ordered. "Eyes down. A slave is only allowed to look a Master in the eye on one occasion."
"When is that, Master?" I asked.
"I'll let you know when it happens," he said, not interested in satisfying my curiosity or letting it deflect him from his own purposes. He went on, "Keep still, hands behind your back, feet apart."
I knew my knees and the toes of my shoes were scuffed from climbing the stairs, but I was relieved that there were no runs or holes in my tights. With my eyes down, my hands clasped behind my back, I found just standing there, being watched by a man, disconcerting. It occurred to me that men hardly ever stare at or even closely watch women on the streets and in public places. It occurred to me that men have learned not to be seen checking out women in public so as to avoid triggering jealousy in an escort or terror in the mind of a woman out on her own.
As his visual inventory seemed to go on interminably, I began to blush. "Master?" I asked.
"Yes?" he replied.
"I don't know what to do," I asked.
"All you have to do is obey," he explained. "I'll be making all the decisions this evening; you will stay absolutely passive. You're going to be beaten. You're going to be fucked. But before any of that happens, you're going to do some waiting. Now, step over to that bookcase, face it and stand absolutely still."
I complied with his instructions, grateful to be facing away from him so I was less conscious of his searching gaze and quiet regard. After a few minutes in that position, I heard him say, "Walk over to that picture, slowly, then turn and walk back."
I walked up to the picture indicated, which showed a pretty brunette in a kneeling position, tied to eyebolts set into a hard wooden floor. She had a gag in her mouth, and her breasts were roped round a dildo. I shuddered, briefly imagining myself in that position. Before I had time to wonder at the lubrication I was beginning to feel, I turned slowly, and then walked back towards him to stand in silence.
Time passed.
"What are you doing, Master?" I asked.
"Wondering what to do first - flog you or fuck you," he said. "Lift up your skirt, nice and slow. Higher. Dammit! You stupid bitch!"
"Master? Is there something wrong?" I said, afraid, for it was obvious that something was very wrong indeed.
"Tights!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe it! Tights! Take them off and throw them in that waste paper basket. And those ridiculous pink panties."
"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master," I replied, my relief at the easy remedy for the problem overwhelming my natural embarrassment at stripping in front of a strange man.
"And hurry," he said, not appreciating my prompt actions. He went on, "A few ground rules. I prefer skirts to trousers. I don't like panties. I will not tolerate tights under any circumstances. Agreed?"
"Yes, Master. Sorry, Master," I apologized again.
"That's all right. You weren't to know. Now, what were we doing?"
"I had my back to you, Master. I was showing you my bottom." "Arse is the word you're looking for. You were showing me your fat arse in the hope that I would spank it. But the moment's over now; the magic's lost. Well, Fuckhole, it's time to see you naked." When I involuntarily winced, he nearly shouted, "What's the matter, Fuckhole? Don't you like your new name?"
"No, Master."
"Well, to tell you the truth, Fuckhole, neither do I," he went on. "But a bitch like you needs a proper slave name, and as tonight you're only offering me one hole to fuck, then Fuckhole seems appropriate. Don't you think so, Fuckhole?"
"If you say so, Master," I said with resignation.
"That's agreed, then, Fuckhole," he said cheerily. "So let's see you strip, Fuckhole. Stand over there and take off your jacket. Well done. Now, throw it on the floor."
"But, Master!" I couldn't help giving him a pleading look. "It's a Donna Karan!"
Shaking his head, completely unmoved, he said, "And you looked very pretty wearing it, but you came here to do as you're told. Bring it over here."
Even more apprehensive when I saw him pick up his knife, still open on the table, I nevertheless obeyed, and handed him my jacket.
"Thank you, Fuckhole," he said. "Now go back and stand very still."
He let the light play on the very sharp blade of the pocketknife before slashing it across the back of my jacket and halving the length of the right sleeve.
