Will You Be Mine
Everything was perfect. The sun was setting across the sea, turning the clouds into a spectacle of molten lava. The waves were licking at the shore just a few yards from us, a rhythmic, soft noise that was so calming. We were almost alone on the patio, sated with delicious sea food and a little tipsy from the rich white wine. He had whirled me off my feet instantly.
His hand touched mine, and his expression shone with delight when he looked at me, something I had never thought possible. I was the gray mouse, not even five feet on a tall day, awkward and shy. People didn't see me. But William had seen me, and he was such a contrast. Tall, wide shouldered and muscular. At times, I felt like he could easily snap me in two without even trying. Sometimes, he intimidated me with that strength. But other times, when he wrapped me in his embrace, when we kissed, he melted my insides and made me feel so safe.
I was in one of my tight, knit, brown dresses. It was hard to find grown-up clothes with a body like mine. Stuff in my size was either printed with silly cartoons or embarrassingly frilly. Tonight, I had foregone the bra, even though I had known how my cheeks would burn when he saw me with what amounted to little more than bee stings on my chest, but I needed him to know I wanted him, that I hoped we would take a step more tonight. I'd never been good with words when it came to my feelings or needs.
When he took my hand, rubbed his large thumb over its back and looked me deep in the eyes, it was all I could do not to melt into a puddle of need.
"Billie," he said, his baritone easily audible over the slapping of the waves and the whistling of the breeze, "will you be mine, forever?"
It was so unexpected. At first, I couldn't breathe. Joy bubbled up inside me, and I wanted to shout and dance. But then I realized something was missing. I looked around, puzzled, wondering. I tried to say something, but my lips couldn't find words.
"Are you missing something, Billie?" He grinned and reached into his jacket's pocket.
Oh. He was teasing me! I held my breath, my nerves so tense you could have plucked a melody on them.
And then his hand came above the table's edge, and I stared, and stared, and I didn't understand at all what was happening, for there, in front of me, wasn't the ring I had expected. Instead, he held up a dog collar, a circled band of shiny, black leather. It had to be a joke. A sick, sick joke! Tears suddenly pooled in my eyes.
I was unable to resist when he turned my hand over, put the collar in my palm and closed my fingers around it.
"William?" I finally managed to croak.
"I'd like to own you, Billie," he said, and all of a sudden, I wasn't sure if all that love I had formerly sensed in his voice was maybe just a pervert's need. "Hide and hair. You're just so delightful."
It was too much. I felt the tearing in my chest as my heart was rent asunder. A pained sob broke free, and my vision blurred. With my last bit of remaining energy, I gripped my purse and stood. I think the chair toppled over, but I started running, stumbling drunkenly in my high heels, with only one thought in my head. I needed to get away, get home, and hide from this horror. I ran through the restaurant, and down the road. I took off my heels and ran further, raced through the park, into the small alley where I lived. I spent almost five minutes to unlock my door because my fingers shook so much, but I finally stumbled inside, pushed the door shut and dropped my things on the coffee table - my purse, my shoes, and, as I only realized now with terror, the dog collar.
*~*~*
I spent the weekend holed up in my flat and called in sick on Monday. I wallowed in my misery and tried to distract myself with reading and painting. It wasn't really working. Especially not as that damned black dog collar was staring at me from the coffee table every time I walked past it. Yet I couldn't bring myself to touch it.
I realized how alone I was. My parents lived on the other end of the country, and this wasn't something I could talk to them about. If I was honest, there were few things I could talk to them about -- that they named me Wilhelmette should have been a dead giveaway. They were deeply religious, so much that they often seemed to live in a different age than the people around them. They used stilted words and awkward grammar, judged every little word and action and couldn't understand the concept of change.
When I had secretly signed up at a college at the west coast, I had shattered their little world. I had to live through three months of constant berating, threats and tears until I could finally leave. College was both salvation and hell for me. I could finally learn all the subjects that fascinated me, join clubs and meet people more world wise than the backwards friends of my parents. It too came with its own problems. In the sea of tall, curvy girls, I was continuously overlooked at best. I quickly had to learn to keep from crying when I was asked again if I had gotten lost here, since people thought I was a high school sophomore, not a college student, and I had to endure a weekly hazing after sports classes, which were mandatory.
Over time, I made a few friend in the arts classes, but I never had a best friend. And then we graduated and were strewn into the winds. I took up a job with a book store that had a small arts gallery attached, a perfect fit with my focus on both historical and contemporary literature as well as visual arts. I worked long hours in the main season when college terms started, and took time off for myself to draw and paint when things were quiet. Rose, my boss, pretty much let me run my own show and became my only confidante.
Don't get me wrong. I wasn't totally ignorant of the world. That the dog collar wasn't really a dog collar was obvious to me once the first shock was over. I had heard of the term BDSM. Hell, you can't study literature without being exposed to the French libertines and the shadier Victorian writers.
Wallowing in self-pity only works for so long.
At the end of the third day, I knew that enough was enough, and that I had to find a way to pull myself out of this hole I was stuck in. In the two weeks before "the incident", as I had come to call it in my head, I had primed myself. My thoughts had been filled with heated pictures of our naked bodies, of touches and kisses. I had even dreamed about his cock, impatient to see it, to touch it. I had tried dating at college, but the few boys there how showed interest never made me feel that way. The few kisses I had exchanged were more awkward that nice. William, though, had stirred something in me.
I don't know what drove me to do it. I lied to myself that I needed to proof to myself how atrocious his request was. So I found myself in front of the large bedroom mirror that covered the center of my closet and watched my fingers tighten the collar around my neck. It was unexpectedly supple and the buckle was easy to close. I ran a finger over the front, were sparkling gold letters formed the word "Billie". How insulting. No, that word didn't even get close. It was meant as a mark of careless possession, pure objectification, so ruthless and sexist that words paled in the face of such audacity. What did he expect? That I'd say, 'Yes, Sir' and kneel at his feet, ready to obey every perverted craving that occurred to him on a whim?
Thinking that question was maybe a mistake, but I could of course control my thoughts as much as I could stack dry sand. Because my book-wise mind knew just the pages to bring up, cross referencing DeSade and Sacher-Masoch and Cleland, realized how such cravings were spanning centuries at least, and putting a tiny voice into my head that started asking what it would be like.
*~*~*
Work thankfully distracted me on Tuesday. I had Monday's deliveries to price and stock on top of normal sales business, so there was no time for thinking stupid thoughts.
But once I reached my flat, I was facing myself again. The collar still lay on the dresser, mocking me, beckoning me. A strange heat suffused my skin when I looked at it too long, and then, when I was getting ready to crawl into my bed, I caved and put it on again.
Maybe it wouldn't be that bad? Another wave of curiosity washed over me, and before I could think better of it, I stripped off my pajama. The collar was all I was wearing. Would he clip a leash onto the golden D-ring under my name? Make me crawl? Did he want to hurt me too, and spank my poor little bum until I cried?
I lost myself in these thoughts and startled myself with my own moan. My reflection stared back at me with a strange arousal gleaming in her eyes, and her fingers were stroking the puffy mound between her thighs. I'd never been good at pleasuring myself, or at least not since college. It always took me ages to reach the big O, and often I just stopped and fell asleep. That I touched myself outside of the safety of my bed was unheard of. I quickly removed the collar and slipped back into my comfy pajamas, but it took me quite a while to find oblivion.
*~*~*
Seeing him standing there should have come as no surprise. My work was, after all, where we had met. He was a collector, and I had helped him find a number of rare titles from the nineteenth century. I had been giddy to find someone who shared my love of books, and I had basked in his attention and the little bits of praise he rewarded my efforts with.
Today I wanted to die on the spot. The wave of panic when he entered had me frozen. Would he argue? Be crude and loud? I was terrified he'd make a scene. But strangely, he didn't. He walked towards the shelves and started browsing through them, looking as focused, handsome and self-assured as ever.
When he approached me, without a book in his hands, I knew I couldn't escape the confrontation, and my mind screamed at me to flee again, to race into our little warehouse and hide behind a shelf. But Rose was at the other side of the room, and he was, after all, a customer.
"I missed you, Billie," he said softly and without malice, throwing me for a loop.
I struggled to find something to say, but he held up his hand.
"You are struggling with yourself, now, I understand that, and I will give you time to process your feelings. I'm not going to stalk you, if you're worried about that. But I'll drop by again next Monday, and I hope you'll wear these for me." He held out a small box, wrapped in black and golden paper and adorned with a bow.
I didn't know what else to do, so I took the box from him and hid my hands behind the counter, afraid what Rose would think. Thank god, she was facing away from us.
"If not, I'll unfortunately need to take my business elsewhere. Until Monday, sweet Billie," he said with a frown, and I watched him leave.
Rose was getting up to fetch a new stack of books, so I quickly stuck the box into my purse, my heart hammering wildly for reasons I couldn't discern. To distract myself, seeing there were no other customers in the store, I helped her sort the books into the right slots and tick off the inventory list.
*~*~*
His impertinence obviously knew no bounds. I stared at the clamps on my palm, mean things with sharp looking teeth. At first I had thought they were identical brooches, two stylized clams finely crafted in yellow and white gold, but looking closer, that didn't make sense. I thought of hair clips next, but then I saw the curved form of the clamping parts with their metal teeth. And after staring at them for a little longer, understanding dawned.
It had until then been an utterly theoretical concept. The few times I had encountered clamps in one of the cheap damsel in distress novels I indulged in from time to time, I had imagined variations of a clothespin. Nothing as wicked and cruel and... beautiful as these.
"I hate you, William," I told the mirror, my voice sounding choked. I was going to put them back into their box, take that to the store and throw it at his face. "You're such a looser, Billie," my reflection responded, shaking her head. "You'll never get laid. You'll end up an old spinster with a flat full of cats, and William's going to fuck another girl, he'll put her on a leash and make her suck his cock and then he'll fuck her tight little pussy until she screams with joy, but you'll be sitting here, alone and frustrated."
"I hate you, Billie," I whimpered, but she just stared back with a blank expression. "You know what to do," she prompted.
"I can't," I whimpered, twirling my left nipple. "Really, I can't!"
But my reflection didn't care. She slipped the spread clamp around my nipple and let go.
"Ow! Oh fuck, this hurt!"
"Don't be a wuss. Do the other one."
*~*~*
